Cater Street Hangman

by Anne Perry

  “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 f
or 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 h
er 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.