Cater Street Hangman (23 page)

“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 difficult 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

S
ARAH 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.

“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.”

Sarah’s curiosity was mounting. Who, precisely, was this woman? So far she appeared nothing at all like the pathetic and wandering creature Papa had described. On the contrary, she was entertaining, and very much in command of herself.

“Isn’t an epitaph a little premature?” Sarah asked with a smile. “You are not dead yet.”

“I might as well be, sitting here in a room in Cater Street watching the world pass by outside. And I’ve no one to listen to me, even if I were able to make witty remarks! It’s a terrible thing, my dear, to have wit, and no one on whom to exercise it. May I offer you some refreshment, a dish of tea, perhaps? I have no maid, as you will have observed, but I can easily enough prepare it myself, if you will excuse me.”

“Oh no, please,” Sarah put out a hand as if to restrain her. “I have just taken tea with Mrs. Prebble.” That was a lie, but she did not want to disturb her. “Unless, of course, you wish it for yourself? In which case let me make it, and bring it to you?”

“Good heavens, child, you are anxious for good works! Very well, it would be most charming to be waited upon. You will find everything in the kitchen. If there is anything you cannot put your hand on, pray ask me.”

Fifteen minutes later Sarah returned with a large tray and tea set for two. She poured it herself, and they resumed their conversation.

“How long have you lived in Cater Street?” she asked.

The woman smiled. “Ever since my husband died, and dear Edward found me this place,” she answered.

“Edward? Is he your son?”

The woman’s graceful eyebrows arched in amused surprise. “Good heavens no! He was my lover. A long time ago now, over twenty-five years. I was forty then, and he was in his thirties.”

“You didn’t marry him?”

She gave a rich laugh. “Of course I didn’t marry him. He was already married, with a very handsome wife, so I heard, and one daughter. My dear, what’s the matter? You look pale. Did you swallow something amiss?”

Sarah was stunned. An unspeakable thought had entered her mind. She stared at the woman’s face, trying to see her as she must have been twenty-five years ago. Was that why Papa had really been here? Was that why he had lied at first, saying he had been at his club all evening, until Dominic had given him away? Was that why he had refused to give Pitt either the woman’s name or her address?

The more she sought to evade the conclusion, the more inescapably it entrenched itself in her mind. She heard her voice asking, as if willed from outside herself:

“I suppose it was a sort of parting gift, to make sure you were all right?”

“How very romantic,” the woman smiled. “A grand goodbye, all hidden tears and momentoes to be kept forever, in tissue and ribbons? He isn’t dead, my dear, nor did he emigrate. In fact he’s perfectly well, and we remain moderately good friends, as far as discretion and the alterations of time will allow. Nothing as romantic as you imagine, merely an affair that became a friendship, and then little more than an acquaintance with pleasant memories.”

“Then he must live near here?” Sarah was compelled to continue, hoping that even now something would disprove her fear. Every new fact was a chance to discover one that would not fit Papa.

The woman smiled, her eyes bright with humour.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “So perhaps it would be indiscreet of me to tell you anything more about him. He could be someone you know!”

“Yes, I suppose,” Sarah was answering mechanically. Her conversation became stilted, but her mind was in chaos, trying to find a way through the fragments of all sorts of beliefs, about Papa, about Dominic. Did Mama know? Had she always known, and been prepared to turn a blind eye to it? Did she even mind? Or was it one of the things she had been brought up to expect, to accept as part of the nature of man? But men in general were quite different from one’s own Papa—or husband!

Sarah did not, and could not, accept it. She had never even entertained thoughts of any man other than Dominic, and her concept of love did not permit that she might. Love incorporated fidelity. One gave promises, and one kept them. One might occasionally be selfish, unreasonable, or ill-tempered; one might be untidy or extravagant. But one did not lie either in word or deed.

She stayed a little longer, talking with the woman, although she had no idea what she said—polite nonsense, stock phrases that everyone said and no one listened to. Then she took her leave and stepped into the carriage to return home.

Caroline sat alone in her bedroom. Sarah had just left and closed the door behind her.

She felt numb, her mind refusing to move, stuck fast on the one thought, repeating it over and over as if use would make it easier to bear. Edward had been having an affair with another woman, and for twenty-five years he had retained her acquaintance, still visiting her even now. Was it love? The embers of past romance? Or some kind of debt that could not be shaken off? Even pity?

Poor Sarah.

Sarah had come to her for guidance, assurance that she was not alone, and peculiarly betrayed; and Caroline had been able to give her none. Sarah had been confused, too shocked herself to understand what she was doing and to realize that Caroline had known nothing about it. Sarah had broken a thirty-year peace in thirty minutes.

Caroline stared at herself in the mirror. It was not even a matter of growing old. This other woman was older! What had Edward seen in her that Caroline had lacked? Beauty, warmth, wit, sophistication? Or was it just love, love without reason?

Why had he left his mistress? To avoid scandal? The children? Could it even have been anything as mundane as finance? She would never know, because she would never know whether whatever he said was the truth.

And that raised the other question. Was she going to tell him she knew? There could be little purpose now; on the other hand, could she conceal it? She could not possibly feel the same way about him. The years had brought familiarity, a certain contempt for patterns of life, the habit of overlooking small failings and weaknesses; but there had always been a trust, a knowledge that the bad things were superficial.