Cater Street Hangman

Chapter Twelve

Charlotte went back to her letters since Pitt would not question Dora in her presence. She did not know whether he intended to speak to her again before leaving, or whether he would tell her what Dora had told him if it were of any value. For the first fifteen minutes she could only think of what might be said in the kitchen-whether Pitt would ask about anything other than the Hiltons’ maid, or whether, even by accident, he might stumble on the knowledge of Papa and the woman in Cater Street.

When she finally settled to writing, the letters were scrappy, and she feared full of repetition and irrelevancies but, even so, better than letting her mind dwell on the kitchen.

By four o’clock it was darkening outside with fog swirling up from the river and already hanging in haze ’round the gas lamps in the street.

Mama and Emily returned a few minutes later, cold and dissatisfied with the dress. They requested tea immediately and asked if Sarah were home yet.

“No.” Charlotte replied with a slight frown. “Inspector Pitt was here earlier. I’m not even sure if he has gone now.”

Mama looked up agitatedly.

“Why was he here?” she asked with an edge to her voice. Was she harbouring the same fear as Charlotte: that somehow he would find out about Papa and the woman? Charlotte did not wish to ask, in case her mother had not even thought of it.

“Something to do with Dora knowing the Hiltons’ maid, and not having said so before,” she replied.

“Why should Dora lie?” Emily enquired, putting down her cup, still untouched, too hot to drink. “There could be nothing wrong in it if she had.”

“Fear, I suppose,” Charlotte answered her. “Scandal, and all that. Didn’t want to be mixed up with the police. Easier just to deny it.”

“Perhaps she didn’t know her, and Pitt is wrong?” Emily suggested. “It hardly matters anyway. You know it’s quite dark outside. Surely Sarah can’t still be trailing around with Martha Prebble on parish work at this hour?”

Caroline stood up and went to the window. There was nothing to see but opaque fog and darkness.

“If she is I shall speak to her very sharply when she returns. Unless someone has been taken ill, there is no need whatsoever to be out as late as this, and on such a wretched night. We shall have to send Maddock to bring her back. She cannot possibly travel alone in this.”

“I dare say the vicar will accompany her,” Emily observed calmly. “I don’t care for him, any more than Charlotte does,” she looked sideways at her sister, “but he is not so completely without manners or breeding as to let Sarah walk home alone after dark.”

“No, of course not,” Caroline came away from the window and sat down, making a determined effort to control herself. “I am just being foolish. I don’t know why I should be afraid. We know where she is, and no doubt she is doing excellent work. Neither death nor birth, unfortunately, restricts itself to convenient weather or times of the day. And illness certainly doesn’t. I heard old Mrs. Petheridge was very unwell. Perhaps Sarah is sitting with her?”

“Yes, possibly,” Charlotte agreed quickly. She tried to think of some other topic of conversation sufficiently interesting to hold their attention. “Do you think Sir Nigel will marry Miss Decker? She has certainly tried hard enough.”

“Probably,” Emily said drily. “He is a very silly creature.”

They managed to keep the conversation alive for another hour, interspersed with small jobs till Edward returned a few moments after five.

“Where’s Sarah?” he asked immediately.

“With the vicar and Mrs. Prebble,” Caroline replied, glancing instinctively towards the window.

“At this hour?” Edward raised his eyebrows. “Has there been some emergency? They can hardly be doing ordinary parish work in the dark. Have you any idea what kind of an evening it is?”

“Of course I have!” Caroline said sharply. “I have been out in it myself, and I have eyes to look at it even from here.”

“Yes, my dear, I’m sorry,” Edward said gently. “It was a foolish question. I am a little concerned about Sarah. She is putting far too much time into this work. I am all for charity, but it is requiring too much of her at the moment. She will wear herself out, and on a night like this she could very well catch a chill.”

He had said nothing about the hangman, only about a chill from the fog, and Charlotte felt a sudden rush of warmth towards him for it. Perhaps the woman was an indiscretion he regretted and had been unable to cast off. She stood up and kissed him quickly on the cheek and he was too surprised to respond. She turned at the door and caught his eye. Could it even be gratitude she saw there? She was going to the kitchen to find out what Dora had told Pitt.

“I’m going to see if dinner is progressing satisfactorily,” she announced. “I don’t imagine Dora is upset, but I had as well make sure.”

“Why would Dora be upset?” she heard Edward ask as she closed the door.

It appeared the questioning of Dora had elicited very little other than the details of her friendship with the Hiltons’ maid, and she returned to the withdrawing room perfectly satisfied.

It was twenty minutes to six when the door from the hall opened and Pitt stood gray-faced on the threshold. Maddock was nowhere to be seen.

Edward turned and then, when he saw who it was, half rose. He was about to require some explanation for Pitt’s coming unannounced when he saw the man’s face more closely. It was always a mirror of his feelings, and now it showed shock and distress beyond anything they had seen before. His eyes flickered just once to Charlotte, and then back to Edward again.

“For God’s sake, man, what is it?” Edward stood up. “Are you ill?” He must be, to look so dreadful.

Pitt struggled forwards, and seemed unable to find them.

Charlotte felt a bitter coldness inside her. “Sarah,” she said quietly. “It’s Sarah, isn’t it?”

Pitt nodded. He shut his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Edward did not seem to understand. “What about Sarah? What’s wrong with her? Has there been an accident?” He teetered a little on his feet.

Charlotte stood up and went to him, putting her arm in his and holding on to him hard. She faced Pitt, her heart choking in her throat, pins and needles already numbing her fingers and creeping up her arms. She knew before she spoke what the answer must be.

“The hangman?” she asked. She did not want to know if Sarah too had been molested. It was unbearable.

“Yes,” his face was wracked with misery and guilt.

“It can’t be!” Edward said, shaking his head a little, uncomprehending, unable to believe. “Why Sarah? Why should anyone want to hurt Sarah?” His voice wavered and he struggled to continue. “She was so. . ” He stopped, tears running down his face.

Behind them Emily moved to sit with Caroline, putting her arms round her, clinging, hiding her face. Caroline wept deeply and agonizingly, shaking with her grief.

“I don’t know,” Pitt answered. “God, I don’t know.”

“Is there anything to do?” Charlotte asked huskily. The pins and needles were up to her elbows, and Pitt’s face seemed to swim far away.

“No,” he shook his head.

“Where’s Maddock?”

“I’m afraid he-wasn’t well. He took it very hard. I sent him to fetch some brandy and smelling salts, in case-” he trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

Charlotte gripped her father even harder. “Papa, you had better sit down. There isn’t anything to do. There will be things, tomorrow, but tonight it’s all finished.”

Edward backed obediently towards his chair and his legs seemed to buckle underneath him.

A moment later Maddock came in with a tray, the brandy decanter and glasses. He looked at the ground without speaking. Emily and Caroline did not see him, and he put the smelling salts on the table awkwardly. He was leaving again when Charlotte spoke.

“Maddock, you had better cancel dinner, and ask Mrs. Dunphy to prepare something cold for about eight o’clock, if you please.”

He gave her a look of incredulity, and she knew he found her inexplicably cold, as if she did not care. She could not explain to him that she cared abominably, so much that she could not bear to think of it, that doing something practical, concerning herself with the grief of others, was more bearable than thinking of her own. She turned from Maddock to Pitt, and saw again in him the tenderness that had so embarrassed her before, but this time it was like warmth and sweetness enveloping her. She knew he understood what she was doing, and why. She looked away quickly, tears choking her. It was far harder to bear than misunderstanding; there was nothing to fight against.

“Thank you, Inspector Pitt.” She tried to keep the wavering in her voice from obliterating her words. “Perhaps if you would ask whatever questions you have tomorrow? There is little we can tell you tonight, except that Sarah left in the early afternoon to visit Mrs. Prebble, and we presumed to do some parish visiting afterwards. If you ask Mrs. Prebble, no doubt she will be able to tell you. . what time. . ” She found herself unable to finish. Suddenly they were not talking about facts, but about Sarah. She could see her clearly in her mind. She forced the picture out. She wanted him to leave before she lost control. “Tomorrow we shall be better able to answer any other questions.”

“Of course,” he agreed quickly. “It would be better for me to speak to the vicar and Mrs. Prebble now anyway.” He turned to Edward again. He seemed unable to look at Caroline. “I’m-I’m sorry,” he stammered.

Edward rose to the occasion. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sure you have done everything anyone could. Sane men are at a loss in the face of madness. Thank you for coming in person to tell us. Good night, Inspector.”

There was nothing to say in the silence after Pitt left. There were no questions, except the one that could not be answered: why Sarah?

It was a long time before anyone moved, and then it was Edward who went to the kitchen to tell the servants formally. Emily took Caroline upstairs. Supper was a cold plate served in the withdrawing room. All except Caroline forced themselves to eat something. At nine o’clock Edward sent Charlotte and Emily upstairs to bed, and waited alone to tell Dominic whenever he might return.

Charlotte went gratefully. Her control was slipping away from her quickly as the evening dragged on. She was suddenly very tired and the effort of stopping the tears was becoming too much.

In her room she undressed, hung up her clothes, washed her face in hot water, then cold, took her hair down and brushed it, then climbed into bed and at last cried with all her heart until she had no more strength left.

The following morning was bleak and cold. Charlotte woke up and for a few minutes everything was as always, but then memory returned. Sarah was dead. She had to say it over several times. It was a little like the morning after Sarah’s marriage; then, too, a lifelong relationship had gone. Sarah was no longer her sister, but Dominic’s wife. She could look back on all the years of her childhood. It was Sarah who had first showed her how to button her own shoes, Sarah with whom she had played at dolls, Sarah’s clothes she had grown into, Sarah who had taught her to read, Sarah in whom she had confided her first admirations and heartaches. Something had gone from her life when Sarah had married and was no longer especially hers. But that was a natural part of growing up; she had always known it would happen one day. This was different. It was not natural. It was monstrous. And this time there was no envy in it, only wrenching, unbearable loss.

Had Sarah known, had she seen the face of her murderer? Had she felt the choking, heart-tearing fear? Please, God, let it have been quick!

There was no point in lying here thinking. Better to get up, find something practical to do. It would be worse for Mama. There was something terrible beyond understanding to lose a child, a person to whom you have given life from your own body.

Downstairs everyone else was also up and dressed, searching for something to do.

Breakfast was almost silent. Dominic looked white and his eyes did not meet anyone else’s. Charlotte watched him for a little while. Then, afraid that he would notice, she looked down at her toast. The mere mechanics of eating became exaggerated, something to do to occupy one’s mind.

Where had Dominic been last night? Was it fair to wonder if Sarah would not have gone out if he had been at home, or if she had expected him? Or had the hangman wanted her, and, if not yesterday, then some other time?

Was he some lunatic from the fogbound slums driven mad by filth and poverty till all he could think of was to kill? Or was he someone from Cater Street who knew them all, who watched and waited for his chance, who followed, perhaps even spoke to them, walked with them, and then suddenly drew out the wire, and-

She must not think about Sarah. It was past now; whatever pain there had been, whatever terror or knowledge, was finished.

Had she known him?

What did he feel this morning? Was he sitting somewhere at breakfast? Was he hungry? Was he alone in some dirty room, eating bread, or was he sitting at a polished dining room table with a family round him, eating eggs and kidneys and toast? Perhaps talking to others, even children? What would he talk about? Had his family even the faintest idea of what he was, where he had been? Were they afraid as she had been afraid? Had they been through all the same suspicions-the first idea, the self-disgust and guilt for having thought of such things, then the examination of little things remembered from the past, fitting them in with the facts and at last having the phantom of fear take definite shape?

And what was he thinking himself? Or did he not know? Was he sitting somewhere wondering as much as she was, perhaps even thinking the same things, looking at others, his father, his brother, fearing for them?

She looked across at Dominic again. Where had he been last night? Did he know-exactly? Pitt would ask him.

Breakfast was cleared away and everyone sought something to do until the police would arrive and begin the questions which had to come.

Mercifully they did not have long to wait. Pitt and his new sergeant arrived before nine. Pitt looked tired-as if he had been up long into the night-and unusually tidy. Oddly enough, it made him look uncomfortable, prepared for some ordeal.

“Good morning,” he said formally. “I’m sorry, but this is necessary.”

Everyone acknowledged that. It was easier to get it over with. They all sat down except Dominic, who remained standing, and waited for Pitt to begin.

He did not temper his approach. “You were out last night, Mr. Corde?”

“Yes,” Dominic coloured painfully. Watching him, Charlotte felt that he also wondered whether, if he had been at home, Sarah would not have gone out.

“Where?”

“What?” Dominic seemed to be lost.

“Where were you?” Pitt repeated.

“At my club.”

“Again? Was anyone with you?”

The blood drained from Dominic’s face as he realized the possibilities in Pitt’s mind. Even though it was Sarah who was dead, he was not excluded as a suspect.

“Yes. . yes,” he stammered. “Several people. I can’t remember all their names. D-do you need them?”

“I’d better have them, Mr. Corde, before you forget-or they do.”

Dominic opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, and gave up. He reeled off half a dozen names. “I–I think those are correct. I think they were all there last night. I didn’t spend all evening with any one of them, you understand.”

“No doubt we shall be able to piece things together. Why were you at your club last night, Mr. Corde? Was there some particular function?”

Dominic looked surprised, then confused as he understood Pitt’s meaning. Why was he not at home?

“Er-no, nothing special.”

Pitt did not pursue it further. He turned instead to Caroline, decided against it, and spoke to Charlotte.

“Mrs. Corde left in the early afternoon to visit the vicar’s wife?”

“Yes, a little after luncheon.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” Charlotte looked down. She remembered with pain, and now guilt, the scene of such a short time ago. It was impossible to understand how the whole of one’s life could change so quickly.

“Why?”

She looked back at him. “I offered to go with her, but she preferred to go alone. She wanted to speak to Martha Prebble in private, and then perhaps to go on and do some parish visiting.” She found it hard to speak; her throat ached and she had to stop.

“She did a lot of parish work,” Emily said quietly.

“Parish work? You mean she visits the poor, the sick?” Unconsciously he used the present tense.

“Yes.”

“Do you know whom she intended to visit yesterday?”

“No. What did Martha say? Mrs. Prebble.”

“That Sarah mentioned several people to her, but that she left the vicar’s house quite late, and she did not say precisely whom she meant to visit, or in which order. Mrs. Prebble herself was feeling unwell, and said she advised her against going alone, but Sarah would not listen. Apparently there were several sick. . ” His voice trailed off.

“Do you think. . ” she began, “. . just chance?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Possibly he was just waiting for someone-anyone-”

“Then how in God’s name will you ever find him?” Edward shouted. “You can hardly fill the streets with policemen till he strikes again. He’ll merely wait until you leave. He could walk past you, speak to you, tip his hat, and you wouldn’t even know him from-from the vicar, or one of your own!”

No one answered him.

“You said she did a great deal of parish work lately?” Pitt began again. “Did she do it at regular times, and always with the same people?”

Dominic stared at him. “You think he wanted. . Sarah? I mean Sarah, in particular?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Corde. Do you know anyone who loved or hated her enough to do that?”

“Loved!” Dominic said incredulously. “God! Do you mean me?”

It was the first time anyone had said it aloud. Charlotte looked at their faces, trying to see who had thought of it before. It looked as if only Papa had not. She looked back at Pitt, waiting.

“I don’t know who I mean, Mr. Corde, or the hunt would be over.”

“But it could be me!” Dominic’s voice rose in hysteria. “Even though it was Sarah this time, you still think it could be me!”

“Are you sure it isn’t?”

Dominic looked at him in silence for several moments. “Unless I’m completely insane, capable of becoming another person I know nothing of, I couldn’t have hurt Sarah. I’m not really sure how much I loved her, how much I love anyone, but far too much to have hurt her deliberately. Accidentally-I know-and through stubbornness, both of us-but not, not anything like that.”

Charlotte could not keep the tears back. If only Sarah could have known that much for certain. Why is it that one does not tell people things while there is time? One lets such trivial things matter.

Now she must not upset all the others by weeping in front of them. She stood up.

“Excuse me,” she said quickly and walked out; to run would betray her need and its urgency.

It was not Dominic Emily was afraid for, but her father. She had never considered the existence of a darker side to her sister’s husband. He was no more than he seemed to be; handsome, pleasant-natured if a little spoiled, witty when he chose, and quite often kind-but also without great imagination. It was funny that Charlotte should have fallen in love with him. He was utterly wrong for her and would have made her dreadfully unhappy. He would never have matched her depth of feeling and she would have spent her whole life seeking for something that was not there.

But Papa was quite different. There were obviously hungers in him that none of them had recognized before. And he had been either unwilling or unable to prevent himself from satisfying them.

Was the woman in Cater Street the only one? She was an old woman now, according to Sarah. When Papa had finished with her, who had replaced her? That was something that she thought had not occurred to the others.

But it occurred to Emily as she sat sewing in the afternoon, and she wondered if it would occur to Pitt when he found out, which he undoubtedly would, either from some gossip in the neighbourhood about Sarah’s visit, or from some slip of the tongue by one of the servants, or possibly even from Charlotte. She was about as transparent as water! Or perhaps he had even been to speak to the woman himself. He might be inelegant, and of very ordinary birth, but he was far from stupid.

Anyway, Emily thought, she had better accustom herself to thinking well of him, because no doubt he would have the courage to make an offer for Charlotte, and she might well take him if she had the courage and the sense. Papa would hum and haw, and Grandmama would have a fit, but that did not matter.

Unless of course Papa really had done something more serious than keep a mistress, or even a series of mistresses? In which case they would all be ruined and the question of marriage to anyone would be moot. Surely he could not have? She could not really believe it, but neither could she dismiss the fear from the back of her mind until she had done something about it. She knew that he was alone in the library. The abominable vicar would be duty-bound to call some time today or tomorrow, now that the police had gone, for the time being at least. Better to get this over with.

Edward looked up with surprise when she went into the library. “Emily? Are you seeking something to read?”

“No,” she sat down in the other big leather chair opposite him.

“What then? You find it hard to be alone? I confess, I’m glad of your company also.”

She smiled very slightly. This was going to be harder than she had anticipated.

“Papa?”

“Yes, my dear?” How very tired he looked. She had forgot how old he was.

“Papa, the woman in Cater Street-how long is it since she was your mistress?” Better to be direct. She could be devious with most people, but she had never been able to deceive him with any success.

“How very like Charlotte you are at times,” he smiled with profound regret, and she knew instinctively he was thinking neither of her nor of Charlotte, but of Sarah.

“How long?” she repeated. It had to be got over now; to have to try again would only extend the pain.

He looked at her. Was he weighing up how much she knew? Whether even now he could lie, evade?

“We know about her,” she said cruelly. “Sarah went to visit her, as a charity. She discovered the truth. Please Papa, don’t make it worse?” Her voice wavered. She hated doing this, but the doubt hurt even more. The suspense was a cancer deeper than the clean wound of knowing. She must not let him lie now, degrade himself.

He was still looking at her. She wanted to shut her eyes, to withdraw the question, but she knew it was too late.

He gave in. “A long time,” he answered with a little sigh. “It was all very brief, that part of it. It was all over a year or two after you were born. But I still liked her. Your mother was often busy-with you. You didn’t know her then, but she was not unlike Sarah; a little stubborn, always thinking she knew best.” Suddenly his eyes filled with tears and Emily looked away, to save him embarrassment. She stood up and walked to the window, to give him time to regain his control.

“Was there anyone after her?” she asked. Better to get it all over in one attempt.

“No,” he sounded surprised. “Of course not! Why do you ask, Emily?”

She wanted to think of a lie quickly, so that he should not ever know what she had suspected. Idiotically, now she wanted to protect him. She had thought she would never forgive him for having hurt Mama, but instead here she was wanting to shield him as if he had been the injured one. She did not understand herself, which was a new experience, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

“For Mama, of course,” she answered. “One can overlook one mistake, especially if it happened a long time ago. One cannot forget something that has been repeated over and over again.”

“Do you think your mother will feel the same way?” His voice sounded pathetically hopeful. She was a little embarrassed by it.

“I should ask her,” she said quickly. “I believe she is lying down upstairs. She is grieving very much for Sarah, you know.”

He stood up. “Yes, I know. I don’t think I realized how much she meant to me either.” He put his arm round her and kissed her gently, on the brow. She found herself suddenly clinging to him, crying for Sarah, for herself, for everybody, because it was all too much to bear.

In the late afternoon George Ashworth called to express his condolences. Naturally these were extended to the entire family, and therefore he was seen formally in the withdrawing room by Edward. It was necessary that afternoon tea should be offered, and equally necessary that it be refused. Afterwards Ashworth asked if he might speak with Emily.

She received him in the library, as somewhere where they might be sure not to risk interruption.

He closed the door behind him. “Emily, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should not have come so soon, but I could not bear to let you think I was unaffected, that I was not concerned for your grief. I suppose it is foolish to ask if there is anything I can do?”

Emily was touched and surprised that he should have feelings deeper than those required by good manners. She had desired, indeed planned, to marry him for some time; indeed she quite genuinely liked him, but had not perceived in him such sensitivity. It was a pleasant revelation, and curiously robbed her of some of the control she had just recently managed to acquire.

“Thank you,” she said carefully. “It is kind of you to offer, but there really isn’t anything to be done; except endure it, until we can feel it is time to take up our lives again.”

“I suppose they still have no idea who?”

“I don’t think so. I’m beginning to wonder if they ever will. In fact I heard some silly servant the other day suggest that it was not a human being at all, but some creature of the supernatural, a vampire or a demon of some sort.” She made a little choking sound, which was intended as a laugh of scorn, but died away.

“You haven’t entertained the idea?” he asked awkwardly, “have you?”

“Of course not!” she said with disgust. “He is someone from Cater Street or nearby, someone who is afflicted with a terrible madness that drives him to kill. I don’t know whether he kills people for any reason, or just because they happen to be there when his madness strikes. But he’s perfectly human, of that I’m sure.”

“Why are you so sure, Emily?” He sat down on the side of one of the armchairs.

She looked at him curiously. This was the man she intended to marry, to spend the rest of her life dependent upon. He was uncommonly handsome and, far more importantly, he pleased her-the more today because of his unexpected concern for her.

“Because I don’t believe in monsters,” she said frankly. “Evil men, certainly, and madness, but not monsters. I daresay he would like us to believe he is such, for then we could cease to look for him among ourselves. Perhaps we would even cease to look for him at all.”

“What a practical creature you are, Emily,” he said with a smile. “Do you ever do anything foolish?”

“Not often,” she said frankly, then smiled also. “Would you prefer me to?”

“Great heavens, no! You are the ideal combination. You look feminine and fragile, you know when to speak and when to remain silent; and yet you behave with all the excellent sense of the best of men.”

“Thank you,” she said with a flush of genuine pleasure.

“In fact,” he looked down at the floor, then up at her again, “if I had any sense I should marry you.”

She took in her breath, held it for a second, then let it out.

“And have you?” she said very carefully.

His smile widened into a grin. “Not usually. But I think on this occasion I shall make an exception.”

“Are you making me a proposal, George?” She turned to look at him.

“Don’t you know?”

“I would like to be quite sure. It would be uncommonly silly to make an error in a matter of such importance.”

“Yes, I am?” He made it a question by the expression in his eyes. He looked vulnerable, as if it mattered to him.

She found herself liking him even more than she had thought.

“I should be most honoured,” she said honestly. “And I accept. You had better speak to Papa in a few weeks’ time, when it is more suitable.”

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