Cater Street Hangman (28 page)

“Indeed I shall,” he stood up. “And I shall make perfectly sure he finds my offer acceptable. Now I had better take my leave, before I have outstayed propriety. Good afternoon, Emily, my dear.”

Chapter Thirteen

T
HAT EVENING
E
DWARD
decided that he would no longer require Caroline to attempt to soothe Grandmama or to put up with her criticism and bad humour. He sent Maddock with a message to Susannah that as soon as possible Grandmama would be dispatched with her necessary clothes and toiletries, and that they did not look to see her return until such time as they should feel themselves recovered from their bereavement. It would be no pleasure for Susannah, but that was one of the burdens of family life, and she would have to make the best of it.

Grandmama complained with bitter self-pity and at least one dizzy spell, but no one paid her the least attention. Emily was in a world of her own. Edward and Caroline seemed at last to have come to terms with the whole subject of Mrs. Attwood. The previous evening they had talked for a long time, and Caroline had learned many things, not only about Edward, but about loneliness, about the feeling of being outside a close circle of dependence, and about herself. Now there was a new perception between them, and they seemed to have much to say to each other.

Dominic for once exercised none of his usual diplomacy, and Charlotte was even less than ordinarily inclined to mince her words. Accordingly, the following morning Caroline and Emily assisted Grandmama with her packing, and at ten o’clock accompanied her in the carriage to Susannah’s.

Charlotte was thus alone when the vicar and Martha Prebble came to formally convey their sympathy and deep shock at the loss of Sarah. Dora showed them in.

“My dear Miss Ellison,” the vicar began solemnly, “I can hardly find words to express our grief to you.”

Charlotte could not help hoping he would continue to fail to find them, but such was far from the case.

“What a monstrous evil walks among us,” he went on, taking her hand, “that could strike down a woman like your sister, in the prime of her life, and leave her husband and her family bereft. I assure you all the righteous men and women of the parish join me in extending all our deepest condolences to you, and your poor mother.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte withdrew her hand. “I am quite sure of the best wishes of you all, and I shall inform my parents and my sister, and of course my brother-in-law, of your kindness.”

“It is our duty,” the vicar replied, apparently unaware that his remark would rob the visit of any value in Charlotte’s eyes.

“Is there anything we can do?” Martha offered.

Charlotte turned to her in relief, but it was short-lived. Martha’s face was more haggard than she had ever seen it before. Her eyes were bedded in dark hollows, her hair hanging like string in loops over her ears.

“Your sympathy is the greatest help,” Charlotte said gently, moved to a profound pity for the woman. Surely to live with such a duty-suffocated creature as the vicar must be almost more than any human, caring woman could stand?

“When will it be convenient for me to consult with your father about the—er—arrangements?” the vicar went on without looking at Martha. “These things must be done, you know; a proper order preserved. We return to the dust from which we came, and our souls to the judgement of God.”

There was no answer to that, so Charlotte returned to the first question.

“I have no idea, but I would have thought it appropriate to speak with my brother-in-law, at least to begin with.” She was delighted to find some point of propriety on which to correct him. “If he feels unable to do so, then, of course, I’m sure Papa will deal with the matter.”

The vicar endeavoured to hide his annoyance. He smiled, showing his teeth, but his cheeks coloured faintly and his eyes were hard.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I had thought, perhaps—an older man—the grief—”

“It may quite possibly be so,” Charlotte was not about to give him the slightest victory. She smiled also, equally coldly. “But it would be an added unkindness not to consult him, an unnecessary rudeness, I feel?”

The muscles along the vicar’s face tightened.

“Have the police made even the slightest progress towards discovering the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes? I understand you are—somewhat close—to one of the—policemen.” He invested the last word with the same tone he might have used for rat catchers or those who remove the kitchen waste. There was a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

“I don’t know whom you can have been listening to, Vicar, to gather such an impression.” Charlotte looked him straight in the face. “Have the servants been talking?”

The colour washed up his face in a wave of anger.

“I do not listen to servants, Miss Ellison! And I take it unkindly that you should suggest such a thing. I am not some gossiping woman!”

“It was not intended as an insult, Vicar,” Charlotte lied without the slightest qualm. “Since I am a woman myself, I would not have chosen that phrase in order to be derogatory.”

“Indeed, of course not,” he said tartly. “God made woman, as He made man—the weaker vessel, of course, but still the creation of the Almighty.”

“I understood everything was the creation of God,” Charlotte was going to push every prick home. “But it is indeed comforting to be reminded that we are. To answer your question, I am not aware that the police have made any further discoveries in the course of their investigations, but of course it is not incumbent on them to advise me if they have.”

“I see the whole matter has preyed upon your mind.” The vicar altered his tone to one of sententiousness. “Quite natural. It is far too great a burden for one of your tender birth and years to bear. You must lean upon the church, and put your trust in the Lord Almighty to help you through this crisis. Read your Bible every day; you will find great comfort in it. Observe its commandments diligently, and it will bring joy to your soul even through the darkest vicissitudes of this vale of tears.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said drily. She had hitherto enjoyed her Bible, but this was quite enough to sour it for her. “I will pass on your advice. I am sure we shall all benefit from it.”

“And never fear that the wicked shall escape punishment. If they do not meet the justice of this world, then God’s vengeance will catch up with them in the eternities, and they shall perish in hell fire! The wages of sin is death. The lusts of the flesh consume in everlasting fire the souls of the wicked and no man shall escape. No, not the least thought that pursues the pleasures of the flesh shall go unknown in the great judgement!”

Charlotte shivered. She found the idea of comfort in such a philosophy appalling. She had thoughts she was ashamed of, hungers and dreams she would far rather were not known, and as she needed her own forgiven, she would forgive another’s.

“Surely thoughts that are controlled,” she said hesitantly, “and not acted upon—”

Martha looked up suddenly, her face white, the muscles in her jaw clenching. Her voice was rough when she spoke, as if it would not entirely obey her.

“All sin is sin, my dear. The thought is father to the wish, and the wish father to the deed. Therefore the thought itself is evil, and must be plucked out, eradicated like a poisonous weed that will rise and choke the seeds of the Lord’s word in you. If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out! Better a limb should be chopped off, than the whole body should become infected and perish!”

“I . . . I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Charlotte stammered. She was embarrassed by Martha’s intensity, by the passion she felt just beneath the surface of these words. She was almost tangibly conscious of some deep pain in the room with her, something beyond all her previous experience. It frightened her, because she did not know how to comfort Martha.

“You must,” Martha said urgently. “That is how it is. Sin is ever-present, deep in our hearts and minds, the devil striving to claim us for his own, seeking the weaknesses of the flesh, seeking to govern us. He is cleverer than we are, and he never sleeps. Remember that, Charlotte! Always be on your guard. Pray continually for the saving grace of Our Redeemer to show you the Evil One in his true light, that you may recognize him, and tear him out of your bosom, destroy his influence, and remain clean.” She suddenly stopped and stared down at her hands in her lap. “I have the great blessing of a man of God in my house to guide me. God has been extremely good to me, to save me from all my weaknesses, and show me the way. I am not sure I can ever be worthy of such a blessing.”

“There, there, my dear,” the vicar put his hand on her shoulder. “I am sure we all receive blessings appropriate to our deserts, ultimately. You have no need to chastise yourself. God made women to be the handmaids of His servants, and you have acquitted yourself excellently in your calling. You never cease to labour for the poor and the fallen. I’m sure it does not go unseen in heaven.”

“It does not go unseen on earth either,” Charlotte said quickly. “Sarah was always saying what wonderful work you do.” She found herself embarrassingly near to tears again at the mention of Sarah’s name. Above all things she did not wish to weep in front of the vicar.

“Sarah.” An indescribable look came over Martha’s face. She seemed to struggle with some inner torment, a mighty effort to control herself which lasted visibly, and to Charlotte’s unbearable pity, for several moments.

“I’m sure she rests in peace now.” Charlotte put her hand over Martha’s, forgetting her own grief and attempting to ease the other woman’s. “If all we are told of heaven is true, we should not grieve for her, but only for ourselves because we miss her.”

“Heaven?” Martha repeated. “May God be merciful to forgive her all her sins, and remember only her virtues, and wash her clean in the blood of Christ.”

“Amen,” the vicar said sonorously. “Now, my dear Miss Ellison, we must leave you to your deliberations and such privacy as you may require. Please advise your brother-in-law that I shall be available to him at whatever hour is convenient. Come, Martha, my dear, we have other duties to perform. Good morning, Miss Ellison.”

“Good morning, Vicar.” Charlotte held out her hand to Martha. “Good morning, Mrs. Prebble. I am sure Mama will be most touched by your sympathy.”

The vicar and Martha departed and Charlotte sat down hard on the overstuffed chair in the withdrawing room feeling suddenly cold and painfully unhappy.

Naturally Charlotte reported the substance of the vicar’s call when Mama and Emily returned for luncheon. No comment was passed, except the acknowledgement required by courtesy.

Mama returned to her room to spend the afternoon writing the necessary letters to inform other members of the family, godparents, cousins, of Sarah’s death. Emily found something to do in the kitchen. Charlotte busied herself with mending. It was really Millie’s job, but Charlotte wished for something to keep her from idleness; Millie would have to find another task, perhaps even doing the ironing again.

It was nearly three when Pitt came again. For the first time she admitted freely that she was pleased to see him.

“Charlotte,” he took one of her hands gently. His touch was warm, and she did not wish to withdraw; indeed her mind went ahead of her wishes to think of more.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said formally. She must keep control. “What can we do this time? Have you thought of some further questions?”

“No,” he smiled ruefully. “I can think of nothing else. I came merely to see you. I hope I do not need an excuse.”

She found herself embarrassed and unable to answer. It was ridiculous. No man had embarrassed her in this fashion except Dominic, and with Dominic it had been an empty confusion, without any end she could see. This time she hoped profoundly, with shaking heart, what the end might be.

She withdrew her hand. “Still, I should like to know if you have any further . . .  information? Some beliefs perhaps?”

“Some,” he looked at the chair, questioning if he might sit down. She nodded and he relaxed into it, still watching her. “But it is only the faintest idea as yet. I cannot see it clearly, and perhaps when I do there will be nothing there.”

She wanted to tell him about the distress she felt for Martha Prebble, the sense of her deep pain that had filled the room, her own helplessness in the face of something she thought she had seen, but not understood.

“Charlotte? What is troubling you? Has something happened since I was here last?”

She turned to look at him. For once she was not quite sure how to put her thoughts into words, a failing she was not accustomed to. It was difficult to express the sense of oppression that had weighed on her during and after the Prebbles’ visit without sounding foolish, over-imaginative. Yet she wished to tell him, it would comfort her profoundly if he understood. Perhaps he would even be able to dismiss it, show her it was a fancy.

He was still waiting, apparently knowing she was seeking words.

“The vicar and Mrs. Prebble were here this morning,” she began.

“Natural enough,” he was listening. “He was bound to call.” He shifted his weight. “I know you dislike him. I must say I have the greatest trouble being civil to him myself.” He smiled wryly. “I imagine it is even harder for you.”

She glanced at him, not sure for a moment if he were mocking her. He was, but there was tenderness in his face as well as amusement. For a moment the warmth of it, the sweetness of pleasure it brought her drove Martha Prebble from her mind.

“Why should that have upset you?” he brought her back to the present.

She turned away, so his look should not disturb her. “I’ve always felt ambivalent about Martha.” She was seriously trying now to tell him what was still struggling for form in her mind. “Her talk about sin is so depressing. She sounds like the vicar, seeing evil where I believe there is only perhaps a little foolishness which passes anyway with time and responsibility. People like the vicar always seem bent on spoiling pleasure, as if pleasure itself were against God. I can see that some pleasures are, or that they beguile one from the things one ought to do; but—”

“Perhaps he sees that as his duty?” Pitt suggested. “It’s clear-cut, easier than preaching charity, and certainly easier than practicing it.”