The Edge of the Fall (43 page)

She scrambled to put on her coat and then followed him as he hurried out of the door. ‘I know just the place,' he was saying as they ran down the stairs. ‘You'll love it.' Outside, the street was quiet. He seized her arm and pulled her forward. ‘It's a really fun place. The real Paris.'

They walked along the streets, turning right, left, then around a corner, past a church. He tugged her into a dark alleyway and then through a door guarded by two men in suits. Arthur spoke to them in quick French – and they were waved through. She followed him down a dark stairway to a room decorated in red, low chairs dotted around tables. People were everywhere, tall men, handsome women. There was a woman in a purple gown singing in the corner. The noise drove into her mind. She smiled, resisted the urge to clutch Arthur's arm. He ushered her through to a small table in the corner.

‘Wait there. I'll go and get some more wine.'

‘I'm not sure I need any more,' she was saying, but her voice was drowned by the noise and Arthur was off to the bar. She waited for him, staring at the couples around her. She supposed they'd think she was Arthur's lady friend, his lover. The man next to them was fondling the woman's leg. She was pretty, a little like Marie-Rose, and didn't seem to mind. Celia watched the singing woman, admired her piled-up yellow hair, red lips. In comparison, Celia felt lanky and dowdy. No one would pay her money to sing in the corner of a bar.

Questions about Louisa were coursing through her mind. Arthur sat down, a waiter following behind him with bottles and
glasses. She watched the dark wine splash into the glass, pulled her mind free. She'd ask something else. ‘What were all these people doing during the war?' she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Same as now, I imagine.'

‘But the Germans were here.'

He lifted the glass to his mouth. ‘Sometimes they were. They were everywhere in Paris.'

‘It must have been awful.'

He shrugged. ‘But we are German too, remember, They weren't so bad. I sold them things. Have some wine.'

‘I always thought you did.'

‘So did everyone. Nothing wrong in it. They were the only ones with money. Anyway, you don't need Mr Janus, your old tutor, or whatever you call him, to remind you that the whole war was a lie. The British were just spoiling for a fight, wanted to make themselves look like heroes and keep their empire. And now look how they have succeeded. Paris is in ruins.'

‘It's not that bad.' Her mind was dizzying with the Empire, trying to make the separation between how Arthur talked about the war and the rich and Mr Janus talked about the war and the poor.

‘Well, you should have seen it before.'

‘I wish I had.'

He looked at her, turned away. ‘It would have been different.' She grasped his hand. The voice of the woman pounded into her head. ‘I'm sure you can come home now. I'll keep the secret about how she died. No one will know.'

‘The police tried to arrest me. I hate them.'

‘Yes, but that was ages ago. You can come home now. That is, if you want to.'Why would he, she thought, when he had Marie-Rose and rooms and the city of Paris to explore – and whatever he was doing for his business?

‘I like it here. As you can see. But even if I wanted to, I couldn't. They still suspect me. The minute I arrived at Dover, they'd haul me in again and then I'd be in their hands. They'll ask so many questions and muddle me and tell me I'm a liar.'

The woman was still singing, the high notes carving into Celia's mind. ‘Well, Arthur, they might for just a few days. But then you'll be free. They haven't got any proof of anything. And if they really ask you, you can tell the truth about the suicide.'

‘I'd never do that. It would break Mama's heart.'

‘You could ask the police to keep it secret.'

He shook his head. ‘Why would they do that? No, Celia, it would be a mistake.'

She nodded. ‘The truth is that you looked after her.'

He shook his head. ‘I did.'

She sat back, sipped her drink, gazed past him at a woman swaying as she danced, the men who were staring at her, the couple at a table at the front who were arguing. The drink was going to her head, she could feel it. She sat back, heart thumping. She drank again and the stuff was hot in her throat.

‘They'd only have to see you to understand how kind you were to her. They'd only have to hear you talk.'

He shrugged. ‘That may be. But I need to keep something secret from them.'

‘From who?' she said, gazing past him still.

‘The police.'

‘What would you need to keep secret from them?' She was watching the woman, not really listening to Arthur. She was so beautiful, bright red lips, short hair. The sparkles on her dress caught the light. She wondered what her home was like; surely, she thought, someone so beautiful wouldn't live in a normal apartment, with a kitchen, a bathroom. She smiled at her, but the woman didn't see. The music danced in her mind, shone at her eyes.

Arthur coughed. ‘Because we were married.'

The music stopped. The place stopped. All the talking and laughing, words, shouts, all froze. She stared at him. ‘You were married?'

He nodded. ‘Louisa and I.'

She stared at him. ‘You married her?' The room was still, as if a thousand spells had been thrown over it. The people were silent.

He nodded. ‘I thought that would make her happy. Make her feel safe.'

Her head throbbed.
Married
. ‘I thought you were looking after her. I thought you were—'
Friends
, she wanted to say.

‘I was looking after her. It seemed to be the best way.'

She gripped the seat, her heart flooded with pain. ‘When did you get married? How?'

‘We did it quickly in London, before we left. Louisa wanted it that way. Not a huge wedding with a gown and bridesmaids and a banquet.'

‘She didn't want us there?'
Louisa wanted it that way
.

He shrugged. ‘I don't know.' He was only being kind. Louisa hadn't wanted them there, she had wanted to marry without them.

‘She had a wedding dress?'

‘She had a blue dress she liked, she wore that. She didn't want a fuss. She just wanted to feel safe.' He put his head in his hands. ‘And I couldn't even give her that. I tried so hard.'

She felt as if she was spinning. When had Arthur
really
married her? When had he taken her to his bed, used her as a wife?

‘But you were cousins—' Then she stopped. Tom and she were cousins too. She bowed her head.

‘So you see why the police would suspect me.'

‘Why?' The things she was meant to think had been lost to her.

‘You know.'

‘No.' But then she did, she heard Emmeline and Verena speaking, talking about Mr Pemberton trying to understand Louisa's accounts, talking about the police and words about Arthur's motives.

‘Celia. I'm sure they've talked about it at home.' Arthur spoke slowly, as if explaining things to a child. She nodded, hearing the words.

The piano was swooping. She gazed at him. ‘Because you have rights to her money, if you were married.'

‘That's it. I never touched it. It wasn't about that. But you know how they'd think.'

‘You kept it secret.' The woman had stopped singing now, the pianist speeding over the keys.

‘We were going to tell you, but after Louisa . . . After she died, I had to leave. You must see that.'

‘Yes.' And he was right, of course he was right; she thought of the police, talking to them about the accounts and marriage and motive. How much money Louisa had. All the questions they asked about his debts. She wanted to cry. A small, swollen spot of doubt formed in her heart, small as the last few drops of water in a glass.

The words burst out of her. ‘
Did
you want her money?'

He looked at her in shock. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I didn't! Celia, how can you ask such a thing? Don't you know your own brother?'

And she was immediately ashamed. Of course. He was her brother. She was wrong and sinful asking him such questions. She felt filled with shame.

‘That's why I have to stay here. Even you suspect me.'

‘I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me.' She took it all in. ‘What if they find out you were married?'

‘No one knows. Except you.'

‘Except me?'

‘You're the only one.'

She reached out and clutched his hand then, tight, pressing his fingers, squeezing them so that the ring he wore on his little finger was crushing into hers, the whorls on his knuckles imprinting on her palms, as though she could send back the burden he had just passed her. But it was no good, the words were part of her now, burrowed deep in her heart.

THIRTY-ONE

London, August 1924

Celia

‘Celia!' the voice shouted. ‘Over here.'

She looked but couldn't see anyone. It was probably some man shouting for someone else. The station was full of shouting, after all. The noise echoed up to the steel girders in the roof. Or perhaps it was just that she was so tired, so weary of words, she didn't want to speak any more. It was only two weeks since she'd been wandering around the Paris station, looking for Arthur. She felt years older. Her brother had hugged her goodbye, told her to come and visit again. He talked of how much of a relief it had been to share things.
But you weighed me down
, she thought now, the train coming in from somewhere or other.
You weighed me down with your secret and now it's heavy on me
.

She looked around Waterloo station. All the way on the train she'd been saying to herself:
don't tell them, you mustn't tell them
. Arthur would stay in Paris, for how long she didn't know. For ever, maybe. And every time her family puzzled over why he wouldn't come home, she'd have to shrug.

‘Celia!' the voice shouted again. ‘Here!' The voice sounded closer. Now, she thought, she didn't even want to turn round, to see some friend of her family or maybe even a brother or friend of someone from school. She looked forward.

‘Celia.' There was a hand on her shoulder. The voice was Tom's. She turned around and gazed at his face. His eye was still faintly scarred, his face red with the exertion of rushing to her. He was wearing a smart suit and brown coat, cane tipped with silver. He
looked like a man from a newspaper advertisement – some sort of happy life.

‘Long time,' he said. ‘How are you, Celia?'

She gazed into his face, couldn't speak. Surely, she thought, surely he must notice. He must see how different she was, how her face, her body, her whole soul had changed. She held out her hand. It was moving towards his, slowly. She wanted to pull it back. In spite of herself, she felt a warm flash of vanity, wishing she'd taken more time with her hair this morning, wasn't so worn after so many late nights with Arthur.
Treachery
, she told her heart, catching it fretting about her unkempt hair. Michael had been killed in France, didn't have the chance to worry about his hair.

‘How are you?'

She couldn't speak. Some words were in her throat, thickened and afraid. A tear – tears were swelling. She shook her head.

‘How are you here?' Her head filled with thoughts of their baby. Michael holding her hand, his little palm wrapped in hers. She clasping him close to her, promising to keep him safe for ever. Tom was talking about the weather and his journey. She stared at him as people billowed around them.

What if, she thought, what if she stood there and said,
I had your child. I gave birth to your son and it tore my body and then they took him away. I cried over him and walked all over London to spiritualists and mesmerists and palm readers – and then one said he was actually alive. Could you help me find him? Please
.

He was still talking. ‘I wanted to see you. I found out you were arriving today in London. I asked your mother. I wasn't expecting her to tell me but I think she thinks you need cheering up.'

Celia stared at him.
Cheering up? By the man who killed her brother?
Then she thought again. Perhaps a man like Tom could help her find Michael, think of ways she hadn't, find documents or talk to people. Or perhaps he couldn't. She could give Tom her hand now and at least he would listen to her. Or, then, perhaps not. Maybe he might say the child couldn't have lived, he was weak, as they said. Or maybe even he might not want their child
to have lived. A smart man like him. A child would only weigh him down. She stared at him, miserably, couldn't speak.

‘How was Paris? Did you see Arthur? How is he?' Tom was talking fast now, spewing out words. He didn't dare say,
let us find somewhere to sit down
, because that's when she'd realise that she shouldn't be there, she'd break away and his chance would be ended.