The Betrayal

by Kate Furnivall

  Praise for Kate Furnivall:

  ‘Fabulous’ Lesley Pearse

  ‘Wonderful . . . hugely ambitious and atmospheric’ Kate Mosse

  ‘The definition of a terrifically well-written page-turner’ Dinah Jeffries

  ‘A thrilling plot . . . Fast-paced with a sinister edge’ The Times

  ‘Gripping . . . poignant, beautifully written . . . will capture the reader to the last’ Sun

  ‘Truly captivating’ Elle

  ‘Perfect escapist reading’ Marie Claire

  ‘An achingly beautiful epic’ New Woman

  ‘A rollicking good read’ Telegraph

  To Carole,

  my twin sister,

  with love

  CHAPTER ONE

  PARIS, 1930

  There is blood on my hands.

  I am not speaking figuratively, you understand. Literally. Under my nails. Embedded in the soft valleys between my fingers. Strings of scarlet, glossier than paint, are dripping from me on to the Persian rug, ruining it. I stare at them, bewildered. My mind jams.

  Where has it come from?

  I lift my head and instantly hear a loud thumping sound deep inside my ears, like a drum beaten in an empty room.

  Lift my head?

  Why am I lying on the floor? I sit up, heart racing, and wait for the room to stop performing handstands around me, while I struggle to remember what happened. But a black hole lies where my memory should be. I shake my head to drive it away, but pain tramples through my mind and when I look again the black hole is still there. Bigger this time. Darker. An inky pool with a sheen skimming its surface and I feel panic uncoil inside me.

  I rise jerkily to my knees and find myself facing walls lined with books. My heart gives a lurch of joy. I am at home. In my father’s study. I know those books intimately, I love those leather-bound volumes of Victor Hugo, Zola, Maupassant and my favourite, Alexandre Dumas. Their covers bear the sweat imprint of my fingers and their pages have witnessed my tears. I am safe at home here in Paris, even though I am for some unknown reason lying tucked up against my father’s big oak desk.

  I start to convince myself that I am asleep. This is a nightmare. I close my eyes, waiting to wake up, and the thumping in my ears grows duller, fainter, but I am aware of a pain down the left side of my head. I touch it. My hair is wet. My eyes shoot open to examine my fingertips, but I know what I will find. More blood. I am not asleep.

  I drag myself to my feet and leave crimson handprints on the wax-polished surface of Papa’s desk as I cling to it. He will not like that. Panic starts to bubble its way up through me and I open my mouth to scream. That’s when I see the shoes. They are my father’s shoes. Stylish black brogues, their leather so soft it looks as though it came from an unborn lamb.

  My scream dies in my mouth.

  There are feet in the shoes. Sprawled on the floor. I can see a strip of black sock above each shoe before the ankles disappear behind the corner of the desk.

  ‘Papa,’ I whisper.

  There is no answer. I scramble to the edge of the desk and look down on my father’s body flat on its back on the floor, his pale grey eyes staring and sightless. My heart stops. The noise in my ears becomes a roaring and my eyes feel as if they have been skinned. A paperknife is sticking straight up out of his throat and his white shirt is the colour of my hands.

  I am afraid. Afraid of myself. Afraid of what is inside me. I am alone in a closed room with my dead father and I know I have murdered him.

  In his lifeless hand lies a paperweight in the form of a brass pyramid that he brought back from Egypt years ago and one of its sides is streaked with blood. My blood. I know it, though I can’t tell you how I know it. I touch my hair again, feel its curls sticky with blood. I touch the raw edges of my scalp, split like the skin of a peach.

  I fall to my knees beside Papa. His fingers curl around the brass weight even in death, as though still trying to defend himself from me. I pump his shirt front to force air into his lungs, even though I know it is futile. What good is air in your lungs when you have a great hole in your windpipe?

  I can’t breathe. It feels like bands of steel tightening around my lungs as I lay my cheek on his broad chest to listen for his heartbeat. The wet shirt is warm on my skin. I quickly raise my head to search once more for a flicker of life in his face. A face without life is not a face. It is a mask.

  I am staring at Papa’s mask. The same wide forehead and strong oppressive brow that used to scare me; the heavy jowls and broken veins of a bon viveur. They are still there. All the unmistakable features of the ruler of this household. Tears cloud my vision but I can see that the man whose word was law is no longer part of the body that lies broken on the parquet floor, which he insisted must be polished every day, except on a Sunday. Yet I bend forward and press my cheek to his.

  Behind me I hear the click of the study door but I do not turn. Soft footsteps enter. The door closes. I know who it is even without lifting my head, in the same way that my right hand knows exactly what my left hand is doing. It is my sister. Her violent intake of breath sucks the air from the room and I am conscious of her standing over me.

  ‘What have you done?’ She doesn’t shout. Her low-pitched tone is worse, far worse, than a shout. ‘Oh God, Romy, what have you done?’

  ‘I’ve killed Papa,’ I whisper.

  My words break something inside me. Suddenly I am frozen by grief. I cannot move. I cannot speak. I cannot think.

  So my sister does my thinking.

  ‘Why did you kill him?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You are seventeen,’ she says. ‘You will go to prison and then you will be executed by guillotine. In public. Outside St Pierre prison.’

  Her words are slow, picked out separately to make sure I understand.

  In the terrible silence that follows, I can sense her heartbeat is as rapid as my own, and her fingers grip my shoulder, digging in hard. Carefully avoiding the pool of blood that is seeping into the oak floor, she forces me to my feet. Then she does what I cannot bring myself to do – she stares at the paperknife embedded in our father’s throat. She glances down at my hands and I do not ask what images are rearing to life inside her head. She slips out of her blue cardigan, her favourite cashmere one, and uses it to wipe the silver handle of the paperknife. Over and over, she rubs it hard and I see the scarlet lips of the wound widen. I want to beg her to stop but I don’t.

  Finally she backs away from Papa’s body, her limbs stiff, her face rigid, but when I take a step towards her she turns away and starts to rub the surface of the desk. Removing all trace of me. Brisk and thorough. Then she switches her attention to my hands and cleans them as best she can. The blue cardigan has turned purple and I murmur her name, I want her to look me in the face but she won’t. She frowns and stares at the paperweight cradled in Papa’s hand.

  I move. For the first time since she forced me away from his side, I jerk into life. I copy her. I pull my lilac jumper over my head and I snatch the pyramid from his limp fingers. I scrub it hard with the unstained back of my jumper, but the blood from my head wound has seeped into its brass indentations and won’t come out. I hurry over to the ebony cabinet that stands by the window with a decanter of Papa’s finest cognac on top of it. I long to drink it, to drown in it, but instead I tip the amber liquid all over the paperweight to swill out the last pockets of blood, and I rub it furiously with my jumper.

  Satisfied, I replace the pyramid on the desk. Where it belongs. The relief I feel is strong. To be doing something. Anything. To see my hands functioning. To know I am not dead. Yet.

  I do not ask myself if what I am doing is wrong.

  My sister opens the door a crack, peers out into the black and white tiled hal
l, seizes my arm and drags me out of the study, pushing the door shut with her foot. To me it has the hollow sound of a lid closing on a tomb, condemning Papa to eternal blackness. I cannot bring myself to abandon him, but she wrenches me forward and up the stairs at a run.

  She is strong, my sister Florence.

  My twin.

  ‘We won’t get away with it,’ I state.

  ‘Hush, Romy. Of course we will.’

  I am standing in the bathtub and Florence is washing me down like a muddy dog. Nakedness has never worried us. Maybe because we spent nine months entwined naked in the womb together. When I step out of the tub she pats me dry, her hands gentle, but she is worried about the gash and the swelling on my head, though I tell her it is nothing. She has bathed the blood from my hair and stands over me for ten minutes with a cold flannel pressed hard against the wound to stem the bleeding. I make no sound. The pain is deserved.

  I see her hand trembling when she reaches into my wardrobe for a fresh outfit for me. I go to her. For a brief moment we embrace, our limbs entwined once more. It is a rare occurrence. Strangely, though we constantly touch each other, brush shoulders, nudge ribs and bump elbows, we rarely embrace. We do not hug or kiss cheeks or show overt affection. It would feel all wrong. Like hugging or kissing oneself. But the love is there between us, binding us to each other like an umbilical cord and we accept it as naturally as we accept that we both have curly blonde hair.

  She sits me on my bed. I tuck my feet under myself as if I can tuck away what lies unheeded downstairs. Florence perches next to me, wraps the quilt around my shoulders and it is through her fingertips that I feel her nervousness. It does not show on her face.

  ‘Now,’ she says matter-of-factly, ‘tell me what happened. Tell me quickly.’

  She fixes her gaze on me. I look back at her intently. Our faces are alike, but we are not identical twins. She has large round blue eyes that know how to melt your heart, eyes that are warm and capable, eyes that you don’t want to look away from. My eyes are a muddy amber. Long and narrow. Cat’s eyes, Florence calls them. I have claws to match. Her face is narrower than mine, more delicate, something I always envied, but we have the same straight nose and angular jawline. And identical mouths that are too wide for our faces. Hers is pulled tight now. She was born only twenty-five minutes before me, but sometimes it feels more. Much more.

  I try to speak in a calm manner. But I fail. I hear my words quivering and want to snatch them out of the air and replace them with sturdier ones.

  ‘I don’t remember what happened,’ I say. ‘I don’t remember anything.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Merde!’

  Florence never swears, and despite the fact that I have just murdered my father, I am shocked. She pushes her face forward, closer to mine, and seizes a handful of my curls. Not harshly. But firmly. She draws me even closer and I see the tiny black flecks of anger embedded in the soft blue of her irises.

  ‘Don’t lie,’ she says.

  A white-hot flame of sorrow flickers at the base of my chest. We never lie to each other. To our parents, yes; to our teachers, bien sûr; to the priest at the Jesuit Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, of course. Even to God himself. But never to each other.

  ‘I swear I remember nothing. I woke on the rug in Papa’s study and found him . . . like that. Blood on my hands. So I must have . . .’ I can’t say it. Cannot. Cannot.

  Florence says it for me. ‘Stabbed him.’

  I nod.

  ‘The paperweight?’ she asks.

  ‘Papa hit me with it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘That will not save you.’ So soft. So painful. My sister’s voice aches for me. ‘The police will take you.’

  ‘Help me,’ I whisper.

  She rests her forehead against mine. I can smell the scent of fresh-cut grass on her hair and it triggers a flash of memory. Of standing in the hall, sunlight streaming in through the open front door, carrying with it the scent of freshly mown lawns. Maman’s voice calling out from the kitchen, asking for someone to fetch roses from the garden. And the shadow of a man in the doorway.

  It is gone in a flash. The wound on my head is throbbing.

  It is as if Florence can see inside my head because she says, ‘Roland was here. He and I went into the garden to pick roses for Maman. Remember?’

  I sit back. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, nothing after that. It’s . . .’ I blink hard, ‘gone.’

  I stare around at my room. It is plain. Much plainer than Florence’s, which is a shrine to the Paris Opéra and Ballet and the power of pink tulle. Mine is stark. Pale modern furniture, much to Maman’s disgust, a simple wooden hairbrush on the dressing table and one framed picture on the wall. It is a photograph of the first woman in the world to pilot an aeroplane, Raymonde de Laroche at the wheel of her spindly Voisin aircraft in 1909 in Paris. I look hard at each item in the room, soaking up every colour and curve, the sheen on the satin quilt, the way the brass door handle catches the light. I may never see them again.

  Florence takes my hand and wraps it between hers, holding it tight on the lap of her elegant cream skirt. I hear her breathing hard the way she does when she is about to do one of her dives into a swimming pool. Sharp little snorts of air.

  ‘Romy.’ Her eyes are quick, darting over me. ‘I know what to do. We will say you were with Roland and me in the garden. The three of us. Picking the flowers.’

  I am transfixed. By the lie. The blatant deception that falls from her lips, and I feel it entwine its tendrils around the coils of my brain, soft and tempting tendrils that paralyse me so that I cannot move, not even an eyelid.

  ‘Well?’ She gives me a smile, but it is all crooked.

  I snap the tendrils and take her delicate face between my hands.

  ‘You would do that for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If we are caught, you will be put in prison as an accessory.’

  ‘We won’t be caught.’

  ‘What about Roland?’

  She rolls her beautiful blue eyes. ‘Roland will do whatever I ask.’

  My heart is thundering. I open my mouth to shout yes, yes, yes. Lie for me. Save my life. But instead different words come out of my mouth. ‘What about the gardener?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The gardener. Karim. Did he see you?’

  Her tongue flashes across her lips and I know she is thinking of lying, but she doesn’t. Not to me.

  ‘Yes. I spoke to him. He was cutting the beech hedge.’

  ‘That’s it then. He knows I wasn’t there. My head will roll.’

  I touch my neck, a white slender column that the angled blade of the guillotine will slice through like celery. The tips of my fingers are frozen, but I draw a line with them across my throat.

  ‘Poor Papa,’ I whisper. ‘Poor Maman. I am sorry.’ The words drain something from me.

  Florence slaps my face. Not hard. But hard enough. ‘Listen to me, Romy. Together we cut the roses for Maman and I handed them to her through the kitchen window. You were with me every minute. Then the three of us . . .’

  She pauses, her brow creased, thinking up an alibi.

  ‘. . . Lay on the lawn in the shade of the willow tree,’ I venture.

  ‘And we talked about . . .?’

  ‘Josephine Baker.’

  Florence smiles a tight smile. ‘Yes, of course. That’s good. About her sultry dance in Siren of the Tropics.’ Two dark flares have risen on her cheeks and her eyes glitter. ‘You hear me?’ she demands fiercely. ‘You hear what I’m saying? You were with us all the time, then Roland left and you and I came up here to wash off the grass stains.’

  ‘But what about Karim? Where was he?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him.’

  ‘He will tell the police I wasn’t there.’

  ‘No o
ne will believe him.’ She slips off the bed. ‘Come on, we must bury your bloodstained clothes before the police arrive.’

  I seize her arm and drag her back. ‘No, Florence. Roland may lie for you, but Karim won’t.’

  A scream pierces the silence of the house and hurtles up the stairs. The hairs rise on my arm, the skin prickles on my neck, and I know it has begun.

  ‘Karim will not lie to the police to save me,’ I murmur. ‘He will tell them I was not there.’

  ‘But his testimony will be irrelevant. Because I will swear he wasn’t anywhere near enough to see you.’

  ‘But you just said you saw him by the hedge.’

  ‘Did I? I was mistaken.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t see him. I remember now, Karim wasn’t in the garden.’

  I frown uneasily. With growing caution I ask, ‘Where was he?’

  ‘In the study with Papa.’

  I stare. For a long moment I don’t understand. Or is it that I don’t want to understand? Florence has fixed her gaze on me and she shakes my shoulder hard.

  ‘Understand, Romy?’

  I grip her wrist and feel my twin sister’s pulse racing as fast as my own. A pool of my father’s blood seems to open up at my feet and without hesitation I step over it. An image of Karim’s face swims inside it, a long dark-skinned face with sad eyes and a polite mouth, but I look away from it.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. My words are only for my sister’s ears. ‘I understand. I was in the garden. With you. And Roland. I remember now. Karim went into the house.’

  We both know we will go to hell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eight years later

  PARIS, JULY 1938

  ‘Come on. Lift. Lift, you bastard.’

  Romaine Duchamps yelled the words at her flimsy Gipsy Moth as it plunged nose-first towards earth like a screaming bucking banshee.

  ‘Don’t give up on me now. Just pop your nose up a fraction. A centimetre? That’s all I ask of you, my little one.’

  She had been racing before the storm, fleeing the black wall of raging clouds that was tight on her tail. But it reached out, caught her, and knocked her right out of the sky. One moment she was flying her tiny aircraft straight and steady through sparkling blue heavens above the silky green heartland of France, and the next she was hurled around the sky the way a hound flings a rat back and forth to snap its neck. Tossed up a hundred metres, smacked on to one wing, tipped on end, then dropped like a stone.