Cater Street Hangman (27 page)

“Good morning,” he said formally. “I’m sorry, but this is necessary.”

Everyone acknowledged that. It was easier to get it over with. They all sat down except Dominic, who remained standing, and waited for Pitt to begin.

He did not temper his approach. “You were out last night, Mr. Corde?”

“Yes,” Dominic coloured painfully. Watching him, Charlotte felt that he also wondered whether, if he had been at home, Sarah would not have gone out.

“Where?”

“What?” Dominic seemed to be lost.

“Where were you?” Pitt repeated.

“At my club.”

“Again? Was anyone with you?”

The blood drained from Dominic’s face as he realized the possibilities in Pitt’s mind. Even though it was Sarah who was dead, he was not excluded as a suspect.

“Yes . . . yes,” he stammered. “Several people. I can’t remember all their names. D–do you need them?”

“I’d better have them, Mr. Corde, before you forget—or they do.”

Dominic opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, and gave up. He reeled off half a dozen names. “I—I think those are correct. I think they were all there last night. I didn’t spend all evening with any one of them, you understand.”

“No doubt we shall be able to piece things together. Why were you at your club last night, Mr. Corde? Was there some particular function?”

Dominic looked surprised, then confused as he understood Pitt’s meaning. Why was he not at home?

“Er—no, nothing special.”

Pitt did not pursue it further. He turned instead to Caroline, decided against it, and spoke to Charlotte.

“Mrs. Corde left in the early afternoon to visit the vicar’s wife?”

“Yes, a little after luncheon.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” Charlotte looked down. She remembered with pain, and now guilt, the scene of such a short time ago. It was impossible to understand how the whole of one’s life could change so quickly.

“Why?”

She looked back at him. “I offered to go with her, but she preferred to go alone. She wanted to speak to Martha Prebble in private, and then perhaps to go on and do some parish visiting.” She found it hard to speak; her throat ached and she had to stop.

“She did a lot of parish work,” Emily said quietly.

“Parish work? You mean she visits the poor, the sick?” Unconsciously he used the present tense.

“Yes.”

“Do you know whom she intended to visit yesterday?”

“No. What did Martha say? Mrs. Prebble.”

“That Sarah mentioned several people to her, but that she left the vicar’s house quite late, and she did not say precisely whom she meant to visit, or in which order. Mrs. Prebble herself was feeling unwell, and said she advised her against going alone, but Sarah would not listen. Apparently there were several sick. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Do you think . . . ” she began, “. . . just chance?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Possibly he was just waiting for someone—anyone—”

“Then how in God’s name will you ever find him?” Edward shouted. “You can hardly fill the streets with policemen till he strikes again. He’ll merely wait until you leave. He could walk past you, speak to you, tip his hat, and you wouldn’t even know him from—from the vicar, or one of your own!”

No one answered him.

“You said she did a great deal of parish work lately?” Pitt began again. “Did she do it at regular times, and always with the same people?”

Dominic stared at him. “You think he wanted . . . Sarah? I mean Sarah, in particular?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Corde. Do you know anyone who loved or hated her enough to do that?”

“Loved!” Dominic said incredulously. “God! Do you mean me?”

It was the first time anyone had said it aloud. Charlotte looked at their faces, trying to see who had thought of it before. It looked as if only Papa had not. She looked back at Pitt, waiting.

“I don’t know who I mean, Mr. Corde, or the hunt would be over.”

“But it could be me!” Dominic’s voice rose in hysteria. “Even though it was Sarah this time, you still think it could be me!”

“Are you sure it isn’t?”

Dominic looked at him in silence for several moments. “Unless I’m completely insane, capable of becoming another person I know nothing of, I couldn’t have hurt Sarah. I’m not really sure how much I loved her, how much I love anyone, but far too much to have hurt her deliberately. Accidentally—I know—and through stubbornness, both of us—but not, not anything like that.”

Charlotte could not keep the tears back. If only Sarah could have known that much for certain. Why is it that one does not tell people things while there is time? One lets such trivial things matter.

Now she must not upset all the others by weeping in front of them. She stood up.

“Excuse me,” she said quickly and walked out; to run would betray her need and its urgency.

It was not Dominic Emily was afraid for, but her father. She had never considered the existence of a darker side to her sister’s husband. He was no more than he seemed to be; handsome, pleasant-natured if a little spoiled, witty when he chose, and quite often kind—but also without great imagination. It was funny that Charlotte should have fallen in love with him. He was utterly wrong for her and would have made her dreadfully unhappy. He would never have matched her depth of feeling and she would have spent her whole life seeking for something that was not there.

But Papa was quite different. There were obviously hungers in him that none of them had recognized before. And he had been either unwilling or unable to prevent himself from satisfying them.

Was the woman in Cater Street the only one? She was an old woman now, according to Sarah. When Papa had finished with her, who had replaced her? That was something that she thought had not occurred to the others.

But it occurred to Emily as she sat sewing in the afternoon, and she wondered if it would occur to Pitt when he found out, which he undoubtedly would, either from some gossip in the neighbourhood about Sarah’s visit, or from some slip of the tongue by one of the servants, or possibly even from Charlotte. She was about as transparent as water! Or perhaps he had even been to speak to the woman himself. He might be inelegant, and of very ordinary birth, but he was far from stupid.

Anyway, Emily thought, she had better accustom herself to thinking well of him, because no doubt he would have the courage to make an offer for Charlotte, and she might well take him if she had the courage and the sense. Papa would hum and haw, and Grandmama would have a fit, but that did not matter.

Unless of course Papa really had done something more serious than keep a mistress, or even a series of mistresses? In which case they would all be ruined and the question of marriage to anyone would be moot. Surely he could not have? She could not really believe it, but neither could she dismiss the fear from the back of her mind until she had done something about it. She knew that he was alone in the library. The abominable vicar would be duty-bound to call some time today or tomorrow, now that the police had gone, for the time being at least. Better to get this over with.

Edward looked up with surprise when she went into the library. “Emily? Are you seeking something to read?”

“No,” she sat down in the other big leather chair opposite him.

“What then? You find it hard to be alone? I confess, I’m glad of your company also.”

She smiled very slightly. This was going to be harder than she had anticipated.

“Papa?”

“Yes, my dear?” How very tired he looked. She had forgot how old he was.

“Papa, the woman in Cater Street—how long is it since she was your mistress?” Better to be direct. She could be devious with most people, but she had never been able to deceive him with any success.

“How very like Charlotte you are at times,” he smiled with profound regret, and she knew instinctively he was thinking neither of her nor of Charlotte, but of Sarah.

“How long?” she repeated. It had to be got over now; to have to try again would only extend the pain.

He looked at her. Was he weighing up how much she knew? Whether even now he could lie, evade?

“We know about her,” she said cruelly. “Sarah went to visit her, as a charity. She discovered the truth. Please Papa, don’t make it worse?” Her voice wavered. She hated doing this, but the doubt hurt even more. The suspense was a cancer deeper than the clean wound of knowing. She must not let him lie now, degrade himself.

He was still looking at her. She wanted to shut her eyes, to withdraw the question, but she knew it was too late.

He gave in. “A long time,” he answered with a little sigh. “It was all very brief, that part of it. It was all over a year or two after you were born. But I still liked her. Your mother was often busy—with you. You didn’t know her then, but she was not unlike Sarah; a little stubborn, always thinking she knew best.” Suddenly his eyes filled with tears and Emily looked away, to save him embarrassment. She stood up and walked to the window, to give him time to regain his control.

“Was there anyone after her?” she asked. Better to get it all over in one attempt.

“No,” he sounded surprised. “Of course not! Why do you ask, Emily?”

She wanted to think of a lie quickly, so that he should not ever know what she had suspected. Idiotically, now she wanted to protect him. She had thought she would never forgive him for having hurt Mama, but instead here she was wanting to shield him as if he had been the injured one. She did not understand herself, which was a new experience, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

“For Mama, of course,” she answered. “One can overlook one mistake, especially if it happened a long time ago. One cannot forget something that has been repeated over and over again.”

“Do you think your mother will feel the same way?” His voice sounded pathetically hopeful. She was a little embarrassed by it.

“I should ask her,” she said quickly. “I believe she is lying down upstairs. She is grieving very much for Sarah, you know.”

He stood up. “Yes, I know. I don’t think I realized how much she meant to me either.” He put his arm round her and kissed her gently, on the brow. She found herself suddenly clinging to him, crying for Sarah, for herself, for everybody, because it was all too much to bear.

In the late afternoon George Ashworth called to express his condolences. Naturally these were extended to the entire family, and therefore he was seen formally in the withdrawing room by Edward. It was necessary that afternoon tea should be offered, and equally necessary that it be refused. Afterwards Ashworth asked if he might speak with Emily.

She received him in the library, as somewhere where they might be sure not to risk interruption.

He closed the door behind him. “Emily, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should not have come so soon, but I could not bear to let you think I was unaffected, that I was not concerned for your grief. I suppose it is foolish to ask if there is anything I can do?”

Emily was touched and surprised that he should have feelings deeper than those required by good manners. She had desired, indeed planned, to marry him for some time; indeed she quite genuinely liked him, but had not perceived in him such sensitivity. It was a pleasant revelation, and curiously robbed her of some of the control she had just recently managed to acquire.

“Thank you,” she said carefully. “It is kind of you to offer, but there really isn’t anything to be done; except endure it, until we can feel it is time to take up our lives again.”

“I suppose they still have no idea who?”

“I don’t think so. I’m beginning to wonder if they ever will. In fact I heard some silly servant the other day suggest that it was not a human being at all, but some creature of the supernatural, a vampire or a demon of some sort.” She made a little choking sound, which was intended as a laugh of scorn, but died away.

“You haven’t entertained the idea?” he asked awkwardly, “have you?”

“Of course not!” she said with disgust. “He is someone from Cater Street or nearby, someone who is afflicted with a terrible madness that drives him to kill. I don’t know whether he kills people for any reason, or just because they happen to be there when his madness strikes. But he’s perfectly human, of that I’m sure.”

“Why are you so sure, Emily?” He sat down on the side of one of the armchairs.

She looked at him curiously. This was the man she intended to marry, to spend the rest of her life dependent upon. He was uncommonly handsome and, far more importantly, he pleased her—the more today because of his unexpected concern for her.

“Because I don’t believe in monsters,” she said frankly. “Evil men, certainly, and madness, but not monsters. I daresay he would like us to believe he is such, for then we could cease to look for him among ourselves. Perhaps we would even cease to look for him at all.”

“What a practical creature you are, Emily,” he said with a smile. “Do you ever do anything foolish?”

“Not often,” she said frankly, then smiled also. “Would you prefer me to?”

“Great heavens, no! You are the ideal combination. You look feminine and fragile, you know when to speak and when to remain silent; and yet you behave with all the excellent sense of the best of men.”

“Thank you,” she said with a flush of genuine pleasure.

“In fact,” he looked down at the floor, then up at her again, “if I had any sense I should marry you.”

She took in her breath, held it for a second, then let it out.

“And have you?” she said very carefully.

His smile widened into a grin. “Not usually. But I think on this occasion I shall make an exception.”

“Are you making me a proposal, George?” She turned to look at him.

“Don’t you know?”

“I would like to be quite sure. It would be uncommonly silly to make an error in a matter of such importance.”

“Yes, I am?” He made it a question by the expression in his eyes. He looked vulnerable, as if it mattered to him.

She found herself liking him even more than she had thought.

“I should be most honoured,” she said honestly. “And I accept. You had better speak to Papa in a few weeks’ time, when it is more suitable.”