The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [117]
“I have to go, Mrs. Dunphy. Mrs. Prebble is ill, and apart from that, we need to know about the arrangements for Miss Sarah’s funeral.”
Mrs. Dunphy’s face dropped and Charlotte was afraid she was going to dissolve in tears. She patted her on the arm and made her escape quickly.
It was cold and clammy outside, and she walked as rapidly as possible, keeping her cloak wrapped tightly round her and drawn up round her neck. It stopped raining just as she turned the corner into Cater Street; the sky was dry but heavy when she reached the Prebbles’.
The maid let her in and she was led straight to Martha’s bedroom. It was very dark, full of furniture and surprisingly comfortless, so unlike her own with its pictures and ornaments and books with pictures in them, relics of childhood.
Martha was sitting propped up in bed with a treatise on the sermons of John Knox. Her face was haggard and she looked as if she had woken from a nightmare, its figures still shadowing her. She smiled as soon as she saw Charlotte, but it was an effort.
Charlotte sat down on the bed and put the basket between them.
“I’m so sorry to hear you are ill,” she said genuinely. “I’ve brought a few things. I hope they will comfort you.” She took the napkin off the basket to show her what was inside. “Mama and Emily send their regards, and Mrs. Dunphy, our cook you know, wished to be remembered to you, spoke of how much you do for everyone.”
“That was most kind of her,” Martha tried to smile. “Please thank her for me, and of course your mother and Emily.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Charlotte offered. “Is there anything you wish? Do you need any letters written, any small duties that I can help with?”
“I cannot think of anything.”
“Has the doctor called? You look exceedingly pale to me.”
“No, I don’t think I have any need to trouble him.”
“You should. I’m sure he would not regard it as a trouble, but rather his duty and his calling.”
“I promise you I shall send for him, if I do not recover soon.”
Charlotte put the basket down on the floor.
“I dislike having to mention such a subject when you are ill, and have already done so much for us, but Mama would like to know what arrangements are yet to be made for Sarah’s funeral, with regard to the church?”
An indescribable look passed over Martha’s face and again Charlotte had the uneasy feeling she had touched some deep nerve of pain.
“You don’t need to be concerned. Please tell your Mama it is all taken care of. Fortunately I was not overcome before I had finished everything.”
“Are you sure? It seems too much for you to have done. I do hope it was not work on our behalf that hastened your illness?”
“I doubt it, but it was the least I could do. It behooves us well—to—” her voice became strained and she licked her lips, “to do what we can for the dead. They are no longer of this world. They will put off the corruption of the flesh, rise to a just judgement, and, washed in the blood of Christ, the elect will sit at the feet of God forever. Sin will be done away with.”
Charlotte was embarrassed. She could think of no answer, but it seemed as if Martha were talking more to herself than to Charlotte anyway.
“It is our duty to clear away the dross that is left behind,” Martha went on, her hollow eyes staring somewhere over Charlotte’s shoulder at the wall. “All that corrupts and decays must be cleaned away, buried in the earth, and the words of cleansing said over them. That is our duty, our duty to the dead, and to the living.”
“Yes, of course.” Charlotte stood up. “Perhaps you should rest? You look feverish to me.” She leaned forward and put her hand onto Martha’s brow. It was