by Jana Petken
“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.
“Celia, tell us,” Marie said softly when they were all seated. “Tell us everything.”
Celia took a deep breath. “He killed my father,” she began.
Chapter 9
Marie closed the bedroom door and sank into the cushioned couch. She had ordered Celia to bed with some hot chocolate, urging her to get a good night’s sleep. She and Simon Ayres had listened to her in silence. They had not interrupted her, not once. Marie had sat stony faced throughout, wide tear-filled eyes her only response to the shocking news.
“Oh God, Simon, I’m so ashamed,” Marie sobbed now to Simon Ayres. “I should have stopped it. I should have stopped it right at the start. She should never have married him. I never trusted him! I should have known … I knew, but I did nothing … Oh my God! I did know. I did!”
“It’s not your fault. How could you possibly have known for sure? You suspected, just as I did, but this is Celia’s fault entirely,” Simon said disapprovingly. “She should have told you everything at her father’s funeral.”
Marie blew into her handkerchief and reached out her hand. “Thank goodness for you, Simon. I couldn’t get through this without you.” She blew her nose again. “So tell me, what do we do now?”
“Tear Joseph’s heart out and feed it to Peter’s prize bull.”
Marie smiled at last. “It’s a nice thought, but failing that?”
Simon paced up and down the room. Marie watched him for a while in silence. She had never seen him so angry.
“Oh, do sit down; you’ll wear out the carpet!” she said when she couldn’t watch any more. “I know you’re about ready to burst, so tell me what you want to do that doesn’t involve the dissection of body parts.”
“Go to the police,” he said decisively. “Go to the police and tell them what we know.”
“No,” Marie told him with equal force. “That’s not a good idea. We have to think about this logically. He’s got a solid alibi, remember? Celia vouched for him the night of the murder. She may be implicated in the conspiracy. Anyway, it would be her word against his. That is, if she decides to change her story, and even if she does, you know that she can’t be compelled to testify against her husband in a court of law. You should know these things. Anyway, we need solid proof before we tell anyone. We must keep this in the family for now, don’t you think? Celia is terrified of him. Did you see her eyes?”
“Yes, Marie, but if you’ll just allow me to talk …”
“No, Simon we have to get her away from him, make her safe. He has legal control over Merrill Farm. He won’t give her a divorce, and I will not hear of her going back to him. I’d like nothing more than to kill him with my own two hands, but we both know that’s not an option. I can see no other way out, other than to force him to divorce her and relinquish his trusteeship. We’ll tell him that we know he killed Peter, and we’ll make him confess!”
Simon, who had tried numerous times to take part in the conversation,
lifted his finger to Marie’s lips and gestured with his raised eyebrows that she should listen for once.
She smiled and patted his hand in a meek apology. “Sorry. I’m just getting myself into a tizzy. Please tell me what to do before I go mad with this.”
“My dear, I know the world and the law,” he began hesitantly. “There is nothing simple about either of them, and if I might say, you’re missing the point entirely. Without solid proof of a murder long since committed, you could no more threaten Joseph than invite him to your next suffragette meeting. Joseph is an animal, a predator – worse than that. But he’s not stupid, because so far he’s got away with everything. Would you give up the farm and the money that goes with it if you were him?”
“I’m nothing like him, Simon! But no, of course I wouldn’t. Maybe we could offer him money or get Celia to divorce him?”
Simon Ayres scratched his head, thinking about this. “I don’t think so. Peter made it clear that Celia’s future would be linked to Joseph’s future participation in the running of the farm. He had no sons, and there was no one else he wanted to hand it over to. ‘Better the devil you know,’ he said to me. He wrote the will in such a way that if Celia ever sought a divorce, the farm would, in a subsequent divorce settlement, stay in Joseph’s hands. I tried to explain to Peter that should the marriage fail, his priority should be to make sure that the estate remained under Merrill control; after all, I pointed out, Celia was his only family and the rightful heir. Peter maintained throughout our conversation that he and he alone knew what was best for his daughter, and what was best for his daughter, he insisted, was Joseph. Unfortunately, divorce was to be out of the question under any circumstances. You see, Celia loved Joseph at the time. Peter wanted to be free of the everyday running of the farm, and in his mind, Joseph was doing him a favour. So Celia, out of respect to Joseph, was bound by her marriage contract, with no get-out clause. There was no changing Peter’s mind on the subject, and I was forced to conform to his wishes against my better judgement. So now you know.”
“Simon, don’t you go blaming yourself now,” Marie told him, becoming more and more agitated. “Peter always was pig-headed and stubborn, and no one could ever change his mind about anything. My sister would tell you that if she were alive today. He always knew best!”
“Yes, I know all about Peter, but his egotistical stubbornness, not to mention selfish motives, have now put us in an awkward position. Thank God he saw fit to hide his savings. At least Joseph can’t get his hands on that.”
“Is there no solution, then? Nothing we can do?”
Simon curled his whiskers, twisting them round his fingers, plainly deep in thought. “Well, there is something,” he said, still twisting them. “An idea has just occurred to me.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this? And will you listen before making any judgements?
“Yes, I promise.”
“When I was at a client’s house last week, he introduced me to a friend of his, a Mr Rawlings. He’s an important man in the shipping industry and has a fleet of steamships going to Spain and the continent of South America. He imports all kinds of produce but mostly fruit and vegetables – raisins, bananas, that sort of thing. In the Valencia region of Spain, landowners are planting oranges and grapevines like there’s no tomorrow. Ever since the demise of their silk trade, they’ve been looking for agricultural products to export. According to Mr Rawlings, the orange is the future, and he’s a very astute businessman, believe me. Anyway, Rawlings has some very good connections.”
“Yes, yes!” Marie interrupted impatiently. “But what’s your point? What’s all this got to do with my Celia?”
“Well, if you let me finish … You did promise.”
“I’m sorry, but really, what has all this got to do with anything?”
“Marie!” he said just as impatiently. “If you allow me, I will tell you. What if I had a word with Mr Rawlings and asked him about the possibility of taking Celia to Spain? I’m sure he would be happy to take her as a passenger on one of his steamships. She could stay in Spain until this is all over, until we figure out a way of getting rid of Joseph Dobbs.”
Marie poured them both a glass of mulled wine. The idea was ridiculous, in her opinion, sending Celia off to a foreign country. Glancing sharply at Simon, she reminded him, “Celia is pregnant. Have you forgotten that small detail?”
“No.”
“I don’t really think, Simon, that packing Celia off to a foreign country with a baby growing inside her would be the best solution to her problems, do you?” Marie handed him a warm glass. “Let’s just say that we could get her to Spain on one of these ships. Where would she go, and what would she do when she got there? Can you imagine her alone in a strange country, unable to communicate? She would be isolated from everything and everyone she’s ever known. She’s hardly what you’d call a woman of the world. She’s spent her whole life on a farm in Kent, for goodness’ sake, apart from her visits here to me, of course. I’ll grant you that she’s well educated as far as society goes and talks nicely, not at all like a country girl, but no, I think your idea is a little too far-fetched to even contemplate. For a start, we don’t know enough about Spain or the people who live there. Why, I’d rather send her to India or Africa, for that matter! From what I hear about Spain, they’re always fighting amongst themselves and no one government’s in office for longer than a blink of an eye!”
Simon opened his mouth to speak.
“No,” Marie said emphatically, ignoring him for the third time. “I think that it would be best if Celia came to live with me. We can fight Joseph Dobbs once she’s safe in this house, where I can keep an eye on her.”
Simon stared into his glass in silent contemplation. Marie sat back, calmly waiting for his reprimand. She infuriated him sometimes. She was well aware of that. But he could never remain angry at her for long; he loved her and would put up with her infuriating ways until the day death separated them.
“I’m sorry, Simon. You were saying?” she asked him.
“Marie, I wasn’t saying anything, but as you’ve now invited me to do so, I shall begin by saying that since you joined the insufferable suffragists, you’ve taken on a delusional air of independence that just isn’t acceptable! Marie, men are put on this earth to protect the weaker sex, provide answers for them, and make hard decisions that women just aren’t capable of making. For instance, how could you even think that you are worldly enough to vote on matters that concern the country? Politics belongs to the world of men and so do important decisions, like the decision about what to do about Celia.”
Marie allowed him to pour another glass of wine, remaining silent and suspecting that he hadn’t finished his chauvinistic and patronising speech of which she would take no notice whatsoever. Right on cue, he took a swig of wine and followed it with a deep intake of breath.
“Dear Marie, I come here to see you because I’ve always admired you. I find your company stimulating. You’ve always managed to outwit and rise above any adversity that we men have thrown at you, and I have the greatest respect for you. But this is the first time in the twenty-seven years of our long acquaintance that I’ve been truly disappointed in you. You know, I see some of your traits in Celia, and I think she has more courage and spirit than you give her credit for. Do you remember her composure when the will was read? Her strength, even her sense of pride, misguided though it was, shows that she has that same spark, that same fire that lights your eyes. The very fact that she came here tonight, alone, in the snow, must give her the right to choose her own destiny. Will you not consider other options? Do you really want her living here with you, afraid to go out of the house, embarrassed and humiliated every time someone asks her where her husband is? Everyone will despise her because a woman with a child who’s been taken from his father is an undesirable stain on good society. Now, I know it seems cruel and unjust to you, but it’s the way of the world, my dear, and whatever you
r suffragette movement may tell you, this is the way things are. Do you want your niece to be treated with contempt?”
Marie’s eyes shone with tears, and Simon reached for a handkerchief, visibly regretting his harsh words.
“I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
“No, of course I’m not all right! I’m devastated by all of this.” She blew into the handkerchief and talked at the same time. “But surely no one will blame Celia for leaving Joseph Dobbs? He killed her father and beat her, for goodness’ sake!”
“But are you ready to tell the whole world about it? Where’s the proof?”
“We’ll get it.”
“That may be so, but for the moment, let’s talk about Celia. Now, I know you’ve always taken a great interest in her education. She has grace and beauty, but she’s very innocent and most definitely naive. She was so besotted with Joseph that in her sheltered world, she failed to see any evidence of the real man. Do you think she’s capable of dealing with bigotry and fear?”
“No, but she’s got us.”
“I know, dear, but the point is that she should be the one to make the decisions that directly affect her. I’m sure that Mr Rawlings has good connections in Spain, people with money, good people. She won’t have to stay away forever, just until we get rid of Joseph Dobbs. We’ll call it a holiday, a well-earned rest. Think about that poor baby; his father is a murderer. Now ask yourself, do you want Celia and her child anywhere near him? You know as well as I do what that man’s capable of!”
“I know.” Marie nodded in agreement. “I know you’re right.”
Chapter 10
“Celia, you look dreadful!” Marie said, dishing up scrambled eggs at the breakfast table.
Celia smiled. “I know, Auntie. Don’t remind me. But at least my face is intact this time. He’s too clever to mark me now.”
“Dear God, what has he done to you? You sound so accepting, as though this is your lot in life. I could shake you for not telling me about this sooner. This might never have happened if you’d only told me at the funeral. Whatever possessed you to keep quiet? Did you think I wouldn’t understand?”
