The Edge of the Fall (55 page)

‘We're lost,' Celia was saying. ‘We're completely lost.'

‘I thought Smithson would help,' Emmeline added.

‘I knew halfway through. I knew it. Arthur's completely damned. We might as well give up now. If he says he's guilty, will he get more mercy?' They were sitting in Mr Bird's offices. They'd had to push through the crowd to get to the car. At the end of the day, the judge had said they would be adjourning for a week. Another week for them all to suffer, Celia thought.

‘Maybe he should say that,' said Emmeline. ‘Say he did it and it was a mistake or something. It might be better for him.'

Celia thought of how she'd meant to go and see Smithson and Jennie, but never had done. She hadn't even sent them a present, she'd been so caught up in herself, Louisa, Tom, Arthur.

‘I wish I'd gone to see them,' she said.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Emmeline. ‘One tea visit isn't going to change anything. Smithson was asked to tell the truth and he did.'

Mr Bird held up his hand. ‘Ladies, please. Do not be alarmed. Things look worse than they are. Remember, Mr de Witt must be proved guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. And no proof has been given. All Mr Cedric's conversations with the witnesses have shown us is that Mr de Witt had an odd way of winning his wife and was not always kind to her when he did win her. True of half of the men in England, I expect. And there has been the suggestion that he wanted her money. Again, most of those with money are not loved for their charm alone. All of this might be a little unsavoury, but it is not a crime.'

‘But Mrs Merling. And Smithson.'

‘Yes, Arthur wanted to frighten her. But the judge sees hundreds of husbands here who have actually beaten their wives. Banging about to imitate angry men is hardly a crime. No one has said, remember, that Mr de Witt exposed Miss Deerhurst to violence. He may have been odd and neglectful. But that is hardly enough to see him hang.'

That word. Hang. Arthur, legs dangling as he kicked for air.

‘He killed the cat. That's what they think.' Celia didn't know what to believe. It looked true, as if Arthur really had done it. But she couldn't believe it. ‘Surely—'

‘Oh, don't start on about that mystery man again,' said Emmeline. ‘Even if he did exist, we'll never find him.'

Celia sat back in her chair. The pretty dark-haired girl came in with some papers for Mr Bird.

‘Thank you, Miss Sillen.' She smiled at Celia as she left. Celia envied her. Her life must be so simple, working for Mr Bird in the day, returning to flatmates, washing her hair, thinking about how to find a fiancé. She surely had a gentleman, such a pretty girl. Celia wondered if she were ever cast down, reading about all the awful cases Mr Bird had. Then she told herself,
Of course not
.
Miss Sillen was young, she thought these things would never come to her, she was like Celia had been once.

‘It was all so terrible today,' said Celia.

Mr Bird shrugged. ‘A man cannot be hanged for killing a cat. Luckily for us. Still, I think I may have to do a little further investigation. Just to make sure our case is absolutely watertight.'

‘But you said it was.'

‘Then I shall make it more so.'

They took a cab from Mr Bird's. It was a terrible extravagance, Emmeline said as they waited for it, but they deserved it. Today had been too much. They needed to relax. Celia agreed, imagined them leaning back in the plush interior. But instead, something else came over them when they climbed into the cab. They began arguing, the day's anger buzzing from their mouths like furious flies. Emmeline berated Celia for fainting, Celia argued back. By Holborn, Celia had had enough. ‘I'm getting out here,' she said. ‘Then I am walking. I need the air.'

‘Oh, you're so
dramatic
.'

‘I don't care what you think. I'm going to walk. If I come to yours at all.'

Celia slammed out of the carriage, jumped down to the wet ground. She began to walk, the anger pounding in her brain. She knew, objectively, that she and Emmeline were just lashing out, throwing around their fear that Arthur would be hanged. And yet, still, she hated her sister at that moment, wanted her to beg forgiveness. Weeping, she stamped hard on the cobbles as if beating down all the failures of their stupid, deluded, hateful de Witt family. The rain was spotting around her. She didn't care. She hoped it poured down on her and everyone else for the rest of their lives.

FORTY

London, February 1926

Celia

How do you pass a week when everyone thinks your brother is going to be sentenced to death? Celia meant not to read the newspapers, but every time she went out, there were sellers shouting out about Arthur and every stall was covered with the stories. She saw them even in the shops that didn't sell papers: chemists, dress shops, toy shops, all of them full of people carrying papers screaming out
Brutal Murder!
She walked out and she could sometimes hardly believe that the city continued as it did, that people were driving or eating, working in factories, looking after children, clerks assessing legal documents, teachers marking work, that not every one of them was caught up in the same trial, the forthcoming days which would decide if Arthur lived or died.

The reporters weren't in Bedford Square any more – they'd all moved to the court – but still they might be waiting anywhere. The pictures of her and Emmeline in the paper were so grainy that she thought no one would recognise her. Still, you never knew, people might. They tried to stay inside as much as they could. But the children had to play and there were things to buy. She walked out with her hat pulled low, chose different shops each time. Still, they knew, she thought. They saw her. She scurried back, fast as she could, clutching the bag of bread, eggs and the rest.

Tom wrote to her, asked to meet. She agreed to go to the British Museum to meet him, hoping no reporters would see.

‘Hello, Celia,' he said. They were standing in the great hall,
tourists wandering past with maps. They'd probably read the newspapers too, pored over the articles about Arthur.

‘How are you?'

She shook her head, couldn't speak. The last time she'd seen him, in Waterloo, she'd been so furious at his unspoken
it's just as well
it had sent her dashing across the station desperate to escape him.

‘I'm sorry about what's happened,' he said. She stared past him at a vase, right in the middle of the room.

‘You were in there,' she said. ‘You were watching. I thought I saw you.'

‘I had to come, when I read about it.'

She nodded. ‘Everyone's read about it. They've probably read about it in Timbuctoo.'

‘I've been writing. You never answer my letters.' She wanted to stand away from him, far, didn't want their clothes to touch. Their skin had touched, the two of them nothing but bodies, their arms around each other.

She shook her head. ‘I don't. Sorry.'

‘Because of what I did. You hate me. I understand.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't.' And the words were true, she didn't. Not any more. Not hate. But not
like
either. She'd told him, let the words out in the station:
I had a baby
.

‘Shall we walk?' he said. She nodded. They could look at things, so they didn't have to look at each other. She followed him towards the Egyptian section. They stood in front of a mummy.

‘Sorry that you fainted the other day,' he said. ‘It must all be a shock.'

‘He's innocent. I know he is. They're just twisting the words.'

‘They do that, I suppose.'

She looked at him. She could tell him, here in the middle of the museum.
Michael's still alive. I can't find him. Help me
. The words flew in her mind. But then what if Michael could never be found? She felt her face wrinkle in pain.

‘Poor Celia,' he said. ‘I'm sorry.'

A tourist pushed past her for a better view of the mummy.
‘I can't bear to read the newspapers. I know what they'll say, German family fallen low. How did they ever let us in? We're poor criminals who everyone hates. People call Arthur a murderer, want him to hang.'

‘It doesn't matter what they think.'

‘It does! Even if they do find him innocent, people will never forget. They'll always think he was a murderer.'

‘The truth will prevail, I'm sure,' he said. ‘I'm sure.'

‘I hate all the people watching. It's like it's a play for them.'

‘It must be hard.'

She gazed at the mummy. Surely the colours weren't so bright, years later. They'd repainted it, they had to have done. ‘I hate it that it's free entertainment. I know what it must seem like. I can see it. The rich family brought low, a parade of ordinary people telling the truth about them. Even you probably think he's guilty.'

‘No, Celia. But it's up to the jury, isn't it? Listen, shall we go and get some tea?'

‘I really can't, I should go back soon. Emmeline needs me.'

‘Well, I will say it now. Do you think you should – Celia – should you . . . you know . . . prepare yourself for the worst?'

And even though she knew he was sympathetic, that he meant well, all the frustration, the anger and the misery rose. ‘No! You're just like all the rest! He's innocent. They're all lying.' She tried to fight her voice down.

He gazed straight ahead. ‘Why would they lie?'

‘I don't know.' She looked at him, thought of the boy she'd played with in the grounds of Stoneythorpe, the young man holding Missy's hand at her parents' party. She thought of Heinrich telling him to leave. But it wouldn't work. The awful words, the worst words, were rising in her and they had to come.

‘Well, you'd know about being a murderer,' she said. ‘Wouldn't you?'

She watched his face crash, the angry man turn into the boy, crumpled, fallen. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then she couldn't watch any more. She turned on her heel, ran away, pushing through the crowds, down the steps and out of the museum.

That night she was sharp with the twins, she couldn't help it. Lily wanted to practise reading her book and Celia couldn't read it – didn't want to. Albert was jumping on the cushions, playing with his trains. ‘What's got into you, Celia?' said Emmeline.

She needed distraction, she decided, the next day. She needed something else to think about. She'd received a letter from Jonathan Corrigan and shoved it in the drawer. Jonathan, Michael's friend from university, who'd been so kind to her when he'd visited Stoneythorpe before the war. The man she'd been with years later when she'd learnt the truth about Michael's death. The man she'd offered herself to.

He said he was in London, was there anything she needed? She wrote to him, gave him her address.
It would be good to see you
, she said. She sent it off, before she could regret it. Who cared if he thought she was forward. Her brother was about to hang.

Three days later, she got back from shopping and he was outside the building.

‘Celia! I've been looking for you! I rang the bell up there but there was no answer.'

He looked older than he had, but not the nine years it had been. His hair was thinning and his skin was wrinklier, tight around the eyes. But it was still him, handsome, brash, confident, American Jonathan.

She gazed at him.

‘Thanks for your letter. So our fame has reached America?'

He nodded. ‘Sorry.'

‘Are they covering it a lot over there?' The bag of shopping was hurting her hand.

‘A little.'

‘You came all the way here. You're staying in a hotel?' But he was rich, she supposed, doing these things didn't matter to him.

‘Your family was kind to me. I'm sorry for what's happened.' She blushed a little to think how he must see her, dowdy in Emmeline's brown coat, ugly shoes, no make-up and a bag of shopping. She hadn't even bothered to do her hair that morning, had pulled it back into a bun. ‘I am. I've been at the trial but I
didn't want to disturb you.' She nodded. He looked up. ‘Is this your flat?'

‘My sister's. Emmeline, you remember? I live with her.'

‘I didn't see your parents at the trial?'

She shook her head. ‘They can't face it. It's just me and Emmeline.'

‘Arthur must be pleased that you're there. Listen, let me help you with your bag,' he said, leaning towards the shopping. She let him pick it up.

‘Emmeline – there are three children now.'

‘Well, that's a piece of nice news. Do you have any more shops to visit?'

She shook her head. ‘I've finished now.' She smiled. ‘You could come with me,' she said. ‘You could come with me and see Emmeline.'

He nodded. ‘Why not? She might be surprised seeing me, for the first time in – what – nearly thirteen years?'