Cater Street Hangman Read online

  “But you did come home from the far end of Cater Street?” Pitt was not easily discouraged.

  “I’ve already said so,” Edward was also regaining his composure.

  “Did you see anyone else at all?”

  “Not that I recall, but I was thinking of getting home, not of observing the street.”

  “Naturally. But no doubt you would have noticed a man running, or two people struggling; or if you had heard a cry of alarm or any kind of scream?”

  “Of course I would. If there was anything at all, it must have been relatively inconspicuous, a late traveller like myself, or something of that sort. Actually, I don’t remember anyone at all.”

  “And the address?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The address from which you came?”

  “I see no reason why that is relevant. My friend is ill, and in some distress. I would prefer you did not call on them. It would cause them considerable anxiety, and only increase their illness.”

  “I see.” Pitt stood still. “All the same, I would like to know it. They just might remember the time.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Establish at least one time at which the crime did not happen. By process of elimination we might pin it down very nicely.”

  Without thinking, Caroline jumped in.

  “That can easily be known.” She demanded Pitt’s attention. “He arrived here a few minutes after we did, less than five minutes. If you walk from here to Cater Street, you will have the time precisely.” She waited with heart lurching to see if he accepted it.

  Pitt gave a small smile.

  “Quite. Thank you.” He glanced at Charlotte, then inclined his head in a gesture of resignation. “I wish you good day.” He opened the door for himself and went out. They heard Maddock in the hall, and then the front door close also.

  “Well!” Grandmama let out her breath. “What a vulgar young man.”

  “Persistent,” Caroline said before thinking. “But not vulgar. If he were to be put off by equivocation he would never solve his cases.”

  “I have never considered you a competent judge of vulgarity, Caroline,” Grandmama said with mounting anger. “But I am shocked that you can even entertain the possibility that Edward would know anything about a crime. You appear to doubt him!”

  “Of course I don’t!” Caroline lied, her face flushing hotly. “I was speaking of the police, not myself. You cannot expect Mr. Pitt to take the same view as I!”

  “I do not. But neither did I, until now, expect you to take the same view as Mr. Pitt!”

  “She wasn’t, Grandmama,” Charlotte interrupted. “She was merely pointing out that—”

  “Be silent, Charlotte,” Edward said crossly. “I forbid anyone to discuss the matter further. It is sordid and has no part in our life beyond the assistance we have already given. If you cannot control yourself, Charlotte, then you may retire to your room.”

  Charlotte said nothing at all. Grandmama started off again to bemoan the general decline of good manners and the increase of immorality and crime.

  Caroline sat staring at a rather ugly photograph of her wedding, and wondering with mounting fear why Edward would not tell Pitt where he had been.

  Nothing more was said that day, but the following morning Caroline was going through household accounts at her desk in the back sitting room when Grandmama came in.

  “Caroline, I have to ask you what you mean by it, although I fear I know. I think I have a right.”

  Caroline lied immediately, in defence.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grandmama.” She had been thinking of little else herself, but she pretended now to have her mind on the fishmonger’s bill in front of her.

  “Then you are more callous even than I presumed. I am talking about that policeman, and his extraordinary behaviour last night. In my day policemen knew their place.”

  “A policeman’s place is wherever there is crime,” Caroline said wearily. She knew she was not going to be able to avoid the confrontation, but she instinctively delayed it, as one recoils from all pain.

  “There is no crime in his house, Caroline, except your betrayal of your husband’s good name.”

  “That is a malicious and totally false thing to say!” Caroline swung round from the desk, the pen still in her hand, but held like a knife now. “And you would not dare say it if we were not alone, and if you did not imagine I would not wish to quarrel with you. Well, you mistake me this time! I most certainly shall quarrel, if you say such a mischievous thing again. Do you hear me?”

  “It is your conscience that makes you so angry,” Grandmama said with evil delight. “And I certainly dare say it again, and I shall, in front of Edward. Then we’ll see who will quarrel, and who will not.”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you!” Caroline leaned forward. “You’d like to upset Edward and set his house on its head! Well, for once I’m not yielding to your blackmail. You tell Edward anything you want to. But I observe it was not you who defended him when he did not wish to tell the police where he was! You did nothing but antagonize Pitt by being insufferably rude. What did you think that would do? Frighten him off? Then you are living in a dream! It only made him the more suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?” Grandmama was still standing, her body rocking back and forth with rage. “What do you think Edward has done, Caroline? Do you think he trailed out after his housemaid and strangled her? Is that what you think? Does Edward know this is what you think of him?”

  “Not unless you’ve told him! Which would not surprise me. It would certainly cause the kind of unhappiness you feed on! Isn’t Lily’s death enough for you?”

  “Enough for me! Me? What do you think I gain from the death of some wretched housemaid? I have always hated immorality, but it is not for me to bring down the judgment of God on her.”

  “You old hypocrite!” Caroline exploded. “There is nothing in the world more immoral than pleasure in the pain and misfortune of others!”

  “You have brought your misfortune on yourself, Caroline. I, for one, cannot get you out of it, whether I wished to or not,” and with a lift of her head Grandmama swept out of the room before Caroline could reply; although she could think of nothing to say anyway.

  She sat at the desk and stared through tears at the fishmonger’s account. She hated quarrels, but this one had been brewing for years. This had only been an eruption of hatreds that had simmered in both of them and, but for Lily’s death and its terrors, might have lain dormant forever. Now things had been said which would never be forgotten, and certainly could not be forgiven—not by Grandmama, even if she herself chose to.

  The worst of it was that Grandmama would draw in the whole house; she would compel them all to take sides. There would be meaningful glances, silences, cryptic remarks, until curiosity drove someone to ask what it was all about. Edward would hate it. He loved them both and wished above all things that there should be peace in his house. Like most men, he loathed family rows. He would pay a considerable price for tranquillity. He would pretend to be unaware of it as long as possible. Dominic would probably be the catalyst, quite unintentionally. He had not known Grandmama long enough to read the undercurrents, and ignore them.

  It would be awful! And the worst part was that Grandmama was right. She did suspect, with sick fear, that Edward had done something dishonourable. She could feel her throat ache with the effort not to weep, and if she looked down the tears would spill over.

  “Mama?”

  It was Charlotte. She had not even heard her come in. She sniffed. “Yes, what is it? I’m busy with accounts.”

  Charlotte slid her arms round her and kissed her.

  “I know, I heard you.”

  It was welcome, almost unbearable in its relief after she had been feeling so alone. It was harder than ever to control herself, but she had had years of practice.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I had no
t realized we had raised our voices.”

  Charlotte adjusted a hairpin for her and stepped away, tactfully leaving her to compose herself. Odd what sensitivity Charlotte had sometimes, while at other times she was so outspoken.

  Charlotte was staring through the window.

  “Don’t worry about Grandmama. If she says anything to Papa he will be very angry with her, and she will come off the worse for it.”

  Caroline was too surprised to hide it. She swung round in the chair to stare at Charlotte’s back.

  “Whyever do you think that?”

  Charlotte still looked out of the window.

  “Because Papa was somewhere he does not wish to speak of. We must face that. Therefore he will be angry with whoever mentions it again.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Caroline could hear her own voice shaking now. “What are you saying, Charlotte? You cannot suspect your father—of—of—”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he was gambling, or drunk, or associating with people we would not like. But he does not wish Mr. Pitt or us to know of it. It is no use pretending to each other. We cannot pretend to ourselves. But don’t worry, Mama, he cannot have had anything to do with Lily, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “Charlotte—,” she could think of nothing else to say. How could she stand there so calmly, speaking those words?

  “I think it may be very foolish,” Charlotte went on—and this time Caroline heard the catch in her voice and knew she was only keeping control of herself with the greatest effort— “because I think Mr. Pitt will find out anyway.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. And it will seem the worse for not being revealed of one’s own free will.”

  “Then, if we could persuade him—,” but she knew she lacked the courage. Edward would be angry, go into that cold bitter retreat she had experienced only a few times—like the occasion she had defied him over Gerald Hapwith. That was years ago, and all so silly now. But the pain of the estrangement was easy to remember.

  And more than that, she was afraid to know what it was he wanted to hide. Perhaps Pitt would not find out?

  But he did. Mr. Pitt returned two days later, in the evening and—perhaps to be sure of catching Edward—by surprise, not having called in the morning to forewarn them. They were all at home.

  “This is not very convenient, Mr. Pitt,” Edward said coolly. “What is it this time?”

  “We have established that you must have walked back along Cater Street, from approximately five minutes to eleven, until a few minutes past the hour.”

  “You had no need to come to tell me that,” Edward was sharp. “Since I arrived home at about quarter after, that much is obvious.”

  Nothing seemed to discompose Pitt.

  “To you, sir, who know what you did. To us, who have to accept your word, it is satisfying to obtain proof. If murderers could be caught merely by asking them, our job would hardly be worth doing.”

  Edward’s face froze.

  “What are you implying, Mr. Pitt?”

  “That we have established that you left Mrs. Attwood at quarter to eleven. It would take you about half an hour of comfortable walking to reach your home here, and you would pass along Cater Street between five to eleven, and about five past.”

  Edward was white-faced.

  “You had no right—!”

  “It would have been a great deal easier, and have saved much time, sir, if you had given us Mrs. Attwood’s address earlier. Now perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me where you were on the night Chloe Abernathy met her death?”

  “If you know where I was on the night Lily was killed, you know I can have had nothing to do with it,” Edward said between his teeth. For the first time he looked really frightened. “What do you imagine I can tell you about Chloe Abernathy?”

  “Only where you were,” Pitt smiled broadly. “And if possible, with whom?”

  “I was with Alan Cuthbertson, discussing business in his rooms.”

  Pitt’s smile became wider, if anything.

  “Good, that is what he says, but since he was acquainted with Miss Abernathy fairly well, it was necessary to check that he was being precisely honest. Thank you, Mr. Ellison. You have done Mr. Cuthbertson and the police a service. I’m obliged. Ma’am,” he inclined his head in a small bow. “Good night.”

  “Who is Mrs. Attwood, Papa?” Sarah said immediately. “I don’t recall your having mentioned her?”

  “I doubt I did,” Edward said, looking away. “She is a rather tiresome woman who is a dependent of a man who once did me a favour, and is now dead himself. She has become ill, and I occasionally render her some small, practical assistance. She is not bedridden, but close to it. She seldom leaves the house. You might visit her yourself, if you wish, but I warn you she is most tiresome, and wandering somewhat in her mind. She confuses reminiscences with fantasy on occasion, although at other times she is lucid enough. No doubt it comes from spending a great deal of time alone, and reading romantic novels of the cheapest kind.”

  The relief was immense, but later that night in bed, Caroline woke and began to think. At first she worried about the fact that Edward had been so concerned about hiding his visit to this Mrs. Attwood. Was it really to protect a sick woman? Or because she was perhaps a little common, a little loud, someone he did not wish to be associated with?

  Then the deeper worry came to the surface and would not be ignored. She had questioned in her mind, had feared for a moment that he had had something to do with Lily. He was lying beside her now, asleep. She had been married to him for more than thirty years. How could it even have crossed her mind that he had murdered a girl in the street? What kind of a woman was she to have considered such a thing, even for a second? She had always believed she loved him, not passionately of course, but adequately. She knew him well—or she had believed so until this week. Now she realized there were things about him she did not know at all.

  She had lived in the same house with him, the same bed, for over thirty years, and borne him three children, four counting the son who had died when only a few days old. And yet she had actually considered he might have garotted Lily.

  What was her relationship worth? What would Edward think or feel if he knew what had been in her mind? She was confused, and ashamed, and deeply afraid.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WAS THE FOLLOWING WEEK, the beginning of September and hot and still, when Millie came to Charlotte in the garden. Her face was pink and she looked flustered. She had a piece of paper in her hand.

  Charlotte put down the hoe she was using to poke around the soil between the flowers. It was a pastime rather than a job, an excuse to be outside instead of attending to the preserves she should have been stewing for Sarah to bottle. But Sarah was out with Dominic on some social affair, while Emily was at a tennis party with a whole group of people, including George Ashworth, and Mama was visiting Susannah.

  “What is it, Millie?”

  “Please, Miss Charlotte, I found this letter this morning. I’ve been trying to decide all day what I should do about it.” She held out the piece of paper.

  Charlotte took it from her and read:

  Deer Lily,

  This is to tel yu that I ant warnin yu any mor. Ither yu dus as yur told or itll be the wors for yu.

  It was unsigned.

  “Where did you get this?” Charlotte asked.

  “I found it in one of the drawers in my room, Miss. Where Lily used to be.”

  “I see.”

  “Did I do the right thing, Miss?”

  “Yes, Millie, you did. Most certainly. It would have been very wrong not to have brought it to me. It—it might be important.”

  “You think the murderer wrote her that, Miss?”

  “I don’t know, Millie, probably not. But we should let the police have it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But Mr. Maddock is busy unpacking the next cases of wine this afternoon, and the master said it had to be done s
traight away.”

  “That’s all right, Millie. I’ll take it myself.”

  “But, Miss Charlotte, you aren’t going out by yourself, are you?”

  Charlotte stared at her for a moment. “No, Millie, you’ll have to come with me.”

  “Me, Miss Charlotte?” She froze, her eyes wide.

  “Yes, you, Millie. Go and get your coat on. Tell Mrs. Dunphy I need you to come with me on an urgent errand. Now go on.”

  Three quarters of an hour later Millie was in the outer waiting room of the police station, and Charlotte was shown into Inspector Pitt’s small room to await his return. It was drab, functional, and a little dusty. There were three chairs, one of them on a swivel, a table with locked drawers in it, a rolltop desk, also locked, and a brown linoleum floor, worn patchy where feet had trodden from door to desk and back again.

  She had been there for only ten minutes when the door opened and a sharp-nosed little man in overly smart clothes came in. His face dropped in surprise.

  “’Allo, Miss! You sure you’re in the right place?”

  “I believe so. I’m waiting for Mr. Pitt.”

  He looked her up and down carefully. “You don’t look like a nose.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t look like a nose.” He came in and closed the door behind him. “An informer, a spy for the crushers.”

  “For whom?” she frowned, trying to understand him.

  “The police! You did say you wanted to see Mr. Pitt?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned suddenly, showing broken teeth.

  “You a friend of his?”

  “I have come on a matter of business which, forgive me for frankness, is not your concern.” She had no wish to be rude. He was a harmless enough little man, and apparently friendly.

  “Business? You don’t look like you have business with the crushers.” He sat down on the chair opposite, still looking at her in amiable curiosity.

  “Do you belong here?” she said doubtfully.

  “Oh, yes,” he grinned. “I got business too.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Important,” he nodded, his eyes bright. “Do a lot for Mr. Pitt, I do. Don’t know how he’d manage without me.”