The news of the charge came through the official contact, not a message forwarded from a neighbour.
Celia had been charged with Martin’s murder. The financial offending was also being dealt with through the criminal process. The update told me what would happen next and whether anything was needed from me.
I wrote down the contact’s name, the date and what I’d been told. I did not assume that knowing the charge entitled me to the evidence behind it.
Beth had her own communication. She rang after receiving it, sounding steadier than on the day of the arrest.
“I keep thinking that should feel like an answer,” she said.
“It’s a different stage.”
“I know. I’m trying to get my feelings to read the same information.”
We laughed softly, then stopped.
In the days that followed, I learnt of the first court appearance and the case moving on for Crown Court proceedings. Celia was remanded in custody. There would be further hearings, decisions and time before a trial. Nobody gave me a promise that it would all be finished in a few weeks.
I did not attend the early hearings. I had work and a child, and no useful purpose in turning every stage into something I needed to witness personally. The updates came through the arrangements provided.
When people asked whether she was guilty, I said the case had not been tried. Some heard caution. Others heard disloyalty to Beth. I stopped trying to satisfy both groups.
The public reports were brief. They named the charge and the court process. Beneath one, strangers discussed Celia as if every act in her life had always pointed towards this moment. I closed the page before reading more.
At home, Tom asked whether we should change anything about our routines. I described the advice I’d received about contact and preserving material. We would follow it. We did not need to invent additional danger to prove we took the case seriously.
Andrew’s car remained across the road. Sometimes relatives visited. I nodded when we passed, but no longer offered to carry messages to or from Celia. If there was relevant contact, I would handle it through the proper route.
One afternoon, he stopped beside our gate.
“People keep asking me what she says.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
His face changed with relief.
We spoke briefly about practical things: work, his daughter’s visit, the cold weather. He did not become a witness for his wife’s character in our conversation. I did not become a source of information about Beth.
After he left, I felt sadness that the most decent thing I could offer was such a narrow exchange.
At the library, Marianne asked me to provide any confirmed dates I would need away from work when I received them. She did not ask for details of my evidence.
“We can plan around an absence,” she said. “We can’t plan around you worrying silently that you shouldn’t take one.”
I promised to tell her.
Beth continued working. The spring event discussion moved forward, though she kept space in her calendar because future obligations remained uncertain. She had support with the parts of Martin’s affairs that needed professional handling. I did not try to become knowledgeable about them through overheard fragments.
Vivienne’s own conduct remained a separate matter. She had provided the notebook and a fuller account, obtained advice and stepped away from authority. None of us treated Celia’s charge as a certificate clearing everyone else.
The financial review papers were preserved. Recovery would require its own process, and the confirmed loss did not turn into cash because it appeared in a report.
By the end of that week, I had a folder for official correspondence, a list of contacts and no useful estimate of how long waiting would feel.
Poppy noticed the folder and asked if it was work.
“Something I need to keep safe.”
“Can it go in the drawer so we can draw here?”
It could.
I put it away, cleared the table and gave her the good pencils.
The case had entered a place with formal names and rules.
Our lives still had mornings to get through.
The first drawing she made was of the four seasons occupying separate corners of the same page. Winter had a snowman and summer had an enormous sun. She asked whether spring could have rain and flowers together. I said that sounded accurate.
While she worked, I emailed Marianne: no trial date yet. Poppy borrowed my pen to draw the rain and refused to give it back until the page was soaked.