Cater Street Hangman (25 page)

“Sarah, you should not go alone,” Charlotte said quickly. “Do you wish me to come with you?” It was the last thing she wanted to do, but recently she had felt closer to Sarah than at any time since Dominic had first come to the house and she had been barely more than a child. She ached for Sarah’s sense of loss, her disappointment and shock. She felt some of it herself, because she too had loved Dominic. But for her the commitment was different, and she was amazed at herself for finding it so easy to recover. She feared her love had been a great deal shallower than she had imagined, a love based not on any knowledge but on her fancy. For Sarah it was different; hers was the loss of intimacy, of things shared, of fact, not dreams.

Sarah was looking at her. “No, thank you,” she said with the best smile she could manage. “I know how you dislike the vicar, and he may well be home. And if he is not, I would rather like to talk to Martha alone.”

“I’ll come and leave you at the door, if you like?” Charlotte pressed.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Then you would have to walk back alone. I shall be perfectly safe. I think perhaps this madman has gone anyway. Nothing has happened for ages. We were probably wrong. Probably he did come from the slums, and has now gone back to them.”

“Inspector Pitt didn’t think so.” Charlotte half stood up.

“Are you as taken with him as he is with you?” Emily raised her eyebrows. “He is not infallible, you know!”

“I shall go straight to the vicar’s, then from door to door on parish work,” Sarah said firmly. “And I dare say Martha will even accompany me. I shall be perfectly safe! Don’t fuss. I shall see you all this evening. Good-bye.”

The others departed also and Charlotte was left alone with nothing in particular to do. She searched quickly for a job to prevent her from allowing her mind to dwell on Papa or Dominic, the hurt that disillusion caused, the foolishness of building dreams around people—and behind it all the dark fear of the hangman, because in spite of what Sarah and Emily had implied, she did not think for a moment that he had returned to whatever slum one might delude oneself he came from. He was local, from Cater Street or its immediate proximity; she knew it in her heart.

It was twenty minutes to three, and she was busy writing a list of letters to distant relations to whom she had owed correspondence for some time and had put off as a chore, when Maddock came to say that Inspector Pitt was at the door, and wished to see her.

She felt a quite unreasonable pleasure, almost a sense of relief, as if he could somehow ameliorate her sense of disillusion; and yet she was also afraid of him. Everyone in the house knew about Papa’s behaviour, even though no one spoke of it to more than one other person at a time. It was never discussed except as a confidence, yet it seemed as if the house itself knew, and Pitt would only have to come into its walls to know also. And if Papa were capable of one such betrayal, one deceit of twenty-five years, what else might he not have kept from them? This other life that they knew nothing of might incorporate all sorts of things. Perhaps even he himself was not fully aware of it? That was the monstrous thought that had been at the back of her mind for hours. It was out now. Was it possible for a man to behave in such a way? Could he have had other mistresses? Perhaps have made some advances towards the murdered girls, and then, rather than be exposed, have killed them? Surely not! Papa? What on earth was she thinking? She had known Papa all her life. He had held her on his knee, played with her when she was a child. She could remember birthdays, Christmases, toys he had given her.

But all that time he had been intimate with that other woman less than a couple of miles away! And poor Mama had never known it!

“Miss Charlotte?” Maddock brought her back to the present again.

“Oh yes, Maddock, you had better ask him to come in, I suppose.”

“Do you wish me to bring any refreshment, Miss?”

“Certainly not,” she said, a little sharply. “I doubt he will be here more than a half hour at the most.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maddock withdrew, and a moment later Pitt came in. He was as untidy as always, and with the usual broad smile.

“Good afternoon, Charlotte,” he said cheerfully.

She gave him a frown to indicate she resented the familiarity, but it seemed to be entirely wasted on him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Is there some further way we can assist you in your enquiries? Do you feel any nearer success?”

“Oh yes, we have excluded many more that we believed to be possibilities.” He was still smiling. Did nothing penetrate the thickness of his skin?

“I’m glad to hear it. Tell me, do you have a large population to go through?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Something has upset you.” It was a statement, although touched with a note of enquiry.

“Several things have upset me, but none of them is in any way your concern,” she replied coolly. “They are not to do with the hangman.”

“If they upset you, then it concerns me.”

She turned round to find him looking at her with an expression in his eyes that was unmistakably gentle, and something that was more than gentleness. She had never seen such a look in any man’s face before, and it disturbed her profoundly. She felt the blood coming to her face and a totally unaccustomed warmth inside her. She looked away quickly, confused.

“That is courteous of you,” she said awkwardly, “but they are family matters, and no doubt will sort themselves out in due course.”

“Are you still worried about Emily and George Ashworth?”

She had entirely forgotten them, but it seemed an obvious escape from the truth, and he had offered it to her.

“Yes,” she lied. “I am concerned that he will hurt her. She is not of his social position, and he will tire of her presently; then she will find her reputation damaged, and have nothing to show for it but a deep hurt to her feelings.”

“You believe that because his social position is higher than hers he will not consider marrying her?” he asked.

It seemed a foolish question. She was a little annoyed with him for having asked.

“Of course he won’t!” she said tartly. “Men of his situation either marry for family reasons, or for money. Emily has neither.”

“Do you admire that?”

She turned round sharply. “Of course not! It is weak, contemptible. But that is the way it is.” Then she saw the smile on his face, and something else. Could it conceivably be hope? She felt her skin flame. It was ridiculous! She drew a deep breath and tried hard to control herself.

He was still staring at her, but there was self-mockery in his face now. Very gently he helped her out of her embarrassment.

“I think you worry about Emily too much,” he observed. “She is far more practical than you credit. Ashworth may imagine he is calling the pace, but I think it will be Emily who will decide whether he marries her or not. A wife like Emily could be an advantage to a man in his position. She is far cleverer than he is, for a start, and wise enough to hide it sufficiently so that he may suspect it, but never be sure enough for it to make him feel in any way less superior. She will be right, but she will convince him that it was his idea.”

“You make her sound extremely—conniving.”

“She is.” He smiled. “She is in every way opposite from you. Where you charge headlong, Emily will outflank and come up behind.”

“And you make me sound stupid!”

His smile broadened into a grin. “Not at all. You could not win Ashworth, but then you also have the sense not to want him!”

She relaxed in spite of herself. “Indeed I do not. What have you come for, Mr. Pitt? Surely not to talk about Ashworth and Emily again? Are you really no nearer the hangman?”

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “Once or twice I’ve thought we were almost onto him, but then we were proved wrong. If only we knew why! If we just knew why he did it, why those girls? Why not any of a hundred others? Was it no more than chance?”

“But surely—” she faltered, “if it were no more than that—how will you ever find him? He could be anyone at all!”

“I know.” He held out no false hope, no comfort, and for that she both praised and blamed him. She wanted comfort, and yet she wanted honesty as well. It seemed she could not have both.

“Is there no connecting link, no person they all knew who might have . . . ?”

“We are still looking. That is why I’ve come today. I would like to speak to Dora, if I may, and also to Mrs. Dunphy. I’ve heard that Dora was friendly with the Hiltons’ maid, more friendly than she has told us. Possibly she denied it out of fear. A lot of people hide information because they feel murder is scandalous, and even to know anything somehow rubs the scandal onto them. Guilt by association.” His mouth turned down at the corners.

“And Mrs. Dunphy? She might have held something back; she hates scandal.”

“I’m sure. All good servants do, even more than their masters, if such a thing were possible. But actually I only want her confirmation. It might serve to prevent Dora from being evasive again. Dora might lie to me, but if she is anything like most housemaids, she will not dare lie to the cook.”

Charlotte smiled. It was perfectly true.

Then another thought occurred to her. Was that all he wanted to ask? And even if it was, would Dora or Mrs. Dunphy accidentally betray the anguish in the house at the moment? It was a fallacy of self-preservation, of dignity, to suppose that the servants did not know the private quarrels and tears above the stairs. They had eyes and ears, and curiosity. Someone would have overheard. Gossip would be discreet, even sympathetic, but it would be there. Of course it would never go outside the house. Loyalty and pride of establishment were fierce, but they would know.

“Do you wish me to call her in here?” she asked, thinking she would be able to control the situation if she were there to prevent any slips of the tongue. “She won’t lie to me either.”

Pitt looked at her, eyes narrowed very slightly.

“Please don’t trouble yourself. Besides, I think she might well be reticent in front of you. I don’t wish to question her in Mrs. Dunphy’s presence either, only to confirm with Mrs. Dunphy first, and then use the information to press Dora. If she did something you would not approve of, she won’t say so in front of you, but she might tell me, alone.”

She wanted to argue, to find some reason to be present, but she could think of nothing that sounded honest. Yet she must prevent his learning of Papa and the woman. She believed he would feel, as she did, that it was a betrayal, a moral dishonesty that one might try to pardon with one’s mind, but could never forget. Respect was gone; one could not trust again.

That was foolish. Pitt was a man, and would no doubt feel as other men did that such things were quite ordinary and to be accepted—as long as women did not do the same, of course. Perhaps she was afraid unnecessarily. Murder was quite a different thing from adultery, to men.

“How is your sergeant?” she asked, in an attempt to delay him until she could think of a reason to prevent him from seeing Dora alone.

“Getting better, thank you.” If he was surprised he did not show it.

“Do you have to have another sergeant now?” she went on.

“Yes.” He smiled. “You would like him; he’s quite an entertaining character. A little like Willie.”

“Oh?” The interest she expressed was quite genuine. And it was a few minutes’ respite. “I see Willie as a very uneasy policeman.”

“Oh, Dickon was uneasy to begin with, but he was obliged to find work very early, and naturally found dishonest employment easier to come by. He gained an excellent knowledge of the underworld, and then, after an extremely narrow squeak, decided it might be safer to profit from his expertise on the side of the law rather than against it.” He grinned broadly. “Actually he fell rather seriously in love with a girl socially above him. He promised her he would become respectable if she would marry him. So far he’s kept at it.”

“Why did he have to go out to work so young?” she was interested to know, as well as still wishing to keep him from the kitchen. The memory of Willie’s wry face was clear, and in her mind she saw this Dickon with the same features.

“His father died at a hanging, in ’forty-seven or ’forty-eight, and his mother was left with five children of which he was the youngest; and the other four were girls.”

“Oh no! However did she manage? How irresponsible of him to commit a crime that got him hanged!” She could think only of the poor woman with five children to feed.

“He wasn’t hanged,” Pitt corrected her. “He was killed at a hanging. They used to have public hangings then, and they were considered quite a sporting event.”

She did not believe him. “Hanging? Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of a person would wish to see some wretched creature taken out to a gibbet and hanged?” She swallowed hard, flaring her nose in disgust.

“Many kinds,” he answered seriously. “It used to be quite a spectacle; hundreds of people came to watch, and others came to pick their pockets, to gamble, to sell their muffins and winkles and hot chestnuts in winter. And, of course, the odd dogfight to warm them up.

“The poor crowded into the square, while the quality, the gentlemen, booked rooms in nearby houses with front windows—”

“That’s obscene!” she said fiercely. “It’s disgusting!”

“They let them for very high rents,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “Unfortunately the excitement of the actual hanging often spilled over into the crowd, and fights broke out. Dickon’s father was beaten to death in one of these.”

He smiled bleakly at her horror. “They don’t have public hangings anymore. Now let me speak to Dora. I don’t know whether I shall discover whatever it is you are so afraid of, but I must try.”

She swallowed hard again.

“I don’t know what you mean! Ask Dora anything you wish. There’s nothing I am afraid of, except the hangman himself, and we are all afraid of him.”

“But you are afraid that he is someone you know, aren’t you, Charlotte?”

“Isn’t he? Isn’t he someone we all know?” she demanded. There was no point in lying anymore. “At least I’m not afraid it’s me, in some black, terrible other side of myself I don’t know about. But any man who has any imagination at all must have feared just that at least once in the dark hours of the night.”