Cater Street Hangman Page 12

  It took her most of the afternoon to mend the tear. She had to pull threads from the seams to darn it invisibly, and even so she was not entirely satisfied with it. Edward was home fairly early and she mentioned it straight away, more or less in the way of an apology.

  “I’m afraid it is still noticeable,” she held it up. “But only if you catch it in the light, which of course you won’t, since it is on the back of the arm. How in goodness’ name did you come to tear it?”

  He frowned, looking away from her. “I’m not sure that I can remember. It must have happened ages ago.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it at the time? I could have mended it as easily then as now. In fact more easily: Lily would have done it. She was extremely clever at such things.”

  “Well, it probably happened since Lily’s death, and I dare say I thought you had enough to do, being short a maid, without this. After all, I have plenty of other clothes.”

  “I haven’t seen you in it since the night of Lily’s death.” She did not know why she said it.

  “Well, maybe that’s the last time I wore it. That explains very completely, I should think, why I didn’t mention it. It was hardly of importance, compared with Lily, and the police in the house.”

  “Yes, of course.” She folded it over her arm, meaning to tell Millie to take it upstairs. “How did you do it?”

  “What?”

  “The tear!”

  “I really don’t remember, my dear. Whatever does it matter?”

  “I thought you were at your club all evening, and that that was why you were so late?”

  “I was,” his voice was becoming a little shorter. “I’m sorry if the new maid is unable to do these chores, but, my dear Caroline, there is no need to make such an issue of it. I don’t intend to discuss it the whole evening.”

  She put it over her arm and opened the door.

  “No, of course not. I just wondered how it happened. It is such a large tear.” And she went out into the hall to call Millie. It would be a good idea for her to steam-press it to make it lie flat.

  It was Dominic who quite unintentionally shattered her peace of mind and set her in a turmoil she could not control. He came to her a couple of days later holding out a waistcoat with his forefinger poked through a tear on the pocket.

  “How did you do that?” she took it from him and examined it.

  “Shoved my hand in it too far.” He smiled. “Sheer stupidity. Can you mend it? I saw the marvellous job you did on Papa-in-law’s coat.”

  She was pleased he should say so, because she was still not totally satisfied with it herself.

  “Thank you. Yes, I think so. I’ll try this evening.”

  “If you can do Papa’s, I’m sure you can do that.”

  A thought occurred to her as he turned away.

  “When did you see it?”

  “What?” he looked back.

  “When did you see the tear in Edward’s coat?”

  He frowned very slightly.

  “The night Lily was killed.”

  “How observant of you. I wouldn’t have thought in all the excitement you’d have seen it. Or did you see it at the club? That was where he did it.”

  He shook his head fractionally.

  “I think you must have misunderstood. I was at the club, but Papa left very early, and his coat certainly wasn’t torn then. I remember it clearly: Belton, the footman, gave him his hat and his cane. He would have noticed, couldn’t have failed to.”

  “You must have the wrong night!”

  “No, because I had dinner with Reggie Hafft. He dropped me off in Cater Street and I walked the last half mile or so. I saw Papa coming from the opposite end of Cater Street and called out to him, but he didn’t hear me. He got home just a little while before I did.”

  “Oh.” It was a stupid remark, but she was too stunned to think clearly. Edward had lied to her, over something completely trivial—but on the night Lily had been murdered. Why? Why had he not told her the truth? Was it something he was ashamed of, or afraid of?

  What on earth was she thinking? This was preposterous! He must have been to call on some friend, and forgotten. That was it. It would be explained quite easily, and then she would be ashamed of the thoughts that crossed the back of her mind now.

  The first time she saw him alone was when they retired to bed. Caroline was sitting on the stool in front of the mirror, letting down her hair and brushing it. Edward came in from the dressing room.

  “Whom did you call on, the night Lily was killed?” she said lightly, trying to make it sound as if it did not matter.

  She saw his face reflected in the mirror. He was frowning.

  “Whom did I what?”

  She repeated it, her heart beating strongly, her eyes avoiding his.

  “No one,” he said a little sharply. “I’ve already told you, Caroline, I was at my club! I came straight from the club home. I don’t know why you are continuing to discuss the matter. Do you imagine I was lurking in Cater Street after my housemaid?” He was thoroughly angry now.

  “No, of course not,” she replied quietly. “Don’t be foolish.”

  His face hardened into the white temper she knew very well. She had offended him profoundly by using the word foolish. Or had he chosen to pretend it was so, in order to avoid having to tell the truth, or think of another lie?

  She must be overwrought; her mind was quite off the rails, becoming ridiculous. Better try to dismiss it and go to bed. Edward was still observing an icy silence. She thought for a moment of apologizing, then something within her acknowledged that she would think of it again, pursue it again, which would make any apology a lie.

  They both got into bed without speaking. He lay perfectly still, breathing regularly. She had no idea whether he was asleep, trying to sleep, or merely pretending to be to avoid further involvement.

  Why was she even entertaining such thoughts? She knew Edward, knew that for whatever reason he lied, it could have nothing to do with what had happened in Cater Street. She knew that. Yet he must have been doing something that he did not want her to know? Such as what? Nothing good, or he would have told her the truth, or at least whom he was with, if not the reason. Where could Edward have been to return via the opposite end of Cater Street? Where could he have been that needed lying about?

  She tried to think of his pattern of life, the things he did daily, whom he knew, the other places he visited. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how little she knew. At home she knew him so well she could often tell beforehand what he would say, how he would feel about any event, whom he would like, or dislike. But when he left for the city he walked into a different part of his life, and she actually knew nothing about it except what he told her.

  She went to sleep deeply unhappy.

  The next day was appalling. Caroline woke with a dull headache and felt so fearful and depressed she spoke only when necessity forced her. She was busy in the linen cupboard checking Millie’s work when Dora came to say that Inspector Pitt from the police was back again, and would she see him?

  Caroline stared at the pile of pillowcases in front of her, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. Had Pitt been to the club and found out that Edward was lying? It was impossible that he had killed Lily, for any reason. But he must be hiding something. She would have to try to protect him. If only she knew the truth!

  “Ma’am?” Dora was still waiting.

  “Oh yes, Dora. Tell him I shall be there in five minutes. Put him in the withdrawing room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Pitt was standing staring out of the window when she opened the door. He swung round to face her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ellison. I’m sorry to disturb you again, but I’m afraid I have to pursue everything.”

  “You seem to be pursuing us rather extensively, Mr. Pitt. Do I presume from your remark that you pursue everyone else as diligently?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

 
What an odd-looking man he was, so inelegant. His presence dominated the room. Or did she just feel that way because she was frightened of him?

  “What is it you wish this time, Mr. Pitt?” Better to get it over with.

  “Your husband came home unusually late on the evening Lily Mitchell was murdered.” It was more of a statement than a question, as if he were reaffirming something he already knew.

  “Yes.” Did her voice sound as strained as she felt?

  “Where had he been?”

  What should she say? Should she repeat what Edward had told her? Or the truth that Dominic had subsequently let slip? She realized as she put the problem to herself that she had not even questioned Dominic’s version! If she told him Edward was at the club the whole evening she would be saying at the same time that Edward had lied to her. It would make it that much harder for him to—to negotiate himself out of the lie. But if she said he had been elsewhere, then she obliged him to explain something he would not, or could not.

  Pitt was staring at her with those light, intelligent eyes. She felt transparent, like a child caught in the pantry.

  “I believe he said he was at his club,” she said slowly, making her mouth form each word, “although whether he was going on to dine with friends afterwards I don’t remember.”

  “And he didn’t tell you?” His enquiry was polite.

  Was it extraordinary? Did the careful lie show in her face?

  “In view of what we found when we returned home—Charlotte having sent for the police, the distress, our fears—I never thought of it again. It seemed the least important of things.”

  “Naturally. However, if you don’t know, I cannot eliminate the possibility that Mr. Ellison may have passed somewhere near the scene of the crime at the appropriate time.” He smiled, showing his teeth, his eyes bright. “And he may have seen something that would help us.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Yes, of course. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Ellison. I already know that you passed along Cater Street in a carriage, and in the company of your daughters, and I have spoken to all of you.”

  “But you have spoken to my husband also. What more can there be to say?” Could she avoid it, persuade him not to see Edward at all? There could be nothing else to ask him, unless he suspected something, already knew somehow that Edward had lied. “Surely, Mr. Pitt, you cannot doubt that if my husband had seen anything at all, he would have told you?”

  “If he knew it was important, but perhaps he saw an odd thing, a small detail that has slipped his memory. And time is important, you know; the exact time, to the minute, may establish someone’s alibi, or break it.”

  “Alibi?”

  “An account of where a person was at the time of a crime, making it impossible for him or her to have been involved.”

  “I know what the word means, Mr. Pitt; I just had not realized—you were—only eliminating people on—on proof of imposs . . . ” she trailed away, afraid of her conclusion, confused.

  “Well, when we have suspects, Mrs. Ellison, it will help to whittle them down, cast the impossible out of the picture.”

  She wished more than anything that he would leave. He was a policeman, which was almost like a tradesman; it was idiotic to let him dominate her like this. Emily was right; he did have a beautiful voice, resonant and soft. His diction was perfect.

  “Quite,” she said awkwardly. “But I’m afraid my husband is not at home this morning, and I cannot help you.”

  He smiled gently.

  “I shall come back this evening, if Mr. Ellison is expected home?”

  “Yes. He is expected to dinner.”

  He gave a small bow, and went to the door.

  When Edward came home at quarter past six she told him of Pitt’s call, and that he would return.

  He stood still, staring at her.

  “He’s coming back this evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t have told him I would be here, Caroline.” His face was stiff. “I have to go out again—”

  “You said this morning—” she stopped, fear suddenly cutting off her voice. He was avoiding Pitt because he was afraid of lying to him!

  “Obviously I have made arrangements since this morning,” he snapped. “Anyway, it is quite pointless. I know nothing whatsoever that I have not already told him. You may say that to him, or have Maddock do so.”

  “Do you think—” she said hesitantly.

  “Good heavens, Caroline, he is a policeman, not someone to be socially entertained. Have Maddock tell him I had made previous arrangements, and I know nothing that would further his investigations. If he has found out nothing so far, after all the enquiries he has made and the time he has taken, either it is an insoluble mystery, or the man is incompetent.”

  But Pitt returned yet again the following evening, and was shown into the withdrawing room where Caroline and Edward were sitting with Charlotte and Grandmama. Everyone else was out at a concert. Maddock opened the door to announce him, and before anyone could reply, Pitt himself moved past him into the room.

  “In a gentleman’s home, Mr. Pitt,” Edward said tartly, “it is customary to wait until you are invited before entering.”

  Caroline felt herself blush for his rudeness, and go cold for his fear. He must be afraid, to depart so far from his usual good manners. Usual? Did she know him as well as she imagined? Why in God’s name had he been in Cater Street?

  Pitt did not seem in the least put out. He walked further in and Maddock withdrew.

  “Forgive me. Murder doesn’t often take me into the homes of gentlemen; but even they have a disinclination to speak to me, which I have to overcome by the best means available. I am sure you are as anxious as I am to identify and apprehend this man.”

  “Of course.” Edward looked at him coldly. “However, I have already told you everything I know—more than once. I have nothing to add. I don’t see how repetition will help you.”

  “You’d be surprised. Details get added, small things remembered.”

  “I have remembered nothing.”

  “Where were you that evening, Mr. Ellison?”

  Edward frowned. “I have already told you. I was at my club which is nowhere near Cater Street.”

  “All evening, Mr. Ellison?”

  Caroline looked at Edward. His face was pale. She could almost see the struggle in his mind. Could he get away with the lie? Dear God, what was he hiding? She turned to Pitt. The clever eyes were not watching Edward, but her. Suddenly she was terrified he could see her fear, that her knowledge of the lies was in her face. She looked away, anywhere else, and found Charlotte watching her also. The room suffocated her, terror almost stopped her breathing.

  “All evening, Mr. Ellison?” Pitt repeated quietly.

  “Er . . . no.” Edward’s voice was tight, the strain rasping.

  “Where did you go, then?” Pitt was perfectly polite. If he was at all surprised he hid it.

  Had he already known? Caroline’s heart tightened. Did he know where Edward had been?

  “I went to visit a friend,” Edward replied, looking at him.

  “Indeed,” Pitt smiled. “Which friend, Mr. Ellison?”

  Edward hesitated.

  Grandmama sat a little more upright.

  “Young man!” she said sharply. “Remember your position, both in this house, and in society in general. Mr. Ellison has told you he visited a friend. That is sufficient for your purpose. We appreciate that you have a duty to perform, and an arduous one, necessary for justice, and for public safety. And of course we will assist you as we can, but do not presume upon our goodwill to trespass beyond your duty.”

  Pitt raised his eyebrows in humour more than annoyance.

  “Ma’am, unfortunately murder is no respecter of persons, or of social distinction. This man must be found or one of your granddaughters may be next.”

  “Nonsense!” Grandmama said furiousl
y. “My granddaughters are women of moral rectitude and decent habits. I appreciate that you may not be familiar with such women, and therefore I will excuse your insult as coming from ignorance rather than ill will.”

  Pitt took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Ma’am, we have no reason to suppose this man has any exclusive hatred of immoral women, or even any predilection for them. Miss Abernathy was a little frivolous, but no worse; Lily Mitchell had a stainless reputation, and we have yet to fault it. Even her behaviour with Brody appears so far to have been perfectly correct.”

  Grandmama looked at him with a slight flaring of her nostrils.

  “What is correct for a serving maid or a policeman may be quite beneath a gentlewoman,” she said damningly.

  Pitt bowed very slightly.

  “I beg to differ, ma’am. I believe morality is universal. Circumstances may alter the degree of blame, but not that an act is wrong.”

  Grandmama drew breath to condemn his temerity, then considered his argument instead, and let it out without speaking.

  Caroline looked at Edward, who was still silent, then at Charlotte. She was watching Pitt with surprise, and some respect.

  Pitt looked back at Edward.

  “Mr. Ellison, the name and address of your friend, if you please? I assure you, it is necessary. Also, as near as you know it, the exact time of your departure from his house?”

  Again there was a moment’s silence. To Caroline it was an eternity, like waiting while you tear open a message which you know will be news of disaster.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what time I left,” Edward replied. “At the time, of course, I had no idea it would be of the least importance.”

  “Possibly your friend will know,” Pitt seemed unperturbed.

  “No,” Edward said quickly. “My friend—is ill. That is why I called. Er—he was already drifting to sleep when I left— that is why I departed when I did. I’m afraid we can neither of us be of any very precise assistance. I’m sorry.”