Cater Street Hangman (19 page)

She looked surprised, and a little hurt.

“I’m sorry. Everyone else is either out or busy, and I was not expecting you home so early, or I would have put it away.” She did not, however, move to close her box.

“I met your damned policeman.”

“Mr. Pitt?”

“Have you another?”

“I haven’t any.”

“Don’t be coy, Charlotte.” He sat down irritably. “You know perfectly well he admires you, indeed is enamoured of you. If you haven’t observed it for yourself, Emily has certainly told you!”

Charlotte flushed with embarrassment.

“Emily was saying it to annoy. And you of all people should know that Emily can say things merely to cause trouble!”

He turned to look at her properly. He had been unfair. He was taking out his anger with Pitt and with Sarah on Charlotte.

“I’m sorry,” he said frankly. “Yes, Emily has an irresponsible tongue, although I think she may well be right about Pitt. After all, why shouldn’t he admire you? You are an extremely handsome woman, and have the kind of spirit that might appeal to him.”

He was surprised to see Charlotte colour even more deeply. He had meant it to comfort her, not to make her embarrassment worse. She was the most forthright person he had ever met, and yet paradoxically, the hardest for him to understand. Obviously one did not want the attentions of someone like Pitt, but it should be no more than an irritation, to be forgotten.

“Where did you meet him?” she asked, still absently fiddling with her palette.

“In a coffeehouse. Didn’t know policemen frequented such places. He had the nerve to just come and sit down at my table!”

His anger rekindled at the memory.

“What did he want?” She looked worried.

He tried to think back, but he could not remember. Pitt had not asked anything pertinent.

“I don’t know, perhaps just to talk. Why?”

She lifted a shoulder slightly in a small shrug.

“He went on about forgers, and resurrectionists.”

She looked round. “Resurrectionists? What are they—religious charlatans?”

“No. Men who steal corpses to sell to medical students.”

“Oh. How pathetic.”

“Pathetic? It’s disgusting!”

“It’s also pathetic, that people should be reduced to such a level.”

“Are you sure they haven’t reduced themselves?”

“If they have, that’s even worse.”

What an odd woman she was. Sarah would never have viewed it that way. There was an innocence in Charlotte, a gentleness that was quite misplaced, and yet he was drawn to her because of it. Odd. He had always thought it was Sarah who was gentle, and Charlotte who had a streak of . . . of resistance in her, something unfeminine. He looked at her now as she stood with the paintbrush in her hand. She was not as pretty as Sarah, and she lacked the small touches—the fine lace, the little earrings, the delicate curls in the nape of the neck—and yet in a way she was also more beautiful. And in thirty years, when Sarah would be plump, her chin line gone, her hair faded, the bones in Charlotte’s face would still be beautiful.

“It’s a terrible responsibility,” she said slowly. “We all expect him to be able to solve the murders for us, put us back to where we were before.”

And she would still be saying whatever came into her mind, he thought wryly. She would never learn the small deceits that make women mysterious, feminine—that they survive by.

But Charlotte would not sulk over some imagined slight; Charlotte would have a blazing row. In the long run that might be better, easier to put up with.

“At least he doesn’t have to live here. Nobody suspects him,” he said, going back to her remark.

“No, but we’ll all blame him if he doesn’t find the man.”

He had not even thought of that. Now that she pointed it out to him, he felt a surge of sympathy for Pitt. He wished he had not been so patronizing in the coffeehouse.

Charlotte was staring at her picture on the easel. “I wonder if he even knows who he is, or if he’s just as afraid as we are?”

“Of course not! If he knew he’d arrest him!”

“Not Pitt! The man, whoever he is. Does he remember, does he know? Or is he as frightened and as puzzled as the rest of us?”

“Oh God! What an unspeakable thought! Whatever put that into your head?”

“I don’t know. But it’s possible, isn’t it!”

“I shouldn’t think so; I would very much rather not think so. If that were true, it could be—it could be anyone!”

She looked at him solemnly, her eyes very steady and gray. “It could be anyone now.”

“Charlotte, stop it. For heaven’s sake let’s just pray Pitt finds him. Stop thinking about it. There’s nothing we can do except never go out alone, under any circumstances.” He shivered. “Only go out if you have to, and then take Maddock, or your father, or I’ll come with you.”

She smiled—a strange, tight little gesture—and turned back to the painting. “Thank you, Dominic.”

He looked at her. Odd, he had always thought her open, obvious; now she seemed enigmatic, more mysterious than Sarah.

Did one ever learn to understand women?

A couple of days later Dominic had yet more cause to ponder the female mind. They were all sitting in the withdrawing room after dinner; even Emily was at home. Grandmama was crocheting, squinting a little when she occasionally glanced at her work; most of the time she worked blind, her fingers and long habit guiding her.

“I called on the vicar this afternoon,” Grandmama said a little sharply. There was a hint of criticism in her voice. “Sarah took me.”

“Oh?” Caroline looked up. “Did you find them well?”

“Not especially. The vicar was well enough, I suppose, but Martha looked very strained, I thought. A woman should never let herself go like that. She begins to have the look of a drudge.”

“She does work very hard,” Sarah said in her defence.

“That has nothing to do with it, my dear,” Grandmama said disapprovingly. “However hard one works, one should still take care of one’s appearance. It matters a great deal.”

Emily looked up. “I doubt it matters to the vicar. I should be surprised if he ever notices.”

“That is not the point.” Grandmama was not to be put off. “A woman owes it to herself. It is a matter of duty.”

“I’m sure anything to do with duty would appeal to the vicar,” Charlotte observed. “Especially if it were unpleasant.”

“Charlotte, we all know that you do not care for the vicar; you have made it abundantly obvious.” Grandmama looked a little down her nose. “However, comments like that are of no use at all, and do you no credit. The vicar is a very worthy man, and as suits a man of the cloth, he disapproves of frivolity and paint on the face, and anything that encourages harlotry.”

“Not by the wildest stretch of lunacy can I imagine Martha Prebble encouraging harlotry,” Charlotte was unabashed. “Except by perverse example.”

Caroline dropped her linen pillowcase. “Charlotte! What on earth do you mean?”

“That the sight of Martha’s pale face and the thought of living with someone as critical and self-righteous as the vicar would make one entertain the idea of harlotry as a more bearable alternative,” Charlotte said with devastating frankness.

“I can only presume,” Grandmama said icily, “that you imagine that to be in some fashion amusing. When I consider what manners are coming to these days, I sometimes despair. What passes for wit has become mere vulgarity!”

“I think you are a little unkind, Charlotte,” Caroline spoke more mildly. “The vicar is a little difficult, I admit, and not a very likeable man, but he does a great deal of good work. And poor Martha is almost tireless.”

“I don’t think you realize,” Sarah added, “just how much she does. Or that she has suffered deeply with all these murders. She was very fond of both Chloe and Verity, you know?”

Charlotte looked surprised. “No, I didn’t know. I knew about Verity, but I didn’t know she knew Chloe. I wouldn’t have thought they had many interests in common.”

“I think she was trying to help Chloe to—to keep her feet on the ground. She was a little silly, but quite kind, you know.”

Listening to her, Dominic suddenly felt an appalling sense of pity. He had not cared in the least for Chloe when she was alive; in fact he had found her tiresome. Now he felt something that was as strong as love, and far more painful.

Without thinking, he looked at Charlotte. She was blinking hard, a tear had spilled over onto her cheek. Caroline had picked up her linen again. Emily was doing nothing, and Grandmama was staring at Charlotte with disgust.

What were they thinking?

Grandmama was blaming everyone for the decline in morals. Caroline was concentrating on her sewing. Emily also would be thinking of something practical. Sarah had defended Chloe; and Charlotte had wept for her.

How well did he know any of them?

Dominic continued to go out to his club, and to other places to dine and generally enjoy himself. On several occasions he saw George Ashworth, and found him easy and pleasing company.

He fully expected Sarah to forget the silly affair with Emily and the accusation she had made against Charlotte and himself, but apparently she had not. She said nothing further, but the coolness remained. The distance between them grew greater, if anything.

It was an icy evening in November, fog swirling in the streets and swathing the gas lamps in wreaths of mist. It was clammy and bitterly cold, and he was glad when his cab turned the corner from Cater Street into his own road and a few moments later stopped and set him down. He paid, and heard the horse’s hooves clopping away on the stones, muffled by sound-deadening fog within minutes. He was marooned on a small island of one gas lamp; everything else was impenetrable darkness. The next lamp seemed very far away.

It had been an excellent evening, warm in both wine and companionship. Standing alone in the fog, however, he could think of nothing but women alone in the street, footsteps behind them, perhaps even a face or a voice they knew. Then they would feel a cutting pain in the throat, and darkness, bursting lungs, and death—a limp body to be found on the wet stones in the morning by some passer-by, then examined by the police.

He shivered as the cold cut into his bones and his spirit. He hurried up the steps and knocked sharply on the door. It seemed like an age passed before Maddock opened it and he was able to push beyond him into the warmth and the light. He was even pleased when it was closed behind him, shutting out the street with its fog and darkness and God knew what unspeakable creatures.

“Miss Sarah has retired, sir,” Maddock said from behind him. “But not long since. Mr. Ellison is in his study, reading and smoking, but the withdrawing room is empty, if you wish me to bring you something? Would you prefer a hot drink, sir, or brandy?”

“Nothing, thank you, Maddock. I think I’ll go to bed myself. It’s infernally cold outside, and the fog is coming down pretty thick.”

“Most unpleasant, sir. Would you care for me to draw you a hot bath?”

“No, that’s all right, thank you. I’ll just go to bed. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Upstairs everything was silent; only a small night-light burned on the landing. He went into his dressing room and took off his clothes. Ten minutes later he opened the door to the bedroom. “There’s no need to creep,” she said coldly.

“I thought you might be asleep.”

“You mean you hoped I might be!”

He did not understand. “Why should I care one way or the other? I merely did not wish to disturb you if you were.”

“Where have you been?”

“At my club.” It was not precisely the truth, but near enough. There was no lie in it that mattered.

She raised her eyebrows in sarcasm. “All evening?”

She had never questioned him before. He was too surprised to be annoyed. “No: I went on to a few other clubs. Why?”

“Alone?”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t with Charlotte, if that’s what you had in mind,” he snapped.

“I can’t imagine Charlotte being seen in that sort of place, even to be with you.” She was staring at him icily.

“What on earth’s the matter with you?” His confusion was growing. “I was out with George Ashworth. I thought you approved of him!”

She looked away. “I went to see Mrs. Lessing today.”

“Oh,” he sat down on the dressing stool. He was not in the least interested in whom she had visited, but obviously she was leading up to something.

“I did not realize until today how well you knew Verity,” she went on. “I knew you were well acquainted with Chloe, but Verity was a surprise to me.”

“What does it matter? I only spoke with her a few times. I think she liked me. But the poor child’s dead. For heaven’s sake, Sarah, you can’t be jealous of a dead girl. Think where she is now!”

“I hadn’t forgotten where she is, Dominic, nor that Chloe is there also.”

“And Lily, and Bessie. Or are you jealous of the maids as well?” He was getting really angry. He had not looked at Charlotte, except as a sister, and it was bad enough that Sarah should have accused him of involvement with her— but
this
was ridiculous, and obscene.

Sarah was sitting upright in the bed.

“Who’s Bessie? The Hiltons’ maid? I didn’t even know her name. How did you know it?”

“I don’t know! What the hell does it matter? She’s dead!”

“I know that, Dominic. They’re all dead.”

He looked at her. She was staring at him with wide eyes, as if he were a stranger and she had seen him for the first time, as if he had come out of the fog with a wire in his hands.

Now why did he think of something horrible like that? Because it was in her face. She was afraid of him. She was all knotted up, sitting there on the bed with her shoulders hunched. He could see the strain across her neck, in the muscles of her throat.

“Sarah!”

Her face was frozen, stiff, and unable to speak.

“Sarah! For God’s sake!” He moved towards her, sitting on the bed, leaning forward to put his hands on her bare arms. Her flesh was rigid underneath his fingers. “You can’t think—Sarah! You know me! You can’t think I could have . . . ” he trailed off, his voice dying. There was no response in her.