Cater Street Hangman by Anne Perry Page A

very unchristian, and unfeminine to hate anyone this way, and yet she felt it with a depth and rightness she could not deny.
    She looked up at the organ loft and saw Martha Prebble’s pale face as she played the closing hymn. She looked bored and unhappy, too.
    Sunday lunch was a miserable affair and the afternoon must, of course, be spent suitably for the Sabbath. Tomorrow Grandmama was returning from Susannah’s, which was not greatly to be looked forward to either.
    It would have seemed impossible, but Monday was worse. Grandmama arrived at ten o’clock, muttering dark prognostications about the downfall of the neighbourhood, of the gentle classes, of the world at large. Morality was going downhill at a great rate, and they were all destined for disaster.
    They had no sooner got her unloaded and upstairs in her own sitting room, when Inspector Pitt arrived again, bringing with him the silent Sergeant Flack. Sarah was out—something to do with some charitable cause or other. Emily was at the dressmaker’s being fitted for another occasion with George Ashworth. Really, she ought to have more sense! It was time she realized he was a gambler, a philanderer, or worse, and that nothing would come of it for her but the ruin of her reputation. And all the time Mama was upstairs trying to soothe Grandmama into a state where she could be left without making everyone’s life a plague.
    There was no one Charlotte wished to see less than Inspector Pitt.
    He came into the morning room, filling the doorway, coat flapping, hair untidy as always. His affability irritated Charlotte almost beyond bearing.
    “What do you want, Mr. Pitt?”
    He did not bother to correct her, to say that he was Inspector Pitt. This also annoyed her for she had intended it to slight him.
    “Good morning, Miss Ellison. The most perfect summer day. Is your father at home?”
    “Of course not! This is Monday morning. Like most other respectable people, he is in the city. Just because we are not working class does not mean we are idle!”
    He grinned broadly, showing strong teeth.
    “Charmed as I am by the pleasure of your company, Miss Ellison, I am here working also. But if your father is out, then I shall have to speak to you.”
    “If you must.”
    “I don’t investigate murder for pleasure.” His smile vanished, although his good humour remained. There was a hint of tragedy, even anger, in his voice. “There is little pleasure in it for anyone, but it must be done.”
    “I have already told you what little I know,” she said exasperatedly. “Several times. If you cannot solve it, then perhaps you had better give up, and pass it over to someone who can.”
    He ignored her rudeness.
    “Was she a pretty girl, Lily Mitchell?”
    “Didn’t you see her?” she said in surprise. It seemed a most elementary thing to have omitted.
    His smile was sad, as if he were sorry for her, as well as patient.
    “Yes, Miss Ellison, I saw her, but she was not pretty then. Her face was swollen and blue, her features distorted, her tongue—”
    “Stop it! Stop it!” Charlotte heard her own voice shouting at him.
    “Then will you be good enough to step off your dignity,” he said quite calmly, “and help me to find out who did that to her, before he does it to someone else?”
    She felt angry and hurt and ashamed.
    “Yes, of course,” she said quickly, turning away so he could not see her face, and even more, so she could not see him. “Yes, Lily was quite pretty. She had very nice skin.” She shivered and felt a little sick as she tried to picture that skin bloated and marked by violent death. She forced it out of her mind. “She never had spots or looked sallow. And she had a very soft voice. I think she came from somewhere in the country.”
    “Derbyshire.”
    “Oh.”
    “Was she friendly with the other servants?”
    “Yes, I think so. We never heard of any trouble.”
    “With Maddock?”
    She swung round to face him, her thoughts coming too