Cater Street Hangman (8 page)

He looked at her, at her waist, at her slender hands and wrists.

“No,” he agreed. “I doubt you would have the strength.”

“Your sense of wit is impertinent, Mr. Pitt.” She tried to stare him down, but since he was well over six feet and she was half a foot shorter, she failed. “And not in the least amusing,” she finished.

“It was not intended to amuse, Miss Ellison, nor to be wit. I meant it quite literally.” Now he was serious again. “And I doubt you have ever seen real poverty in your life.”

“Yes, I have!”

“Have you?” His disbelief was quite apparent. “Have you seen children abandoned when they are six or seven years old to beg or steal to keep alive, sleeping in gutters and doorways, soaked to the skin by rain, owning nothing but the rags they stand in? What do you suppose happens to them? How long do you think it takes for an undernourished six-year-old, alone in the streets, to die of starvation or cold? When he has been taught nothing but to survive, when he cannot read or write, when he has been passed from one person to another until nobody wants him, what do you think happens to him? Either he dies—and believe me, I’ve seen a lot of their little bodies lying in the back streets, dead of cold and hunger!—or else he’s lucky, and some kidsman or sweep takes him in.”

In spite of herself she let her pity overcome her anger.

“A kidsman?”

“A kidsman is a man who picks up children like these,” he went on, “and at first takes them in and feeds them, gives them shelter and some sort of security, a place to belong. Then gradually he prevails on their gratitude by teaching them to thieve, at least to thieve with skill. To begin with they go out with some of the older boys, watching them work, something simple to start with. It used to be silk handkerchiefs when they were more fashionable. Later they graduate to something more subtle; the clever ones even progress to inside pockets, watch chains or seals. A really first-class kidsman will run classes. He’ll hang a row of old coats on a line across the room, a silk handkerchief trailing from each pocket, and the boys will take them one by one to try their skill. Or he might use a tailor’s dummy, with bells sewn all over the coat, to tinkle at the slightest disturbance, or even stand with his back to them himself. Those who succeed are well rewarded, while those who fail are punished. A child with courage, or hunger, and nimble fingers can make himself and his master a good living, until he grows too large or loses the agility of his hands.”

She was horrified, and through her distress for the child she was angry with him for making her look at such things.

“What happens then? Does he starve?” she asked. She did not want to know, and yet she could not bear not to.

“Probably he graduates to being a footpad, or if he’s smart, joins a band of pickpockets, the swell mob—”

“The what?”

“The swell mob—the best end of the pickpocketing business, well-dressed, usually having rooms in a moderate neighbourhood, a mistress, which they pick up when they are about thirteen or fourteen, almost always an older girl. Oddly enough they are very faithful and regard it as a sort of marriage. They work in gangs of three to six, each taking his part in the maneuvering and execution of a robbery. They very often rob women.”

“How do you know all this? And if you know about it, why don’t you arrest them, prevent it?”

He snorted slightly.

“We do arrest them. Nearly all of them spend some of their time in prison.”

She shivered.

“What a terrible life. Surely it would be better to be a sweep. Didn’t you say something about sweeps? That at least would be honest.”

“My dear Miss Ellison, it would take a wiser and considerably more experienced woman than you are to find an honest sweep. Have you ever been up a chimney?”

She raised her eyebrows in disdain as frigid as she could make it.

“You have a curious idea of the occupations of a gentlewoman, Mr. Pitt. But if you need an answer, then no, I have never climbed up inside a chimney.”

“No.” He did not seem in the least perturbed by her tone. He looked her up and down again and she found herself colouring under his gaze. “You would not fit,” he said frankly. “You are far too tall, and far too big.”

She blushed furiously.

“Oh, you have an excellent waist, but,” his eyes went to her shoulders and bust, then on down, “the rest of you would most certainly get stuck in the vertical tunnels, the dogleg bends, and soot would get in your nose and mouth, your eyes, your lungs—”

“It sounds horrible, but not dishonest, except for the sweep, because he gets someone else to do the labour. But as you pointed out, they could hardly do it themselves.”

“Miss Ellison, no professional cracksman robs a house without first obtaining information as to the layout, and where the valuables are kept. Can you think of a better way of doing that than by going through the chimney system?”

“You mean—but that’s terrible!”

“Of course it’s terrible, Miss Ellison. It’s all terrible!” he said furiously, “poverty and crime, loneliness, dirt, chronic disease, drunkenness, prostitution, beggary! They steal, forge money and letters, practice fraud and prostitution, but seldom murder unless pushed to it. And they don’t come out of their own world except for profit. There’s no profit in garotting three helpless girls in Cater Street. They were not even robbed.”

She could not look away from him; she was held by a mixture of fascination and horror. She disliked him acutely, and what he was saying frightened her.

“What do you mean? What are you suggesting? They are dead!”

“Oh, very. I’m saying that the kind of garotter you are thinking of, from the underworld, the criminal classes, kills for gain. He would not risk his neck for fun. He kills to escape capture, and only if it is necessary. Far better to merely immobilize or stun. He first marks his victim, choosing only those who have money.”

“Then why—?” A new world had opened in front of her, ugly and confused, intruding into the safety of her beliefs, the things she had considered certain, fixed.

He looked at her with a very slight smile, as if there were understanding between them.

“If I knew that perhaps I should know who it is. But his reason is not a simple one—and not a clean one, like a robbery or revenge. It is something darker than that, twisted deeper into the soul.”

She was frightened, and she disliked him, disliked his familiarity, his intrusion into her emotions, forcing her to know things she did not want to know.

“I think you had better go, Mr. Pitt. There is nothing whatsoever I can tell you. And I believe you wished to see Mr. Corde, although I’m sure he can tell you nothing either. Perhaps you had better consider the other girls—who were killed.” She drew breath and tried to steady herself.

“I shall consider everything, Miss Ellison. But yes, I would like to see Mr. Corde. Perhaps you would be good enough to call Maddock, and send for him?”

The evening was not a pleasant one. Dominic would not tell anyone what Pitt had asked him, although Edward did press him as far as discretion would allow. Dominic remained almost silent which was worrying in itself because it was out of character. Charlotte was afraid even to entertain her thoughts. She kept just beyond framing the possibility that Pitt had discovered something that embarrassed Dominic, something to be ashamed of. Of course, it could have nothing to do with the death of Lily, or the others, but everyone knew that men, even the best of them, occasionally did other things that were not known. It was the nature of men, and to be expected but not acknowledged, for one’s own peace of mind.

She talked determinedly of other things, aware that sometimes what she said was nonsense, but better nonsense than the long gaps in conversation when thoughts intruded.

In spite of being tired, she slept badly and woke late, causing her to have to rush to get ready for church. She had never particularly enjoyed church, the formality of it, the atmosphere of rigid propriety, the polite greetings that were a ritual rather than a matter of friendship, the form of service that was always the same till she found herself saying the words and singing the responses like a parrot. She could go through the whole thing automatically, providing she did not stop to think where she was. Once she stopped she had to look at the words to get herself started again until habit took over. And, of course, the vicar would preach a sermon. It was usually on sin, and the need for repentance. The woman taken in adultery was his favourite story, although he never drew from it the same meaning that Charlotte did. And why was it always the woman? Why were men never taken in adultery? In all the stories she had ever heard it was women who committed the adultery, and men who found them and commented on it! What about the men with whom they were found? Why didn’t the women throw stones at them? She had asked Papa that, a long time ago, and been told with some surprise not to be ridiculous.

The vicar gave his usual sermon today; in fact, if anything, it was even worse. His text was “Blessed are the pure in heart” but his message was more “blessed are the clean of action.” He went to great lengths to condemn unclean actions. And the more he spoke about harlots and prostitutes, the more Charlotte found her mind seeing the poor that that wretched Pitt had described; children left to starve at the age when she and her sisters were just learning to read and write, being taught by Miss Sims in the schoolroom. She thought of young women left alone with babies. How else could they live?

She very seldom swore, but this morning she would have consigned Mr. Pitt to hell for haying forced her to know of such things. She sat on the hard pew and stared at the vicar. Everything he said made her feel worse. She had always disliked him, and by the end of this morning she hated him with a vehemence that depressed and frightened her. She was sure it was very unchristian, and unfeminine to hate anyone this way, and yet she felt it with a depth and rightness she could not deny.

She looked up at the organ loft and saw Martha Prebble’s pale face as she played the closing hymn. She looked bored and unhappy, too.

Sunday lunch was a miserable affair and the afternoon must, of course, be spent suitably for the Sabbath. Tomorrow Grandmama was returning from Susannah’s, which was not greatly to be looked forward to either.

It would have seemed impossible, but Monday was worse. Grandmama arrived at ten o’clock, muttering dark prognostications about the downfall of the neighbourhood, of the gentle classes, of the world at large. Morality was going downhill at a great rate, and they were all destined for disaster.

They had no sooner got her unloaded and upstairs in her own sitting room, when Inspector Pitt arrived again, bringing with him the silent Sergeant Flack. Sarah was out—something to do with some charitable cause or other. Emily was at the dressmaker’s being fitted for another occasion with George Ashworth. Really, she ought to have more sense! It was time she realized he was a gambler, a philanderer, or worse, and that nothing would come of it for her but the ruin of her reputation. And all the time Mama was upstairs trying to soothe Grandmama into a state where she could be left without making everyone’s life a plague.

There was no one Charlotte wished to see less than Inspector Pitt.

He came into the morning room, filling the doorway, coat flapping, hair untidy as always. His affability irritated Charlotte almost beyond bearing.

“What do you want, Mr. Pitt?”

He did not bother to correct her, to say that he was
Inspector
Pitt. This also annoyed her for she had intended it to slight him.

“Good morning, Miss Ellison. The most perfect summer day. Is your father at home?”

“Of course not! This is Monday morning. Like most other respectable people, he is in the city. Just because we are not working class does not mean we are idle!”

He grinned broadly, showing strong teeth.

“Charmed as I am by the pleasure of your company, Miss Ellison, I am here working also. But if your father is out, then I shall have to speak to you.”

“If you must.”

“I don’t investigate murder for pleasure.” His smile vanished, although his good humour remained. There was a hint of tragedy, even anger, in his voice. “There is little pleasure in it for anyone, but it must be done.”

“I have already told you what little I know,” she said exasperatedly. “Several times. If you cannot solve it, then perhaps you had better give up, and pass it over to someone who can.”

He ignored her rudeness.

“Was she a pretty girl, Lily Mitchell?”

“Didn’t you see her?” she said in surprise. It seemed a most elementary thing to have omitted.

His smile was sad, as if he were sorry for her, as well as patient.

“Yes, Miss Ellison, I saw her, but she was not pretty then. Her face was swollen and blue, her features distorted, her tongue—”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Charlotte heard her own voice shouting at him.

“Then will you be good enough to step off your dignity,” he said quite calmly, “and help me to find out who did that to her, before he does it to someone else?”

She felt angry and hurt and ashamed.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, turning away so he could not see her face, and even more, so she could not see him. “Yes, Lily was quite pretty. She had very nice skin.” She shivered and felt a little sick as she tried to picture that skin bloated and marked by violent death. She forced it out of her mind. “She never had spots or looked sallow. And she had a very soft voice. I think she came from somewhere in the country.”

“Derbyshire.”

“Oh.”

“Was she friendly with the other servants?”

“Yes, I think so. We never heard of any trouble.”

“With Maddock?”

She swung round to face him, her thoughts coming too quickly to disguise.

“You mean . . . ?”

“Precisely. Did Maddock admire her, fancy her?”

She had never before considered the possibility of Maddock having such feelings. Possessiveness over his servants perhaps, but desire, jealousy? Maddock was the butler, in formal clothes, polite, in charge of the house. But he was a man, and now that she thought about it, probably not more than thirty-five or so, not much older than Dominic. What a preposterous thought! To think of him in the same breath as Dominic.