Cater Street Hangman

Chapter One

Charlotte Ellison stood in the centre of the withdrawing room, the newspaper in her hand. Her father had been very lax in leaving it on the side table. He disapproved of her reading such things, preferring to tell her such matters of interest as he felt suitable for young ladies to know. And this excluded all scandal, personal or political, all matters of a controversial nature, and naturally all crime of any sort: in fact just about everything that was interesting!

All of which meant that since Charlotte had to obtain her newspapers from the pantry where the butler, Maddock, put them for his own reading before throwing them out, she was always at least a day behind the rest of London.

However, this was today’s paper, 20 April 1881, and the most arresting news was the death the day before of Mr. Disraeli. Her first thought was to wonder how Mr. Gladstone felt. Did he feel any sense of loss? Was a great enemy as much a part of a man’s life as a great friend? Surely it must be. It must be the cross thread in the fabric of emotions.

There were footsteps in the hall and she put the paper away quickly. She had not forgotten her father’s fury when he had found her reading an evening journal three years ago. Of course, then it had been about the libel case between Mr. Whistler and Mr. Ruskin, and that was a little different. But even last year when she had expressed interest in the news of the Zulu War, reported in person by those who had actually been in Africa, he had viewed that with equal disfavour. He had refused even to read them selected pieces such as he considered suitable. In the end it had been Dominic, her sister’s husband, who had regaled her with all he could remember-but always at least one day late.

At the thought of Dominic, Mr. Disraeli and the whole matter of newspapers vanished. From the time Dominic had first presented himself six years ago when Sarah had been only twenty, Charlotte herself seventeen, and Emily only thirteen, she had been fascinated by him. Of course, it was Sarah he had called on; Charlotte was only permitted into the drawing room with her mother so that the occasions might be conducted with all the decorum suitable to a courtship. Dominic had barely seen her, his words polite nothings, his eyes somewhere over her left shoulder, seeing Sarah’s fair hair, her delicately boned face. Charlotte, with her heavy, mahogany-coloured hair that was so difficult to keep tidy, her stronger face, was only an encumbrance to be endured with good manners.

A year later, of course, they had married, and Dominic no longer held quite the same mystery. He no longer moved in the magical world of someone else’s romance. But even with five years of knowledge of each other, of living under the same spacious, well-ordered roof, he still exerted the original charm, the original fascination for her.

That had been his footstep in the hall. She knew it without conscious thought. It was there, part of her life: listening for him, seeing him first in a crowd, knowing where he was in the room, remembering whatever he said, even trivial things.

She had come to terms with it. Dominic had always been out of reach. It was not as if he had ever cared for her, or could have done. She had not expected it. One day perhaps she would meet someone she could like and respect, someone suitable, and Mother would speak with him, see that he was socially and personally acceptable; and of course Father would make the other arrangements, whatever they were, as he had done with Dominic and Sarah, and no doubt would do with Emily and someone, in due course. It was not something she wished to think about, but it remained permanently in the future. The present was Dominic, this house, her parents, Emily and Sarah, and Grandmama; the present was Aunt Susannah coming to tea in two hours’ time and the fact that the footsteps in the hall had gone away again, leaving her free to take another quick look at the newspaper.

Her mother came in a few moments later, so quietly Charlotte did not hear her.

“Charlotte.”

It was too late to hide what she was doing. She lowered the paper and looked into her mother’s brown eyes.

“Yes, Mama.” It was an admission.

“You know how your father feels about your looking at those things.” She glanced at the folded paper in Charlotte’s hand. “I can’t imagine why you want to; there’s very little in them that’s pleasant, and your father will read those things out to us. But if you must look at it for yourself, at least do it discreetly, in Maddock’s pantry, or get Dominic to tell you.”

Charlotte felt the colour flood her face. She looked away. She had had no idea her mother knew about Maddock’s pantry, even less about Dominic! Had Dominic told her? Why should that thought hurt, like a betrayal? That was ridiculous. She could have no secrets with Dominic. What had she let herself imagine?

“Yes, of course, Mama. I’m sorry.” She dropped the paper behind her onto the table. “I shan’t let Papa catch me.”

“If you want to read, why don’t you read books? There’s something of Mr. Dickens’ in the bookcase over there, and I’m sure you haven’t read Mr. Disraeli’s Coningsby yet?”

Funny how people always say they are sure when they mean they are not sure.

“Mr. Disraeli died yesterday,” Charlotte replied. “I wouldn’t enjoy it. Not just at the moment.”

“Mr. Disraeli? Oh dear, I am sorry. I never cared for Mr. Gladstone, but don’t tell your father. He always reminds me of the vicar.”

Charlotte felt disposed to giggle.

“Don’t you like the vicar, Mama?”

Her mother composed herself immediately.

“Yes, of course I do. Now please go and prepare yourself for tea. Have you forgotten Aunt Susannah is coming to call on us this afternoon?”

“But not for an hour and a half, at the soonest,” Charlotte protested.

“Then do some embroidery, or add some more to that painting you were working on yesterday.”

“It didn’t go right-”

“Grammar, Charlotte. It didn’t go well. I’m sorry. Perhaps you had better finish the comforters so you can take them to the vicar’s wife tomorrow. I promised we would deliver them.”

“Do you suppose they really comfort the poor?” It was a sincere question.

“I’ve no idea.” Her mother’s face relaxed slightly as the thought occurred to her, obviously for the first time. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone really poor. But the vicar assures us they do, and we must presume he knows.”

“Even if we don’t like him very much.”

“Charlotte, please don’t be impertinent.” But there was nothing harsh in her voice. She had been caught in an unintentional truth and she did not resent it. She was annoyed with herself, perhaps, but not with Charlotte.

Obediently, Charlotte left the room to go upstairs. She might as well finish the comforters; it would have to be done sometime.

Tea was served by Dora, the kitchen maid, in the withdrawing room. Tea was the most erratic affair. It was always at four o’clock, and always (when they were home) in this room with its pale green furniture and the big windows onto the lawn, closed now, even though the clear spring sun was slanting onto the grass and the last of the daffodils. It was a small garden, only a few yards of lawn, a patch of flowers, and the single delicate birch tree against the wall. Climbing the old brickwork were the roses Charlotte loved best. The whole summer from June till November was glorious with them, old roses, rambling undisciplined in showers and fronds, shedding carpets of petals.

It was the company that was erratic. Either they called on someone, perching on unfamiliar chairs in some other withdrawing room and making self-conscious conversation, or one of them received callers here. Sarah had young married friends whose conversations were indescribably boring to Charlotte. Emily’s friends were little better; all romantic speculation, fashion, who was, or was about to be, courting whom. Most of Mama’s friends were stiff, a little too consciously righteous, but there were at least two who were given to reminiscences which Charlotte loved to hear-memories of old admirers, perished long since in the Crimea, Sebastopol, Balaclava, and the Charge of the Light Brigade, and then memories of the few who came back. And there were stories told with mixed admiration and disapproval of Florence Nightingale, “so unfeminine, but you have to admire her courage, my dear! Not a lady, but an Englishwoman one might reasonably be proud of!”

And Grandmama’s friends were even more interesting. Not that she liked them, not many of them; they were singularly disagreeable old ladies. But Mrs. Selby was over eighty, and she could remember the news of Trafalgar, and the death of Lord Nelson, black ribbons in the streets, people weeping, black borders on the newspapers; at least she said she could. She spoke frequently of Waterloo, and the Great Duke, the scandals of the Empress Josephine, the return of Napoleon from Elba, and the hundred days. Most of it she herself had overheard in drawing rooms much like this one, perhaps a little more austere, with less furniture, lighter, neoclassic; it was nevertheless fascinating to Charlotte, a reality sharper than this.

But today was 1881, a world away from such things, with Mr. Disraeli dead, gaslights in the streets, women admitted to degrees in London University! The queen was empress of India and the empire itself stretched to every corner of the earth. Wolfe and the Heights of Abraham, Clive and Hastings in India, Livingstone in Africa, and the Zulu War were all history. The prince consort had been dead of typhus twenty years; Gilbert and Sullivan wrote operas like H.M.S. Pinafore. What would the Emperor Napoleon have made of that?

Today Mrs. Winchester was here to see Mama-which was a bore-and Aunt Susannah was here to see them all, which was excellent. She was Papa’s younger sister; in fact she was only thirty-six, nineteen years younger than her brother and only ten years older than Sarah; she seemed more like a cousin. It was three months since they had seen her, three months too long. She had been away visiting in Yorkshire.

“You must tell me all about it, my dear.” Mrs. Winchester leaned forward fractionally, curiosity burning in her face. “Who exactly are the Willises? I’m sure you must have told me”-sublime assurance that everybody told her everything! — “but I do find these days that my memory is not nearly as good as I should like.” She waited expectantly, eyebrows raised. Susannah was a subject of permanent interest to her; her comings and goings, and above all any hint of a romance, or better still, of scandal. She possessed all the elements necessary. She had been married at twenty-one to a gentleman of good family, and the year after, in 1866, he had been killed in the Hyde Park Riots, leaving her comfortably provided for, in a well-run establishment of her own, still very young and enormously handsome. She had never married again, although no doubt there had been numerous offers. Opinion veered between the conclusion that she was still mourning her husband and, like the queen, could never recover from the grief, to the reverse conclusion that her marriage had been so acutely painful to her that she could not entertain the thought of a second such venture.

Charlotte believed that the truth lay between, that having satisfied the requirements of family in particular and society at large by marrying once, she now had no desire to commit herself again unless it were for genuine affection-which apparently had not yet occurred.

“Mrs. Willis is a cousin, on my mother’s side,” Susannah replied with a slight smile.

“Indeed, of course,” Mrs. Winchester leaned back. “And what does Mr. Willis do, pray? I’m sure I should be most interested to know.”

“He is a clergyman, in a small village,” Susannah answered dutifully, although her eye caught Charlotte’s momentarily in unspoken amusement.

“Oh.” Mrs. Winchester struggled to hide a certain disappointment. “How very nice. I suppose you were able to be of much assistance in the parish? I expect our own dear vicar would be much encouraged to hear of your activities. And poor Mrs. Abernathy. I’m sure it would take her mind off things, to hear about the country, and the poor.”

Charlotte wondered why either the country or the poor should comfort anyone, least of all Mrs. Abernathy.

“Oh, yes,” her mother encouraged. “That would be an excellent idea.”

“You might take her some preserves,” Grandmama added, nodding her head. “Always nice to receive preserves. Shows people care. And people are not as considerate as they used to be, in my young days. Of course, it’s all this violence, all this crime. It’s bound to change people. And such immodesty: women behaving like men, and wanting all sorts of things that aren’t good for them. We’ll have hens crowing in the farm yard next!”

“Poor Mrs. Abernathy,” Mrs. Winchester agreed, shaking her head.

“Has Mrs. Abernathy been ill?” Susannah enquired.

“Of course!” Grandmama said sharply. “What would you expect, child? That’s what I keep saying to Charlotte.” She gave Charlotte a piercing glance. “You and Charlotte are alike, you know!” That was an accusation aimed at Susannah. “I used to blame Caroline for Charlotte.” She dismissed her daughter-in-law with a wave of her fat little hand. “But I suppose I can hardly blame her for you. You must be the fault of the times. Your father was never strict enough with you, but at least you don’t read those dreadful newspapers that come into this house. I had you too late in life. No good comes of it.”

“I don’t think Charlotte reads the newspapers as much as you fear, Mama,” Susannah defended.

“How many times do you require to read a thing before the damage is done?” Grandmama demanded.

“They are all different, Mama.”

“How do you know?” Grandmama was as quick as a terrier.

Susannah kept her composure with only the faintest colour coming to her face.

“They print the news, Mama; the news must be different from day to day.”

“Nonsense! They print crimes and scandals. Sin has not changed since Our Lord permitted it in the Garden of Eden.”

That seemed to close the conversation. There were several minutes’ silence.

“Do tell us, Aunt Susannah,” Sarah began at last, “is the country in Yorkshire very pretty? I have never been there. Perhaps the Willises would permit Dominic and me. . ” she left the suggestion delicately.

Susannah smiled. “I’m sure they would be delighted. But I hardly imagine Dominic enjoying such a very rural life. He always seemed to me a man of more-cultivated tastes than visiting the poor and attending tea parties.”

“You make it sound terribly dull,” Charlotte said without thinking.

She received a general stare of surprise and disapproval.

“Just the thing poor Mrs. Abernathy needs, I don’t doubt,” Mrs. Winchester said with a sage nod. “Do her the world of good, poor woman.”

“Yorkshire can be uncommonly cold in April,” Susannah said quietly, looking from one to the other of them. “If Mrs. Abernathy has been ill, don’t you think perhaps June or July would be better?”

“Cold has nothing to do with it!” Grandmama snapped. “Bracing. Very healthy.”

“Not if you’ve been ill-”

“Are you contradicting me, Susannah?”

“I am trying to point out, Mama, that Yorkshire in early spring is not an ideal place for someone in a delicate state of health. Far from bracing her, it might well give her pneumonia!”

“It will at least take her mind off things,” Grandmama said firmly.

“Poor dear soul,” Mrs. Winchester added. “To leave here, even for Yorkshire, would surely only be an improvement, change her spirits.”

“What’s wrong with here?” Susannah asked, looking at Mrs. Winchester, then at Charlotte. “I’ve always thought this an unusually pleasant place. We have all the advantages of the city without the oppression of its more crowded areas, or the expense of the most highly fashionable. Our streets are as clean as any, and we are within carriage distance of most that is of interest or enjoyment to see, not to mention our friends.”

Mrs. Winchester swung round to her.

“Of course, you’ve been away!” she said accusingly.

“Only for two months! It surely cannot have changed so much in that time?” The question was ironic, even a little sarcastic.

“How long does it take?” Mrs. Winchester gave a dramatic shudder and closed her eyes. “Oh! Poor Mrs. Abernathy. How can she bear to think of it? No wonder the poor soul is afraid to go to sleep.”

Now Susannah was totally confounded. She looked at Charlotte for help.

Charlotte decided to give it, and bear the consequences.

“Do you remember Mrs. Abernathy’s daughter, Chloe?” She did not wait for a reply. “She was murdered about six weeks ago, garotted, and her clothes ripped from her, her bosom wounded.”

“Charlotte!” Caroline glared at her daughter. “We will not discuss it!”

“We have been discussing it one way or another all afternoon,” Charlotte protested. Out of the corner of her vision she saw Emily stifle a giggle. “We have merely covered it in words.”

“It is better covered.”

Mrs. Winchester shuddered again.

“I can’t bear to think of it, the very memory makes me quite ill. She was found in the street, all huddled up on the footpath like a bundle of laundry. Her face was terrible, blue as-as-I don’t know what! And her eyes staring and her tongue poking out. Been lying in the rain for hours when they found her; all night, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Don’t disturb yourself!” Grandmama said tersely, looking at Mrs. Winchester’s excited face.

Mrs. Winchester remembered quickly to be distressed.

“Oh, terrible!” she wailed, screwing up her features. “Please, my dear Mrs. Ellison, let us not speak of it again. The whole subject is quite unbearable. Poor dear Mrs. Abernathy. I just don’t know how she bears it!”

“What else can she do but bear it?” Charlotte said quietly. “It has happened. There isn’t anything anyone can do now.”

“I suppose there never was,” Susannah stared at the tea. “Some madman, a robber no one could have foreseen.” She looked up, frowning. “Surely she was not alone in the street after dark?”

“My dear Susannah,” Caroline remonstrated, “it is dark from four o’clock on in the middle of winter, most especially on a wet day. How can one guarantee to be indoors by four o’clock? That would mean one could not even visit neighbours for tea!”

“Is that where she was?”

“She was setting out to take some old clothes to the vicar, for the poor.” Caroline’s face pinched with a sudden very real sorrow. “Poor child, she was barely eighteen.”

Without warning it became real, no longer a scandal to be toyed with, a titillation, but the real death of a woman like themselves: footsteps behind, sudden agony in the throat, terror, the struggle for breath, bursting lungs, and darkness.

No one spoke.

It was Dora coming in from the hallway who broke the silence.

Charlotte was still feeling depressed when her father returned to the house a little after six. The sky had darkened outside and now it was spattering the first heavy drops of rain on the roadway as the carriage drew up. Edward Ellison worked with a merchant banking house in the city, which provided him with a very satisfactory income and a social standing of at least acceptable middle class. Charlotte had been brought up to think perhaps rather more.

Edward came in now, brushing the raindrops off his coat in the few seconds before Maddock came to relieve him of it, and put his top hat gently in its place.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” he said pleasantly.

“Good evening, Papa.”

“I trust you have had a profitable day?” he enquired, rubbing his hands together. “I fear the weather is distressingly seasonal. We may well be in for a storm. The air has that oppressive feeling.”

“Mrs. Winchester came to tea.” She answered his question about the afternoon by implication. He knew she disliked her.

“Oh dear,” he smiled faintly. There was some understanding between them, even though it did not show itself as often as she would have liked. “I thought Susannah was expected?”

“Oh, she came too, but Mrs. Winchester spent the entire time either questioning her about the Willises, or talking about Chloe Abernathy.”

Edward’s face darkened. Charlotte realized that she had inadvertently betrayed her mother. Papa would expect her to control such talk in her own drawing room. It would meet with his considerable displeasure that she had not.

At that moment Sarah came out of the sitting room into the hall, the light behind her creating a halo around her fair hair. She was a pretty woman, more like Grandmama than Caroline, with the same porcelain skin and neat mouth, the same soft chin.

“Hello, Sarah, my dear,” Edward gave her a little pat on the shoulder. “Waiting for Dominic?”

“I thought you might have been he,” Sarah answered, the faintest flicker of disappointment in her voice. “I hope he arrives before the storm. I thought I heard thunder a few minutes ago.”

She stood back and Edward went into the sitting room, crossing immediately to the fire and standing with his back to it, blocking most of its heat from everyone else. Emily was sitting at the piano, flipping pages of music over idly. He surveyed his daughters with satisfaction.

There was another low rumble of thunder and the door closed sharply. All of them turned to the sitting room door automatically. There was a shuffle outside, the sound of Maddock’s voice, and then Dominic came in.

Charlotte felt her throat tighten. Really, she ought to be over this by now; it was ridiculous! He was slim and strong, smiling a little, his dark eyes first on Edward, as manners and breeding required in the patriarchal house, and then on Sarah.

“Hope you had a pleasant day,” Edward said, still standing by the fire. “As well you made it home before the storm. I think it might become quite violent within a quarter of an hour or less. Always afraid the horses will take fright and cause an accident. Becket lost his leg that way, you know?”

The conversation washed over Charlotte’s head; it was the usual comfortable family exchange, more or less meaningless, one of the small rituals of the day that established a pattern of life. Would it always be like this? Endless days of needlework, painting, house chores and skills, teas, Papa and Dominic coming home? What did other people do? They married and raised children, ran houses. Of course the poor worked, and society went to parties, rode in the park or in coaches, and presumably had families as well?

She had never met anyone round whom she could imagine centering her life-anyone except Dominic. Perhaps she should copy Emily and cultivate a few more friends like Lucy Sandelson, or the Hayward sisters. They always seemed to be beginning or ending a romance. But they all seemed so incredibly silly! Poor Papa. It was hard for him to have had three daughters, and no son.

“. . could, couldn’t you, Charlotte?”

Dominic was looking at her, his eyebrows raised, amusement in his elegant face.

“Daydreaming,” Edward commented.

Dominic smiled broadly.

“You could take on old Mrs. Winchester at her own game, couldn’t you, Charlotte?” he repeated.

Charlotte had no idea what he was talking about. The loss must have been obvious.

“Be just as inquisitive as she is,” Dominic explained patiently. “Answer all her questions with another question. There must be something she would rather not discuss!”

Charlotte was honest, as she always was with him. Perhaps that was why he loved Sarah?

“You don’t know Mrs. Winchester,” she said straight away. “If she doesn’t want to discuss a subject she will simply ignore you. There is no reason in her mind why her reply should be related to your question. She will say whatever she is thinking of.”

“Which today was poor Susannah?”

“Not really, it was poor Mrs. Abernathy. Susannah was only a side adventure, leading up to how much good it would do poor Mrs. Abernathy to go to Yorkshire.”

“In April?” Dominic was incredulous. “The wretched woman would freeze, and be bored stiff.”

Edward’s face darkened. Unfortunately at that moment Caroline came in.

“Caroline,” he said stiffly. “Charlotte tells me you have been discussing Chloe Abernathy this afternoon. I thought I had made myself plain, but perhaps I did not, so I will do so now. The death of that unfortunate girl is not to be a subject for gossip and speculation in this house. If you can be of some assistance to Mrs. Abernathy in her bereavement, then by all means do so; otherwise the matter is closed. I trust there can be no misunderstanding as to my wishes in this regard now?”

“No, Edward, of course not. I’m afraid I am not able to control Mrs. Winchester. She seems. . ” she trailed off, knowing it would serve no purpose. Edward had expressed his feelings and was already thinking of something else.

Maddock came in and informed them dinner was served.

The following day the storm had passed and the street was clean in the white April light, the sky bleached blue, and the garden tremulous with dew, every grass blade bright. Charlotte and Emily spent the morning occupied with the usual household duties, while Sarah went to visit the dressmaker. Caroline was closeted with Mrs. Dunphy, the cook, going over kitchen accounts.

In the afternoon Charlotte went alone to deliver the mufflers to the vicar’s wife. It was a duty she disliked, especially since it was a day on which the vicar himself was highly likely to be at home, and he was a man who always produced in her a profound depression. Still, there was no avoiding it this time. It was her turn, and neither Sarah nor Emily had seemed in the least likely to relieve her of it.

She arrived at the vicarage a little before half past three. It was mild after the storm and it had been a pleasant walk, something under two miles, but she was used to exercise, and the mufflers were not heavy.

The maid opened the door almost immediately. She was a severe, angular woman of indeterminate age, and Charlotte could never remember her name.

“Thank you,” she said politely, stepping in. “I believe Mrs. Prebble is expecting me.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll come this way.”

The vicar’s wife was sitting in the smaller back parlour and the vicar himself standing with his back to the black, smoking fire. Charlotte’s heart sank as soon as she saw him.

“Good afternoon to you, Miss Ellison,” he said with a very slight bow, more a bending of his back. “How pleasant to see you spending your time in small duties for others.”

“A very small thing, vicar.” She instinctively wanted to deny it. “Only a few mufflers my mother and sisters have made. I hope they will be. . ” she trailed off, realizing she did not really mean anything, uttering empty words, noises to fill the silence.

Mrs. Prebble reached for the bag and took it. She was a handsome woman, broad-busted, strong, with fine, strong hands.

“I’m sure next winter there will be those who will be most grateful for them. I have frequently noticed that if your hands are cold, your whole body is chilled, haven’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose I have.”

The vicar was staring at her and she looked away quickly from his cold eyes.

“You seem a little chilled now, Miss Ellison,” he said very clearly. “I’m sure Mrs. Prebble would be happy to offer you a dish of hot tea.” It was a statement. There was no avoiding it without discourtesy.

“Thank you,” she said, without feeling.

Martha Prebble rang the little bell on the mantel and when the maid came back a moment later she requested the tea.

“And how is your mother, Miss Ellison?” the vicar enquired, still standing with his back to the fire, shielding them all from its heat. “Such a good woman.”

“Well, thank you, vicar,” Charlotte answered. “I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”

Martha Prebble looked up from the sewing she was doing.

“I hear your Aunt Susannah has returned from Yorkshire. I hope the change of air has done her good?”

Mrs. Winchester had lost no time!

“I believe so, but she was not ill, you know.”

“Things must be hard for her, at times,” Martha said thoughtfully. “Alone.”

“I don’t think Aunt Susannah minds,” Charlotte spoke before thinking. “I think she prefers it.”

The vicar frowned. The tea arrived. Obviously it had been already prepared and only awaited the signal.

“It is not good for a woman to be alone,” the vicar said grimly. He had a large, squarish face with a strong, thin mouth and heavy nose. He must have been quite fine as a young man. Charlotte was ashamed of how deeply she disliked him. One should not feel that way about a man of the Church. “It leaves her vulnerable to all kinds of dangers,” he went on.

“Susannah is perfectly safe,” Charlotte replied firmly. “She has adequate means, and she certainly doesn’t venture out alone except in the daytime. And at night, of course, the house is quite secure. I believe her manservant is very proficient, even in the use of firearms.”

“I was not thinking of violence, Miss Ellison, but of temptation. A woman alone is subject to temptations of the flesh, to lightmindedness and entertainments that by their very shallowness tend to pervert the nature. A good woman is about the tasks of her house. Consider your Bible, Miss Ellison. I recommend you read the Book of Proverbs.”

“Susannah keeps a very good house,” Charlotte felt impelled to defend her. “And she doesn’t occupy herself in-in lightminded amusements.”

“You really are a most argumentative young woman,” the vicar smiled at her stiffly. “It is unbecoming. You must learn to control it.”

“She is only being loyal to her cousin, my dear,” Martha said quickly, seeing Charlotte’s face colour in quick anger.

“Loyalty is not a virtue, Martha, when it misguidedly praises that which is evil and dangerous. You have only to look at Chloe Abernathy, unfortunate child. And Susannah is her aunt, not her cousin.”

Charlotte could still feel the heat under her skin.

“What has Chloe Abernathy to do with Susannah?” she demanded.

“Bad company, Miss Ellison, bad company. We are all weak vessels, and in bad company women, especially young women, are easily led to become subject to vices, even to fall under the influence of evil men and end their lives in destitution and abandonment on the streets.”

“Chloe wasn’t anything like that!”

“You are soft-hearted, Miss Ellison, and so a woman should be. You should not know of such things and it does your mother credit that you do not see them. But great evils begin in small ways. That is why even the most innocent of women need the protection of men, who see the seeds of sin in time to guard against them. And bad company is the seed of sin, child; there can be no doubt of it. Poor Chloe was much taken with the company of the Madison daughters lately, before her death. And perhaps you did not fully appreciate their lightmindedness, the frivolous painting of their faces, the wearing of clothes intended to attract the attention of men, and the lingering about without chaperones indulged in by the Misses Madison. But I am sure your father was aware, and would not have let you associate with such people. You may thank his wisdom that you are not also lying murdered in the street.”

“I know they giggled rather a lot,” Charlotte said slowly; she tried to recall the Misses Madison, to see in them any of the beginnings of sin the vicar spoke of. Her memory produced nothing more than a lot of romantic nonsense and very little harm. Empty, certainly, but not wicked, even in embryo. “But I don’t remember anything spiteful in them.”

“Not spiteful.” The vicar gave a faintly patronizing smile. “Sin is not spite, my dear child; sin is the beginning of the road to damnation, to indulgence of the flesh, to fornication and the worship of the Golden Calf!” His voice rose, and Charlotte knew instinctively it was the beginning of a sermon. She clutched desperately.

“Mrs. Prebble,” she leaned forward in total hypocrisy. “Please tell me what else you would like us to do, what next we may make to contribute to the relief of the poor? I’m sure both my mother and my sisters would be most grateful to know!”

Martha Prebble was a little startled by the vehemence in her voice, but she too seemed more than happy to leave the subject of sin.

“Oh, I’m sure any blankets, or especially clothes for children. The poor always seem to have so many children, you know. They seem to have more than those of us who are more comfortably suited.”

“Naturally.” The vicar was not to be left out. His face was massive, resting on his broad shoulders like a monument. “It is precisely because they indulge themselves and give birth to more children than they can support that they are poor, and the rest of us inherit the obligation to care for their needs. I suppose it is productive of patience in affliction for them, and of Christian charity and virtue in us.”

Charlotte had no answer for that. She drank the last of her tea and stood up.

“Thank you for the tea. I’m quite warm and refreshed now. I must return home before the evening begins to chill. I shall inform my mother of your satisfaction with the mufflers, and I’m sure she will be most grateful that there is more we can do. Children’s clothes. I shall begin tomorrow. I expect we shall do well.”

Martha Prebble came to the front with her. She put her hand on Charlotte’s arm in the hallway.

“My dear Charlotte, don’t mind the vicar; he is solicitous for our well-being, and doesn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m sure he was as distressed as anyone that-that tragedies should happen.”

“Of course. I understand.” Charlotte loosened herself. She did not understand at all. She thought nothing but ill of the vicar, but she was sorry for Martha. She could not imagine living with such a man. Although he was perhaps not so different from many men. They all tended to be pretty severe with girls like the Misses Madison, and in truth they were more than a little tedious. But not sinful-just incredibly silly.

Martha smiled.

“You are very gentle, my dear. I knew you would.” And she stood on the doorstep watching Charlotte down the path.

Two days later they were all sitting in the withdrawing room sewing the children’s clothes Martha Prebble had requested, when Edward returned home as usual.

They heard the front door close. There was a murmur of voices as Maddock took his coat and hat, but a moment later, instead of Edward, it was Maddock whose face showed at the door.

“Madame,” he looked at Caroline, his face flushed.

“Yes, Maddock?” Caroline was surprised, not yet aware of anything wrong. “What is it? Was that not Mr. Ellison?”

“Yes, Madame. Would you be so good as to come into the hall?”

Now Charlotte, Emily, and Sarah all stared at him. Caroline stood up.

“Of course.”

As soon as she was gone they turned to look at one another.

“What’s happened?” Emily said immediately, excitement in her voice. “Do you suppose Papa has brought company? I wonder who it is, and if he is wealthy-a man from the city perhaps?”

“Then why doesn’t he bring him in?” Charlotte asked.

Sarah frowned and looked at the ceiling in exasperation.

“Really, Charlotte, he would naturally consult Mama first, and introduce him. Maybe he is not suitable for us to meet. Perhaps he is only someone in trouble, someone who needs help.”

“What a bore,” Emily sighed. “You mean a beggar, someone in reduced circumstances?”

“I don’t know. Papa may be having Maddock take care of him, but he would naturally tell Mama about it.”

Emily stood up and went to the door.

“Emily! You aren’t going to listen?”

Emily held her finger to her lips, smiling.

“Don’t you want to know?” she asked.

Charlotte got to her feet quickly and went over to Emily, standing almost on top of her.

“Well, I certainly do,” she joined in. “Open the door, just a crack.”

Emily had already done so. They crouched over it together, and a moment later Charlotte felt the warmth of Sarah right behind her, her taffeta afternoon dress rustling a little.

“Edward, you must destroy the newspapers,” Caroline was saying. “Say that you lost them.”

“We don’t know that it will be in the newspapers.”

“Of course it will!” Caroline was angry, upset. Her voice quavered. “And you know that-”

Charlotte drew in her breath sharply; her mother was about to betray her.

“-that it might get left where one of the girls could see it.” Caroline went on. “And I won’t have the servants read it either. Poor Mrs. Dunphy sometimes uses newspapers to wrap kitchen refuse, or Lily might use them in cleaning. It would frighten the poor things out of their wits.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed. “Yes, my dear, you are quite right. I shall read it and destroy it before returning home. It would be wise if we could keep Mama from hearing about it. It is bound to distress her.”

Caroline’s agreement lacked any conviction. Charlotte smiled, hiding her face in Emily’s silk back. It was her private opinion that Grandmama was tougher than a Turkish soldier in the Crimea she was always talking about. Apparently Caroline thought so, too. But what was it that had happened? Her curiosity was boiling over.

“Was the poor girl-” Caroline swallowed; they could hear it from behind the door-” garotted, like Chloe Abernathy?”

“Hardly like Chloe Abernathy,” Edward corrected, but there was a catch in his voice too, as if reality had just overtaken him. “Chloe was a. . a respectable girl. This maid of the Hiltons’ was-well, it seems regrettable to speak ill of the dead, especially dead in such a terrible way, but she was a girl of dubious reputation. She had more followers than any decent girl would. I dare say that was what brought about her terrible death.”

“You said she was found in the street, Edward?”

“Yes, in Cater Street, not half a mile from the vicar’s.”

“Well, don’t the Hiltons live in Russmore Street? That leads off Cater Street at the far end. I suppose she went out to meet someone and it. . it happened.”

“Hush, my dear. It was quite horrible, obscene. We won’t speak of it any more. We had better go into the withdrawing room or they will begin to wonder what is keeping us. I just hope the whole neighbourhood won’t be buzzing with it. I imagine Dominic will have the sense not to speak of it, at least of the more. . bestial aspects of it?”

“Well, you only heard by chance, because you were in Cater Street at just the moment when the police were there; otherwise in the dark you would have known nothing.”

“I must warn him to be discreet. We don’t want the girls upset, or the servants either. But I had better have a word with Maddock, and see that neither Dora nor Lily goes out walking alone until this wretched man is caught.” There was a sound of footsteps as he moved.

Charlotte felt Emily’s elbow in her ribs as a sharp warning and they all collapsed backwards and fled to their respective seats. They were sitting awkwardly, skirts crumpled, when the door opened.

Edward’s face was pale, but he was perfectly composed.

“Good evening, my dears. I hope you had a pleasant day?”

“Yes, thank you, Papa,” Charlotte said breathlessly. “Quite pleasant. Thank you.”

But her mind was out in a shadowed street in some unimaginable horror of dark shapes, sudden pain, choking-and death.