Cater Street Hangman (30 page)
Read Cater Street Hangman Online
Authors: Anne Perry
“You don’t look at all well,” she said, screwing up her own face unconsciously. Again she put her hand on Martha’s forehead, leaning forward. “Have you any eau de cologne?” she said and looked for it as she spoke. It was on a small table by the window. She crossed to get it, and brought it back, with a handkerchief in the other hand. “Here, let me brush your hair for a little, and then perhaps you will be able to sleep. I always find if I am unwell that sleep is the most effective cure.”
Martha said nothing, and Charlotte avoided her eyes, because she could think of no conversation.
Fifteen minutes later Charlotte was in the street again, having left Martha propped up in bed, eyes cavernous, face spotted with colour and beads of sweat on her face. If she were not better tomorrow it was to be hoped the vicar would send for the doctor first thing in the morning.
It was colder outside, and the fog had already gathered quite alarmingly. Her footsteps were muffled on the wet stones and the gaslights were blurred like so many yellow moons. She shivered and drew her cloak more closely round her.
It was a wretched night. Cater Street seemed a mile long. Better to think of something happy, make the distance seem less, and the evening warmer. She smiled immediately as yesterday—and Pitt—returned to her mind. Of course, Papa would not be very pleased at the prospect of her marrying socially beneath her. But then on the other hand, he ought to be somewhat relieved that she had the offer of marrying at all! Especially if she were anything like as awkward as Grandmama believed. Anyway, whatever Papa said, she would marry Mr. Pitt; she had never been surer of anything in her life. The very thought of him lit a warmth inside her enough to dispel the fog and chill of the November dusk.
Could that be footsteps behind her?
Nonsense! And what if it were? It was early yet. There must be other people in Cater Street. She would not be the only one abroad.
Nevertheless, she hurried. It was foolish, and quite irrational to imagine the footsteps had anything to do with her. They were still a little distance behind her, and sounded more like another woman than a man.
She walked a little faster.
And what if it were a man? She knew almost every man who lived in this area; it could only be some friend or acquaintance. Perhaps they would even accompany her home.
The fog was really quite thick now, like wreaths and garlands. Now why should she think of wreaths? Natural enough; Sarah was to be buried in a few days’ time. Poor Sarah.
Oh God! Had Sarah been hurrying along the street, like this, with footsteps in the mist behind her, when suddenly—?
Don’t be foolish. There was no point in thinking like that! Would she make a fool of herself if she were to run? And what did it matter if she was a fool?
She quickened her pace yet again. The footsteps were very close now. She still had the basket in her hand. Was there anything in it she could use as a weapon? Glass, a weight? No. Hadn’t someone used a heavy pickle jar? Her hands were empty.
At least she would face him—if it
were
him! She would see his face and she would scream, scream as loudly as she could, scream his name so that every house in Cater Street would hear it.
House! Of course, she would go up to the very next house, past this length of garden wall, and bang on the door till someone let her in. What did it matter if they thought she was a hysterical fool? Someone would take her home. Everyone would say she was foolish, but what did that matter?
The footsteps were right behind her. She would not be taken by surprise. She swung round to face him.
He was there in front of her, her own height, no more, but broader, far broader. The gaslight shone on his head as he moved.
Don’t be idiotic. It was Martha, only Martha Prebble.
“Martha!” she said in an ecstasy of relief. “What on earth are you doing out of bed? You are ill! Do you need help? Here, let me—”
But Martha’s face was twisted into an unrecognizable distortion, her eyes blazing, her lips drawn back. She raised her powerful arms and the gaslight caught on the thin silver of a cheese cutting wire in her hands.
Charlotte was paralyzed.
“You filth!” Martha said between her clenched teeth. There was saliva on her lips and she was shivering. “You creature of the devil! You tempted me with your white arms, and your flesh, but you shan’t win! The Lord said, better you should not have been born than that you should have tempted and brought to destruction one of these, my little ones, and brought them to sin. Better you should have a millstone tied round your neck and be put into the sea. I shall destroy you, however many times you keep coming, with your soft words and your touch of sin. I shall not fall! I know how your body burns, I know your secret lusts, but I shall destroy you all, till you leave me alone in peace. Satan shall never win!”
Charlotte only barely understood—some tortured haze of love and loneliness, of twisted hungers, suppressed for long years till they broke loose in violence that could no longer deny itself.
“Oh no! Martha.” Her own fear was consumed in pity. “Oh, Martha, you misunderstood, you poor creature—”
But Martha had raised the wire, stretched taut between her hands, and was coming towards her, less than a yard away.
The spell was broken.
Charlotte screamed as loudly as her lungs would permit. She screamed Martha’s name over and over again. She swung the basket at her, at her face, hoping to scare her, to blind her temporarily, even to knock her over.
It seemed like eternity, and Martha’s hands were already on her arms, gripping her like steel, when the enormous figure of Pitt came out of the fog, and a second later, two constables. They grasped Martha, hauling her off, forcing her arms behind her back.
Charlotte collapsed against the street wall; her knees seemed to have no strength to support her and her hands were tingling with pins and needles.
Pitt bent down to her, taking her face in his hands very gently. “You blazing idiot!” he choked. “What in God’s name were you doing going to see her alone? Do you realize if I hadn’t gone to see you again today, and they had not told me where you’d come, you’d be lying on this very stone, dead like Sarah and all the others?”
She nodded and gulped, tears beginning to run down her face.
“Yes.”
“You—you—” He was lost for a word fierce enough.
Before he could struggle any further there were more heavy feet on the pavement, and a moment later the vicar’s solid form materialized out of the fog.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Who’s hurt?”
Pitt turned to him, bitter dislike in his face. “No one is hurt, Mr. Prebble—in the way you mean. The injury is a lifelong one, I think.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Explain yourself! Martha! What on earth are those policemen doing with Martha? She should be at home in bed. She is ill. I found her missing; that’s why I came out. You can let her go now. I shall take her home.”
“No, Mr. Prebble, you won’t. I’m afraid Mrs. Prebble is under arrest, and will remain with us.”
“Under arrest!” The vicar’s face twitched. “Are you insane? Martha could have done nothing wrong. She is a good woman. If she has been foolish—” His voice hardened a little in irritation, as if he had been trespassed against. “She is not well—”
Pitt stopped him. “No, Mr. Prebble, she is not. She is so ill, she has murdered and disfigured five women.”
The vicar stared at him, his face working as he struggled between disbelief and rage. He swivelled to stare at Martha, sagging, eyes wild, saliva on her lips and chin, policemen holding her up. He swung back to Pitt.
“Possessed!” he said furiously. “Sin!” His voice rose. “Oh frailty, thy name is woman.”
Pitt’s face was frozen with his own anger. “Frail?” he demanded. “Because she cares, and you don’t? Because she is capable of love, and you are not? Because she has weaknesses, hungers, and compassion, and you know none of these? Go away, Mr. Prebble, and pray, if you know how!”
The fog swirled in, and he was lost.
“I was sorry for her,” Charlotte said softly. She sniffed. “I still am. I didn’t even know women could feel like that—about other women. Please don’t be angry with me?”
“Oh, Charlotte—I—” He gave up. “Stand up. You’ll get cold sitting on the stone. It’s wet.” He pulled her to her feet, looked at the tears running down her face, then put his arms round her and held onto her as tightly as he could, not bothering to push the hair out of her eyes or to pick up the basket, just clinging to her.
“I know you’re sorry for her,” he whispered. “Dear God, so am I.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1979 by Anne Perry
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-1908-9
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
