Cater Street Hangman

Chapter Thirteen

That evening Edward decided that he would no longer require Caroline to attempt to soothe Grandmama or to put up with her criticism and bad humour. He sent Maddock with a message to Susannah that as soon as possible Grandmama would be dispatched with her necessary clothes and toiletries, and that they did not look to see her return until such time as they should feel themselves recovered from their bereavement. It would be no pleasure for Susannah, but that was one of the burdens of family life, and she would have to make the best of it.

Grandmama complained with bitter self-pity and at least one dizzy spell, but no one paid her the least attention. Emily was in a world of her own. Edward and Caroline seemed at last to have come to terms with the whole subject of Mrs. Attwood. The previous evening they had talked for a long time, and Caroline had learned many things, not only about Edward, but about loneliness, about the feeling of being outside a close circle of dependence, and about herself. Now there was a new perception between them, and they seemed to have much to say to each other.

Dominic for once exercised none of his usual diplomacy, and Charlotte was even less than ordinarily inclined to mince her words. Accordingly, the following morning Caroline and Emily assisted Grandmama with her packing, and at ten o’clock accompanied her in the carriage to Susannah’s.

Charlotte was thus alone when the vicar and Martha Prebble came to formally convey their sympathy and deep shock at the loss of Sarah. Dora showed them in.

“My dear Miss Ellison,” the vicar began solemnly, “I can hardly find words to express our grief to you.”

Charlotte could not help hoping he would continue to fail to find them, but such was far from the case.

“What a monstrous evil walks among us,” he went on, taking her hand, “that could strike down a woman like your sister, in the prime of her life, and leave her husband and her family bereft. I assure you all the righteous men and women of the parish join me in extending all our deepest condolences to you, and your poor mother.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte withdrew her hand. “I am quite sure of the best wishes of you all, and I shall inform my parents and my sister, and of course my brother-in-law, of your kindness.”

“It is our duty,” the vicar replied, apparently unaware that his remark would rob the visit of any value in Charlotte’s eyes.

“Is there anything we can do?” Martha offered.

Charlotte turned to her in relief, but it was short-lived. Martha’s face was more haggard than she had ever seen it before. Her eyes were bedded in dark hollows, her hair hanging like string in loops over her ears.

“Your sympathy is the greatest help,” Charlotte said gently, moved to a profound pity for the woman. Surely to live with such a duty-suffocated creature as the vicar must be almost more than any human, caring woman could stand?

“When will it be convenient for me to consult with your father about the-er-arrangements?” the vicar went on without looking at Martha. “These things must be done, you know; a proper order preserved. We return to the dust from which we came, and our souls to the judgement of God.”

There was no answer to that, so Charlotte returned to the first question.

“I have no idea, but I would have thought it appropriate to speak with my brother-in-law, at least to begin with.” She was delighted to find some point of propriety on which to correct him. “If he feels unable to do so, then, of course, I’m sure Papa will deal with the matter.”

The vicar endeavoured to hide his annoyance. He smiled, showing his teeth, but his cheeks coloured faintly and his eyes were hard.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I had thought, perhaps-an older man-the grief-”

“It may quite possibly be so,” Charlotte was not about to give him the slightest victory. She smiled also, equally coldly. “But it would be an added unkindness not to consult him, an unnecessary rudeness, I feel?”

The muscles along the vicar’s face tightened.

“Have the police made even the slightest progress towards discovering the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes? I understand you are-somewhat close-to one of the-policemen.” He invested the last word with the same tone he might have used for rat catchers or those who remove the kitchen waste. There was a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

“I don’t know whom you can have been listening to, Vicar, to gather such an impression.” Charlotte looked him straight in the face. “Have the servants been talking?”

The colour washed up his face in a wave of anger.

“I do not listen to servants, Miss Ellison! And I take it unkindly that you should suggest such a thing. I am not some gossiping woman!”

“It was not intended as an insult, Vicar,” Charlotte lied without the slightest qualm. “Since I am a woman myself, I would not have chosen that phrase in order to be derogatory.”

“Indeed, of course not,” he said tartly. “God made woman, as He made man-the weaker vessel, of course, but still the creation of the Almighty.”

“I understood everything was the creation of God,” Charlotte was going to push every prick home. “But it is indeed comforting to be reminded that we are. To answer your question, I am not aware that the police have made any further discoveries in the course of their investigations, but of course it is not incumbent on them to advise me if they have.”

“I see the whole matter has preyed upon your mind.” The vicar altered his tone to one of sententiousness. “Quite natural. It is far too great a burden for one of your tender birth and years to bear. You must lean upon the church, and put your trust in the Lord Almighty to help you through this crisis. Read your Bible every day; you will find great comfort in it. Observe its commandments diligently, and it will bring joy to your soul even through the darkest vicissitudes of this vale of tears.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said drily. She had hitherto enjoyed her Bible, but this was quite enough to sour it for her. “I will pass on your advice. I am sure we shall all benefit from it.”

“And never fear that the wicked shall escape punishment. If they do not meet the justice of this world, then God’s vengeance will catch up with them in the eternities, and they shall perish in hell fire! The wages of sin is death. The lusts of the flesh consume in everlasting fire the souls of the wicked and no man shall escape. No, not the least thought that pursues the pleasures of the flesh shall go unknown in the great judgement!”

Charlotte shivered. She found the idea of comfort in such a philosophy appalling. She had thoughts she was ashamed of, hungers and dreams she would far rather were not known, and as she needed her own forgiven, she would forgive another’s.

“Surely thoughts that are controlled,” she said hesitantly, “and not acted upon-”

Martha looked up suddenly, her face white, the muscles in her jaw clenching. Her voice was rough when she spoke, as if it would not entirely obey her.

“All sin is sin, my dear. The thought is father to the wish, and the wish father to the deed. Therefore the thought itself is evil, and must be plucked out, eradicated like a poisonous weed that will rise and choke the seeds of the Lord’s word in you. If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out! Better a limb should be chopped off, than the whole body should become infected and perish!”

“I. . I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Charlotte stammered. She was embarrassed by Martha’s intensity, by the passion she felt just beneath the surface of these words. She was almost tangibly conscious of some deep pain in the room with her, something beyond all her previous experience. It frightened her, because she did not know how to comfort Martha.

“You must,” Martha said urgently. “That is how it is. Sin is ever-present, deep in our hearts and minds, the devil striving to claim us for his own, seeking the weaknesses of the flesh, seeking to govern us. He is cleverer than we are, and he never sleeps. Remember that, Charlotte! Always be on your guard. Pray continually for the saving grace of Our Redeemer to show you the Evil One in his true light, that you may recognize him, and tear him out of your bosom, destroy his influence, and remain clean.” She suddenly stopped and stared down at her hands in her lap. “I have the great blessing of a man of God in my house to guide me. God has been extremely good to me, to save me from all my weaknesses, and show me the way. I am not sure I can ever be worthy of such a blessing.”

“There, there, my dear,” the vicar put his hand on her shoulder. “I am sure we all receive blessings appropriate to our deserts, ultimately. You have no need to chastise yourself. God made women to be the handmaids of His servants, and you have acquitted yourself excellently in your calling. You never cease to labour for the poor and the fallen. I’m sure it does not go unseen in heaven.”

“It does not go unseen on earth either,” Charlotte said quickly. “Sarah was always saying what wonderful work you do.” She found herself embarrassingly near to tears again at the mention of Sarah’s name. Above all things she did not wish to weep in front of the vicar.

“Sarah.” An indescribable look came over Martha’s face. She seemed to struggle with some inner torment, a mighty effort to control herself which lasted visibly, and to Charlotte’s unbearable pity, for several moments.

“I’m sure she rests in peace now.” Charlotte put her hand over Martha’s, forgetting her own grief and attempting to ease the other woman’s. “If all we are told of heaven is true, we should not grieve for her, but only for ourselves because we miss her.”

“Heaven?” Martha repeated. “May God be merciful to forgive her all her sins, and remember only her virtues, and wash her clean in the blood of Christ.”

“Amen,” the vicar said sonorously. “Now, my dear Miss Ellison, we must leave you to your deliberations and such privacy as you may require. Please advise your brother-in-law that I shall be available to him at whatever hour is convenient. Come, Martha, my dear, we have other duties to perform. Good morning, Miss Ellison.”

“Good morning, Vicar.” Charlotte held out her hand to Martha. “Good morning, Mrs. Prebble. I am sure Mama will be most touched by your sympathy.”

The vicar and Martha departed and Charlotte sat down hard on the overstuffed chair in the withdrawing room feeling suddenly cold and painfully unhappy.

Naturally Charlotte reported the substance of the vicar’s call when Mama and Emily returned for luncheon. No comment was passed, except the acknowledgement required by courtesy.

Mama returned to her room to spend the afternoon writing the necessary letters to inform other members of the family, godparents, cousins, of Sarah’s death. Emily found something to do in the kitchen. Charlotte busied herself with mending. It was really Millie’s job, but Charlotte wished for something to keep her from idleness; Millie would have to find another task, perhaps even doing the ironing again.

It was nearly three when Pitt came again. For the first time she admitted freely that she was pleased to see him.

“Charlotte,” he took one of her hands gently. His touch was warm, and she did not wish to withdraw; indeed her mind went ahead of her wishes to think of more.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said formally. She must keep control. “What can we do this time? Have you thought of some further questions?”

“No,” he smiled ruefully. “I can think of nothing else. I came merely to see you. I hope I do not need an excuse.”

She found herself embarrassed and unable to answer. It was ridiculous. No man had embarrassed her in this fashion except Dominic, and with Dominic it had been an empty confusion, without any end she could see. This time she hoped profoundly, with shaking heart, what the end might be.

She withdrew her hand. “Still, I should like to know if you have any further. . information? Some beliefs perhaps?”

“Some,” he looked at the chair, questioning if he might sit down. She nodded and he relaxed into it, still watching her. “But it is only the faintest idea as yet. I cannot see it clearly, and perhaps when I do there will be nothing there.”

She wanted to tell him about the distress she felt for Martha Prebble, the sense of her deep pain that had filled the room, her own helplessness in the face of something she thought she had seen, but not understood.

“Charlotte? What is troubling you? Has something happened since I was here last?”

She turned to look at him. For once she was not quite sure how to put her thoughts into words, a failing she was not accustomed to. It was difficult to express the sense of oppression that had weighed on her during and after the Prebbles’ visit without sounding foolish, over-imaginative. Yet she wished to tell him, it would comfort her profoundly if he understood. Perhaps he would even be able to dismiss it, show her it was a fancy.

He was still waiting, apparently knowing she was seeking words.

“The vicar and Mrs. Prebble were here this morning,” she began.

“Natural enough,” he was listening. “He was bound to call.” He shifted his weight. “I know you dislike him. I must say I have the greatest trouble being civil to him myself.” He smiled wryly. “I imagine it is even harder for you.”

She glanced at him, not sure for a moment if he were mocking her. He was, but there was tenderness in his face as well as amusement. For a moment the warmth of it, the sweetness of pleasure it brought her drove Martha Prebble from her mind.

“Why should that have upset you?” he brought her back to the present.

She turned away, so his look should not disturb her. “I’ve always felt ambivalent about Martha.” She was seriously trying now to tell him what was still struggling for form in her mind. “Her talk about sin is so depressing. She sounds like the vicar, seeing evil where I believe there is only perhaps a little foolishness which passes anyway with time and responsibility. People like the vicar always seem bent on spoiling pleasure, as if pleasure itself were against God. I can see that some pleasures are, or that they beguile one from the things one ought to do; but-”

“Perhaps he sees that as his duty?” Pitt suggested. “It’s clear-cut, easier than preaching charity, and certainly easier than practicing it.”

“I suppose so. And if I lived with someone like him for a long time I should learn to feel the same way as Martha Prebble does. Perhaps her father was a vicar, too. I never thought of that before.”

“And what is your other feeling?” he asked. “You said you were ambivalent.”

“Oh, pity, of course. And I think some admiration, too. You know, she really does try to live up to all that that wretched man teaches. And more. She is always visiting, caring for the sick and the lonely. I sometimes wonder how much she believes what she says about sin, or if she just adds it out of habit, and because she thinks she ought to, because she knows he would.”

“I dare say she doesn’t know herself. But that is not all, Charlotte. Why did they disturb you especially today? They have always been like this; you could not have expected anything else.”

What was the unease she had felt? She wanted to tell him, indeed she needed to. “She was talking about the need for punishment, even things like ‘if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,’ and cutting off hands and things. It seemed so. . so extreme, as if she were frightened of it-I mean really panicked. She talked about washing in the blood of Christ, and things.” She looked at him. “And she spoke about Sarah as if there were evil in her, I mean not just general weakness, as there is in all of us, but as if she knew of something. I suppose that’s what upset me-she spoke as if she knew something I didn’t.”

He frowned, “Charlotte,” he began slowly, “please don’t be angry with me, but do you think Sarah confided in her something that she did not tell you? Is it possible?”

Charlotte was repelled by the thought, yet she remembered that Sarah had wanted to see Martha alone; she had trusted Martha. Sometimes it was easier to speak to someone outside the family.

“Perhaps,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what Sarah could have done, but it could be-”

He stood up and came closer to her. She could feel his presence as if it were a warmth. She did not wish to move away. Indeed, she wished it were not immodest, improper to touch him.

“It could be something very slight,” he said gently. “Something that was of little importance, but to Martha Prebble, in the vicar’s eyes, a sin needing forgiveness. And for heaven’s sake don’t confuse the vicar with God. I’m sure God is nothing like as self-righteous-”

In spite of herself she smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous. God is love. I’m sure the vicar never loved anyone in his life.” She was touched by a bleak knowledge. “Including Martha.” She took a deep breath. “No wonder poor Martha is desperate, underneath all her good works, and her condemnation of sin. Not to be loved, not to love-”

He touched her arm very lightly. “And you, Charlotte? Do you still love Dominic?”

She felt herself colour with shame that she should have been so obvious.

“What made you believe-that I-?”

“Of course, I knew.” There was regret in his voice, a memory of pain. “I love you. How could I remain unaware that you loved someone else?”

“Oh.”

“You haven’t answered me. Do you still love him?”

“Don’t you know that I don’t? Or does it not matter to you now?” She was almost sure of what the answer would be, and yet she needed to have it spoken.

He turned her arm firmly till she was facing him.

“It matters to me. I don’t want to be second best?” There was a lift in his voice making it a question.

Very slowly she looked up at him. At first she was a little afraid, embarrassed by the power of feeling in his face, and by the depth and the sweetness of her own feeling. Then she stopped hiding, let go of pretence.

“You are not second best,” she said clearly. She put up her fingers and touched his cheek, at first shyly. “Dominic was only a dream. I’m awake now, and you are the first best.”

He reached up and took hold of her hand, keeping it to his face, his lips.

“And you have the courage to marry an ordinary policeman, Charlotte?”

“Do you doubt my courage, Mr. Pitt? Surely at least you cannot doubt my self-will?”

Slowly he smiled, more and more widely until it was a grin.

“Then I shall prepare for battle with your father.” His face became sober again, “but I’ll wait until this business is settled, and a suitable time has passed.”

“You can settle it?” she asked doubtfully.

“I think so. I have a feeling the answer is just beyond us, only just. I have caught a glimpse of something grotesque, something we have not even dreamed before. I cannot grasp it yet, but it is there. I have felt its darkness and its pain touch me.”

She shivered. “Be careful. He has not killed a man yet, but if his own life is in danger-”

“I shall. Now I must go. There are a few more questions, things that may help to make it plain, to put a face to the shadow. It is so close, a little thought. . ”

She moved away slowly, the shadow of the hangman outside her, and a white, singing happiness inside. She showed him to the door herself.

The following day arrangements were being made for Sarah’s funeral and everyone was busy when Millie came in with a note to say that Martha Prebble had been taken ill, and been confined to her bed.

“Oh dear, that really is too much!” Caroline said in exasperation. “She was going to deal with so many of the details, especially at the church. And I don’t even know what she has done so far!” She sat down hard in the wooden chair behind her. “I suppose I shall have to write a list of questions and send one of the servants ’round to her. It seems heartless, if the poor creature is ill, but what else can I do? And it’s raining!”

“We can’t send a servant, Mama,” Charlotte said wearily. “The least we can do is go ourselves. She visits all the sick in the parish, takes them things, even sits up with them all night if they are alone. It would be unpardonable if now, when she is ill, all we can do is send a servant with a message to know how far she has got in making arrangements on our behalf. One of us must go, and take her something.”

“She will have plenty of things,” Emily pointed out. “We cannot be the only people to know. It will be all ’round the parish. You know what gossips they are.”

“And quite possibly they will all think as you do, that someone else will call,” Charlotte argued. “Anyway, that isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is that we should take her something, even if her house is bulging at the walls with things, to show that we care.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t think you did care! In fact I thought you were indifferent to Martha, and positively disliked the vicar.”

“I do. That is especially when one should take something! She cannot help being unlikeable. So would you be, I daresay, if you had lived all your life married to the vicar!”

“I should be worse than unlikeable,” Emily said tartly. “I should be quite mad by now. I think he is an appalling man!”

“Emily, please!” Caroline was almost to the point of tears. “I cannot spare both of you. Emily, will you make sure we have informed everyone we should have, go over my list again, and check those we can be sure will attend, then go over the catering arrangements with Mrs. Dunphy. Charlotte, you had better go to the kitchen and find something to take to Martha, if you insist. And for goodness’ sake, find out as tactfully as you can how far she has got with the arrangements at the church. And you had better not forget to find out precisely what is the matter, if it is tactful. It may not be. I must know, or I shall appear to be callous.”

“Yes, Mama. What shall I take her?”

“Since we don’t know what is the nature of her illness, it is a little difficult to say. See if Mrs. Dunphy has some egg custard. She is very good at it, and I know Martha’s cook has a heavy hand.”

Mrs. Dunphy had no egg custard ready, and it was the middle of the afternoon before she had prepared one and sent a message upstairs to Charlotte to tell her it was ready.

Charlotte put on her cloak and hat, then went down to the kitchen to collect it.

“There you are, Miss Charlotte.” Mrs. Dunphy gave her a basket, neatly packed with a folded napkin on the top.

“Egg custard in a dish there, and I put in a small jar of preserves and a little beef tea as well. The poor soul. I hope she feels better soon. Too much for her, all this tragedy, I expect. She knew all of those poor girls. And she does so much, for the poor and the like. Never stops. Time someone showed her a little kindness, I say.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dunphy, thank you.” Charlotte took the basket. “I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.”

“Take her my best wishes, will you, Miss Charlotte?”

“Of course.” She turned round to leave, and felt a sudden icy fear as she saw on the side table a long, thin wire with a handle on one end. The coldness rippled through her as if someone were holding the thing, as if only lately it had been pulled tight into the flesh of someone’s throat.

“Mrs. Dunphy,” she stammered. “Wh-what in heaven’s name-”

Mrs. Dunphy followed her eyes. “Oh, Miss Charlotte,” she said with a laugh. “Why, that’s only an ordinary cheese cutter. Bless my soul! If you were a little fonder of cooking, you’d have known that. What did you think-oh my, saints alive! Did you think that was a garotting wire! Oh my!” she sat down hard. “Oh my. Why, just about every kitchen has one of those. Cuts the cheese nice and clean, better than a knife; knife sticks to it. Miss Charlotte, should you be going out alone? It’ll be dark in an hour or two, and I shouldn’t be surprised if the rain stops and there’s not a fog.”

“I have to go, Mrs. Dunphy. Mrs. Prebble is ill, and apart from that, we need to know about the arrangements for Miss Sarah’s funeral.”

Mrs. Dunphy’s face dropped and Charlotte was afraid she was going to dissolve in tears. She patted her on the arm and made her escape quickly.

It was cold and clammy outside, and she walked as rapidly as possible, keeping her cloak wrapped tightly round her and drawn up round her neck. It stopped raining just as she turned the corner into Cater Street; the sky was dry but heavy when she reached the Prebbles’.

The maid let her in and she was led straight to Martha’s bedroom. It was very dark, full of furniture and surprisingly comfortless, so unlike her own with its pictures and ornaments and books with pictures in them, relics of childhood.

Martha was sitting propped up in bed with a treatise on the sermons of John Knox. Her face was haggard and she looked as if she had woken from a nightmare, its figures still shadowing her. She smiled as soon as she saw Charlotte, but it was an effort.

Charlotte sat down on the bed and put the basket between them.

“I’m so sorry to hear you are ill,” she said genuinely. “I’ve brought a few things. I hope they will comfort you.” She took the napkin off the basket to show her what was inside. “Mama and Emily send their regards, and Mrs. Dunphy, our cook you know, wished to be remembered to you, spoke of how much you do for everyone.”

“That was most kind of her,” Martha tried to smile. “Please thank her for me, and of course your mother and Emily.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Charlotte offered. “Is there anything you wish? Do you need any letters written, any small duties that I can help with?”

“I cannot think of anything.”

“Has the doctor called? You look exceedingly pale to me.”

“No, I don’t think I have any need to trouble him.”

“You should. I’m sure he would not regard it as a trouble, but rather his duty and his calling.”

“I promise you I shall send for him, if I do not recover soon.”

Charlotte put the basket down on the floor.

“I dislike having to mention such a subject when you are ill, and have already done so much for us, but Mama would like to know what arrangements are yet to be made for Sarah’s funeral, with regard to the church?”

An indescribable look passed over Martha’s face and again Charlotte had the uneasy feeling she had touched some deep nerve of pain.

“You don’t need to be concerned. Please tell your Mama it is all taken care of. Fortunately I was not overcome before I had finished everything.”

“Are you sure? It seems too much for you to have done. I do hope it was not work on our behalf that hastened your illness?”

“I doubt it, but it was the least I could do. It behooves us well-to-” her voice became strained and she licked her lips, “to do what we can for the dead. They are no longer of this world. They will put off the corruption of the flesh, rise to a just judgement, and, washed in the blood of Christ, the elect will sit at the feet of God forever. Sin will be done away with.”

Charlotte was embarrassed. She could think of no answer, but it seemed as if Martha were talking more to herself than to Charlotte anyway.

“It is our duty to clear away the dross that is left behind,” Martha went on, her hollow eyes staring somewhere over Charlotte’s shoulder at the wall. “All that corrupts and decays must be cleaned away, buried in the earth, and the words of cleansing said over them. That is our duty, our duty to the dead, and to the living.”

“Yes, of course.” Charlotte stood up. “Perhaps you should rest? You look feverish to me.” She leaned forward and put her hand onto Martha’s brow. It was hot and damp. She pushed the stray hair away gently. “You are a little hot. May I fetch you something to drink? A little beef tea perhaps? Or would you prefer water?”

“No, no, thank you,” Martha’s voice rose and she moved from side to side, pulling the bedclothes.

Charlotte looked at the bed; it was untidy and must be uncomfortable. The pillows had not been rearranged and were dented almost flat in the centre.

“Here,” she offered, “let me remake your bed? It must be most difficult to rest with it like that.” And without waiting for a reply, because she was anxious to do something positive, and then excuse herself and leave, she leaned forward again and began to make the bed around Martha. She eased her up to tidy the sheet under her, and to puff up the pillows, then put her arms round her and laid her gently back again. Next she moved round the bed quickly and straightened the covers and tucked them in.

“I hope that will be better,” she said surveying the bed critically. Martha looked a little flushed now. There were two spots of colour in her cheeks and her eyes were feverish. Charlotte was concerned for her.

“You don’t look at all well,” she said, screwing up her own face unconsciously. Again she put her hand on Martha’s forehead, leaning forward. “Have you any eau de cologne?” she said and looked for it as she spoke. It was on a small table by the window. She crossed to get it, and brought it back, with a handkerchief in the other hand. “Here, let me brush your hair for a little, and then perhaps you will be able to sleep. I always find if I am unwell that sleep is the most effective cure.”

Martha said nothing, and Charlotte avoided her eyes, because she could think of no conversation.

Fifteen minutes later Charlotte was in the street again, having left Martha propped up in bed, eyes cavernous, face spotted with colour and beads of sweat on her face. If she were not better tomorrow it was to be hoped the vicar would send for the doctor first thing in the morning.

It was colder outside, and the fog had already gathered quite alarmingly. Her footsteps were muffled on the wet stones and the gaslights were blurred like so many yellow moons. She shivered and drew her cloak more closely round her.

It was a wretched night. Cater Street seemed a mile long. Better to think of something happy, make the distance seem less, and the evening warmer. She smiled immediately as yesterday-and Pitt-returned to her mind. Of course, Papa would not be very pleased at the prospect of her marrying socially beneath her. But then on the other hand, he ought to be somewhat relieved that she had the offer of marrying at all! Especially if she were anything like as awkward as Grandmama believed. Anyway, whatever Papa said, she would marry Mr. Pitt; she had never been surer of anything in her life. The very thought of him lit a warmth inside her enough to dispel the fog and chill of the November dusk.

Could that be footsteps behind her?

Nonsense! And what if it were? It was early yet. There must be other people in Cater Street. She would not be the only one abroad.

Nevertheless, she hurried. It was foolish, and quite irrational to imagine the footsteps had anything to do with her. They were still a little distance behind her, and sounded more like another woman than a man.

She walked a little faster.

And what if it were a man? She knew almost every man who lived in this area; it could only be some friend or acquaintance. Perhaps they would even accompany her home.

The fog was really quite thick now, like wreaths and garlands. Now why should she think of wreaths? Natural enough; Sarah was to be buried in a few days’ time. Poor Sarah.

Oh God! Had Sarah been hurrying along the street, like this, with footsteps in the mist behind her, when suddenly-?

Don’t be foolish. There was no point in thinking like that! Would she make a fool of herself if she were to run? And what did it matter if she was a fool?

She quickened her pace yet again. The footsteps were very close now. She still had the basket in her hand. Was there anything in it she could use as a weapon? Glass, a weight? No. Hadn’t someone used a heavy pickle jar? Her hands were empty.

At least she would face him-if it were him! She would see his face and she would scream, scream as loudly as she could, scream his name so that every house in Cater Street would hear it.

House! Of course, she would go up to the very next house, past this length of garden wall, and bang on the door till someone let her in. What did it matter if they thought she was a hysterical fool? Someone would take her home. Everyone would say she was foolish, but what did that matter?

The footsteps were right behind her. She would not be taken by surprise. She swung round to face him.

He was there in front of her, her own height, no more, but broader, far broader. The gaslight shone on his head as he moved.

Don’t be idiotic. It was Martha, only Martha Prebble.

“Martha!” she said in an ecstasy of relief. “What on earth are you doing out of bed? You are ill! Do you need help? Here, let me-”

But Martha’s face was twisted into an unrecognizable distortion, her eyes blazing, her lips drawn back. She raised her powerful arms and the gaslight caught on the thin silver of a cheese cutting wire in her hands.

Charlotte was paralyzed.

“You filth!” Martha said between her clenched teeth. There was saliva on her lips and she was shivering. “You creature of the devil! You tempted me with your white arms, and your flesh, but you shan’t win! The Lord said, better you should not have been born than that you should have tempted and brought to destruction one of these, my little ones, and brought them to sin. Better you should have a millstone tied round your neck and be put into the sea. I shall destroy you, however many times you keep coming, with your soft words and your touch of sin. I shall not fall! I know how your body burns, I know your secret lusts, but I shall destroy you all, till you leave me alone in peace. Satan shall never win!”

Charlotte only barely understood-some tortured haze of love and loneliness, of twisted hungers, suppressed for long years till they broke loose in violence that could no longer deny itself.

“Oh no! Martha.” Her own fear was consumed in pity. “Oh, Martha, you misunderstood, you poor creature-”

But Martha had raised the wire, stretched taut between her hands, and was coming towards her, less than a yard away.

The spell was broken.

Charlotte screamed as loudly as her lungs would permit. She screamed Martha’s name over and over again. She swung the basket at her, at her face, hoping to scare her, to blind her temporarily, even to knock her over.

It seemed like eternity, and Martha’s hands were already on her arms, gripping her like steel, when the enormous figure of Pitt came out of the fog, and a second later, two constables. They grasped Martha, hauling her off, forcing her arms behind her back.

Charlotte collapsed against the street wall; her knees seemed to have no strength to support her and her hands were tingling with pins and needles.

Pitt bent down to her, taking her face in his hands very gently. “You blazing idiot!” he choked. “What in God’s name were you doing going to see her alone? Do you realize if I hadn’t gone to see you again today, and they had not told me where you’d come, you’d be lying on this very stone, dead like Sarah and all the others?”

She nodded and gulped, tears beginning to run down her face.

“Yes.”

“You-you-” He was lost for a word fierce enough.

Before he could struggle any further there were more heavy feet on the pavement, and a moment later the vicar’s solid form materialized out of the fog.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Who’s hurt?”

Pitt turned to him, bitter dislike in his face. “No one is hurt, Mr. Prebble-in the way you mean. The injury is a lifelong one, I think.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Explain yourself! Martha! What on earth are those policemen doing with Martha? She should be at home in bed. She is ill. I found her missing; that’s why I came out. You can let her go now. I shall take her home.”

“No, Mr. Prebble, you won’t. I’m afraid Mrs. Prebble is under arrest, and will remain with us.”

“Under arrest!” The vicar’s face twitched. “Are you insane? Martha could have done nothing wrong. She is a good woman. If she has been foolish-” His voice hardened a little in irritation, as if he had been trespassed against. “She is not well-”

Pitt stopped him. “No, Mr. Prebble, she is not. She is so ill, she has murdered and disfigured five women.”

The vicar stared at him, his face working as he struggled between disbelief and rage. He swivelled to stare at Martha, sagging, eyes wild, saliva on her lips and chin, policemen holding her up. He swung back to Pitt.

“Possessed!” he said furiously. “Sin!” His voice rose. “Oh frailty, thy name is woman.”

Pitt’s face was frozen with his own anger. “Frail?” he demanded. “Because she cares, and you don’t? Because she is capable of love, and you are not? Because she has weaknesses, hungers, and compassion, and you know none of these? Go away, Mr. Prebble, and pray, if you know how!”

The fog swirled in, and he was lost.

“I was sorry for her,” Charlotte said softly. She sniffed. “I still am. I didn’t even know women could feel like that-about other women. Please don’t be angry with me?”

“Oh, Charlotte-I-” He gave up. “Stand up. You’ll get cold sitting on the stone. It’s wet.” He pulled her to her feet, looked at the tears running down her face, then put his arms round her and held onto her as tightly as he could, not bothering to push the hair out of her eyes or to pick up the basket, just clinging to her.

“I know you’re sorry for her,” he whispered. “Dear God, so am I.”