Cater Street Hangman

by Anne Perry

  “I dare say he’d survive somehow,” Charlotte said with a smile.

  He was unoffended.

  “Ah, Miss, that’s ’cos you don’t know anything about it, begging your pardon.”

  “About what?”

  “About the workings, Miss: the way things is done. I’ll wager you don’t even know how to break a drum or to christen the stuff and fence it afterwards.”

  Charlotte was completely lost but, in spite of herself, interested.

  “No,” she admitted. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ah,” he settled himself more comfortably. “But you see I knows everything. Born to it. Born in the rookeries, I was. Grew up there. Mother died when I was about three, so they say. And I was very small. Lucky that—”

  “Lucky? You mean someone took pity on you?”

  He gave her a look of friendly contempt. “I mean they saw my possibilities—that if I stayed little I could be of use.”

  Memories of things that Pitt had told her about small boys up chimneys came back, and she shivered.

  “Had you no family? What about your father, or grandparents?”

  “Me father was crapped in forty-two, year I was born, and me grandfather got the boat, so they said. Me ma had a brother who was a fine wirer, but he didn’t want nothing to do with kids, did he? Not one that was too young to be any use. Besides, fine wiring ain’t an art as needs kids.”

  “What is ‘crapped’?” she asked.

  He drew a hand across his throat, then held it up behind him to imitate a rope.

  She blushed with embarrassment.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I—”

  “Don’t matter,” he dismissed it. “Weren’t no good to me anyway.”

  “And your grandfather went to sea? Didn’t he return?”

  “Bless you, Miss. You really is from another world, ain’t you? Not went to sea, Miss, but got sent to Australia.”

  “Oh.” She could think of nothing else to say to that. “And your uncle?”

  “Fine wiring is the picking of ladies’ pockets, Miss. Very delicate art, that is. Don’t use kids, like some does. No use for me, see? So they gave me to a kidsman who taught me a bit o’ oly fakin’—that’s pickin’ silk handkerchiefs out o’ pockets to you, Miss, to earn me keep, so to speak. Then when I got older, but not much bigger, he sole me to a first-class cracksman. Climb through any set o’ bars, I could. Ease myself through them like a snake. Many’s the toffken I bin in and out of, and opened the door for ’em.”

  “What’s a toffken?” She felt her father would be furious if he knew of this extraordinary conversation, but it was a world which appalled her too much to turn her back on it. She was fascinated as a child is by a scab that he must keep picking at.

  “A swell house, like maybe you lives in.” He seemed to bear her no resentment, but rather to find her the more interesting for it.

  “I don’t think we have a great deal worth taking,” she said honestly. “What happened to you then?”

  “Well, come the time I got too big, of course. But before that, he got caught and I never seen him again. But he’d taught me a lot o’ things, like how to use all ’is tools, how to do a spot of star glazing—”

  “Star gazing?” she said incredulously.

  He burst out with rich, dry laughter.

  “Bless you. You are a caution. Star glazing. Look.” He got off his seat and went to the window. “Say you wanted to get through that piece of glass. Well, you lean up against it,” he demonstrated. “Put your knife here, near the edge, and press hard but gentle, till the glass cracks. Not so hard it falls out, mind. Then you put brown paper plaster over it so it all sticks, and presto—you can pull the glass out without a whole lot o’ noise. Put your hand in and undo the latch.” He looked back at her in obvious triumph.

  “I see. Didn’t you ever get caught?”

  “Of course I did! But you expects that, don’t you, occasional like?”

  “You didn’t consider taking—a—a—regular job?” She did not want to say an honest job. For some incomprehensible reason, she did not want to hurt his feelings.

  “I’d got a ready-made team, ’adn’t I? Got me tools, a good crow, the ’andsomest canary in London, and a good fence as lived in a flash house, nice and comfortable for us, and a few dolly-shops if we hit hard times. What else did I need? What did I want to go and break me back for in some factory or sweatshop for a few pence a day?”

  “What are the birds for?”

  “Birds?” his face puckered up. “What birds?”

  “The crow and the canary?”

  He chuckled in genuine delight.

  “Oh, I do like talking to you, Miss. You’re a refreshment, you are. A crow is either a quack, a medical man, or in this case, a feller what stands around and gives the warning if anyone comes along as is dangerous, like a jack, or the crushers, or whatever. And a canary is the one who brings your tools for you. If you’ve got any class, you don’t bring your own tools. You goes to the place, takes a good look around, and then your canary brings them when all’s clear. She’s usually a woman. Works better that way. And Bessie was as ’andsome as a summer day, she was.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Died of cholera, she did, in ’sixty, the year before the American war. Poor Bessie.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Eighteen, same as me.”

  Younger than Emily, younger than Lily Mitchell. She had lived in the slums, been a carrier of burglar’s tools, and died of disease at age eighteen. It was an existence which mocked Charlotte’s tidy life, with its small difficulties. The only big thing that had ever happened to her was her love of Dominic, and Lily’s death. Everything else was comfortable. Have we mended all the linen? Shall we preserve peaches or apricots? Is the fishmonger’s bill too high? What shall I wear to the party on Friday? Do I really have to be civil to the vicar? And all the while there were people like this funny little man here fighting just to eat. And some of them lost: the smallest and the weakest, the most easily frightened.

  “I’m sorry,” was all she could say.

  He looked at her closely. “You’re a funny creature,” he said at last.

  Before she could react to that, the doors swung open and Pitt came in. His face dropped in surprise when he saw her. Apparently whoever was outside had failed to forewarn him.

  “Miss Ellison! What are you doing here?”

  “She’s waiting for you.” The little man shot to his feet with excitement. “She’s been here sittin’ this past half hour.” He pulled an exceedingly elegant gold watch out of his pocket.

  Pitt stared at it. “Where did you get that, Willie?”

  “You got a nasty mind, Mr. Pitt.”

  “I’ve got a nasty temper, too. Where did you get it, Willie?”

  “I bought it, Mr. Pitt!” His outrage carried no anger, only ringing innocence.

  “From whom? One of your dolly-shops?”

  “Mr. Pitt! That’s real gold, that is. It’s quality.”

  “Pawnshop then?”

  “That’s not nice, Mr. Pitt! I bought it respectable.”

  “All right, Willie. Go out and convince the sergeant while I talk to Miss Ellison.”

  Willie lifted his hat and bowed elaborately.

  “Out, Willie!”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Pitt. Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  Pitt closed the door behind him and indicated a chair for Charlotte. Now that he was alone with her he seemed less assured, conscious of the shabby surroundings. Charlotte found herself wishing to put him at ease. She pulled out the letter straight away.

  “Our new maid, Millie, handed this to me a little over an hour ago. She found it this morning in her room. I should explain that the room used to be Lily’s.”

  He took the letter and unfolded it. He read it, and then held it up to the light.

  “It doesn’t look old, and hardly the type of letter one would wish to keep. I
think we may presume she received it shortly before she was killed.”

  “It’s a threat?” She moved a little closer to look at it herself.

  “It would be difficult to read it as anything else. Although, of course, it may not be a threat of death, by any means.”

  A world of fear opened up to Charlotte’s imagination. Poor Lily! Who had threatened her, and why had she not felt she could turn to any of them to help her? What isolated struggle had been going on in their house under the smooth exterior of housemaid’s black and white?

  “What do you suppose they wanted her to do?” she asked. “Whoever wrote that letter? Do you think you can find them, and punish them?”

  “They may not have killed her.”

  “I don’t care! They frightened her! They tried to force her to do something she obviously did not want to! Isn’t that a crime?”

  He was looking at her with surprise, taking in her anger, her sense of outrage and pity, and perhaps guilt because it had all happened in her house and she had not seen it.

  “Yes, it is a crime, if we could prove it. But we don’t know who wrote it, or what he wanted her to do. And the poor little creature isn’t alive to complain now.”

  “Aren’t you going to find out!” she demanded.

  He put out a hand, as if to touch her, then remembered himself and withdrew it.

  “We’ll try. But I doubt that the person who wrote this killed her. She was garotted exactly the same way, with a wire from behind, as Chloe Abernathy and the Hiltons’ maid. A cracksman might have threatened two maids, but he would never have tried it with a girl like Chloe.” His eyes opened wider with a new thought. “Unless, of course, he mistook her for Lily. They were of a similar height and colouring. I suppose in the dark—”

  “What would he threaten them for? Two maids, I mean?”

  “What? Oh, burglars often use housemaids to let them in and tell them where all the valuables are in the house. Perhaps if she refused—,” he sighed. “But it seems a rather extreme way of going about business, and largely unnecessary. A burglar could find enough indoor servants who are willing, or loose-tongued, not to need to resort to this kind of thing.”

  “Why didn’t she come to us?”

  “Probably because it wasn’t a burglar at all, but some kind of romantic involvement,” he replied. “Something she preferred that you not be aware of, that she thought you wouldn’t approve of. I expect we shall never know.”

  “But you will try?”

  “Yes, we’ll try. And you did the right thing to bring it. Thank you.”

  She found herself uncomfortable under his gaze, and she was conscious of the shabby room again. What had made him become a policeman? She realized how little she knew about him. As so often happened, her thoughts spilled into words.

  “Have you always been a policeman, Mr. Pitt?” she asked.

  He was surprised, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes which at any other time she might have found irritating.

  “Yes, since I was seventeen.”

  “Why? Why did you want to be a policeman! You must see so much—” She could not find the exact words for all the misery and squalor she imagined.

  “I grew up in the country. My parents were in service; my mother was cook and my father gamekeeper.” He gave a wry little smile, conscious of their difference in station. “They were with a gentleman of considerable means. He had children of his own, a son about my age. I was allowed to sit in the schoolroom. And we used to play together. I knew rather more about the country than he did. I had friends among the poachers and gypsies. Very exciting for a small boy, son of the manor house, with too many sisters and too much time spent with lessons.

  “Pheasants were stolen from the estate and sold. My father was blamed. He was charged at the assizes, and found guilty. He was sent to Australia for ten years. In my own mind, I was convinced he didn’t do it—naturally, I suppose. I spent a long time trying to prove it. I never succeeded, but that was when it started.”

  She imagined the child, caring desperately, burning with confusion and injustice. She felt a tenderness for him which appalled her. She stood up quickly and swallowed.

  “I see. And you came to London. How interesting. Thank you for telling me. Now I must return home, or they will be anxious for me.”

  “You shouldn’t have come alone,” he frowned. “I’ll send a sergeant back with you.”

  “That’s not necessary. I thought you might want to speak to Millie, and so I brought her with me.”

  “No, I see no reason to speak with her now. But I’m glad you were wise enough to have her come with you.” He smiled with a tiny, downward gesture. “And I apologize for doubting your good sense.”

  “Good day, Mr. Pitt.” She went out of the door.

  “Good day, Miss Ellison.”

  She knew he was standing in the doorway watching her, and she was idiotically self-conscious. She all but fell over the step on the way out, having to catch Millie’s arm to steady herself. Why on earth should a very plain policeman make her feel so—so conspicuous?

  Three days later Charlotte was visiting the Abernathys’. She was there alone only because Sarah and Mama were but a hundred yards away round the corner at the vicar’s.

  “Do have some more tea, Miss Ellison. It is so kind of you to visit us.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte pushed her cup forward a little. “It’s a pleasure to see you looking so much better.”

  Mrs. Abernathy smiled gently. “Having young people in the house again helps. After Chloe died, no one came for such a long time. At least it seemed so. I suppose one cannot blame them. No one, least of all the young, wishes to visit a house in mourning. It is too much of a reminder of death, when one wishes to think of life.”

  Charlotte wanted to comfort her, to prevent her feeling that Chloe’s friends were callous, thinking more of their own pleasure than her grief.

  She leaned forward a little. “Perhaps they did not wish to intrude? When one is deeply shocked, one doesn’t know what to say. Nothing can make it better, and one is afraid to be clumsy and make it worse by saying something stupid.”

  “You are very gentle, my dear Charlotte. I wish poor Chloe could have sought more friends like you, and not some of the foolish ones she did. It all began with that wretched George Ashworth—”

  “What?” Charlotte so far forgot herself as to abandon all courtesy.

  Mrs. Abernathy looked at her with slight surprise.

  “I wish Chloe had not been quite so friendly with Lord Ashworth. I know he is a gentleman, but sometimes the real quality have some strange tastes and habits we wouldn’t approve of.”

  “I didn’t know Chloe knew Lord Ashworth.” Charlotte was troubled now. Emily’s determined little face kept coming into her mind. “Did she know him well?”

  “A great deal better than her father and I would have wished. But he was charming, and titled. You can’t tell young girls.” She blinked several times.

  Charlotte would have liked to leave the subject—she knew it could only cause pain where the wound was already deep—but for Emily’s sake she had to know.

  “Do you think he treated Chloe badly, that he was less than frank with her affections?”

  “Mr. Abernathy gets very angry with me for saying this,” her face pinched, “but I believe that if Chloe had not known that man she would be alive today.”

  Charlotte felt as if she were entering a dark corridor, as if its shadows were closing in on her.

  “Why do you say that, Mrs. Abernathy?”

  Mrs. Abernathy leaned forward, clutching at Charlotte’s arm.

  “Oh, please don’t repeat it, Charlotte! Mr. Abernathy says I could end up in the most terrible trouble if I say too much!”

  Charlotte closed her other hand over Mrs. Abernathy’s, gripping her firmly. “Of course I won’t. But I would like to know why you consider George Ashworth such a bad influence. I have met him, and although I didn’t care
for him, I would not have judged him as ill as you seem to.”

  “He flattered Chloe into believing all sorts of things that could not come true, that were not true of her station in life. He took her to places where there were women of low morals.”

  “How do you know? Did Chloe say so?”

  “She told us a little. But I heard it from others who saw them there. A gentleman friend of Mr. Abernathy’s told him he had seen Chloe where he did not expect to see any daughter of a respectable family.”

  “And this friend is truthful? Not given to misunderstanding or exaggeration? And has no cause for spite, no wish to damage Chloe’s reputation?”

  “Oh, none at all. The most upright of men! Good gracious!”

  “Then forgive me, but what was he doing in such a place as you describe?”

  Mrs. Abernathy looked confused for a moment.

  “My dear Charlotte, it is quite different for men! It is perfectly—acceptable for a gentleman to frequent places that a woman of good moral character would not go to. We all have to accept these things.”

  Charlotte was loath to accept any such thing at all, but there was no proper way of arguing it now.

  “I see. And you feel Lord Ashworth may have led Chloe into unfortunate company, and even tempted her to practices not acceptable to her, or to anyone of decent upbringing?”

  “Yes, I do. Chloe was not really part of his world. And I think she died because he tried to make her part of it.”

  “Let me not misunderstand you, Mrs. Abernathy. Are you saying that you think either Lord Ashworth, or someone in his circle, killed Chloe?”

  “Yes, Charlotte, I believe it. But you have promised not to say that I said so! Nothing can bring Chloe back, and we cannot be revenged against such people.”

  “One can prevent them from doing it again!” Charlotte said angrily. “And, in fact, one has a duty!”

  “Oh, but, Charlotte, please, I do not know anything. It is just my foolish feeling. Perhaps I am quite wrong, and I should be doing a great injustice!” She was on her feet now, anxious, flapping her hands. “You gave me your promise!”

  “Mrs. Abernathy, my own sister Emily is currently in acquaintance with Lord Ashworth. If what you say is true, how can I take no interest in your feelings, whether they are accurate or not? I promise you I will say nothing, unless I feel Emily to be in danger. Then I cannot keep silent.”