Cater Street Hangman (26 page)

“And you’ve thought of it for them,” he finished softly. “Your father, Dominic, George Ashworth, Maddock, probably the vicar and the sexton too. Which one are you afraid for now, Charlotte?”

She opened her mouth to deny it, then realized it was futile. Instead she simply refused to commit herself.

Pitt touched her hand lightly, and went out of the door into the hallway and the kitchen to find Dora.

Chapter Twelve

C
HARLOTTE WENT BACK
to her letters since Pitt would not question Dora in her presence. She did not know whether he intended to speak to her again before leaving, or whether he would tell her what Dora had told him if it were of any value. For the first fifteen minutes she could only think of what might be said in the kitchen—whether Pitt would ask about anything other than the Hiltons’ maid, or whether, even by accident, he might stumble on the knowledge of Papa and the woman in Cater Street.

When she finally settled to writing, the letters were scrappy, and she feared full of repetition and irrelevancies but, even so, better than letting her mind dwell on the kitchen.

By four o’clock it was darkening outside with fog swirling up from the river and already hanging in haze ’round the gas lamps in the street.

Mama and Emily returned a few minutes later, cold and dissatisfied with the dress. They requested tea immediately and asked if Sarah were home yet.

“No.” Charlotte replied with a slight frown. “Inspector Pitt was here earlier. I’m not even sure if he has gone now.”

Mama looked up agitatedly.

“Why was he here?” she asked with an edge to her voice. Was she harbouring the same fear as Charlotte: that somehow he would find out about Papa and the woman? Charlotte did not wish to ask, in case her mother had not even thought of it.

“Something to do with Dora knowing the Hiltons’ maid, and not having said so before,” she replied.

“Why should Dora lie?” Emily enquired, putting down her cup, still untouched, too hot to drink. “There could be nothing wrong in it if she had.”

“Fear, I suppose,” Charlotte answered her. “Scandal, and all that. Didn’t want to be mixed up with the police. Easier just to deny it.”

“Perhaps she didn’t know her, and Pitt is wrong?” Emily suggested. “It hardly matters anyway. You know it’s quite dark outside. Surely Sarah can’t still be trailing around with Martha Prebble on parish work at this hour?”

Caroline stood up and went to the window. There was nothing to see but opaque fog and darkness.

“If she is I shall speak to her very sharply when she returns. Unless someone has been taken ill, there is no need whatsoever to be out as late as this, and on such a wretched night. We shall have to send Maddock to bring her back. She cannot possibly travel alone in this.”

“I dare say the vicar will accompany her,” Emily observed calmly. “I don’t care for him, any more than Charlotte does,” she looked sideways at her sister, “but he is not so completely without manners or breeding as to let Sarah walk home alone after dark.”

“No, of course not,” Caroline came away from the window and sat down, making a determined effort to control herself. “I am just being foolish. I don’t know why I should be afraid. We know where she is, and no doubt she is doing excellent work. Neither death nor birth, unfortunately, restricts itself to convenient weather or times of the day. And illness certainly doesn’t. I heard old Mrs. Petheridge was very unwell. Perhaps Sarah is sitting with her?”

“Yes, possibly,” Charlotte agreed quickly. She tried to think of some other topic of conversation sufficiently interesting to hold their attention. “Do you think Sir Nigel will marry Miss Decker? She has certainly tried hard enough.”

“Probably,” Emily said drily. “He is a very silly creature.”

They managed to keep the conversation alive for another hour, interspersed with small jobs till Edward returned a few moments after five.

“Where’s Sarah?” he asked immediately.

“With the vicar and Mrs. Prebble,” Caroline replied, glancing instinctively towards the window.

“At this hour?” Edward raised his eyebrows. “Has there been some emergency? They can hardly be doing ordinary parish work in the dark. Have you any idea what kind of an evening it is?”

“Of course I have!” Caroline said sharply. “I have been out in it myself, and I have eyes to look at it even from here.”

“Yes, my dear, I’m sorry,” Edward said gently. “It was a foolish question. I am a little concerned about Sarah. She is putting far too much time into this work. I am all for charity, but it is requiring too much of her at the moment. She will wear herself out, and on a night like this she could very well catch a chill.”

He had said nothing about the hangman, only about a chill from the fog, and Charlotte felt a sudden rush of warmth towards him for it. Perhaps the woman was an indiscretion he regretted and had been unable to cast off. She stood up and kissed him quickly on the cheek and he was too surprised to respond. She turned at the door and caught his eye. Could it even be gratitude she saw there? She was going to the kitchen to find out what Dora had told Pitt.

“I’m going to see if dinner is progressing satisfactorily,” she announced. “I don’t imagine Dora is upset, but I had as well make sure.”

“Why would Dora be upset?” she heard Edward ask as she closed the door.

It appeared the questioning of Dora had elicited very little other than the details of her friendship with the Hiltons’ maid, and she returned to the withdrawing room perfectly satisfied.

It was twenty minutes to six when the door from the hall opened and Pitt stood gray-faced on the threshold. Maddock was nowhere to be seen.

Edward turned and then, when he saw who it was, half rose. He was about to require some explanation for Pitt’s coming unannounced when he saw the man’s face more closely. It was always a mirror of his feelings, and now it showed shock and distress beyond anything they had seen before. His eyes flickered just once to Charlotte, and then back to Edward again.

“For God’s sake, man, what is it?” Edward stood up. “Are you ill?” He must be, to look so dreadful.

Pitt struggled forwards, and seemed unable to find them.

Charlotte felt a bitter coldness inside her. “Sarah,” she said quietly. “It’s Sarah, isn’t it?”

Pitt nodded. He shut his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Edward did not seem to understand. “What about Sarah? What’s wrong with her? Has there been an accident?” He teetered a little on his feet.

Charlotte stood up and went to him, putting her arm in his and holding on to him hard. She faced Pitt, her heart choking in her throat, pins and needles already numbing her fingers and creeping up her arms. She knew before she spoke what the answer must be.

“The hangman?” she asked. She did not want to know if Sarah too had been molested. It was unbearable.

“Yes,” his face was wracked with misery and guilt.

“It can’t be!” Edward said, shaking his head a little, uncomprehending, unable to believe. “Why Sarah? Why should anyone want to hurt Sarah?” His voice wavered and he struggled to continue. “She was so. . . .” He stopped, tears running down his face.

Behind them Emily moved to sit with Caroline, putting her arms round her, clinging, hiding her face. Caroline wept deeply and agonizingly, shaking with her grief.

“I don’t know,” Pitt answered. “God, I don’t know.”

“Is there anything to do?” Charlotte asked huskily. The pins and needles were up to her elbows, and Pitt’s face seemed to swim far away.

“No,” he shook his head.

“Where’s Maddock?”

“I’m afraid he—wasn’t well. He took it very hard. I sent him to fetch some brandy and smelling salts, in case—” he trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

Charlotte gripped her father even harder. “Papa, you had better sit down. There isn’t anything to do. There will be things, tomorrow, but tonight it’s all finished.”

Edward backed obediently towards his chair and his legs seemed to buckle underneath him.

A moment later Maddock came in with a tray, the brandy decanter and glasses. He looked at the ground without speaking. Emily and Caroline did not see him, and he put the smelling salts on the table awkwardly. He was leaving again when Charlotte spoke.

“Maddock, you had better cancel dinner, and ask Mrs. Dunphy to prepare something cold for about eight o’clock, if you please.”

He gave her a look of incredulity, and she knew he found her inexplicably cold, as if she did not care. She could not explain to him that she cared abominably, so much that she could not bear to think of it, that doing something practical, concerning herself with the grief of others, was more bearable than thinking of her own. She turned from Maddock to Pitt, and saw again in him the tenderness that had so embarrassed her before, but this time it was like warmth and sweetness enveloping her. She knew he understood what she was doing, and why. She looked away quickly, tears choking her. It was far harder to bear than misunderstanding; there was nothing to fight against.

“Thank you, Inspector Pitt.” She tried to keep the wavering in her voice from obliterating her words. “Perhaps if you would ask whatever questions you have tomorrow? There is little we can tell you tonight, except that Sarah left in the early afternoon to visit Mrs. Prebble, and we presumed to do some parish visiting afterwards. If you ask Mrs. Prebble, no doubt she will be able to tell you . . . what time. . . .” She found herself unable to finish. Suddenly they were not talking about facts, but about Sarah. She could see her clearly in her mind. She forced the picture out. She wanted him to leave before she lost control. “Tomorrow we shall be better able to answer any other questions.”

“Of course,” he agreed quickly. “It would be better for me to speak to the vicar and Mrs. Prebble now anyway.” He turned to Edward again. He seemed unable to look at Caroline. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammered.

Edward rose to the occasion. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sure you have done everything anyone could. Sane men are at a loss in the face of madness. Thank you for coming in person to tell us. Good night, Inspector.”

There was nothing to say in the silence after Pitt left. There were no questions, except the one that could not be answered: why Sarah?

It was a long time before anyone moved, and then it was Edward who went to the kitchen to tell the servants formally. Emily took Caroline upstairs. Supper was a cold plate served in the withdrawing room. All except Caroline forced themselves to eat something. At nine o’clock Edward sent Charlotte and Emily upstairs to bed, and waited alone to tell Dominic whenever he might return.

Charlotte went gratefully. Her control was slipping away from her quickly as the evening dragged on. She was suddenly very tired and the effort of stopping the tears was becoming too much.

In her room she undressed, hung up her clothes, washed her face in hot water, then cold, took her hair down and brushed it, then climbed into bed and at last cried with all her heart until she had no more strength left.

The following morning was bleak and cold. Charlotte woke up and for a few minutes everything was as always, but then memory returned. Sarah was dead. She had to say it over several times. It was a little like the morning after Sarah’s marriage; then, too, a lifelong relationship had gone. Sarah was no longer her sister, but Dominic’s wife. She could look back on all the years of her childhood. It was Sarah who had first showed her how to button her own shoes, Sarah with whom she had played at dolls, Sarah’s clothes she had grown into, Sarah who had taught her to read, Sarah in whom she had confided her first admirations and heartaches. Something had gone from her life when Sarah had married and was no longer especially hers. But that was a natural part of growing up; she had always known it would happen one day. This was different. It was not natural. It was monstrous. And this time there was no envy in it, only wrenching, unbearable loss.

Had Sarah known, had she seen the face of her murderer? Had she felt the choking, heart-tearing fear? Please, God, let it have been quick!

There was no point in lying here thinking. Better to get up, find something practical to do. It would be worse for Mama. There was something terrible beyond understanding to lose a child, a person to whom you have given life from your own body.

Downstairs everyone else was also up and dressed, searching for something to do.

Breakfast was almost silent. Dominic looked white and his eyes did not meet anyone else’s. Charlotte watched him for a little while. Then, afraid that he would notice, she looked down at her toast. The mere mechanics of eating became exaggerated, something to do to occupy one’s mind.

Where had Dominic been last night? Was it fair to wonder if Sarah would not have gone out if he had been at home, or if she had expected him? Or had the hangman wanted her, and, if not yesterday, then some other time?

Was he some lunatic from the fogbound slums driven mad by filth and poverty till all he could think of was to kill? Or was he someone from Cater Street who knew them all, who watched and waited for his chance, who followed, perhaps even spoke to them, walked with them, and then suddenly drew out the wire, and—

She must not think about Sarah. It was past now; whatever pain there had been, whatever terror or knowledge, was finished.

Had she known him?

What did he feel this morning? Was he sitting somewhere at breakfast? Was he hungry? Was he alone in some dirty room, eating bread, or was he sitting at a polished dining room table with a family round him, eating eggs and kidneys and toast? Perhaps talking to others, even children? What would he talk about? Had his family even the faintest idea of what he was, where he had been? Were they afraid as she had been afraid? Had they been through all the same suspicions—the first idea, the self-disgust and guilt for having thought of such things, then the examination of little things remembered from the past, fitting them in with the facts and at last having the phantom of fear take definite shape?

And what was he thinking himself? Or did he not know? Was he sitting somewhere wondering as much as she was, perhaps even thinking the same things, looking at others, his father, his brother, fearing for them?

She looked across at Dominic again. Where had he been last night? Did he know—exactly? Pitt would ask him.

Breakfast was cleared away and everyone sought something to do until the police would arrive and begin the questions which had to come.

Mercifully they did not have long to wait. Pitt and his new sergeant arrived before nine. Pitt looked tired—as if he had been up long into the night—and unusually tidy. Oddly enough, it made him look uncomfortable, prepared for some ordeal.