The Edge of the Fall (49 page)

PART SIX

THIRTY-SIX

London, February 1926

Celia

Arthur's trial was set for February. On the third of the month, Celia and Emmeline put on their best coats and hats and took a taxi to the Old Bailey. They passed queues of people on the street. ‘They've all come for us,' said Emmeline. ‘Haven't they?'

‘Maybe another trial,' Celia lied.

The time had dragged by so slowly. Celia had remained living with Emmeline. She'd visited Arthur every month, the only visits they were allowed. They weren't supposed to tell the twins, but they'd picked up on it anyway. Lily listened to everything, Celia could see, and Albert was always asking what was happening with Uncle Arthur. Celia had been avoiding her parents – for every time she saw them, they said they were bowed down by the mortgage, could never pay it.
What choice did we have?
she said angrily to herself.
It was the only way
.

The newspapers had been worse than ever, pages and pages on Arthur and the evil of the family. When the police gave them the information about the marriage, they splashed it all over their pages. Most of it scandalous, but in ones with a reputation, she read lengthy articles about cousin marriage – once the ballast of the Victorians, now a source of decay.

Celia told herself to get used to it, that they'd find another new target, the minute the trial was over. Then they found pages of stuff about Louisa in London, speaking to all the people she went to parties with. They said she'd made an exhibition of herself over some man, annoyed all the other women.

‘Look!' Celia said to Emmeline. ‘Maybe that's why she was followed. Someone was angry or jealous of her.'

Emmeline shook her head. ‘Why don't you stop this, Celia? Even Mr Bird says there's no point in it.'

With the trial, she'd had letters. Tom, Waterton and two other girls from her ambulance days, two from Jonathan in New York (the news had reached America, then). They all said the same thing: you must be strong. Don't listen to what others say. We're thinking of you. She knew how kind it was of them to write when others were shunning them. But she couldn't reply, just couldn't find the words to say anything to any of them. Her life was on hold – all of their lives were on hold – until after the trial, when they could all be free again.

Emmeline had given birth to a little boy, Euan.

‘I'm not doing it because Mr Bird
said
so,' she said crossly, when Celia had asked about her expanding stomach a few months after their meeting with the solicitor. ‘It just happened. We were always planning it. Nothing to do with what he said.'

Celia had worried that he would be a child tinged with sadness, difficult and angry, since he was being born into a house in which someone was always crying, or arguing. But he was a bonny child, content to sit and watch, reaching for light in the sky, learning to smile.

Euan's birth – Celia was ashamed to admit it – had been of help. Mr Bird had been right. There had been recent articles about Arthur's ‘respectable family', words about Emmeline's children and even some notes about Celia's ambulance days. When she wheeled Euan out in the pram, she blushed with guilt at how a child of such innocence could have become part of a thing so dreadful.

Mr Janus was looking after all three of the children that day – his mother had agreed to come to help, which surprised Celia. She'd barely even remembered that Mr Janus had a mother, since she never visited – and she hadn't been at the wedding. ‘We don't get on,' he said darkly. ‘But she said she's going to stay until the end of the trial. Three is too much for me!' Anyway, he had hardly been in this last year, absent even more than ever. He said
that there was a big revolution coming – so, he said, Celia and Emmeline could stop telling him to stay at home. As important as the trial was, this was more so. If they let the ruling classes get away with it, everyone would be dead and destitute in a year. He locked up papers in the cupboard, hurried out late at night. Celia held Euan tight trying not to think where he might be.

Rudolf and Verena were not coming. Verena said the trial would be too much for them. Celia had supposed they were right. Her father was old now, shook, looked confused. He might shout something out, get too upset. Though now, just the two of them, huddled together, she wished that their parents were there.

The court was a dusty cavern of wood, more crammed than she could possibly imagine. They were ushered into the area reserved for families. The officer had said that, because it was only them, the court would have to open it up to others. Not members of the public, of course, he said. Court officials.

‘With all the public interest, we can't have any empty seats,' he said. ‘People won't like it.'

There were throngs of people above them, men, women, some who looked like children, dozens of hats and coats, pairs of gloves, newspapers, cardigans, shawls. Celia craned up. The women had packed up their handbags this morning, put in fresh tissues (because you're sure to cry), throat sweets to stop the cough, lipstick, even a pencil and paper, thinking they might want to take notes. The men had picked up their umbrellas, checked the money in their wallets and then all of them had come, on trains, autobuses, taxis, on a day when they could have been doing any number of things: earning money, caring for their children, walking in the park. Instead, they were crammed into the Old Bailey, craning for a glimpse of Arthur de Witt, predicting whether or not he would hang.

‘Don't look at them. Don't let them see you know they're there,' Emmeline said. Celia gazed ahead at a clerk shuffling papers on a wooden bench. ‘Nothing would please them more than to see us cry. So we won't.'

They stared ahead. Celia supposed somewhere there must be some of the more distant relations of Lord Deerhurst, perhaps even the Coventry ones, if they would deign to come into a public court. Her mind whirled around the new couple – the pair who had come forth and said that Arthur pushed Louisa. Were they in the queue? Celia had built him up, this main witness, the man who held Arthur's future in his hand. At night, unable to sleep, she had conjured him in her mind, a tall man, sharp and angry, well dressed, forceful. The type of man who would always say – no, I'm sure, it was
this
way. Who would always be certain, never discouraged, like the most determined type of teacher.

‘Remember,' Celia hissed to Emmeline. ‘We don't need to worry. Mr Bird said.' Over the last months, Mr Bird had been even more confident of a win. He'd told them that he'd barely have to do a thing – the case would simply win itself. ‘And, after all, we have the most splendid news of all,' he said.

Celia squeezed Emmeline's hand. Her sister was still feeding the baby. She'd strapped down her bosoms that morning, filled her clothes with tissues, said she was going to have to squeeze the stuff out in the WC at break time. ‘I can't simply keep my coat on,' she said. ‘That won't look dignified.'

‘I'm sure people will understand,' said Celia.

‘You heard what Mr Bird said. Every appearance matters.'

‘I suppose so, sister.'

The hubbub of the room had reached something of a crescendo. Celia looked down and saw that Mr Bird and his clerk were in place. Across from them was a thin-looking man in a suit, the prosecution, she supposed. He was rather colourless, pale hair, pale eyes, spindiy-looking hands. Her heart rose again. Someone of such an unprepossessing appearance couldn't possibly win against Mr Bird.

Then there was a ripple of noise in the room. Arthur had come through the door, escorted by a police officer. He was looking resolutely at his hands. The police officer beside him was as upright as the Tower of Westminster. Every month Celia had seen him, Arthur had looked worse. Now, he looked slightly better,
more spirited. It was the waiting, Celia supposed. That had been the worst.

‘Poor Arthur,' murmured Emmeline.

‘He'll be fine.' Mr Bird had lined up a good set of witnesses – character testimonials from the minister at Stoneythorpe, a few schoolmasters, some business partners of de Witt Meats. The only problem, Mr Bird had said, was that Arthur hadn't actually
fought
in the war. But they were going to get round that by saying he'd been in Paris and hadn't been allowed to leave – which Celia supposed was more or less true.

The clerk banged his hammer on the wood. In filed the jury, ten men, two women, one short in a grey suit and the other tall in brown, schoolmistress types.

‘They shouldn't have women!' hissed Emmeline.

‘Stop that!' Celia squeezed her hand. She'd read an article about how women were more sympathetic.

The clerk banged his hammer again. In came the judge looking almost like a child's picture of one, red gown, large wig, gold chains. Celia could hardly see his face. He seated himself on his chair, rather like a king on a throne.

‘Mr Cedric. If you could begin?'

The colourless man stepped forward. People above them hushed. Celia thought they'd surely be disappointed, for he was hardly going to put on much of a show. He started droning in a dull-sounding voice about the events of that terrible afternoon, all the evidence everyone had read about before. Celia clasped Emmeline's hand. Arthur continued to stand, head bowed. The policeman beside him was scratching his wrist. Celia watched the jury. Both women were taking notes more intently than the men.

She looked at her hand, found it was shaking. She pushed it into her sleeve.
Why are you doing that?
she wanted to say.
You're not the one being judged
.

There was a ripple of movement and gasps as the first witness came in. She was a stolid-looking woman of about fifty or so, dressed in dark blue. She gazed around the room, uncertain. She stated her name for the clerk and said she was Mrs Betts,
housekeeper of the White Cliffs Hotel. Mr Cedric rose to interview her. In response to his questions, she said that it was a medium-sized hotel, thirty bedrooms, respectable. Mr and Mrs de Witt had taken the second most expensive room – at the front with a balcony and a sea view. She said they were very respectable, quiet. Mr de Witt sometimes walked alone, Mrs de Witt stayed in the hotel alone. She didn't talk much.

‘Would you say that Mr de Witt was kind to his wife?' said Mr Cedric.

‘I wouldn't have any reason to think otherwise. They seemed happy enough. I didn't see much of them.'

‘But going out alone and leaving her – that was hardly
very
kind, was it?'

‘Plenty of couples seem to work that way and rather like it,' she said. ‘I don't make it my business to enquire.'

On and on they went, Mr Cedric pushing her to say that Arthur was cruel, she refusing to say. He gave her up to Mr Bird, who asked her another set of questions. She remembered that Arthur had even bought Louisa a large bunch of flowers.

‘Well, that was hardly the act of a cruel husband, was it, Mrs Betts?'

‘No, sir. I wouldn't have said he was cruel, sir. Not at all. Seemed fonder of her than most husbands.' He questioned her further and she said she'd seen him squeeze her arm on many occasions, guide her to the breakfast room. ‘They seemed fond enough.'

‘So he bought flowers, held her arm, helped her to her seat.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘He escorted her out, waited for her, spoke gently to her.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Not the act of someone wishing to murder his wife.'

‘Not at all, sir.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Betts. No further questions.'

The morning progressed. Mrs Betts was followed by three maids from the hotel who said variously that they'd thought Arthur a respectable husband, kinder than most, hadn't seen anything amiss, thought him rather a pleasant, good-looking fellow and
her a happy wife. The court then adjourned for lunch. Celia and Emmeline sat on the family bench, next to a pack of journalists scribbling. ‘They should be somewhere else,' said Celia, miserably. ‘We can't talk here.'