Cater Street Hangman

Chapter Four

The following day was one of the worst that Charlotte could ever recall. Everyone was feeling wretched, although it showed variously in different people. Papa was shorter-tempered than usual, and very full of authority. Mama was endlessly seeing to practical details, as if sorting out the kitchen and the housework would somehow alter other events. Sarah kept repeating the comments of social acquaintances until Charlotte finally lost her temper and told her in no uncertain terms to be quiet. Dominic already was quiet, to the point of silence. Emily seemed least affected, her mind obviously on other things. The only good thing to be said was that Grandmama was still staying with Susannah, and as yet was not in a position to offer comment.

Since it was a Saturday there was no work, and no one felt like going out for any other purpose.

The vicar sent a small note, by messenger, to express his regrets.

“Very courteous of him,” Sarah said, glancing at it when her father had read it.

“It’s the least he could do,” Charlotte said irritably. The very thought of the vicar was enough to make her spit.

“You don’t expect him to come in person over a servant,” Sarah was also annoyed now. “Besides, there really isn’t anything he can do.”

Charlotte searched for an argument to that, and could not find one. She saw Dominic’s amused dark eyes on her, and felt the blood rush to her face. If only she could stop that happening! It made her feel so foolish.

Caroline came in at that moment, her face coloured from rushing, her hair a little astray. Edward looked up.

“What on earth have you been doing, my dear? You look like-there’s something on your nose.”

She brushed at it automatically, and made it worse.

Charlotte took a handkerchief and removed the mark from her. It was flour.

“Have you been cooking?” Edward asked with pained surprise. “What’s the matter with Mrs. Dunphy?”

“She’s got a headache. I’m afraid all this business has hit her very hard. She was fond of Lily, you know. Anyway, I rather like cooking. I came because I just remembered I promised to take a receipt for vegetable soup to Mrs. Harding, and I wondered if two of you would take it for me this afternoon?”

Charlotte liked Mrs. Harding. She was a sharp-tongued but very long-memoried old lady with endless recollections about all sorts of people she had known in her somewhat colourful youth, before she had married above herself, and settled to wealth and respectability. Charlotte doubted all the stories were true, but they were hugely entertaining.

“I’ll be happy to go, Mama,” she offered quickly.

“You must take Sarah or Emily with you.” Caroline looked at them both.

“I’m busy,” Emily replied. “I have sewing to do, since we are a maid short. There is linen to be mended.”

“And if Mrs. Dunphy is sick,” Sarah added, “then I shall stay at home and see if there is anything I can do for her. Perhaps I can talk with her, take her mind off it.”

Charlotte gave her a withering stare. She knew perfectly well her reasons were not to do with Mrs. Dunphy. Sarah thought Mrs. Harding was a disreputable old gossip, and she did not wish to know her socially. As far as the gossip went, she was perfectly correct. But had her stories been a little more up to date they might well have found her a readier audience.

“Charlotte doesn’t need company,” Edward said tartly. “It’s less than two miles away. Go straight there, Charlotte, and return as soon as it is civil for you to do so. I doubt there will be any need to explain. I expect the news is all over the neighbourhood. And don’t gossip! Old Mrs. Harding is an inveterate busybody. Give her the receipt, and wish her well, and then come home again.”

“I won’t have the girls walking in the street alone,” Caroline said firmly. “Either someone goes with her, or Mrs. Harding will have to wait. The streets are too dangerous.”

“Nonsense, Caroline! She’ll be perfectly safe,” Edward sat up straighter. “It’s broad daylight.”

“It was broad daylight when Mrs. Waterman’s maid was attacked!” Caroline rejoined. “I wonder you didn’t tell us about that, so we as well as the servants might have been warned.”

“My dear Caroline, where is your sense of proportion? This lunatic, whoever he is, attacks servant girls, girls of loose morals. No one could take Charlotte to be such a creature!”

“What about Chloe Abernathy? She wasn’t a servant!”

“Yes, I was surprised about her myself. I had always considered her to be proper enough, if somewhat light-headed. It shows how one can be deceived.”

“Because she was killed?” Caroline said with a lift of amazement in her voice.

“Precisely.”

That is a completely circular argument, Charlotte thought, almost forgetting herself so far as to say so. “You are saying she was killed because she was immoral, and she was immoral because she was killed!” she finished aloud.

“I am saying she was killed because she kept immoral company,” Edward looked at her with a frown, “and the fact that she was killed proves it. Are you frightened to go out alone?” This time there was concern in his voice. He was not unkind.

“Yes,” she said honestly. “I would prefer not to.”

Dominic stretched out his legs, and then stood up swiftly.

“If you like, I’ll come with you. I doubt I should be of any assistance whatsoever here, either with the linen or with Mrs. Dunphy, and certainly not in the kitchen.”

The journey with Dominic was marvellous, in spite of the heat which beat down from the August sun, and up in waves from the pavement. Mrs. Harding was delighted to see them, although for once her flow of gossip seemed to have been cut off at the source. Perhaps it was the very masculine presence of Dominic. She offered them refreshments, and they were glad to accept a lemonade before parting. She understood but regretted their need for haste; at least she said so, but Charlotte had the distinct feeling Dominic’s presence hampered her, although she obviously admired him-as indeed what woman would not?

On the way home Dominic himself had seemed a little put out at her reticence. He said he had heard she was the best gossip in the district, and was greatly disappointed in her. Charlotte tried to explain what she felt to be the reason and ended up by regaling him with the best stories she could remember, to his vast entertainment. He laughed with pure delight, and Charlotte was blissfully, painfully as happy as she had ever been.

They arrived home to find Sarah in a rage, Papa white-faced, Emily silent, and Mama absent in the kitchen.

The happiness vanished as if a door had been closed on it, though Dominic was still smiling, as if he had not felt the change.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” he asked, going over to open the French windows. “You need some air. It’s a perfect day.” Then he swung round, his face clouded. “You’re not still thinking about Lily, are you? I’m sure she wouldn’t want or expect us to stay glum for the rest of the summer.”

“This is hardly the rest of the summer, Dominic,” Sarah said tartly. “But it has nothing to do with Lily, at least not in the way you mean. The wretched police have been here again.”

Charlotte felt only anger, until she saw her father’s face. He seemed less angry than genuinely distressed.

“What for, Papa? Haven’t we told them all we know?”

He frowned, looking away from her.

“It appears they are not satisfied that it was this fellow she was walking out with or, if it was not him, then some lunatic.”

“Well, they can’t imagine it has anything to do with us,” Dominic said incredulously.

“I don’t know what they imagine,” Edward replied sharply. “I personally think they are using it as an excuse to be inquisitive, to exercise their curiosity.”

“What have they been asking?” Charlotte looked from one to the other of them. “Surely if they are impertinent we don’t have to answer them? Send them out of the house.”

“It’s all very well for you to speak!” Sarah snapped. “You were not here.”

“You could have been out, if you’d been prepared to come with me.” Charlotte was quite mild. She was delighted that Dominic had come instead, but a hint of resentment over the spoilt afternoon lingered at the back of her mind.

“Don’t worry, you haven’t escaped anything,” Sarah tossed her head a little. “They are coming back to see you.”

“I don’t know anything!”

“And Dominic.”

Charlotte turned to Edward. “Papa, what can I tell them? I never even saw Lily that day, that I can recall.” She felt a quick stab of shame. “And I didn’t know her very well at any time.”

“I don’t know what they want.” Once again Edward’s anxiety was more apparent than his irritation. “They asked all sorts of odd questions, about myself, and Maddock, and they were very keen to speak to Dominic.”

Dominic frowned, and a flicker of concern crossed his face.

“What about the other victims-apart from Lily?”

“Don’t be foolish!” Sarah said sharply. “They can hardly consider you had anything to do with it, except perhaps that you may have noticed something, some odd person hanging around the street perhaps. After all, you do travel up and down the street almost every day.”

A new and appalling thought occurred to Charlotte. Could the police possibly be idiotic, blind enough to think one of them-? Dominic and Papa were out frequently, passed Cater Street-.

Sarah saw it in her face.

“I shall soon disabuse them of that lunacy,” she said furiously. “I know Dominic far too well. He is not the sort of man even to look at servant girls, much less accost them. He is not some creature of uncontrollable passions. He is a civilized man. Such a thing would not enter into his head.”

Charlotte turned to Dominic and saw for an instant in his face a look of hurt, of deep frustration, as if he had glimpsed and then lost something of inestimable value. She did not know then what momentary dream of sensuality or danger he had seen, and missed.

It was just over an hour later when Pitt returned, this time bringing with him a man Charlotte had not seen before, a man who was very briefly introduced to her as Sergeant Flack. He was a slight man of hardly average height, but looked even smaller beside Pitt. He remained absolutely silent, but his eyes wandered all over the room with consuming interest.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” Charlotte said calmly. She was determined not to be ruffled by him, and to dismiss him as soon as possible. “I’m sorry you have taken the trouble to return, since I’m quite sure I can tell you nothing more. However, of course I will answer any questions you wish to ask.” Perhaps that was a little rash. She must not let him be impertinent.

“You would be surprised what is sometimes useful,” Pitt replied. He turned to his sergeant and briefly directed him to the kitchen to question Maddock, Mrs. Dunphy, and Dora.

He looked back to Charlotte. He seemed to be totally at ease, which in itself was irritating. He ought to have been a little. . a little impressed. After all, he was a mere policeman and in the house of those considerably superior to him socially.

“What is it you wish to know?” she said coldly.

He smiled charmingly.

“The name and whereabouts of the lunatic who is garotting young women in the streets of this neighbourhood,” he replied. “Of course that is presuming it is one person, and not a crime, and then another crime in imitation.”

She was surprised into facing him, meeting his eyes.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“That sometimes people hear of a crime, especially if it is a gruesome one, and it gives them the idea to solve their own problems in the same manner: to dispose of someone that is in the way, from whose death they could benefit, financially or otherwise, and,” he snapped his fingers, “you have a second murder, or a third, or whatever. The second murderer hopes the first will be blamed.”

“You make it sound so matter-of-fact,” she said with distaste.

“It is a matter of fact, Miss Ellison. Whether it is this fact or not, I have to enquire-but not until I have exhausted some of the more obvious possibilities.”

“What possibilities do you mean?” she asked and then wished she had not. She did not desire to encourage him. And to be honest, she was a little afraid of the answer.

“Three young women have been garotted in this area over the last few months. The first thing that comes to mind is that there is a maniac loose.”

“I would have thought that was the answer,” she said with some relief. “Why should you imagine any other? Why don’t you take your enquiries to the sort of place where you will find such people-I mean the sort of people who are likely to-” she fumbled for the exact phrase she wanted “-the criminal classes!”

“The underworld?” he smiled a little derisively. There was bitter amusement and a little patronage in his tone. “What sort of a place do you imagine the underworld is, Miss Ellison? Something I find by opening a sewer manhole?”

“No, of course not!” she snapped. “I have no knowledge of it myself, of course. It hardly comes within my social sphere! But I know perfectly well that there is a world of criminal classes whose standards are totally different-” she raked him up and down with a withering stare, “-at least from mine!”

“Oh, very different, Miss Ellison,” he agreed, still smiling, but there was a hardness in his eyes. “Although whether you are referring to moral standards, or standards of living you didn’t say. But perhaps it doesn’t matter-they are not as far apart as the words imply. In fact I have come to think they are usually symbiotic.”

“Symbiotic?” she said in disbelief.

He misunderstood her, supposing she did not know the meaning of the word.

“Each dependent upon the other, Miss Ellison. A relationship of coexistence, of mutual feeding, interdependence.”

“I know what the word means!” she said furiously. “I question your choice of it under the circumstances. Poverty does not necessarily produce crime. There are plenty of poor people who are as honest as I.”

At that he broke into a genuine grin.

“You find that amusing, Mr. Pitt?” she said icily. “I spoke forgetting that you do not know me well enough for that to be any standard. But at least you know that I do not garotte young women in the street!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I have!”

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

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

“A kidsman?”

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

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

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

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

“The what?”

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

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

He snorted slightly.

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

She shivered.

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

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

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

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

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

She blushed furiously.

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

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

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

“You mean-but that’s terrible!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want, Mr. Pitt?”

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

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

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

He grinned broadly, showing strong teeth.

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

“If you must.”

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

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

He ignored her rudeness.

“Was she a pretty girl, Lily Mitchell?”

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

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

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

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

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

She felt angry and hurt and ashamed.

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

“Derbyshire.”

“Oh.”

“Was she friendly with the other servants?”

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

“With Maddock?”

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

“You mean. .?”

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

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

Pitt was waiting, watching her face.

“I see the thought is a new one to you, but not unlikely, when you weigh it.”

There was no point in lying to him.

“No. I remember someone saying something. Mrs. Dunphy-the night Lily-disappeared. She said Maddock-liked Lily, that he would be bound to disapprove of Jack Brody because he took Lily out, whatever he was like. But that could mean no more than that he was afraid of losing a good girl. It takes a long time to train a new one, you know.” She did not want to get Maddock into trouble. She could not really imagine he had followed Lily out and done that to her. Could she?

“But Maddock went out that evening, into the streets?” Pitt went on.

“Yes, of course! You already knew that. He went to look for her, because she was late. Any good butler would do that!”

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you ask him?” She was aware as soon as she said it that it was foolish. If Maddock were guilty of anything, not that he was of course, but if he were he would hardly be likely to tell Pitt the truth about it. “I’m sorry.” Why should she apologize to this policeman? “Ask Mrs. Dunphy,” she went on stiffly. “I believe it was a little after ten, but naturally I was not in the kitchen to know for myself.”

“I have already asked Mrs. Dunphy,” he replied, “but I like to get corroboration from as many sources as possible. And her memory, on her own admission, is not very reliable. She was very upset by the whole business.”

“And you think I’m not? Just because I don’t weep all over the place?” The intimation that she had not cared as much as she should have.

“I would hardly expect you to be as fond of a servant girl as the cook might be,” Pitt said with his mouth twitching slightly, as if there were a smile inside him. “And I would think your nature excites to anger rather more readily than to tears.”

“You think I am ill-tempered?” she said, then immediately wished she had not. It implied she cared what he thought of her, which was absurd.

“I think you are quick-tempered and take little trouble to hide your feelings,” he smiled. “A not unattractive quality and uncommon in women, especially of gentle birth.”

She found herself blushing hotly.

“You are impertinent!” she snapped.

His smile broadened; he was looking straight at her.

“If you didn’t wish to know what I thought of you, why did you ask?”

She could think of no answer to that. Instead she summoned all the dignity she could and faced him squarely.

“I believe it is quite possible Maddock was fond of Lily, but you surely cannot imagine he held the same regard for the Hiltons’ maid, and still less for Chloe Abernathy. Therefore, to suppose that he might have killed them all is faulty reasoning in the extreme, if you attribute his motive to fondness. If not, then you have no motive at all. I think perhaps you had better begin again, on a more promising line of enquiry.” She intended it as a dismissal.

He did not move.

“You were the only one here at the time?” he asked.

“Apart from Mrs. Dunphy, and Dora, of course. Why?”

“Your mother and sisters were at some church function. Where were your father and Mr. Corde?”

“Ask them.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But they came home passing close to Cater Street, if not actually through it?”

“If they had seen anything, I’m sure they would have told you.”

“Possibly.”

“Of course they would! Whyever not?” A terrible thought hit her like a blow. “You can’t-you can’t imagine that one of them would-”

“I imagine everything, Miss Ellison, and believe nothing until there is proof. But I admit, there is no cause to suppose-,” he left it hanging a second. “But someone did. I would like to have another talk with Maddock-undisturbed.”

That evening everyone was at home, even Emily. They sat with the French windows open onto the lawn and the late sun in the garden, but instead of the balmy air of evening, filled with the scents of the day, it seemed only heavy with oppression.

It was Sarah who said what they were all thinking, or something close to it.

“Well, I’m not worried,” she lifted her chin a little. “Inspector Pitt seems a sensible man to me. He’ll soon discover that Maddock is as innocent as the rest of us. I dare say he’ll even decide so tomorrow.”

Charlotte spoke her thoughts, as usual, before she considered.

“I have no faith at all in his good sense. He is not like us.”

“We all know he is a different class of person,” Sarah said quickly. “But he is used to dealing with criminals. He must know the difference between a perfectly respectable servant like Maddock, and the kind of ruffian who goes around strangling girls.”

“Garotting,” Charlotte corrected. “And there is a lot of difference between ruffians, as you put it, who attack and rob people, and the sort of person who garottes women, especially servant girls who have nothing worth stealing.”

Dominic smiled widely.

“And how would you know, Charlotte? Have you become an expert on crimes of passion?”

“She doesn’t know!” Edward said very sharply. “She is being contrary, as usual.”

“Oh, I don’t agree,” Dominic was still smiling. “Charlotte’s not contrary; she’s just forthright. And she has been spending a lot of time lately with that police fellow. Perhaps she’s learned something?”

“She could hardly learn anything of value, or suitable for a lady to know, from such a person,” Edward said with a frown. He turned to her. “Charlotte, is this true? Have you been seeing this person?”

Charlotte found herself colouring with confusion and anger.

“Only when he called here on police business, Papa. Unfortunately he has come on two occasions when no one else was in.”

“And what have you been saying to him?”

“Answering his questions, of course. We hardly have social conversations.”

“Don’t be impertinent! I meant, what has he asked you?”

“Not a great deal.” Now that she came to think of it, their conversations had been of no immediate relevance to his investigations. “He asked me a little about Lily, and about Maddock.”

“He’s a perfectly awful man,” Sarah shivered. “It really is appalling that we should have to have him in the house. And I think we should be very careful about letting Charlotte talk to him. You never know what she may forget herself and say.”

“Do you suggest we should stand in the street and answer his questions?” Charlotte lost her temper completely. “And if you don’t let him speak to me, he will suspect I know something shameful that you are afraid I will let slip.”

“Charlotte,” Caroline’s voice was quite soft, but there was an edge of firmness in it that had the desired effect.

“I don’t think he’s awful,” Dominic said casually. “In fact, I rather like him.”

“You what?” Sarah was incredulous.

“I rather like him,” Dominic repeated. “He has a dry sense of humour, which must be difficult enough in his job. Or perhaps it’s the only way to retain his sanity.”

“You have a peculiar taste in friends, Dominic,” Emily said tartly. “I should be obliged if you didn’t entertain him at home.”

“It would seem redundant at present,” Dominic said pleasantly. “Charlotte appears to be doing very well. I doubt he has time to spare.”

Charlotte was about to reply, when she realized he was teasing. She blushed with confusion. Her heart was beating so violently she worried in case someone else noticed it.

“Dominic, this is not a suitable occasion,” Caroline said clearly. “It seems this person really does consider that Maddock might be involved.”

“More than involved,” Edward was totally serious now. “I gather he actually thinks he might have killed Lily.”

“But that’s ridiculous.” Sarah was not yet more than superficially worried. Her concern was still only a matter of social inconvenience, a stigma to be circumvented with care, to be talked away. “He couldn’t have.”

Emily was thinking hard, frowning.

Edward folded his hands together, staring at them. “Why not?”

Sarah looked up, startled, but no one else spoke.

“After all,” Edward went on, “it is inescapable that someone did. It would also appear that it might well be someone who lives around this area, which precludes the sort of criminal who ordinarily attacks people in the street, robbers and so forth. And no robber of any efficiency attacks a servant girl out late, such as Lily. She could have nothing worth taking, poor child. Perhaps Maddock became infatuated with her, and when she rejected him for this young Brody, he lost his head. We have to consider that that may be the truth, however disagreeable.”

“Papa, how can you?” Sarah burst out. “Maddock is our butler! He has been for years! We know him!”

“He is still a human being, my dear,” Edward said gently, “and subject to human passions and weaknesses. We must face the truth. Denying it will not alter it, nor can it help anyone, not even Maddock; and we have to consider the safety of others, especially Dora and Mrs. Dunphy.”

Sarah’s face dropped.

“You don’t think-”

“I don’t know, my dear. It is for the police to decide, not us.”

“I don’t think we should leap to conclusions.” Caroline was obviously unhappy. “But we must be prepared to face the truth, when it becomes inevitable.”

Charlotte could no longer keep silent.

“We don’t know that it is the truth! She was garotted, not strangled: killed with a wire. If Maddock suddenly lost his temper, why did he have a wire with him? He doesn’t walk around carrying a garotting wire!”

“My dear, it’s quite possible he lost his temper before he left the house,” Edward said quietly. She was not looking at them. “Refusing to face it will not help.”

“Face what?” Charlotte demanded. “That Maddock could have killed Lily? Of course he could! He was out in the street at the right time. So were you, Papa. So was Dominic. I dare say there were a hundred other men who were, and we shall never know three-quarters of them. Any one of them could have killed her.”

“Don’t be foolish, Charlotte,” Edward said sharply. “I don’t doubt the other households can account for their men-servants at the relevant time. And there is no reason to suppose any of them were acquainted with poor Lily anyway!”

“And did Maddock know the Hiltons’ maid?” Charlotte demanded.

Caroline winced.

“Charlotte, your behaviour is becoming offensive.” Edward’s face was stern; it was obvious he wished to end the matter. “We understand that you would prefer it to be someone we don’t know, a wanderer from some slum region, but as you pointed out yourself, the motive of robbery doesn’t stand. Now let us consider the matter closed.”

“You can’t just say that Maddock killed Lily, and leave it at that!” She knew she was risking his very real anger, but the indignation inside her would not let her be silent.

Edward opened his mouth, but before he could muster words, Emily broke in.

“You know, Papa, Charlotte has a certain truth. Maddock might have killed Lily, although it seems rather pointless if he was fond of her. In fact, self-defeating! But why on earth should he kill the Hiltons’ maid, or Chloe Abernathy? And they were killed first, before Lily. It doesn’t make sense.”

Charlotte felt a rush of warmth towards Emily. She hoped Emily knew it.

“Murder itself is hardly sensible, Emily,” Edward’s colour heightened with anger. To be defied by Charlotte was becoming habit, but by Emily as well was intolerable. “It is a bestial crime, a crime of animal passion, and unreason.”

“Are you saying he’s mad?” she looked at her father. “That Maddock is bestial, or passionately, unreasonably insane?”

“No, of course not!” he snapped. “I am not an expert in criminal insanity, and neither are you! But I presume Inspector Pitt is; it is his job, and he believes Maddock is guilty. Now you will not discuss the subject any further. Is that understood?”

Charlotte looked at him. His eyes were hard, and could it possibly be that they were also frightened?

“Yes, Papa,” she said obediently. She was used to obedience. It was habit. But her mind rebelled, whirling with new thoughts, with new fears finding shapes, with something very dreadful.