Cater Street Hangman

by Anne Perry

  “I’m not very proud of it.”

  “Because of Sarah, or because Lily’s dead?” Why was she suddenly seeing him with such clarity? It was painful, like morning light on the skin, showing all the flaws.

  “You don’t understand,” he said exasperatedly. “When you’re married, you will.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That. . . .” He stood up. “That men—men sometimes go—”

  He stopped, unable to finish it delicately.

  She finished it for him.

  “That you have one set of rules for yourselves, and another for us,” she said tartly. Her throat hurt, as if she wanted to cry. “You demand perfect loyalty from us, but feel free to give your own love wherever you like—”

  “It’s not love!” he exploded. “For God’s sake, Charlotte—”

  “What? It’s appetite? License?”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “Don’t be naive. You are not a man. If you were married you would perhaps understand that men are different. You can’t apply women’s feelings, women’s rules to a man.”

  “I can apply rules of loyalty and honour to anybody.”

  He was angry now. “This has nothing to do with loyalty or honour! I love Sarah; at least, God help me, I did until she”—suddenly his face was white—“until she started to think I could be the hangman.” He was staring at her and she could see helplessness and pain in his eyes.

  She stood up also, and without thinking she put her hand out to touch him, catching his hand. He clung to it.

  “Charlotte, she does! She clearly said so!”

  “She believed Emily,” she said quietly. “And perhaps she knew about Lily as well.”

  “But for God’s sake! That’s hardly the same as murdering four helpless girls and leaving their bodies in the street!”

  “If she knew about Lily, and believes something about me, then you have hurt her. Perhaps she merely wanted to hurt you back?”

  “But that’s preposterous! She can’t be so hurt—that—” He stared at her.

  She looked back gravely. “I would be. If I’d given you all my love, my heart and body, and been loyal to you and thought of no one else, I would be hurt beyond anything I could imagine if I knew you had slept with my maid, and if I thought you had courted my sister. I might hurt you as deeply as I could. If you could betray me that way, murder might not seem so very much worse.”

  “Charlotte!” his voice cracked a little and went higher. “Charlotte, you can’t think that? Oh, please heaven! I mean, I didn’t—I never hurt anyone!” He grabbed at her hand again, holding it so tightly he crushed her fingers.

  She did not pull away.

  “Except Sarah, and perhaps Lily? Did she love you, too, or are maids allowed to have appetites, like men?”

  “Charlotte, for God’s sake don’t be sarcastic! Help me!”

  “I don’t know how to!” She gave him, for a moment, an answering pressure of her own hand. “I can’t make Sarah feel differently; I can’t take back whatever she said, or make you forget she said it.”

  He stood still for a long time, close to her, looking at her eyes, her face.

  “No,” he said at last. He closed his eyes. “And dear God,” he said very softly, “you can’t make me absolutely sure I didn’t do it. That damnable policeman of yours said this man could be unaware himself of what he’s doing. That means it could be me. I could be doing this, and not know it. I saw your father in the street; no one else seems to have realized yet that that means I was also there. And I knew all four of the girls—and was out when each one of them was killed.”

  She could think of only one thing to say that would be of any comfort, and still be true. “If Pitt thought you could have done it, he would have been back here, questioning you. He wouldn’t exclude you just because you’re a gentleman.”

  “Do you think he really has any idea?” he said eagerly. It was painfully clear how much he wanted to believe her, and how hard it was for him.

  “I know you don’t like him, but do you think you could deceive him for long?”

  His mouth turned down in self-mockery. “I don’t think I really dislike him. I think I’m afraid of him.”

  “Because you think he’s clever?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Thank you, Charlotte. Yes, I suppose Pitt has looked at us closely enough. Perhaps, if it were one of us, he would be closing in now. You don’t think he is, do you?” The sharp fear was back again.

  This time she lied, as if to protect a child.

  “No.”

  He let out his breath again, and sat down. “How can Sarah think I could have done it? Surely anyone who knew me at all . . . ? You said she loves me, how could you love anyone and think that of him?”

  “Because being in love with someone is not the same as knowing them,” she said, hearing her words harshly and clearly in her head. Would they mean as much to him as they did now to her?

  “She doesn’t really love me,” he said slowly, “or she would not have thought it.”

  “You thought it of yourself!”

  “That’s different. I know myself. But I never thought ill of her, not in any way.”

  “Then you don’t know her, any more than she knows you.” Charlotte meant it, although she was discovering her thoughts even as she spoke them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We all have faults—Sarah, too. If you expect her to be perfect that is a wrong you’re doing her that is as great as the wrong she is doing you.”

  “I don’t understand you, Charlotte.” He frowned. “Sometimes I think you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “No,” she agreed. It hurt, because she realized he really did not understand. “No, I thought you might not.” She made up her mind quickly, from a deep feeling. “I’m going up to see if Sarah is all right.”

  “Sarah?” He was surprised.

  She went to the door and turned.

  “Yes.”

  He was looking at her with a pucker between his brows. She ached inside, all down her throat and in her stomach. She wanted to put her arms round him, to comfort away the fear she knew was in him, but her love for him was quite different. It was no longer mysterious, romantic, blood-quickening. She felt older than he, and stronger.

  “Charlotte—”

  She knew what he wanted to say, he wanted to say “Help me,” and he did not know how.

  She smiled. “I’m not going to tell her anything. And every man near Cater Street who has thought at all, must have the same fears as you do.”

  He let out his breath and tried to smile. “Thank you, Charlotte. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Upstairs she found Sarah sitting in her bed, staring at the wall, a book lying open, face down on the covers.

  “How are you?” Charlotte asked.

  “What do you want?” Sarah looked at her coolly.

  “Can I get anything for you? A hot drink?”

  “No, thank you. What’s the matter? Won’t Dominic talk to you?” There was a bitter edge to Sarah’s voice, and Charlotte thought she was near tears.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes, he talked to me for quite a while.”

  “Oh,” Sarah affected disinterest. “About what?”

  “The hangman.”

  “How gruesome. It will make you dream.”

  Charlotte put out her hand and took Sarah’s. “Sarah, you shouldn’t let him think you suspect him—”

  “Has he been complaining to you, crying on your shoulder?”

  “It’s easy to see what you’re thinking! Sarah!” She held onto her more tightly as Sarah tried to pull away. “Even if you think so, can’t you have the kindness, or the sense, not to let him know it? If he were guilty, there would be time enough to know it when it couldn’t be denied. If he’s innocent and you suspect him wrongly, you’ll have built a gap between you that will be diff
icult to bridge later.”

  The tears brimmed over Sarah’s eyes. “I don’t suspect him,” she said gulping. “Not really. It just crossed my mind for a moment. Is that so hard to understand? I couldn’t help it! He’s been out so much lately. He hardly takes notice of me anymore. Is he in love with you, Charlotte; tell me honestly? I think I would rather know now.”

  “No,” Charlotte shook her head with a smile. “I used to be in love with him, which is what Emily meant. But he never even saw me.”

  The tears were running down Sarah’s face. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t want you to.” Charlotte made herself smile. Her own feelings were suddenly very clear. She was desperately, painfully sorry for Sarah because Sarah had wounded Dominic and irreparably hurt herself; and even now Sarah did not understand how, or seem able to undo it.

  Sarah was staring at her, pity showing through the tears.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Charlotte said easily. “I’m not in love with him anymore. I like him very much, but I’m not in love.”

  Sarah smiled and sniffed. “Your wretched policeman?”

  Charlotte was shocked. “Good heavens, no!”

  Sarah’s smile widened.

  Charlotte leaned forward a little. More than anything on earth she wanted to help and protect Sarah, to take things back to the way they used to be.

  “Sarah, tell Dominic you don’t suspect him really, that it was just a momentary thought of how awful it would be. Even lie, if you have to. But don’t let him go on thinking—”

  “He won’t come to me.”

  “Then go to him!”

  “No.” Sarah shook her head.

  “Sarah!”

  “I can’t.”

  There was nothing else Charlotte could say. Silently she touched Sarah’s hair, pushing a strand out of her eyes, then stood up and walked away slowly. She was too tired, too shaken with the upheaval in her life, to feel anything more tonight. Tomorrow the fear and the pity would all come back.

  Chapter Eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Martha was staring at her, her eyes fixed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

&nb
sp; “Yes?” the woman raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

  Sarah swallowed and recollected herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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