The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [6]
“No, Edward, of course not. I’m afraid I am not able to control Mrs. Winchester. She seems . . . ” she trailed off, knowing it would serve no purpose. Edward had expressed his feelings and was already thinking of something else.
Maddock came in and informed them dinner was served.
The following day the storm had passed and the street was clean in the white April light, the sky bleached blue, and the garden tremulous with dew, every grass blade bright. Charlotte and Emily spent the morning occupied with the usual household duties, while Sarah went to visit the dressmaker. Caroline was closeted with Mrs. Dunphy, the cook, going over kitchen accounts.
In the afternoon Charlotte went alone to deliver the mufflers to the vicar’s wife. It was a duty she disliked, especially since it was a day on which the vicar himself was highly likely to be at home, and he was a man who always produced in her a profound depression. Still, there was no avoiding it this time. It was her turn, and neither Sarah nor Emily had seemed in the least likely to relieve her of it.
She arrived at the vicarage a little before half past three. It was mild after the storm and it had been a pleasant walk, something under two miles, but she was used to exercise, and the mufflers were not heavy.
The maid opened the door almost immediately. She was a severe, angular woman of indeterminate age, and Charlotte could never remember her name.
“Thank you,” she said politely, stepping in. “I believe Mrs. Prebble is expecting me.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll come this way.”
The vicar’s wife was sitting in the smaller back parlour and the vicar himself standing with his back to the black, smoking fire. Charlotte’s heart sank as soon as she saw him.
“Good afternoon to you, Miss Ellison,” he said with a very slight bow, more a bending of his back. “How pleasant to see you spending your time in small duties for others.”
“A very small thing, vicar.” She instinctively wanted to deny it. “Only a few mufflers my mother and sisters have made. I hope they will be . . . ” she trailed off, realizing she did not really mean anything, uttering empty words, noises to fill the silence.
Mrs. Prebble reached for the bag and took it. She was a handsome woman, broad-busted, strong, with fine, strong hands.
“I’m sure next winter there will be those who will be most grateful for them. I have frequently noticed that if your hands are cold, your whole body is chilled, haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose I have.”
The vicar was staring at her and she looked away quickly from his cold eyes.
“You seem a little chilled now, Miss Ellison,” he said very clearly. “I’m sure Mrs. Prebble would be happy to offer you a dish of hot tea.” It was a statement. There was no avoiding it without discourtesy.
“Thank you,” she said, without feeling.
Martha Prebble rang the little bell on the mantel and when the maid came back a moment later she requested the tea.
“And how is your mother, Miss Ellison?” the vicar enquired, still standing with his back to the fire, shielding them all from its heat. “Such a good woman.”
“Well, thank you, vicar,” Charlotte answered. “I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”
Martha Prebble looked up from the sewing she was doing.
“I hear your Aunt Susannah has returned from Yorkshire. I hope the change of air has done her good?”
Mrs. Winchester had lost no time!
“I believe so, but she was not ill, you know.”
“Things must be hard for her, at times,” Martha said thoughtfully. “Alone.”
“I don’t think Aunt Susannah minds,” Charlotte spoke before thinking. “I think she prefers it.”
The vicar frowned. The tea arrived. Obviously it had been already prepared and only awaited the signal.
“It is not good for a woman to be alone,” the vicar said grimly. He had a large, squarish face with a