The Paying Guests(152)

She shed a few more tears – self-pitying ones, this time. ‘Forgive me, Chrissy,’ she said.

‘What can I do to help you?’

She wiped her face, blew her nose. ‘I’m just so horribly tired! It makes everything so black. I feel as though I could sleep and sleep. Then at night I can’t sleep at all.’

‘Sleep now, then. You can have the bed.’

‘No, I can’t do that. I ought to be at home, keeping an eye on my mother. But —’ Her tone grew humble. ‘May I just sit here for a little while? What were you doing when I arrived? Were you typing? Won’t you carry on?’

‘Well, but won’t the racket disturb you?’

‘No, I’d like it. Really, I would.’

So, looking doubtful, Christina returned to her desk, uncovered her typewriter, started work; and Frances curled up in the armchair and closed her eyes. The crackety-crack of the machine seemed loud at first. Then her mind began to detach itself from her surroundings and glide over the sound. She was aware as if distantly of the crampedness of the chair; her ear grew hot and painful where it was pressed against the back of it, but she seemed to lack the will or the energy to change her pose. She slept deeply for a time, awoke with a start, then slept deeply again. When she roused herself properly, she saw the furious orange bars of the electric fire, she saw the illuminated green shade of Chrissy’s desk lamp; and then she saw the clock. It was twenty past five. She oughtn’t to have stayed here so long. Anything might be happening at home.

But as she began the painful business of uncurling herself from the chair she heard a sound over the intermittent crack of the typewriter – a raised voice, out on the street. She had heard the voice two or three times already, she realised, along with the grumble of the Clipstone Street traffic; but only now, as it broke through to the front of her mind, did she take in what it was. A newsboy was calling the evening edition of one of the London papers. What was the headline he was shouting?

She looked over at Christina. ‘Chrissy, stop typing, will you?’

Christina jumped. ‘You’re awake! I thought – What’s the matter?’

‘Don’t you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’

Frances was sitting tensely. ‘There!’ The cry had come again. ‘What’s that he’s saying?’ But she knew. ‘He’s saying “Champion Hill”, isn’t he? Open the window!’

‘Stop it, Frances. You’re frightening me.’

‘Can’t you hear it?’

‘No, I —’

But, yes, now Christina caught it. The boy was drawing nearer. ‘Champion Hill Murder!’ he was calling; Frances had been right. But there was another word – what was it? Was it ‘Latest’? She wasn’t sure. She listened harder. The call was repeated. ‘Champion Hill Murder!’ – that was distinct. But the word that followed – was it ‘latest’? Again, she knew in her heart that it wasn’t. She knew! She struggled to get out of the chair, but Christina had already risen and gone across to the window. Frances watched her turn the catch. And once the sash was lifted the call came clear as anything: ‘Champion Hill Murder! Arrest!’

She and Christina stared at each other. Then Christina started into life – looking around for her purse, then giving up on that idea and tipping out a couple of coins from a china money-box on her desk. Then she hurried out of the flat, leaving the door open behind her.

Frances remained in the chair, too frightened to get to her feet, listening to the fading slap of the soles of Christina’s slippers on the stairs. This was it, she realised. This was the moment she’d been dreading and expecting since the beginning of it all. The police had arrested Charlie, or Lilian, or the two of them together. They had been patiently gathering their misinformation and now they had swooped. She closed her eyes. Oh, let it be Charlie, let it be Charlie – But that was no good! It couldn’t be Charlie! It couldn’t be anyone! Oh, Christ, let it be no one! Let it be no one! All a mistake!

Minute after minute seemed to go by before she heard the rapid return of slippered footsteps. She watched the open doorway, and finally Christina came racing through it with the paper in her hand and her short hair flying. She looked excited but relieved. ‘I think it’s all right,’ she said breathlessly. ‘They say a man’s been arrested, but —’

It was Charlie, then! ‘Charles Wismuth?’

She shook her head, still panting after her breath. ‘No, that isn’t the name.’

Frances almost snatched the paper from her. But the words jumped about in front of her eyes; she had to hand it back. Christina began to read aloud to her, in a hasty, telegraphic way.

‘“Sensational developments in the Champion Hill case… A young man has today appeared before the Lambeth magistrate, charged with the murder of Leonard Arthur Barber… The apprehended man”’ – her voice rose – ‘“has been named as Spencer Ward, a motor-mechanic, of Bermondsey.”’

Frances gaped at her. ‘What?’

‘“Police were led to Mr Ward after the sudden receipt of new information from an important witness in the case, Mr Charles Wismuth. Mr Ward, who has put in a plea of Not Guilty, is suspected of having committed the assault after taking exception to an intimacy between the married Mr Barber and his own fiancée, Miss Billie Grey —”’