Which may very well be where you belong!”
Charlotte’s face was white. “You’re a vicious and ugly old woman,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Grandpapa kept a mistress as well, to get away from you. Perhaps she was someone gentle. Perhaps that’s where Papa learnt it. He may not be so very much to blame. That’s something I’ve learned from your vulgar policeman; how much our parents make us what we are, how they influence not only our education, our wealth or poverty, our social standing, but our beliefs as well. When I look at you, I realize maybe Papa is not as much at fault as I thought.”
And with that she turned and went out the door, leaving Grandmama gasping for breath, her throat tight, her stays digging into her like knives. She cried out for help, hoping instinctively to elicit pity, but Charlotte had closed the door.
Luncheon was awful. It was eaten in almost total silence, and afterwards everyone made separate excuses to leave as soon as possible. Emily said she was going out to the dressmaker’s and would Mama accompany her, to prevent her being in the streets alone? Grandmama gave a vicious look to Charlotte and said she was retiring upstairs, as she felt profoundly unwell. Sarah expressed a desire to visit Martha Prebble, a sympathetic and virtuous woman. The vicar’s house might be a little self-consciously righteous, but freedom from carnal thoughts and the sins of the flesh were coming to appeal to her more and more.
“Sarah, you should not go alone,” Charlotte said quickly. “Do you wish me to come with you?” It was the last thing she wanted to do, but recently she had felt closer to Sarah than at any time since Dominic had first come to the house and she had been barely more than a child. She ached for Sarah’s sense of loss, her disappointment and shock. She felt some of it herself, because she too had loved Dominic. But for her the commitment was different, and she was amazed at herself for finding it so easy to recover. She feared her love had been a great deal shallower than she had imagined, a love based not on any knowledge but on her fancy. For Sarah it was different; hers was the loss of intimacy, of things shared, of fact, not dreams.
Sarah was looking at her. “No, thank you,” she said with the best smile she could manage. “I know how you dislike the vicar, and he may well be home. And if he is not, I would rather like to talk to Martha alone.”
“I’ll come and leave you at the door, if you like?” Charlotte pressed.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Then you would have to walk back alone. I shall be perfectly safe. I think perhaps this madman has gone anyway. Nothing has happened for ages. We were probably wrong. Probably he did come from the slums, and has now gone back to them.”
“Inspector Pitt didn’t think so.” Charlotte half stood up.
“Are you as taken with him as he is with you?” Emily raised her eyebrows. “He is not infallible, you know!”
“I shall go straight to the vicar’s, then from door to door on parish work,” Sarah said firmly. “And I dare say Martha will even accompany me. I shall be perfectly safe! Don’t fuss. I shall see you all this evening. Good- bye.”
The others departed also and Charlotte was left alone with nothing in particular to do. She searched quickly for a job to prevent her from allowing her mind to dwell on Papa or Dominic, the hurt that disillusion caused, the foolishness of building dreams around people-and behind it all the dark fear of the hangman, because in spite of what Sarah and Emily had implied, she did not think for a moment that he had returned to whatever slum one might delude oneself he came from. He was local, from Cater Street or its immediate proximity; she knew it in her heart.
It was twenty minutes to three, and she was busy writing a list of letters to distant relations to whom she had owed correspondence for some time and had put off as a chore, when Maddock came to say that Inspector Pitt was at the door, and wished to see her.
She felt a quite unreasonable pleasure, almost a sense of relief, as if he could somehow ameliorate her sense of disillusion; and yet she was also afraid of him. Everyone in the house knew about Papa’s behaviour, even though no one spoke of it to more than one other person at a time. It was never discussed except as a confidence, yet it seemed as if the house itself knew, and Pitt would only have to come into its walls to know also. And if Papa were capable of one such betrayal, one deceit of twenty-five years, what else might he not have kept from them? This other life that they knew nothing of might incorporate all sorts of things. Perhaps even he himself was not fully aware of it? That was the monstrous thought that had been at the back of her mind for hours. It was out now. Was it possible for a man to behave in such a way? Could he have had other mistresses? Perhaps have made some advances towards the murdered girls, and then, rather than be exposed, have killed them? Surely not! Papa? What on earth was she thinking? She had known Papa all her life. He had held her on his knee, played with her when she was a child. She could remember birthdays, Christmases, toys he had given her.
But all that time he had been intimate with that other woman less than a couple of miles away! And poor Mama had never known it!
“Miss Charlotte?” Maddock brought her back to the present again.
“Oh yes, Maddock, you had better ask him to come in, I suppose.”
“Do you wish me to bring any refreshment, Miss?”
“Certainly not,” she said, a little sharply. “I doubt he will be here more than a half hour at the most.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maddock withdrew, and a moment later Pitt came in. He was as untidy as always, and with the usual broad smile.
“Good afternoon, Charlotte,” he said cheerfully.
She gave him a frown to indicate she resented the familiarity, but it seemed to be entirely wasted on him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Is there some further way we can assist you in your enquiries? Do you feel any nearer success?”
“Oh yes, we have excluded many more that we believed to be possibilities.” He was still smiling. Did nothing penetrate the thickness of his skin?
“I’m glad to hear it. Tell me, do you have a large population to go through?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Something has upset you.” It was a statement, although touched with a note of enquiry.
“Several things have upset me, but none of them is in any way your concern,” she replied coolly. “They are not to do with the hangman.”
“If they upset you, then it concerns me.”
She turned round to find him looking at her with an expression in his eyes that was unmistakably gentle, and something that was more than gentleness. She had never seen such a look in any man’s face before, and it disturbed her profoundly. She felt the blood coming to her face and a totally unaccustomed warmth inside her. She looked away quickly, confused.
“That is courteous of you,” she said awkwardly, “but they are family matters, and no doubt will sort themselves out in due course.”
“Are you still worried about Emily and George Ashworth?”
She had entirely forgotten them, but it seemed an obvious escape from the truth, and he had offered it to her.
“Yes,” she lied. “I am concerned that he will hurt her. She is not of his social position, and he will tire of her presently; then she will find her reputation damaged, and have nothing to show for it but a deep hurt to her feelings.”
“You believe that because his social position is higher than hers he will not consider marrying her?” he asked.
It seemed a foolish question. She was a little annoyed with him for having asked.
“Of course he won’t!” she said tartly. “Men of his situation either marry for family reasons, or for money. Emily has neither.”
“Do you admire that?”
She turned round sharply. “Of course not! It is weak, contemptible. But that is the way it is.” Then she saw the smile on his face, and something else. Could it conceivably be hope? She felt her skin flame. It was ridiculous! She drew a deep breath and tried hard to control herself.
He was still staring at her, but there was self-mockery in his face now. Very gently he helped her out of her embarrassment.
