Cater Street Hangman Read online

  “Mr. Decker?” Emily said in surprise. “He is nothing.”

  “Not Decker. Your Lord Ashworth. That yellow rose is going to be out tomorrow.”

  “What on earth does that matter? Charlotte, I mean to have George Ashworth offer for me, so just control your tongue while he calls upon us!”

  “You what?” Charlotte turned round in amazement.

  “You heard me! I mean to marry him, so just play at being courteous at least for the present.”

  “Emily! You hardly know him!”

  “I will, by the time it matters.”

  “You can’t marry him! You’re talking nonsense!”

  “I’m speaking perfectly good sense. You may be happy to spend your life dreaming, but I am not. I have no illusions that George is perfect—”

  “Perfect!” Charlotte said incredulously. “He’s appalling! He’s shallow, a gambler, and probably a rake! He’s not—not a part of our world, Emily. Even if he married you, he would make you wretched.”

  “You’re a dreamer, Charlotte. There is no man who won’t make you wretched some time or other. I think George will have more to compensate for it than most, and I mean to marry him. I won’t allow you to prevent me.” She meant it. Standing in the withdrawing room in the gold evening sunlight, looking at Charlotte’s face, the light on her heavy hair, she realized just how profoundly she did mean it. That which at the beginning of the afternoon had been an idea, had now become a quite irrevocable intention.

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS THE END of July, and Caroline was arranging flowers in the withdrawing room, thinking about the household accounts she ought to be doing instead, when Dora came in without knocking.

  Caroline stopped, a long, white daisy in her hand. Really, she could not allow this extraordinary behaviour. She turned to speak, then saw Dora’s face.

  “Dora? What is it?” She let the daisy drop.

  “Oh, ma’am!” Dora let out a long wail. “Oh, ma’am!”

  “Pull yourself together, Dora. Now tell me what has happened. Is it that butcher’s boy again? I’ve told you to report him to Maddock if he continues to be impertinent. He’ll soon sort out a tongue that runs away with a young man. Otherwise he’ll lose his employment. Maddock will tell him that. Now stop sniffling and go back to your work. And Dora, don’t come into the withdrawing room again without knocking. You know better than that.” She picked up the daisy from the sideboard and considered the vase again. There was too much blue on the left side.

  “Oh no, ma’am,” Dora was still there. “It’s nothing to do with the boy. I dealt with that all right—threatened to set the dog on him, I did, after all the meat, you see!”

  “We don’t have a dog, Dora!”

  “I know that, ma’am, but he don’t.”

  “You shouldn’t tell lies, Dora,” but there was no criticism in her voice. She considered it a fair retaliation. Her words were habit, those she thought she ought to say, certainly what Edward would expect of her. “Well, what is it then, Dora?”

  Dora’s face bunched into a howl again as she remembered.

  “Oh, ma’am! The murderer’s at it again! We’ll all be strangled if we set foot outside the door!”

  Caroline’s immediate reaction was to deny it, to keep Dora from hysterics.

  “Nonsense! You’re perfectly safe as long as you don’t go hanging around by yourself after dark, and no decent girl does that anyway! There’s nothing for you to be afraid of.”

  “But ma’am, he tried it again!” Dora wailed. “He attacked Mrs. Waterman’s Daisy! Right out in the daylight, he did!”

  Caroline felt a shiver of fear.

  “What are you talking about, Dora? Are you just repeating a lot of silly gossip? Where did you hear that, from some errand boy?”

  “No, ma’am. Mrs. Waterman’s Jenks told Maddock.”

  “Really? Perhaps you had better send Maddock to me.”

  “Now, ma’am?” Dora stood transfixed.

  “Yes, Dora, right now.”

  Dora scuttled out and Caroline tried to compose herself to arrange the rest of the flowers. The result was unsatisfying. Maddock knocked at the door.

  “Yes, Maddock,” she said coldly. “Maddock, Dora tells me she was present when you and—Jenks, is it?—were talking about the two girls who were killed recently, and a new attack?”

  Maddock stood stiffly, surprise showing on his usual poker face.

  “No, ma’am! Mr. Jenks came round to bring a bottle of port from Mr. Waterman for Mr. Ellison. While he was in my pantry he told me I should keep our girls in, even in daylight, not send them on errands alone because their Daisy, or whatever her name is, had been attacked in the street the other day. Apparently she is a well-built girl, and not the fainting kind. She had a jar of pickles of some kind in her hand, and hit him over the head with it. She wasn’t hurt, and seemed quite in control of herself until she got home. Then, of course, she realized what could have happened to her, and burst into tears.”

  “I see.” She was glad she had not criticized him too obviously, allowing herself room to retreat. “And where was Dora?”

  “I can only presume, ma’am, that she was in the passage outside the pantry door.”

  “Thank you, Maddock,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you had better not send the girls on any errands, as Jenks suggests—at least for the time being. I wish you had told me this earlier.”

  “I told the master, ma’am. He said not to worry you with it.”

  “Oh.” Her mind raced over reasons why Edward should have done such a thing. What if she, or one of the girls, had gone out alone? Did he think only servants were attacked? What about Chloe Abernathy?

  “Thank you, Maddock. You had better see if you can calm Dora a little; and suggest she stop listening at doors, while you are about it!”

  “Yes, ma’am, certainly.” And he turned on his heel and went out, closing the door silently behind him.

  She had intended this afternoon to go and see Martha Prebble. Without really understanding why, she always felt rather sorry for the woman, although she did not like her greatly. Perhaps it was because she disliked the vicar—which was quite stupid! He was doubtless a very good man, and probably suited Martha as well as most husbands suit their wives. One could not sensibly expect a vicar to be romantic; if he was honest, sober, well-mannered, and respected in the community, that was a great deal. To demand more was unreasonable, and Martha was eminently reasonable; even if she had not been as a girl, she would be by now!

  Which brought Emily to her mind. It was all very well for her to accept occasional social invitations from Lord Ashworth, but one or two things Emily had said lately led Caroline to believe that she entertained ideas of a more permanent relationship. For Emily’s own sake she must be disabused of such romantic follies. Otherwise she would be quite seriously hurt later on, not only by the dissolution of her ambitions in that direction, but by the casting of very definite disadvantage on any future designs. People would be bound to think the worst. Other young men, less aristocratic, but far more practically within Emily’s reach, might well be put off—or their mothers would be, which was more to the point.

  In view of Maddock’s warning it would be better not to go even as far as the vicar’s alone. She would take Emily with her, giving them an opportunity to talk privately. It was a delightful afternoon for a walk. Far better than taking Charlotte, which had also crossed her mind. Charlotte disliked the vicar and seemed unable or unwilling to conceal it. That was another thing; somehow to school Charlotte in the art of dissembling, masking her feelings. Apart from anything else, those feelings were far too violent to be becoming in a lady. She loved Charlotte dearly; she was the warmest, the quickest to sympathize, and had by far the sharpest sense of humour among her daughters, but she was impossibly forthright. There were times when Caroline despaired of her! If only she could learn a little tact before she ruined herself socially with some totally unforgivable gaffe. If only s
he would think before she spoke!

  What kind of man would take her as she was? She was practically a social liability at times!

  She surveyed the vase of flowers with exasperation, and decided she was in that frame of mind when further effort would only make the arrangement worse. Better find Emily and advise her that they were going to the vicar’s. Charlotte at least would be pleased!

  The walk to Cater Street was a pleasure, full of sunlight and wind and the noise of leaves. They set out shortly after three, Emily a little reluctantly, but accepting it with good enough grace.

  Caroline thought she had better approach the subject obliquely.

  “Maddock tells me there has been another girl attacked in the street,” she began in a businesslike manner. Better get this over with also.

  “Oh.” Emily seemed interested, but not as frightened as Caroline would have expected. “I hope she wasn’t seriously hurt?”

  “Apparently not, but that may be a matter of good fortune rather than lack of intent on her attacker’s part,” Caroline replied sharply. She must frighten Emily enough to make sure she took no risks. A risk was so easy; an injury could be so permanent.

  “Who was it? Anyone we know?”

  “A servant of Mrs. Waterman’s. But that is hardly the point! You must not go out alone, any of you, until this lunatic is apprehended by the police.”

  “But that might be forever!” Emily protested. “I’d planned to call on Miss Decker on Friday afternoon—”

  “You don’t even like Miss Decker!”

  “Liking her has nothing to do with it, Mama; she knows people whom I wish to know, or at least to be acquainted with.”

  “Then you’ll have to take Charlotte or Sarah. You are not to go alone, Emily.”

  Emily’s face hardened.

  “Sarah won’t come. She’s going to Madame Tussaud’s with Dominic. It’s taken her a month to persuade him.”

  “Then take Charlotte.”

  “Mama!” Emily said with withering disgust. “You know as well as I do, Charlotte will ruin it. Even if she doesn’t actually say anything, her face will give her away.”

  “I take it she doesn’t care for Miss Decker either?” Caroline said a trifle drily.

  “Charlotte has no sense of what is practical.”

  It was the perfect opening. Caroline took it immediately. “It seems to me that you have very little idea yourself, my darling. Your pursuit of Lord Ashworth is hardly destined for any permanent success, and you are seeing far too much of him for a temporary admiration. You will draw an unwelcome attention to yourself, you will find that you are remembered as Ashworth’s . . . ” she hesitated, trying to find the right word.

  “I intend to be Ashworth’s wife,” Emily said with an aplomb that staggered Caroline. “Which seems to me to be excellently practical.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Caroline said sharply. “Ashworth won’t marry a girl with neither family connections nor money. Even if he were minded to, his parents certainly wouldn’t permit it.”

  Emily stared straight ahead of her and continued marching down the street.

  “His father is dead, and he is quite equal to his mother. There is no point in trying to dissuade me. I have made up my mind.”

  “And you have the temerity to say that Charlotte is impractical,” Caroline said in dismay as they turned into Cater Street. “At least keep your own counsel and don’t say anything—committing—in front of the vicar.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of saying anything of any sort at all in front of the vicar,” Emily replied sharply. “He doesn’t understand such things.”

  “I’m sure he understands them, but as a man of the cloth he would not be interested. All men are equal before God.”

  Emily gave her a look that stripped bare her own dislike of the vicar and made her feel a hypocrite. It was an uncomfortable feeling, especially when it was generated by one’s own youngest child.

  “Well, if you imagine you’re going to be a lady, you’ll have to learn to exercise good manners, even to those you dislike,” Caroline said sharply, aware that the reminder was possibly as timely to herself as to Emily.

  “Like Miss Decker,” Emily looked sideways at her with a tiny smile.

  Caroline could think of no reply, and fortunately they were at the Prebbles’ door.

  Ten minutes later they were in the back parlour. Martha Prebble had ordered tea and was sitting on the overstuffed sofa facing them. Incredibly, Sarah was also there, deep in conversation. She did not seem the least surprised to see them. Martha apologized for the vicar’s absence in a tone that left Caroline feeling that in some way Martha Prebble was perhaps as relieved as they were.

  “So good of you to help, Mrs. Ellison,” Martha said, leaning forward a little. “I sometimes wonder how this parish would survive if it were not for you and your good daughters. Only last week Sarah was here,” she smiled sideways at Sarah, “helping with our charity for orphans. Such a delightful girl.”

  Caroline smiled. Sarah had never been any concern, except perhaps briefly when both she and Edward had wondered if Dominic had been a wise choice. But it had proved excellent, and everyone was happy with it—except perhaps Charlotte. Once or twice she had thought . . . but Martha Prebble was talking again.

  “ . . . course we must help these unfortunate women. In spite of what the vicar says, I feel some of them are the victims of circumstance.”

  “The poorer classes do not have the advantages of proper upbringing, such as we have,” Sarah nodded in agreement.

  Really, Sarah was pompous at times: just like Edward. Caroline had missed the beginning of the conversation, but she could guess. They were planning an evening lecture, with a collection plate and tea and refreshments afterwards, in aid of unmarried mothers. It was something Caroline had been drafted into in a moment of absentmindedness.

  Martha Prebble’s face showed a sense of loss for a moment, as if she had meant something quite different. Then she recollected herself.

  “Naturally. But the vicar says it is our duty to help such people, whatever their station, however they came to—fall.”

  “Of course.”

  Caroline was delighted when the maid came in with the tea. “Perhaps we had better discuss the programme. Who did you say was going to address us? I’m afraid if you mentioned it I must have forgotten.”

  “The vicar,” Martha replied, and this time her face was unreadable. “After all, he is best qualified to speak to us on the subjects of sin and repentance, the weaknesses of the flesh, and the wages of sin.”

  Caroline winced at the thought, and privately thanked providence she had brought Emily and not Charlotte. Heaven only knew what Charlotte would have made of that!

  “Very suitable,” she said automatically. It ran though her mind that it was also totally useless, except to those who felt better for expressing such sentiments. Poor Martha. It must at times be very trying to live with so much rectitude. She looked across at Sarah. She wondered if it had ever occurred to her to consider such things? She looked so bland, so satisfied to agree. What thoughts were there behind her pretty face? She turned to Martha again, who was staring at Sarah. Was that grief in her face, hunger for a daughter she had never had?

  “Oh I do so agree with you, Mrs. Prebble,” Sarah was saying eagerly. “And I’m sure the whole community looks to you for a lead. I promise you we shall all be there.”

  “My dear, you may promise for yourself,” Caroline added in haste, “but you cannot for others. I shall certainly attend, but we cannot speak for Emily or Charlotte. I have an idea Charlotte has a previous engagement.” And if she had not, Caroline would soon contrive one for her. The evening would be bad enough without the kind of disaster Charlotte could cause with a few ill-considered remarks.

  They all turned to Emily, who opened her eyes with apparent innocence.

  “When did you say the occasion was, Mrs. Prebble?”

  “Next Friday week, in the evening
, at the church hall.”

  Emily’s face fell.

  “Oh, how most unfortunate. I have promised to do a favour for a friend, to visit an elderly relation with her; you understand of course that she would not make the journey alone. And visits mean so much to the elderly, especially when they are not in the best of health.”

  Emily, you liar, Caroline thought, afraid lest it show in her face. But she had to concede, lie though it was, Emily did it uncommonly well!

  And so the visit progressed: polite, largely meaningless conversation; excellent tea, hot and fragrant; rather gluey cakes; and everyone hoping the vicar would not return.

  They all walked home together, Sarah and Emily talking, Sarah the more. Emily seemed a little short of temper. Caroline came a step or two behind them, her mind still on Martha Prebble, and what manner of woman she must be to enjoy living with the vicar. Had he perhaps been very different when he was young? Heaven knew, Edward was pompous enough at times; perhaps all men were. But the vicar was infinitely worse. Caroline had often ached to laugh at Edward, even at Dominic; only a lack of courage had prevented her. Did Martha also long to laugh? It was not a face of laughter. In fact the more she thought about it, the more it seemed a face of suffering: strong-boned, reflecting deep feelings; not a face of peace.

  A month later the whole event was only an embarrassing memory. Charlotte was delighted to have been prohibited from attending and had agreed, as fervently as was politic, that she might well say something to cause ill-feeling—inadvertently, of course.

  Tonight it was gusty and cold for August. Mama, Sarah, and Emily had all gone to a further affair at the church hall, and since Martha Prebble had a summer cold, it was all the more necessary that it should be well supported by people like Mama, capable of organizing, seeing that those in charge of the catering attended to details, that things were done on time, and all was adequately tidied up afterwards. Again, Charlotte was happy to remain at home, with a quite genuine headache.

  She thought it might be caused by the heavy, stormy weather, and she opened the garden doors to let in the air. It worked surprisingly well, and by nine o’clock she felt much better.