by Jana Petken
He asked for another whisky and then faced the door again. No sign of him yet. Roddy was probably the most gullible and stupid man he’d ever come across in the poker circuit: a diplomat who ran a department in the consulate yet at the same time a grovelling, snivelling arsehole begging him for money and looking up to him like he were some kind of fucking saviour. He slammed his glass down on the counter and made himself a promise. If Roddy didn’t turn up tonight with all the money he owed him, he’d kill the bastard and his entire family. The thought suddenly struck him. He’d bailed Roddy out of too many poker games to remember; the bastard was bringing him bad luck.
Joseph stood and stretched, grunting and pulling at the crotch of his trousers at the same time. His arse was getting sore on that fucking bar stool. He asked for another whisky, thinking that life was so fucking hard sometimes. It had been hard wriggling his way into good quality games and even harder getting the snotty bastards he played with to accept him. And now things were changing for the worse!
He swore and knocked his glass over attempting to get back on to the bar stool. Just when he finally got to where he wanted to be, things had to change. He looked at the other people drinking and eating in the bar and screwed up his face in anger. “War, war, fucking war!” he mimicked like an old wife to the couple sitting next to him.
That was the only word he heard nowadays, and it was for that reason he wanted Roddy to pay up in full, before the fucking war started. He looked at the clock on the wall again. Roddy was an hour late. He ordered another whisky and thought about all the reasons why he might be late. Could he be caught up in something at the consulate? He tapped his fingers on the bar counter. Might he be trying to get the money together, even at this late hour? He looked at the clock again and gulped the whisky down in one. Roddy wasn’t coming.
Joseph stood up on wobbly legs and threw some francs on the counter. “If someone comes in and asks for Harry Miller, tell him I’ll be seeing him tomorrow and tell him he’d better have what I’m waiting for,” he slurred to the bartender.
“Ah, Monsieur Miller,” the bartender said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Pardon, I just remember now! I have a note for you, from a Monsieur Rodereek Smyth Burton.”
Chapter 36
Celia cradled both her daughters in her arms and smiled lovingly at their father. There was no more pain, save a nagging ache. There was no more fear of death, for the doctor had categorically stated that she was in good health, considering.
The babies had arrived so quickly, and the appearance of two, not one, had left the whole household in a state of shock. They decided to name the girls María, for Celia’s aunt, and Marta, for Ernesto’s mother. Twin babies had never been born in either family, as far as they all knew, but two babies had been born and they were welcomed nonetheless.
Celia remained in bed for over a week, and during that time, Marie and Simon arranged to return to London. They would travel with Ernesto as far as the Valencia docks and board Mr Rawlings’s ship on 20 January.
Celia put on a brave face at dinner the night before they left. She had known for a while that her aunt would leave, but the impending departure had not seemed real until now. The conversation was kept to subjects not dealing with the war. Celia had insisted on a pleasant evening, without any references being made about war-torn London. There were to be no tears.; her aunt’s mind was made up, and no one was to try to talk her out of it.
On the morning of 20 January, Celia waved goodbye from the front door of the house. She had decided not to accompany the party to Valencia, although in reality, her aunt Marie had made the decision long before.
Simon, who had fought tooth and nail to remain in Spain, encircled his wife’s waist at the door of the carriage, and Celia imagined that of the two, only he understood the risks of a crossing that would be fraught with dangers.
20 January 1915
My Aunt Marie and Mr Ayres left us today, promising to write and promising to remain safe in London. Auntie was afraid, I know she was, but she pretended otherwise, saying that she couldn’t wait to get involved in the war efforts that awaited her.
After dinner tonight, I felt the need to be alone. Marta and Rosa are oblivious to the dangers that face my English family. They have their hands full with four children, who now appear to have three mothers, and they have never set foot on my country’s shores and cannot possibly feel as I do. Everything is so peaceful here, but part of me wishes that I too had left on the ship today. I could have played a small part in the war raging against my country. I could have worked my land and helped to feed our army. Instead, I can only pray from afar for the safety of those I love.
My beautiful baby girls are asleep, and I count my blessings every time I look at them. They are adorable and have made my happiness complete. Aunt Marie has taken family portraits back with her, one for Mrs Baxter and the other for my cousin, John.
As I watch the girls sleep, I am also reminded of Pedro’s infancy. My brave son who fought for life before he was even born was not surrounded by a father’s love, as he and my girls are now, yet when I look at him, I see his father in him. It scares me a little because Pedro’s features are not mine. He is a miniature of Joseph Dobbs …
Chapter 37
Simon placed a telephone call to John Stein’s London home and waited impatiently for the connection to go through. Eventually, a voice on the other end of the line answered, and Simon broke the news.
“I’ll be right there,” John Stein said before hanging up.
An hour later, in Simon ’s office, John and Simon faced another man in his late twenties, who fidgeted nervously on the high-backed chair facing Simon ’s desk.
“Could you describe the man again?” John asked the man.
“Yes, he was my age. Tall, dark haired, bearded, and walked with a limp. At least, that’s the way he looked when last I saw him.”
“What do you mean by that?” Simon asked him.
“Well, he might have changed his appearance again. When I first met him, he was very different. He had fair hair, long for a man, wavy, curled almost, and he was clean-shaven.”
“And you never got a name?” John asked, looking at Simon .
“No. He never told me his name, said it didn’t matter who he was. He just said that he was going to help me.”
“Help you … in what way?” Simon asked.
The man squirmed in his chair and averted his eyes. “Well, you see, I’d got myself into a bit of bother financially. I was very stupid.”
John walked around the desk and sat on the edge of it. “You say he helped you? How did he help you?”
The man looked nervously at the two faces on him now. “This is all strictly confidential, right?” he asked them both.
“Yes, yes of course,” Simon told him. “You can say anything you like in here; it won’t go any further.”
“All right … I met him at a poker game. My gambling addiction was ruining me, but I couldn’t stop. I tried everything, I really did, but I just couldn’t stop. He helped me get some creditors off my back that first night, the night we met. After that, we became friends … or so I thought.”
“Friends!” John laughed sarcastically.
“Yes, you have to understand that he was good to me at first. He paid my debts to men who might have killed me. We always met at a game or in a bar beforehand. I never found out where he lived, but I knew he was hiding something, what with the changes he made to himself. But he could have been running from anything or anyone. He didn’t seem like a killer, not at first. He asked me to get him a new name on official identity papers, which I did, illegally of course. I knew it was wrong, but as I said, I owed him a lot of money, gambling money. Anyway, the name on the identity papers I gave him was Harry Miller. That’s the name he asked for, and that’s what I gave him.”
John and Simon exchanged glances. “And how did your relationship develop after that?” John asked, his anger growing.
“Well,
we started off as friends, as I’ve already told you, but then Harry began to threaten me and blackmail me, and because of the money I owed him, I had to do everything he asked of me. He blackmailed me into helping him dump the body of a girl he’d killed. God forgive me, but I was desperate at the time. He made me use my connections to gain access to men with money. He said he would tell my wife, my boss, and the whole consulate about my gambling habit … I would have been finished! I had to do as he asked.”
John exchanged a satisfactory look with Simon . The man was definitely talking about Joseph . This was what they’d been waiting for, and what they’d almost given up on.
“And how did you find out about us, Mr Smyth Burton?” John asked the man.
“By sheer luck, actually. I was trying to find a way out of the mess I’d got myself into. I thought I’d better get out of Paris; Harry made my skin crawl. I asked for a transfer just before this mess in Europe began. My consulate gave me a date to leave, and I just kept lying to Harry, hoping that he wouldn’t do anything before I got out. As I said, Harry had bailed me out of a few jams as well as given me money to keep playing at the table, and I convinced him that I had found the money and was in a position to pay him back. And that’s when I arranged to meet him.”
“And did you?”
“No, I arranged the meeting after my transfer date and after I knew I’d be safely on the boat to England.”
“Answer Mr Stein’s question, please. How did you find out who he really was – and about us?” Simon asked him, a disrespectful tone in his voice.
“It was on the night before I was due to leave. I was ordered by my superiors to take some papers to our security office at the front gate; the entire consulate department in the embassy was being locked down because of the threat of war. Anyway, when I went there, I saw some documents and posters with Miller’s photograph printed on them, an old photograph. The poster said that the man’s name was Joseph Dobbs, and that he was wanted for a murder in London. It also said that you two were to be contacted if any sightings of the man were made …”
John loathed weak men like the one in front of him. His kind destroyed their own lives by their own free will, which didn’t bother him, but in most cases, they also destroyed the lives of their families along with them. He stared at the man’s scared, pathetic face a moment longer and decided that he wasn’t an evil man, but that he did remind him of Joseph Dobbs.
“Why in God’s name didn’t you report him to your consulate?” he asked Roddy in a harsh and bitter tone. “Let me get this straight. You had this man in your sights. You had the perfect opportunity to meet with him, set him up, take the police and anyone else you could find to arrest him, and instead you ran away.”
“Yes, yes! He was a bad lot … I was terrified of him. And I was afraid he’d tell my wife or the police or my boss about the prostitute. Harry told me that if anything happened to him, he’d inform the authorities that I killed the girl. I believed everything he told me. He was very convincing, so I thought the authorities would too. I almost lost everything because of him.”
“You didn’t almost lose everything because of him!” Simon shouted now. “You lost everything because of your gambling habit and your own stupidity!”
Roddy looked at both men standing over him and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be like this … but I just can’t seem to stop gambling, and I am so afraid for my wife and son. I’m sorry for everything, but you must understand why I had to do the things I did.” “So is there nothing further you can tell us?” John asked, leaning over the desk, unable to hide his contempt and unwilling to lose any more of his precious time.
“No, I’m sorry, nothing more.” Roddy shook his head. “Do I get the reward now?”
John cursed loudly and crossed the short space between them. Still cursing, he grabbed Roddy by the shoulders, pulled him out of the chair, and pushed him against the wall. He shot him a venomous look that forced Roddy to turn away and utter an apology.
“All right, all right, I don’t want the money! Just don’t hit me, please!”
John turned Roddy’s head with his fingers until Roddy’s face was inches from his own. “Listen to me, Mr Smyth Burton,” he said between gritted teeth. “If it weren’t for the fact that you are wearing the king’s uniform, I’d have you handcuffed and led away to jail right now for harbouring a known criminal and subverting the course of justice. But seeing that you do wear the king’s uniform, I’ll allow you to walk out of this office in the hope that fighting for your country just might make you a better man. And one last thing: rest assured that should you come back alive, I’ll hunt you down and force you back to Paris to find the murdering bastard you called friend! Do we understand each other?”
John and Simon discussed various scenarios into the late afternoon. They were at a loss as to what to do next. Europe was at war. They were at war, and Joseph Dobbs was in France, which was being overrun by Germans.
John paced up and down the room. They had both decided that for the moment, there was absolutely nothing they could do apart from sending out more wanted notices with old and new descriptions of Joseph, hoping that someone in Paris still gave a damn.
“I would go. War or no war, I would go and get the bastard!” John told Simon.
“I know you would, John, but you’re going to Europe now to fight. Christ, the timing couldn’t be worse.”
“I know.”
“We’ll have to be patient a while longer and hope that Joseph stays put in Paris. There’s nothing else for it.”
“And there’s no way the Paris Consulate could deal with this?” John asked.
“No, I doubt it. It’s running on a skeleton staff. All the European consulates are, and some of them have shut down already. We can’t count on help from them or from the Paris police forces. They won’t waste their time on this. Men are being called up, and nothing in the civil quarter is functioning properly anywhere in Europe.”
“Is there no one we can send, then?” John asked again, clutching at straws.
Simon Ayres smiled with humorous cynicism. “We can send the entire British Army if you like. They’re going that way anyway!”
By March 1916, any hopes for an early end to the war were dismissed. The battles raged on, and four hundred thousand men were killed in the campaign of the Western Front alone. While their lives remained more or less unaltered, the Martinéz family could only read about the horrors. The children were growing healthy and strong. The twins were crawling and taking their first hesitant steps, and they had begun to illustrate their very different characters. Pedro was two and a half years old and had started to chatter in a language that his frustrated parents had yet to decipher. Miguel, though a somewhat reserved little boy, was beginning to develop into a sensitive and intelligent child.
Celia wrote constantly to Marie, hoping that her letters would get through the barricades of war, and to her great delight, she received a letter in return:
June 1916
Dearest Celia,
John and Arty Weisman have been called once again for active service. I don’t know where they will be sent, but for the moment at least, I know that they are safe here in London. John looked splendid in his officer’s uniform, and he has been made captain now, after his gallantry at the Battle of Artois. He came to see me last week and told me that he had received his new orders, but of course he didn’t say where he’d be going. I feel as though he’s just returned, and I’m quite perplexed at his being sent away again. He could have done with a longer rest, in my opinion. Even so, I tried to be strong when I saw him, and we had a jolly good time at Claridge’s, where we had tea and scones, of course. Pip and the children are going to stay with her father in the country, and she kindly asked if I would like to join them. I said no, as I’m actively involved now in doing my own bit for the war effort.
The Germans hit London the other night. We knew that a Zeppelin air raid against us was not impossible, as Paris ha
s already been bombarded twice, but when it finally happened to us here at home, we were all in a total state of shock, and we’ve been told to expect more of the same. I wish you could see us here, my darling. London is an abysmal place, and as you can imagine, everyone has long faces. Their fear is written in their eyes, and they are filled with war weariness, as am I.
Prices have soared out of all proportion, and I just don’t know how the poorest of families are managing. I fear this war will eventually attack the very fabric of our society, I really do. Most of all, I feel sorry for the children. They are wondering why their fathers and schoolteachers have left them for so long, and it saddens me to think that many of them will never return. I am now working in one of the schools in Bermondsey and it’s giving me a great deal of satisfaction. The children are so innocently unaware of the dangers we face every day, and they make such a welcome change from the continuous depression that we adults feel and cannot hide.
I heard the sad news last week that John Malone’s youngest son, David, died in the Battle of Loos. Of course, poor John is absolutely devastated, and his wife took to her bed with laudanum. My John’s friend Mathew Gates was also killed a couple of months ago, as was Mr Ayres’s office boy, Jack. You remember him, don’t you? He was the one with all the freckles. We don’t know about anyone else from Goudhurst, as news filters through so infrequently, but I’m in contact with Mrs Baxter, and she’s more reliable than the newspapers, of course!
Simon is busier than ever, and I’ve told him to take it a bit easier because he’s developed a terrible cough, probably due to London’s smoggy skies. He is in charge of our local air raid shelter and looks very smart in his uniform and hard hat. He sends you his love.
