Cater Street Hangman (2 page)

Susannah smiled. “I’m sure they would be delighted. But I hardly imagine Dominic enjoying such a very rural life. He always seemed to me a man of more—cultivated tastes than visiting the poor and attending tea parties.”

“You make it sound terribly dull,” Charlotte said without thinking.

She received a general stare of surprise and disapproval.

“Just the thing poor Mrs. Abernathy needs, I don’t doubt,” Mrs. Winchester said with a sage nod. “Do her the world of good, poor woman.”

“Yorkshire can be uncommonly cold in April,” Susannah said quietly, looking from one to the other of them. “If Mrs. Abernathy has been ill, don’t you think perhaps June or July would be better?”

“Cold has nothing to do with it!” Grandmama snapped. “Bracing. Very healthy.”

“Not if you’ve been ill—”

“Are you contradicting me, Susannah?”

“I am trying to point out, Mama, that Yorkshire in early spring is not an ideal place for someone in a delicate state of health. Far from bracing her, it might well give her pneumonia!”

“It will at least take her mind off things,” Grandmama said firmly.

“Poor dear soul,” Mrs. Winchester added. “To leave here, even for Yorkshire, would surely only be an improvement, change her spirits.”

“What’s wrong with here?” Susannah asked, looking at Mrs. Winchester, then at Charlotte. “I’ve always thought this an unusually pleasant place. We have all the advantages of the city without the oppression of its more crowded areas, or the expense of the most highly fashionable. Our streets are as clean as any, and we are within carriage distance of most that is of interest or enjoyment to see, not to mention our friends.”

Mrs. Winchester swung round to her.

“Of course, you’ve been away!” she said accusingly.

“Only for two months! It surely cannot have changed so much in that time?” The question was ironic, even a little sarcastic.

“How long does it take?” Mrs. Winchester gave a dramatic shudder and closed her eyes. “Oh! Poor Mrs. Abernathy. How can she bear to think of it? No wonder the poor soul is afraid to go to sleep.”

Now Susannah was totally confounded. She looked at Charlotte for help.

Charlotte decided to give it, and bear the consequences.

“Do you remember Mrs. Abernathy’s daughter, Chloe?” She did not wait for a reply. “She was murdered about six weeks ago, garotted, and her clothes ripped from her, her bosom wounded.”

“Charlotte!” Caroline glared at her daughter. “We will not discuss it!”

“We have been discussing it one way or another all afternoon,” Charlotte protested. Out of the corner of her vision she saw Emily stifle a giggle. “We have merely covered it in words.”

“It is better covered.”

Mrs. Winchester shuddered again.

“I can’t bear to think of it, the very memory makes me quite ill. She was found in the street, all huddled up on the footpath like a bundle of laundry. Her face was terrible, blue as—as—I don’t know what! And her eyes staring and her tongue poking out. Been lying in the rain for hours when they found her; all night, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Don’t disturb yourself!” Grandmama said tersely, looking at Mrs. Winchester’s excited face.

Mrs. Winchester remembered quickly to be distressed.

“Oh, terrible!” she wailed, screwing up her features. “Please, my dear Mrs. Ellison, let us not speak of it again. The whole subject is quite unbearable. Poor dear Mrs. Abernathy. I just don’t know how she bears it!”

“What else can she do but bear it?” Charlotte said quietly. “It has happened. There isn’t anything anyone can do now.”

“I suppose there never was,” Susannah stared at the tea. “Some madman, a robber no one could have foreseen.” She looked up, frowning. “Surely she was not alone in the street after dark?”

“My dear Susannah,” Caroline remonstrated, “it is dark from four o’clock on in the middle of winter, most especially on a wet day. How can one guarantee to be indoors by four o’clock? That would mean one could not even visit neighbours for tea!”

“Is that where she was?”

“She was setting out to take some old clothes to the vicar, for the poor.” Caroline’s face pinched with a sudden very real sorrow. “Poor child, she was barely eighteen.”

Without warning it became real, no longer a scandal to be toyed with, a titillation, but the real death of a woman like themselves: footsteps behind, sudden agony in the throat, terror, the struggle for breath, bursting lungs, and darkness.

No one spoke.

It was Dora coming in from the hallway who broke the silence.

Charlotte was still feeling depressed when her father returned to the house a little after six. The sky had darkened outside and now it was spattering the first heavy drops of rain on the roadway as the carriage drew up. Edward Ellison worked with a merchant banking house in the city, which provided him with a very satisfactory income and a social standing of at least acceptable middle class. Charlotte had been brought up to think perhaps rather more.

Edward came in now, brushing the raindrops off his coat in the few seconds before Maddock came to relieve him of it, and put his top hat gently in its place.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” he said pleasantly.

“Good evening, Papa.”

“I trust you have had a profitable day?” he enquired, rubbing his hands together. “I fear the weather is distressingly seasonal. We may well be in for a storm. The air has that oppressive feeling.”

“Mrs. Winchester came to tea.” She answered his question about the afternoon by implication. He knew she disliked her.

“Oh dear,” he smiled faintly. There was some understanding between them, even though it did not show itself as often as she would have liked. “I thought Susannah was expected?”

“Oh, she came too, but Mrs. Winchester spent the entire time either questioning her about the Willises, or talking about Chloe Abernathy.”

Edward’s face darkened. Charlotte realized that she had inadvertently betrayed her mother. Papa would expect her to control such talk in her own drawing room. It would meet with his considerable displeasure that she had not.

At that moment Sarah came out of the sitting room into the hall, the light behind her creating a halo around her fair hair. She was a pretty woman, more like Grandmama than Caroline, with the same porcelain skin and neat mouth, the same soft chin.

“Hello, Sarah, my dear,” Edward gave her a little pat on the shoulder. “Waiting for Dominic?”

“I thought you might have been he,” Sarah answered, the faintest flicker of disappointment in her voice. “I hope he arrives before the storm. I thought I heard thunder a few minutes ago.”

She stood back and Edward went into the sitting room, crossing immediately to the fire and standing with his back to it, blocking most of its heat from everyone else. Emily was sitting at the piano, flipping pages of music over idly. He surveyed his daughters with satisfaction.

There was another low rumble of thunder and the door closed sharply. All of them turned to the sitting room door automatically. There was a shuffle outside, the sound of Maddock’s voice, and then Dominic came in.

Charlotte felt her throat tighten. Really, she ought to be over this by now; it was ridiculous! He was slim and strong, smiling a little, his dark eyes first on Edward, as manners and breeding required in the patriarchal house, and then on Sarah.

“Hope you had a pleasant day,” Edward said, still standing by the fire. “As well you made it home before the storm. I think it might become quite violent within a quarter of an hour or less. Always afraid the horses will take fright and cause an accident. Becket lost his leg that way, you know?”

The conversation washed over Charlotte’s head; it was the usual comfortable family exchange, more or less meaningless, one of the small rituals of the day that established a pattern of life. Would it always be like this? Endless days of needlework, painting, house chores and skills, teas, Papa and Dominic coming home? What did other people do? They married and raised children, ran houses. Of course the poor worked, and society went to parties, rode in the park or in coaches, and presumably had families as well?

She had never met anyone round whom she could imagine centering her life—anyone except Dominic. Perhaps she should copy Emily and cultivate a few more friends like Lucy Sandelson, or the Hayward sisters. They always seemed to be beginning or ending a romance. But they all seemed so incredibly silly! Poor Papa. It was hard for him to have had three daughters, and no son.

“ . . . could, couldn’t you, Charlotte?”

Dominic was looking at her, his eyebrows raised, amusement in his elegant face.

“Daydreaming,” Edward commented.

Dominic smiled broadly.

“You could take on old Mrs. Winchester at her own game, couldn’t you, Charlotte?” he repeated.

Charlotte had no idea what he was talking about. The loss must have been obvious.

“Be just as inquisitive as she is,” Dominic explained patiently. “Answer all her questions with another question. There must be something she would rather not discuss!”

Charlotte was honest, as she always was with him. Perhaps that was why he loved Sarah?

“You don’t know Mrs. Winchester,” she said straight away. “If she doesn’t want to discuss a subject she will simply ignore you. There is no reason in her mind why her reply should be related to your question. She will say whatever she is thinking of.”

“Which today was poor Susannah?”

“Not really, it was
poor
Mrs. Abernathy. Susannah was only a side adventure, leading up to how much good it would do
poor
Mrs. Abernathy to go to Yorkshire.”

“In April?” Dominic was incredulous. “The wretched woman would freeze, and be bored stiff.”

Edward’s face darkened. Unfortunately at that moment Caroline came in.

“Caroline,” he said stiffly. “Charlotte tells me you have been discussing Chloe Abernathy this afternoon. I thought I had made myself plain, but perhaps I did not, so I will do so now. The death of that unfortunate girl is not to be a subject for gossip and speculation in this house. If you can be of some assistance to Mrs. Abernathy in her bereavement, then by all means do so; otherwise the matter is closed. I trust there can be no misunderstanding as to my wishes in this regard now?”

“No, Edward, of course not. I’m afraid I am not able to control Mrs. Winchester. She seems . . . ” she trailed off, knowing it would serve no purpose. Edward had expressed his feelings and was already thinking of something else.

Maddock came in and informed them dinner was served.

The following day the storm had passed and the street was clean in the white April light, the sky bleached blue, and the garden tremulous with dew, every grass blade bright. Charlotte and Emily spent the morning occupied with the usual household duties, while Sarah went to visit the dressmaker. Caroline was closeted with Mrs. Dunphy, the cook, going over kitchen accounts.

In the afternoon Charlotte went alone to deliver the mufflers to the vicar’s wife. It was a duty she disliked, especially since it was a day on which the vicar himself was highly likely to be at home, and he was a man who always produced in her a profound depression. Still, there was no avoiding it this time. It was her turn, and neither Sarah nor Emily had seemed in the least likely to relieve her of it.

She arrived at the vicarage a little before half past three. It was mild after the storm and it had been a pleasant walk, something under two miles, but she was used to exercise, and the mufflers were not heavy.

The maid opened the door almost immediately. She was a severe, angular woman of indeterminate age, and Charlotte could never remember her name.

“Thank you,” she said politely, stepping in. “I believe Mrs. Prebble is expecting me.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll come this way.”

The vicar’s wife was sitting in the smaller back parlour and the vicar himself standing with his back to the black, smoking fire. Charlotte’s heart sank as soon as she saw him.

“Good afternoon to you, Miss Ellison,” he said with a very slight bow, more a bending of his back. “How pleasant to see you spending your time in small duties for others.”

“A very small thing, vicar.” She instinctively wanted to deny it. “Only a few mufflers my mother and sisters have made. I hope they will be . . . ” she trailed off, realizing she did not really mean anything, uttering empty words, noises to fill the silence.

Mrs. Prebble reached for the bag and took it. She was a handsome woman, broad-busted, strong, with fine, strong hands.

“I’m sure next winter there will be those who will be most grateful for them. I have frequently noticed that if your hands are cold, your whole body is chilled, haven’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose I have.”

The vicar was staring at her and she looked away quickly from his cold eyes.

“You seem a little chilled now, Miss Ellison,” he said very clearly. “I’m sure Mrs. Prebble would be happy to offer you a dish of hot tea.” It was a statement. There was no avoiding it without discourtesy.

“Thank you,” she said, without feeling.

Martha Prebble rang the little bell on the mantel and when the maid came back a moment later she requested the tea.

“And how is your mother, Miss Ellison?” the vicar enquired, still standing with his back to the fire, shielding them all from its heat. “Such a good woman.”

“Well, thank you, vicar,” Charlotte answered. “I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”

Martha Prebble looked up from the sewing she was doing.

“I hear your Aunt Susannah has returned from Yorkshire. I hope the change of air has done her good?”

Mrs. Winchester had lost no time!

“I believe so, but she was not ill, you know.”

“Things must be hard for her, at times,” Martha said thoughtfully. “Alone.”

“I don’t think Aunt Susannah minds,” Charlotte spoke before thinking. “I think she prefers it.”

The vicar frowned. The tea arrived. Obviously it had been already prepared and only awaited the signal.

“It is not good for a woman to be alone,” the vicar said grimly. He had a large, squarish face with a strong, thin mouth and heavy nose. He must have been quite fine as a young man. Charlotte was ashamed of how deeply she disliked him. One should not feel that way about a man of the Church. “It leaves her vulnerable to all kinds of dangers,” he went on.