The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [55]
“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