The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (9 page)

Chapter 8

S
ergeant Butler walked into the kitchen early one morning, hat in hand and with his sympathetic eyes more tired than usual. He informed Celia that the police were no further on their investigation, adding that the possibility of finding her father’s killer was becoming increasingly remote. He reiterated that there had been gypsies in the area around the time of the murder but also that none were suspects. Farm workers in the area had also been questioned, as had shopkeepers and the drinkers, and the owner of the Goudhurst Arms, but no one had seen or heard anything on the night in question. He also told her that they’d searched for her father’s watch and ring in the nearby pawnshops—the one in Goudhurst and two or three in neighbouring towns—but there was no record of either piece of jewellery being deposited. He concluded that whoever had committed the crime had probably left the county with the items in his pocket. This particular line of investigation had been closed. He was sorry, he told her, but in his opinion, they’d reached a dead end on all fronts.

Celia’s own suspicions were never voiced, although as the days passed into weeks, she’d become more and more convinced that Joseph had killed her father. She’d searched for her father’s jewellery and for any piece of evidence linking Joseph to the murder. She’d turned the whole house upside down. She’d even dug up all the straw in the barns and had lifted wooden floorboards, but she’d found nothing. All she had was her own gut feeling, and that, she thought sadly, would never be enough to convict Joseph in a court of law.

“Another whisky!” Joseph shouted, hanging precariously off a bar stool in the Goudhurst Arms.

Michael Black, known as ‘Blacky’ to his customers, raised his eyes to the heavens in despair and said, “Joseph Dobbs, you’re a man to try the patience of a saint, and you’re crossing a thin line of friendship here. If you weren’t such a good customer, I wouldn’t even have opened the door to you in the first place.”

“Yes, well, you did so stop fucking complaining and give your best customer another drink, will you?” Joseph slurred drunkenly. He then belched noisily.

Michael Black dried his hands on a dishcloth and then placed them squarely on top of the bar. “You’ve had enough, Joseph,” he told him. “Go home. It’s Christmas Day, and I’ve got better things to do than sit here listening to your drunken whining. Anyway, poor Celia will have a burnt turkey on her hands if you don’t get a move on. You’re not being fair on her.”

“Have you tasted my wife’s cooking? It’s fucking shit,” Joseph slurred back.

“Well, that’s not my problem. I just want you to go, and as I said, I only gave you a drink because it’s Christmas and because you wouldn’t stop banging on my door. I could get into real trouble for this, you know.”

“Don’t be stupid, Michael. Nobody saw me come in… It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Enjoy it. Go on, have a drink with me.”

“No, I’m going to enjoy Christmas with my family upstairs. I won’t ask again, Joseph. Here, take the bottle with you if you want. It’s a Christmas present, just as long as you leave.”

Joseph staggered to his feet and zigzagged across the room, picking up the bottle of whisky on his way out. “I get the message… miserable sod,” he slurred. “But you’re right; I’d better not keep the old woman waiting. Never hear the end of it.”

Joseph had left the house early that morning and wandered around aimlessly, wondering what to do; to him, Christmas was the most boring day of the year. There were no poker games, and no pubs in the area would give him a decent drink. This year, he had nowhere else to be apart from Merrill Farm.

He zigzagged again across the road towards his horse, whose reins were tethered on a shop door handle. Thank God, he thought. Thank God he’d turned down Marie Osborne’s offer of Christmas dinner; he couldn’t stand the overbearing old bag. Snotty cow. He’d like to give her one, loosen her up a bit. Celia hadn’t been too pleased, but he’d shut her up quick enough with a clip around the ear. Christ, that woman was driving him to drink!

He staggered onto his horse, took the reins, and kicked hard. Celia would be waiting for him as usual, her face all screwed up as if she’d been hit by a tram. “Where have you been, Joseph?” she would say when he saw her. He hated her, he hated the farm, and he hated having to report to that stupid lawyer every month, cap in hand, with the farm’s accounts under his arm. He felt like a fucking schoolboy being ordered to the head teacher’s office. Well, he wasn’t going to go to London again, and if Ayres didn’t like it, that’d be his problem.

His body began to sway in the wind. He took another slug of whisky from the bottle and tried to steady himself. He was beginning to see double now. Trees, bushes, and the ground were dancing, coming closer and closer towards him. He felt himself lean to the side, but he couldn’t right himself. He grabbed the reins but didn’t know where exactly to put them in order to right his body. He felt himself sliding, and his foot fell out of the stirrup. He hung on to the bottom of the saddle with the bottle of whisky still in his hand, slipping again, and he was then trailing underneath the horse’s belly.

He chuckled after eventually ending up in a heap on the ground. “I’m drunk, and I’ve fallen off my fucking horse,” he chuckled again. “Silly as arseholes I am.”

He lay on the soft snow looking up at the grey sky, which darted backwards and forwards. Snowflakes fell in confusing undisciplined lines and landed in his eyes quicker than he could blink them away. He turned his head to one side and vomited. The whisky, beer, and bits of digested food flew in the wind and spread over his face. The whisky bottle lay broken and empty on the ground beside him, and he cursed. “What a waste… What a fucking waste!”

Smelling the alcohol and stench of vomit as soon as the kitchen door opened, Celia felt the usual repulsion. She stood facing Joseph in one of her loveliest dresses, apron on, and with a perfect smile. “Are you ready for your dinner?” she asked him whilst watching him stagger towards the table.

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try just a little turkey? It’s still warm, and it is Christmas—or have you forgotten that in your drunken stupor!” She threw her hand up to her mouth, desperately trying to cover it before any more words came out. Dear God in heaven, why did she say that? How could she have been so stupid? She wished she could take back the words.

Joseph thumped his fist down hard on the table, rattling the condiments. His body rocked from side to side, and Celia realised that he probably hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He was mumbling incoherently and taking no notice of her at all. His hands were gripping the edge of the table, holding him up and probably stopping him from falling off the chair. She took a step backwards towards the door, hoping that her departure would go unnoticed. She had never seen him so drunk or so weak-minded. She stared at him again. He was pathetic, she thought. He wasn’t to be feared today, just pitied.

“Celia, Celia, where the fuck are you?” Joseph’s voice slurred louder this time. “I said I wasn’t hungry… but I didn’t say you could leave… Get back here!”

“What do you want?” Celia asked him, still unafraid.

“Whisky… Get me whisky.”

Celia filled a crystal whisky glass right up to the brim, hoping that Joseph would eventually pass out. She handed the glass to him and sat down at the table next to him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat. You should eat something, you know,” she said.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Torture, that’s what it is… fucking torture! God, get me out of this place… Fuck sake! How much more… I got to take… She’s going to kill me with her fucking nagging!”

In a split second, the whisky flew out of his glass and hit Celia in the face. She jumped up from the table, knocking over the chair, and wiped her eyes with the apron. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the stinging liquid had blinded her. Slowly she began to focus her eyes on Joseph’s shadowy figure staggering towards her. She took a step backwards and hit the fallen chair with her foot. Joseph laughed and then giggled like a child. The same laugh had haunted her dreams for so long now. She tried to get past him, and he hit her across the head. She cringed and then covered her face when his arm shot out again. She felt her wrist and arm being squeezed and then twisted up behind her back. She screamed in pain and tried to kick out with her feet. He hit her sharply across the top of her head two or three times and then staggered back into the chair, releasing his grip on her.

Celia fell backwards, dazed and disoriented. Her body slid down the wall beside the fireplace, her legs underneath her, and she quickly covered her face again, trying to shield herself from his next assault. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, and didn’t cry. She could hear Joseph’s incoherent mumblings and thought that maybe if she sat still enough, and quietly enough, he might forget she was there.

“Why does she always have to spoil things?” she heard him say more clearly. “It’s Christmas Day, and she has to ruin it for me… I was having a bloody good time, but oh no, she has to make my life a bloody misery… Every time I walk into this fucking house… it’s Joseph this and Joseph that… Bitch. Fucking bitch. Whore… I should have finished her off the night I did her father… Would have saved me a lot of trouble…”

Then his body slumped over the table, and his snoring filling the silent room.

Celia sat on the cold floor, unable to move a muscle. She shook her head and stared unseeingly at the unconscious figure. Her father’s face filled her mind’s eye. His coffin, his funeral, bruises, and humiliation converged on her, and she relived the pain all over again. Then her thoughts spoke more clearly. Joseph had killed her father. She’d just heard his admission of guilt; she’d heard it from his own mouth. He’d killed her father. It was true: he was a murderer!

She stood up on legs that could barely support her and went to the draining board, where she picked up the biggest carving knife she could find. She stared at it and then at Joseph’s head resting on his arms. She walked around the table, stood in front of the sleeping figure, and nodding her head, raised the blade high in the air. The passage of time was suspended as the weapon hovered above him. She felt as though she were not even the person holding the knife but a spectator watching the scene unfold before her eyes from another part of the room. She could see his bloodied, lifeless body as though he were already dead, and she felt happy, happier than she’d been in a long time. She shook the images away and brought the hand holding the knife down to her side. No, she wouldn’t kill him; she was better than that, better than him. He had to pay for his crimes. She would make sure he did, but the executioner would kill him, not her. Her job now was to share his guilty secret with the rest of the world. With her wits about her, she quickly went through Joseph’s pockets, taking every coin she could find, and then she grabbed her bag and coat and quietly left the house.

Celia knew that there were a few trains running, and she calculated that if she hurried, she would probably be in time to get the last one of the day to London Bridge. Her aunt Marie had told her repeatedly to go to her if she was in trouble. Well, she was, and now she would tell her everything.

After what seemed like hours, Celia heard the welcoming sound of an approaching train. Once on board, she sat facing the wall at the back of the almost empty carriage. As the train pulled away from the station, she sighed with relief and began to cry. She could no longer contemplate keeping any more secrets from her aunt Marie. She would rather cut out her tongue now than keep it still. Joseph would pay dearly for her father’s death, she would make sure of that. But a drunken admission would not be enough to hang him; neither would her claims of battery and abuse. No, she knew that to rid herself of him, she’d have to play the game a little longer, even if it meant going back to Merrill Farm. Going back was the only way to prove his guilt.

After napping for a short while, she opened her eyes, and her first thought was that she was strangely relieved that the truth was going to be out in the open at last. From now on, her aunt Marie, Mr Ayres, and she would join forces. Mr Ayres was a clever man, and her aunt Marie was so stubborn that she would never give up until Joseph was proved guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. She smiled a real smile and then smiled again at the sheer joy of it.

She dozed for a while, rocked by the comforting movements of the train. The carriage was empty, and she was completely alone when she awoke, but as they drew closer to the city, she watched a horde of people get on. Mothers and fathers carried presents under their arms. Dressed in their finest clothes, children jumped up and down on the seats in anticipation of a trip to see the Christmas trees, fancy gaslights, and pantomimes in the West End, but for Celia, the magic of Christmas had gone forever.

It was dark on Celia’s arrival at London Bridge station. Snow was falling heavily, and she shielded herself as best she could. She waited in line for a cab and sighed with relief when she reached the front of it. Once inside the cab, she shook herself down. She was soaking wet, shivering, and unable to feel her frozen feet. Her face became as grey as chimney smoke. Waves of nausea rose and fell. Shame, anger, and guilt racked her body. She would be walking in on her aunt looking like a drowned rat and feeling utterly exhausted by the day’s events, but the closer she got to the house, the better she felt about her decision to finally unload the burden that had lain on her for so long.

Thankfully, Marie’s guests had already left by the time Celia arrived. Only Simon Ayres remained. She was led to the sofa without a word. Marie neither commented on her appearance nor the reason for her visit. Instead, she left the room to make tea, with Simon Ayres in tow.

Celia took off her scarf, sat on the couch, closed her eyes, and sighed. They had given her a few minutes to compose herself, and for that she was grateful. It was going to be a long, dreadful, humiliating story, and she had to get it right and leave nothing out.