“Oh no! Martha.” Her own fear was consumed in pity. “Oh, Martha, you misunderstood, you poor creature-”
But Martha had raised the wire, stretched taut between her hands, and was coming towards her, less than a yard away.
The spell was broken.
Charlotte screamed as loudly as her lungs would permit. She screamed Martha’s name over and over again. She swung the basket at her, at her face, hoping to scare her, to blind her temporarily, even to knock her over.
It seemed like eternity, and Martha’s hands were already on her arms, gripping her like steel, when the enormous figure of Pitt came out of the fog, and a second later, two constables. They grasped Martha, hauling her off, forcing her arms behind her back.
Charlotte collapsed against the street wall; her knees seemed to have no strength to support her and her hands were tingling with pins and needles.
Pitt bent down to her, taking her face in his hands very gently. “You blazing idiot!” he choked. “What in God’s name were you doing going to see her alone? Do you realize if I hadn’t gone to see you again today, and they had not told me where you’d come, you’d be lying on this very stone, dead like Sarah and all the others?”
She nodded and gulped, tears beginning to run down her face.
“Yes.”
“You-you-” He was lost for a word fierce enough.
Before he could struggle any further there were more heavy feet on the pavement, and a moment later the vicar’s solid form materialized out of the fog.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Who’s hurt?”
Pitt turned to him, bitter dislike in his face. “No one is hurt, Mr. Prebble-in the way you mean. The injury is a lifelong one, I think.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Explain yourself! Martha! What on earth are those policemen doing with Martha? She should be at home in bed. She is ill. I found her missing; that’s why I came out. You can let her go now. I shall take her home.”
“No, Mr. Prebble, you won’t. I’m afraid Mrs. Prebble is under arrest, and will remain with us.”
“Under arrest!” The vicar’s face twitched. “Are you insane? Martha could have done nothing wrong. She is a good woman. If she has been foolish-” His voice hardened a little in irritation, as if he had been trespassed against. “She is not well-”
Pitt stopped him. “No, Mr. Prebble, she is not. She is so ill, she has murdered and disfigured five women.”
The vicar stared at him, his face working as he struggled between disbelief and rage. He swivelled to stare at Martha, sagging, eyes wild, saliva on her lips and chin, policemen holding her up. He swung back to Pitt.
“Possessed!” he said furiously. “Sin!” His voice rose. “Oh frailty, thy name is woman.”
Pitt’s face was frozen with his own anger. “Frail?” he demanded. “Because she cares, and you don’t? Because she is capable of love, and you are not? Because she has weaknesses, hungers, and compassion, and you know none of these? Go away, Mr. Prebble, and pray, if you know how!”
The fog swirled in, and he was lost.
“I was sorry for her,” Charlotte said softly. She sniffed. “I still am. I didn’t even know women could feel like that-about other women. Please don’t be angry with me?”
“Oh, Charlotte-I-” He gave up. “Stand up. You’ll get cold sitting on the stone. It’s wet.” He pulled her to her feet, looked at the tears running down her face, then put his arms round her and held onto her as tightly as he could, not bothering to push the hair out of her eyes or to pick up the basket, just clinging to her.
“I know you’re sorry for her,” he whispered. “Dear God, so am I.”