Cater Street Hangman

Chapter Eleven

Sarah thought about the things that Charlotte had said, but she could not bring herself to go to Dominic. He had been so cold lately, so unapproachable, she was afraid of another rebuff. And if he really were hurt, he could so easily come to her.

Or was there something more than hurt? Could it be quite a different guilt he felt? She remembered small, smug looks on Lily’s face, and laughter. At the time she had refused to understand, although half her mind knew women too well for complete ignorance. She had thought it was all over, and for her own peace of mind had learned to forget it. Now it was resurrected in all its ugly embarrassment. Was it Lily’s death that had reminded him?

But if he were to ask, even once, she would immediately tell him in such a way that he could not help believing her, that she had not really thought him capable of murder. It had been only a passing, absurd fear, which reason had dismissed as soon as she recognized it.

But he did not come, and she did not speak of it to him.

One thing it had altered was the way Sarah felt about Charlotte. Her admission explained so many things. Now she understood why Charlotte had had so little interest in all the eligible young men Mama had contrived to introduce to her. In the new light of knowledge she remembered odd little incidents, words, looks, tempers, and unexplained tears. She could not comprehend how Charlotte had kept it from her-for her complete insensitivity, if not merely for marrying Dominic. How could she have been so blind? She had taken her own happiness for granted, and never stopped to think of Charlotte. Emily had seen it and in a moment of anger betrayed it. That was hard to forgive.

At least that part was over now. Charlotte had fallen out of love again. Could she possibly be attracted to that fearful policeman? Surely not! But if anyone were capable of such a social lunacy, it would be Charlotte!

Well, time to worry about that if it actually happened. No doubt Papa would sort it out quickly enough, although he did not seem to be doing much about Emily and that dandy Ashworth. She would have to remind him, or Emily might not only be hurt, but ruined as well. At the moment Sarah was tempted to think it would serve Emily right for her betrayal of Charlotte, but perhaps fortune would hurt her quite enough without any hand from her family.

It was two days later, when she was visiting Martha Prebble on some parish business, that Mrs. Attwood, the invalid woman whom Papa had been visiting on the night Lily was killed, was mentioned.

“Poor soul,” Martha said with a slight sigh. “She really is a trial.”

Sarah recalled what Papa had said. “I hear she is prone to exaggerating rather a lot, and gets memory confused with imagination. A little wishful thinking, perhaps?”

Martha raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. When I saw her she just talked unceasingly, and always of past glories, although I must confess I didn’t trouble to listen closely enough to judge whether they were true or not. I imagine the poor creature is merely lonely.”

“Does no one visit her?” Sarah asked, feeling a quick pang of pity, and at the same time a reluctance to do it herself.

“Not many people, I’m afraid. As I said, she is more than a little trying.”

“I believe she is an invalid, restricted to the house?” Sarah felt obliged to pursue it. She would feel guilty if the woman were in need, and she had ignored her-especially if in the past her husband had really done Papa some favour.

“Oh no,” Martha was quite firm. “She suffers nothing more than the usual small ailments of age.”

“Not bedridden?” Sarah frowned. Could she have misunderstood Papa? She tried to remember exactly what he had said, and could not.

“Oh no, not at all. But I’m sure she would be most grateful if you visited her, just to talk a little while.”

“Is she in any need, I mean financially?” Sarah would rather have given practical help than her time.

“My dear Sarah, how very generous you are. It is so like you to want to help, not to spare yourself but to think only of others’ needs. But she is not poor, I assure you, except in spirit. She needs friends,” she said hesitatingly, her hands tightening on Sarah’s shoulders, “and a little warmth.” Her voice was suddenly husky, as though she were labouring under some strong emotion. For an instant Sarah was embarrassed, then she recalled the icy righteousness of the vicar, and tried to put herself in Martha’s place. Oddly enough, Dominic’s recent coldness helped her. She answered Martha’s grip by reaching out and touching her in return.

“Of course,” she said quietly. “We all do. I shall call on her this afternoon. I cannot take her anything this time; I will just visit socially, while I have the opportunity of using the carriage. But I will call another time, perhaps with Charlotte or Mama, and take her something, just as a token.”

Martha was staring at her, her eyes fixed.

“Do you not think that is a good idea?” Sarah asked, looking back at the pale face. “Should I not go until I have been introduced, do you think?”

Martha’s eyes cleared. “Of course,” she said, catching her breath. “You should go, yes, go today.”

“Mrs. Prebble, are you all right?” Sarah now felt anxious for her; she looked very strained, a little overwrought. Had Sarah said something to distress her? Or was it the sudden recollection of her own emotionally barren life?

Sarah put her hands over Martha’s and gripped them hard, then as she felt the older woman’s muscles tense, she leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek, and moved to the door.

“I shall tell you asked kindly after her. I’m sure she will appreciate it. You do so much for so many people, there can hardly be a house in the parish that doesn’t think of you with kindness.” And before Martha could fumble for a reply to this, she excused herself and took her departure.

Sarah did not know precisely what she had expected, but the woman who finally opened the door to her was such a surprise to her she could only stand and stare.

“Yes?” the woman raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

Sarah swallowed and recollected herself.

“My name is Sarah Corde. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before, but Mrs. Prebble spoke so well of you, I decided, if it would not be inconvenient to you, I would like to make your acquaintance?”

The woman’s face lightened immediately. She was a handsome creature, and perhaps twenty-five years ago she might well have been beautiful. The remnants of beauty were still there in the bones and the elegant sweep of hair, faded, but not yet thinning. There seemed nothing even remotely pathetic about her, and if she was lonely, it was not obvious.

“Please come in,” she invited, standing back so Sarah could accept the invitation.

The sitting room was small, and furnished with unusual simplicity, but Sarah had the impression that it was a matter of taste rather than poverty. She found the effect surprisingly pleasing. It was more restful than the usually crowded rooms she was accustomed to with dozens of photographs and paintings, stuffed birds, dried flower arrangements, embroidery samplers and ornaments, and furniture in almost every available space. This seemed much lighter, much less oppressive.

“Thank you.” She sat down in the offered chair. She was profoundly glad now that she had brought no gift of food; it would have seemed redundant here, perhaps even offensive.

“It was kind of Mrs. Prebble to speak well of me,” the woman said. “I’m afraid I don’t know her as well as I might. I find church functions-.” She stopped, obviously recollecting that Sarah probably attended them, and revising what she had been going to say.

Sarah found herself smiling. “Tedious,” she filled in for her.

The woman’s face relaxed. “Thank you so much for your frankness. Yes, I’m afraid so. She does a great deal of good work, but she must be a saint to persevere through all those endless idle conversations, and the gossip. And my dear, it isn’t even interesting gossip!”

“Is gossip ever interesting, except to those who are spreading it?”

“Of course! Some gossip has great wit, and of course some carries the burden of genuine scandal. Or it used to. I haven’t heard a good scandal for years. But then hardly anyone ever comes to see me these days. I have grown respectable. What a fearful epitaph.”

Sarah’s curiosity was mounting. Who, precisely, was this woman? So far she appeared nothing at all like the pathetic and wandering creature Papa had described. On the contrary, she was entertaining, and very much in command of herself.

“Isn’t an epitaph a little premature?” Sarah asked with a smile. “You are not dead yet.”

“I might as well be, sitting here in a room in Cater Street watching the world pass by outside. And I’ve no one to listen to me, even if I were able to make witty remarks! It’s a terrible thing, my dear, to have wit, and no one on whom to exercise it. May I offer you some refreshment, a dish of tea, perhaps? I have no maid, as you will have observed, but I can easily enough prepare it myself, if you will excuse me.”

“Oh no, please,” Sarah put out a hand as if to restrain her. “I have just taken tea with Mrs. Prebble.” That was a lie, but she did not want to disturb her. “Unless, of course, you wish it for yourself? In which case let me make it, and bring it to you?”

“Good heavens, child, you are anxious for good works! Very well, it would be most charming to be waited upon. You will find everything in the kitchen. If there is anything you cannot put your hand on, pray ask me.”

Fifteen minutes later Sarah returned with a large tray and tea set for two. She poured it herself, and they resumed their conversation.

“How long have you lived in Cater Street?” she asked.

The woman smiled. “Ever since my husband died, and dear Edward found me this place,” she answered.

“Edward? Is he your son?”

The woman’s graceful eyebrows arched in amused surprise. “Good heavens no! He was my lover. A long time ago now, over twenty-five years. I was forty then, and he was in his thirties.”

“You didn’t marry him?”

She gave a rich laugh. “Of course I didn’t marry him. He was already married, with a very handsome wife, so I heard, and one daughter. My dear, what’s the matter? You look pale. Did you swallow something amiss?”

Sarah was stunned. An unspeakable thought had entered her mind. She stared at the woman’s face, trying to see her as she must have been twenty-five years ago. Was that why Papa had really been here? Was that why he had lied at first, saying he had been at his club all evening, until Dominic had given him away? Was that why he had refused to give Pitt either the woman’s name or her address?

The more she sought to evade the conclusion, the more inescapably it entrenched itself in her mind. She heard her voice asking, as if willed from outside herself:

“I suppose it was a sort of parting gift, to make sure you were all right?”

“How very romantic,” the woman smiled. “A grand goodbye, all hidden tears and momentoes to be kept forever, in tissue and ribbons? He isn’t dead, my dear, nor did he emigrate. In fact he’s perfectly well, and we remain moderately good friends, as far as discretion and the alterations of time will allow. Nothing as romantic as you imagine, merely an affair that became a friendship, and then little more than an acquaintance with pleasant memories.”

“Then he must live near here?” Sarah was compelled to continue, hoping that even now something would disprove her fear. Every new fact was a chance to discover one that would not fit Papa.

The woman smiled, her eyes bright with humour.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “So perhaps it would be indiscreet of me to tell you anything more about him. He could be someone you know!”

“Yes, I suppose,” Sarah was answering mechanically. Her conversation became stilted, but her mind was in chaos, trying to find a way through the fragments of all sorts of beliefs, about Papa, about Dominic. Did Mama know? Had she always known, and been prepared to turn a blind eye to it? Did she even mind? Or was it one of the things she had been brought up to expect, to accept as part of the nature of man? But men in general were quite different from one’s own Papa-or husband!

Sarah did not, and could not, accept it. She had never even entertained thoughts of any man other than Dominic, and her concept of love did not permit that she might. Love incorporated fidelity. One gave promises, and one kept them. One might occasionally be selfish, unreasonable, or ill-tempered; one might be untidy or extravagant. But one did not lie either in word or deed.

She stayed a little longer, talking with the woman, although she had no idea what she said-polite nonsense, stock phrases that everyone said and no one listened to. Then she took her leave and stepped into the carriage to return home.

Caroline sat alone in her bedroom. Sarah had just left and closed the door behind her.

She felt numb, her mind refusing to move, stuck fast on the one thought, repeating it over and over as if use would make it easier to bear. Edward had been having an affair with another woman, and for twenty-five years he had retained her acquaintance, still visiting her even now. Was it love? The embers of past romance? Or some kind of debt that could not be shaken off? Even pity?

Poor Sarah.

Sarah had come to her for guidance, assurance that she was not alone, and peculiarly betrayed; and Caroline had been able to give her none. Sarah had been confused, too shocked herself to understand what she was doing and to realize that Caroline had known nothing about it. Sarah had broken a thirty-year peace in thirty minutes.

Caroline stared at herself in the mirror. It was not even a matter of growing old. This other woman was older! What had Edward seen in her that Caroline had lacked? Beauty, warmth, wit, sophistication? Or was it just love, love without reason?

Why had he left his mistress? To avoid scandal? The children? Could it even have been anything as mundane as finance? She would never know, because she would never know whether whatever he said was the truth.

And that raised the other question. Was she going to tell him she knew? There could be little purpose now; on the other hand, could she conceal it? She could not possibly feel the same way about him. The years had brought familiarity, a certain contempt for patterns of life, the habit of overlooking small failings and weaknesses; but there had always been a trust, a knowledge that the bad things were superficial.

Her mind kept going back to the woman. What kind of a woman was she? Had she loved Edward, committed any lasting part of herself to him; or was it an affair, something to be set against profit and loss, so much social prestige, so much money or security, so much fun? What was it she gave him that Caroline could not?

She tried to think back to the way she had felt in those first years. Sarah must have been a small child, Charlotte newly born, Emily not yet thought of. Was that it? Had she been too involved with the children? Had she ignored him? Surely not. She thought she could remember many hours spent together, long evenings at home, nights out at dinners, parties, even concerts. Or were they later? Time was confused, telescoping.

Had he loved that other woman, or was she a diversion, something to fill a need, an appetite? Was all the past a lie?

The thought that he had loved Mrs. Attwood was appalling, something that hurt profoundly, altering years of feelings, shattering peace, destroying anything of tenderness or trust. Even if it had been appetite, was that any better?

She shivered. Suddenly she felt unclean, as if something soiled had entered her and she could not wash it out. The memory of his touch, of their familiarity, became offensive, something she wanted to forget, because she could not undo it.

She stood up, tidying her hair automatically, and pulling her dress straight. She must go downstairs and present a face to the family that masked at least some of the misery and the confusion inside her.

Grandmama knew there was something wrong with both Sarah and Caroline. At first she presumed they had had a quarrel of some sort, and naturally she wanted to know what it was about. Sarah was in the rear sitting room the following morning, and Grandmama went in, ostensibly to enquire about the arrangements for afternoon tea and what visitors they might expect, but actually to learn the facts of the quarrel.

“Good morning, Sarah, my dear,” she said purposefully.

“Good morning, Grandmama,” Sarah replied, not looking up from the letter she was writing.

“You look a little pale. Didn’t you sleep?” Grandmama pursued, sitting down on the sofa.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You seem a little agitated to me.”

“I’m perfectly all right, thank you. Don’t distress yourself on my account.”

Grandmama seized on the suggestion immediately.

“But I am distressed, my dear; I cannot help worrying about you when I see both you and your Mama looking tired and upset. If you have had some sort of disagreement, perhaps I can help to see that it is sorted out?”

If Sarah had been Charlotte, she would have said bluntly that Grandmama was more likely to add fuel to it than sort it out, but being Sarah she remained at least nominally polite.

“There is no quarrel, Grandmama; we are very close.” She smiled with unconcealed bitterness. “In fact we are fellows in misfortune.”

“Misfortune? What misfortune is that? I didn’t know anything had happened?”

“You wouldn’t. It happened twenty-five years ago.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Grandmama demanded. “What happened twenty-five years ago?”

Sarah retreated. “Nothing that need concern you. It is all over now.”

“If it still distresses you and your mother, it is not all over!” Grandmama said sharply. “What has happened, Sarah?”

“Men,” Sarah replied. “Life. Perhaps it even happened to you once.” She gave a tight little smile. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I shouldn’t be surprised at all!”

“What are you talking about? What about men?”

“They are shallow, disloyal and hypocritical!” Sarah said furiously. “They preach one thing and practice quite another. They have one set of rules for us and another for themselves.”

“Some men do, of course. That has always been the case. But not all. There are upright and decent men as well. Your father is one of them. I’m sorry if your husband is not.”

“Papa!” Sarah spat. “You old fool! He’s the worst of them all. Dominic may have cast his eyes where he shouldn’t, but he never set up a mistress and kept her for twenty-five years!”

The words had no meaning for Grandmama. They were a preposterous lie. Sarah must be out of her mind, temporarily deranged by the shock of discovering Dominic had behaved badly. Of course, marrying a man as handsome as that was bound to lead to disaster. She knew it from the beginning. She had said as much to Caroline. But of course Caroline never would be told.

“Nonsense!” she said crossly. “That is a childish thing to say, and quite ridiculous. I will excuse you this once, on account of the obvious disturbance you have suffered in your mind on discovering things about your husband which I could have told you in the beginning. Indeed, I did tell your mother. But if you repeat such a wicked calumny about your father outside this room, or in the presence of others, I shall. . ” She hesitated, not quite sure what might be sufficiently awful to threaten Sarah with.

“You will do what?” Sarah said harshly. “Prove it untrue? You can’t! If you have a spare afternoon I shall take you to meet her! She’s old, older than Papa, but still very handsome. She must have been quite a beauty.”

“Sarah! This is not in the least amusing. I order you to control yourself immediately. If you cannot, then go upstairs and lie down until you can. Take some smelling salts, and wash your face in cold water.”

“Cold water! Papa is keeping a mistress, and you suggest I cure that by washing my face in cold water!” Sarah’s voice rose in vicious ridicule. “Did you offer smelling salts to Mama as well? And is that what you did? Did Grandpapa keep a mistress somewhere?”

Old distasteful memories returned.

“Sarah, you are becoming hysterical!” Grandmama snapped. “Leave the room. You are behaving like a servant. Pull yourself together and remember your dignity. You had better lie down until you have come to your senses.” As Sarah did not move she became angrier. “Immediately!” she raised her voice. “I shall explain to your mother that you are unwell. I have no wish for you to make an exhibition of yourself, and I am sure you haven’t either. What if one of the servants were to come in? Do you wish to become the talk of the servants’ hall? And no doubt the servants’ halls of the entire street?”

With a look of deep malevolence, Sarah departed.

Grandmama sat down hard. What an appalling morning! Whatever could have overcome Sarah to make such a shocking allegation? She must have completely lost control of herself.

Edward had no doubt committed the usual indiscretions, but nothing could warrant an accusation of dishonesty! To expect a man to behave without fault for thirty years of marriage was asking too much; any woman knew that. One accepted such things, and bore them with fortitude and, above all, with dignity.

But to keep a mistress, to set up an establishment and provide regular financial assistance was quite a different matter. It was unpardonable. How dare Sarah suggest such a thing! Whatever she had discovered about Dominic, to blacken her father’s name in such a way was inexcusable. It could not possibly have any foundation.

Could it?

Grandmama was considering the impossibility of Edward’s behaving in such a manner, when Charlotte came in. She also looked grim and decidedly strained. Still, she was a peculiar girl, most impractical and given to unreliable moods. Possibly she was also disappointed in Dominic. Very foolish, her infatuation with Dominic. She really should have grown out of such childish romances by now.

“What’s the matter with you, Charlotte?” she demanded. “Surely you haven’t been listening to Sarah’s foolish vapourings?” Charlotte turned round sharply. Grandmama took another breath. “She is naturally somewhat upset to discover Dominic is fallible, but she will get over it, if you help instead of wilting around like something out of a tragic poem. Pull yourself together, girl, and stop being selfish.”

“And Mama?” Charlotte said bitterly. “Will she pull herself together and get over it as well?”

“There is nothing to get over!” Grandmama snapped. “I’m surprised that you should be so foolish, and so gullible as to believe Sarah. Can’t you see she is upset?”

“Of course she’s upset! So am I. If you are not upset by it, I can only presume that your moral standards are different from mine!”

That was really too much! Grandmama felt outrage rise inside her till she found it hard to catch her breath. Charlotte’s insolence was beyond any bounds she could tolerate.

“Certainly my standards are different from yours!” she said acidly. “I did not fall in love with my sister’s husband!”

“I’m perfectly sure you never fell in love at all,” Charlotte said icily.

“I never lost control of myself,” Grandmama said viciously, “if that is what you mean by ‘falling in love.’ I do not consider an emotional excess any excuse for immoral behaviour. And if you had been properly brought up, neither would you!”

That was the chance Charlotte had been waiting for. Her face lit with fierce triumph. “You are hoist with your own petard, Grandmama. If upbringing is to blame, what happened to Papa? How is it that you did not explain to him that one does not betray one’s wife and children by keeping a mistress for twenty-five years!”

Grandmama felt the blood rush to her face. She was dizzy with outrage, fear-and the fact that her stays were extremely tight.

“How dare you repeat such malicious and irresponsible lies! Go to your room! If it would not be both embarrassing and hurtful to your father, I should demand that you apologize to him.”

“I’m sure it would be embarrassing, to both of you,” Charlotte said with a cynical smile. “You would see from his face that he is guilty, and then you would be obliged to retract your words, and a good many of your ideas.”

“Nonsense!” Grandmama said icily. She would not have Edward criticized by this insolent child. How dare Sarah have spread this slander everywhere? It was unforgivable. “I dare say your father may have indulged in certain tastes-gentlemen do-but nothing dishonest, or dishonourable, as you suggest. To talk of betrayal is ridiculous!”

Charlotte’s lip curled with disgust. “I admired Dominic, although I never did anything about it, never even spoke, and I am immoral; yet Papa keeps a mistress for twenty-five years, buys her a house and supports her, and he is only behaving as gentlemen do; there is nothing dishonourable in it! You hyprocrite! I know there is one standard for men and another for women, but even you cannot stretch it as far as that! Why should it be unpardonable sin for a woman to betray a man, but a mere peccadillo, nothing to raise the eyebrows, if a man betrays a woman? Surely a sin is a sin, whoever commits it; only some may be extended forgiveness because of ignorance or greater weakness? Is that man’s plea, greater weakness? They are always saying it is we who are the weaker ones, or is that only physical? Are we supposed to be morally stronger?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Charlotte!” But the sting had gone out of her reply. She was remembering Caroline’s face at breakfast. Unless she was very much mistaken, there had been the marks of tears, carefully powdered over, but Grandmama’s eyes were still perfectly good enough to see through that.

Caroline believed it.

Was it possible? Had Edward kept another woman all these years? And what kind of a woman was she?

She looked at Charlotte’s hard, hurt face.

Charlotte saw her waver, saw the doubt. Contempt flickered in her eyes.

Grandmama felt the chill of disillusion trickle through her mind, leaving her with the bleak acceptance that there must be at least some truth in this story. She had always loved Edward, clung to the image of his father in him, and in some way her own youth and the things that had been good in it. She had seen in Edward the epitome of all that is fine and admirable in a man: the best of his father, without the worst.

Now she was obliged to face the fact that she saw him this way because she saw him from a distance. Had she looked more closely, as Caroline must, she would have seen the flaws. Then this would not have been such a blow. It was not only beliefs about him, but beliefs about herself that suffered. Old values were soiled, and there was nothing new to put in their place. She felt old, and bitterly lonely. The world she belonged to had died, and the remnant of it in Edward had betrayed her.

She hated Charlotte for having exposed her to the truth. “You are not strong, Charlotte,” she said viciously in answer to the question. “You are hard. That is why Dominic chose Sarah, and not you!” She searched for something that would hurt even more. “No man will ever love you. You are totally unfeminine. Even that wretched policeman only admires you because he is vulgar and doesn’t know the qualities of a lady. He imagines that he could better himself through you. And, of course, even if you accepted him-it might well be the only offer you get-you would not raise him to your social station. He was born common and he will remain common. You would sink to his station. Which may very well be where you belong!”

Charlotte’s face was white. “You’re a vicious and ugly old woman,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Grandpapa kept a mistress as well, to get away from you. Perhaps she was someone gentle. Perhaps that’s where Papa learnt it. He may not be so very much to blame. That’s something I’ve learned from your vulgar policeman; how much our parents make us what we are, how they influence not only our education, our wealth or poverty, our social standing, but our beliefs as well. When I look at you, I realize maybe Papa is not as much at fault as I thought.”

And with that she turned and went out the door, leaving Grandmama gasping for breath, her throat tight, her stays digging into her like knives. She cried out for help, hoping instinctively to elicit pity, but Charlotte had closed the door.

Luncheon was awful. It was eaten in almost total silence, and afterwards everyone made separate excuses to leave as soon as possible. Emily said she was going out to the dressmaker’s and would Mama accompany her, to prevent her being in the streets alone? Grandmama gave a vicious look to Charlotte and said she was retiring upstairs, as she felt profoundly unwell. Sarah expressed a desire to visit Martha Prebble, a sympathetic and virtuous woman. The vicar’s house might be a little self-consciously righteous, but freedom from carnal thoughts and the sins of the flesh were coming to appeal to her more and more.

“Sarah, you should not go alone,” Charlotte said quickly. “Do you wish me to come with you?” It was the last thing she wanted to do, but recently she had felt closer to Sarah than at any time since Dominic had first come to the house and she had been barely more than a child. She ached for Sarah’s sense of loss, her disappointment and shock. She felt some of it herself, because she too had loved Dominic. But for her the commitment was different, and she was amazed at herself for finding it so easy to recover. She feared her love had been a great deal shallower than she had imagined, a love based not on any knowledge but on her fancy. For Sarah it was different; hers was the loss of intimacy, of things shared, of fact, not dreams.

Sarah was looking at her. “No, thank you,” she said with the best smile she could manage. “I know how you dislike the vicar, and he may well be home. And if he is not, I would rather like to talk to Martha alone.”

“I’ll come and leave you at the door, if you like?” Charlotte pressed.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Then you would have to walk back alone. I shall be perfectly safe. I think perhaps this madman has gone anyway. Nothing has happened for ages. We were probably wrong. Probably he did come from the slums, and has now gone back to them.”

“Inspector Pitt didn’t think so.” Charlotte half stood up.

“Are you as taken with him as he is with you?” Emily raised her eyebrows. “He is not infallible, you know!”

“I shall go straight to the vicar’s, then from door to door on parish work,” Sarah said firmly. “And I dare say Martha will even accompany me. I shall be perfectly safe! Don’t fuss. I shall see you all this evening. Good-bye.”

The others departed also and Charlotte was left alone with nothing in particular to do. She searched quickly for a job to prevent her from allowing her mind to dwell on Papa or Dominic, the hurt that disillusion caused, the foolishness of building dreams around people-and behind it all the dark fear of the hangman, because in spite of what Sarah and Emily had implied, she did not think for a moment that he had returned to whatever slum one might delude oneself he came from. He was local, from Cater Street or its immediate proximity; she knew it in her heart.

It was twenty minutes to three, and she was busy writing a list of letters to distant relations to whom she had owed correspondence for some time and had put off as a chore, when Maddock came to say that Inspector Pitt was at the door, and wished to see her.

She felt a quite unreasonable pleasure, almost a sense of relief, as if he could somehow ameliorate her sense of disillusion; and yet she was also afraid of him. Everyone in the house knew about Papa’s behaviour, even though no one spoke of it to more than one other person at a time. It was never discussed except as a confidence, yet it seemed as if the house itself knew, and Pitt would only have to come into its walls to know also. And if Papa were capable of one such betrayal, one deceit of twenty-five years, what else might he not have kept from them? This other life that they knew nothing of might incorporate all sorts of things. Perhaps even he himself was not fully aware of it? That was the monstrous thought that had been at the back of her mind for hours. It was out now. Was it possible for a man to behave in such a way? Could he have had other mistresses? Perhaps have made some advances towards the murdered girls, and then, rather than be exposed, have killed them? Surely not! Papa? What on earth was she thinking? She had known Papa all her life. He had held her on his knee, played with her when she was a child. She could remember birthdays, Christmases, toys he had given her.

But all that time he had been intimate with that other woman less than a couple of miles away! And poor Mama had never known it!

“Miss Charlotte?” Maddock brought her back to the present again.

“Oh yes, Maddock, you had better ask him to come in, I suppose.”

“Do you wish me to bring any refreshment, Miss?”

“Certainly not,” she said, a little sharply. “I doubt he will be here more than a half hour at the most.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maddock withdrew, and a moment later Pitt came in. He was as untidy as always, and with the usual broad smile.

“Good afternoon, Charlotte,” he said cheerfully.

She gave him a frown to indicate she resented the familiarity, but it seemed to be entirely wasted on him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Is there some further way we can assist you in your enquiries? Do you feel any nearer success?”

“Oh yes, we have excluded many more that we believed to be possibilities.” He was still smiling. Did nothing penetrate the thickness of his skin?

“I’m glad to hear it. Tell me, do you have a large population to go through?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Something has upset you.” It was a statement, although touched with a note of enquiry.

“Several things have upset me, but none of them is in any way your concern,” she replied coolly. “They are not to do with the hangman.”

“If they upset you, then it concerns me.”

She turned round to find him looking at her with an expression in his eyes that was unmistakably gentle, and something that was more than gentleness. She had never seen such a look in any man’s face before, and it disturbed her profoundly. She felt the blood coming to her face and a totally unaccustomed warmth inside her. She looked away quickly, confused.

“That is courteous of you,” she said awkwardly, “but they are family matters, and no doubt will sort themselves out in due course.”

“Are you still worried about Emily and George Ashworth?”

She had entirely forgotten them, but it seemed an obvious escape from the truth, and he had offered it to her.

“Yes,” she lied. “I am concerned that he will hurt her. She is not of his social position, and he will tire of her presently; then she will find her reputation damaged, and have nothing to show for it but a deep hurt to her feelings.”

“You believe that because his social position is higher than hers he will not consider marrying her?” he asked.

It seemed a foolish question. She was a little annoyed with him for having asked.

“Of course he won’t!” she said tartly. “Men of his situation either marry for family reasons, or for money. Emily has neither.”

“Do you admire that?”

She turned round sharply. “Of course not! It is weak, contemptible. But that is the way it is.” Then she saw the smile on his face, and something else. Could it conceivably be hope? She felt her skin flame. It was ridiculous! She drew a deep breath and tried hard to control herself.

He was still staring at her, but there was self-mockery in his face now. Very gently he helped her out of her embarrassment.

“I think you worry about Emily too much,” he observed. “She is far more practical than you credit. Ashworth may imagine he is calling the pace, but I think it will be Emily who will decide whether he marries her or not. A wife like Emily could be an advantage to a man in his position. She is far cleverer than he is, for a start, and wise enough to hide it sufficiently so that he may suspect it, but never be sure enough for it to make him feel in any way less superior. She will be right, but she will convince him that it was his idea.”

“You make her sound extremely-conniving.”

“She is.” He smiled. “She is in every way opposite from you. Where you charge headlong, Emily will outflank and come up behind.”

“And you make me sound stupid!”

His smile broadened into a grin. “Not at all. You could not win Ashworth, but then you also have the sense not to want him!”

She relaxed in spite of herself. “Indeed I do not. What have you come for, Mr. Pitt? Surely not to talk about Ashworth and Emily again? Are you really no nearer the hangman?”

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “Once or twice I’ve thought we were almost onto him, but then we were proved wrong. If only we knew why! If we just knew why he did it, why those girls? Why not any of a hundred others? Was it no more than chance?”

“But surely-” she faltered, “if it were no more than that-how will you ever find him? He could be anyone at all!”

“I know.” He held out no false hope, no comfort, and for that she both praised and blamed him. She wanted comfort, and yet she wanted honesty as well. It seemed she could not have both.

“Is there no connecting link, no person they all knew who might have. .?”

“We are still looking. That is why I’ve come today. I would like to speak to Dora, if I may, and also to Mrs. Dunphy. I’ve heard that Dora was friendly with the Hiltons’ maid, more friendly than she has told us. Possibly she denied it out of fear. A lot of people hide information because they feel murder is scandalous, and even to know anything somehow rubs the scandal onto them. Guilt by association.” His mouth turned down at the corners.

“And Mrs. Dunphy? She might have held something back; she hates scandal.”

“I’m sure. All good servants do, even more than their masters, if such a thing were possible. But actually I only want her confirmation. It might serve to prevent Dora from being evasive again. Dora might lie to me, but if she is anything like most housemaids, she will not dare lie to the cook.”

Charlotte smiled. It was perfectly true.

Then another thought occurred to her. Was that all he wanted to ask? And even if it was, would Dora or Mrs. Dunphy accidentally betray the anguish in the house at the moment? It was a fallacy of self-preservation, of dignity, to suppose that the servants did not know the private quarrels and tears above the stairs. They had eyes and ears, and curiosity. Someone would have overheard. Gossip would be discreet, even sympathetic, but it would be there. Of course it would never go outside the house. Loyalty and pride of establishment were fierce, but they would know.

“Do you wish me to call her in here?” she asked, thinking she would be able to control the situation if she were there to prevent any slips of the tongue. “She won’t lie to me either.”

Pitt looked at her, eyes narrowed very slightly.

“Please don’t trouble yourself. Besides, I think she might well be reticent in front of you. I don’t wish to question her in Mrs. Dunphy’s presence either, only to confirm with Mrs. Dunphy first, and then use the information to press Dora. If she did something you would not approve of, she won’t say so in front of you, but she might tell me, alone.”

She wanted to argue, to find some reason to be present, but she could think of nothing that sounded honest. Yet she must prevent his learning of Papa and the woman. She believed he would feel, as she did, that it was a betrayal, a moral dishonesty that one might try to pardon with one’s mind, but could never forget. Respect was gone; one could not trust again.

That was foolish. Pitt was a man, and would no doubt feel as other men did that such things were quite ordinary and to be accepted-as long as women did not do the same, of course. Perhaps she was afraid unnecessarily. Murder was quite a different thing from adultery, to men.

“How is your sergeant?” she asked, in an attempt to delay him until she could think of a reason to prevent him from seeing Dora alone.

“Getting better, thank you.” If he was surprised he did not show it.

“Do you have to have another sergeant now?” she went on.

“Yes.” He smiled. “You would like him; he’s quite an entertaining character. A little like Willie.”

“Oh?” The interest she expressed was quite genuine. And it was a few minutes’ respite. “I see Willie as a very uneasy policeman.”

“Oh, Dickon was uneasy to begin with, but he was obliged to find work very early, and naturally found dishonest employment easier to come by. He gained an excellent knowledge of the underworld, and then, after an extremely narrow squeak, decided it might be safer to profit from his expertise on the side of the law rather than against it.” He grinned broadly. “Actually he fell rather seriously in love with a girl socially above him. He promised her he would become respectable if she would marry him. So far he’s kept at it.”

“Why did he have to go out to work so young?” she was interested to know, as well as still wishing to keep him from the kitchen. The memory of Willie’s wry face was clear, and in her mind she saw this Dickon with the same features.

“His father died at a hanging, in ’forty-seven or ’forty-eight, and his mother was left with five children of which he was the youngest; and the other four were girls.”

“Oh no! However did she manage? How irresponsible of him to commit a crime that got him hanged!” She could think only of the poor woman with five children to feed.

“He wasn’t hanged,” Pitt corrected her. “He was killed at a hanging. They used to have public hangings then, and they were considered quite a sporting event.”

She did not believe him. “Hanging? Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of a person would wish to see some wretched creature taken out to a gibbet and hanged?” She swallowed hard, flaring her nose in disgust.

“Many kinds,” he answered seriously. “It used to be quite a spectacle; hundreds of people came to watch, and others came to pick their pockets, to gamble, to sell their muffins and winkles and hot chestnuts in winter. And, of course, the odd dogfight to warm them up.

“The poor crowded into the square, while the quality, the gentlemen, booked rooms in nearby houses with front windows-”

“That’s obscene!” she said fiercely. “It’s disgusting!”

“They let them for very high rents,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “Unfortunately the excitement of the actual hanging often spilled over into the crowd, and fights broke out. Dickon’s father was beaten to death in one of these.”

He smiled bleakly at her horror. “They don’t have public hangings anymore. Now let me speak to Dora. I don’t know whether I shall discover whatever it is you are so afraid of, but I must try.”

She swallowed hard again.

“I don’t know what you mean! Ask Dora anything you wish. There’s nothing I am afraid of, except the hangman himself, and we are all afraid of him.”

“But you are afraid that he is someone you know, aren’t you, Charlotte?”

“Isn’t he? Isn’t he someone we all know?” she demanded. There was no point in lying anymore. “At least I’m not afraid it’s me, in some black, terrible other side of myself I don’t know about. But any man who has any imagination at all must have feared just that at least once in the dark hours of the night.”

“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.