by Jana Petken
The three men walked towards the main entrance of the prison with slow, sombre steps.
The stone-walled prison with barbed wire bordering the top of it was as grey as the morning sky. The entrance was a fifteen-foot-tall pair of solid oak doors, with one of them housing a smaller individual door for foot visitors and prison guards. The time was six forty-five, fifteen minutes before Joseph Dobbs’s execution. Mr Bats rang the bell on the small door, and all three waited in a line for it to be opened to them.
The prison warden faced them on the other side of the wooden doors, in the centre of the courtyard, with fear and disbelief etched on his face. He stood like a statue, waiting for the three men to approach, and said nothing when he shook hands with all three.
“Is the prisoner ready?” Bats asked in his cold, professional manner.
“I’ll get the sack for this! I don’t know how the hell this happened, but I’ll get the push and be lucky if I ever get a job again,” he blurted out, not answering Bats’ question.
“Slow down, man,” Bats told him. “What are you talking about?”
The three men looked at each other, puzzled, and then back to the warden.
“Well?” Bats asked him again.
“It’s Joseph Dobbs; he’s done a bunk right from under our noses.”
“Say that again!” John’s voice trembled.
“Joseph Dobbs escaped.”
“Christ almighty!” Mr Bats could only manage to say.
“How the hell did that happen … When?” Simon asked him?
The warden’s embarrassment had visibly knocked the air out of him, and when he answered, his voice was hoarse and trembling like a young girl’s.
“Last night. His mother came and went. Or at least, the guard thought it was his mother. She was all dressed up in that black garb. He didn’t think to check her bloody face when she left. Who would? Anyway, when the guard went into the cell with the priest a couple of hours ago, Dobbs’ mother was lying on the bed with nothing but a nightshirt on. The priest nearly vomited at the sight of her! Her face was all wrinkled up like a bulldog, and her mouth was open like a fish fighting for air on dry land. She’d been strangled. Bone stuck out of the sliver of black skin on her neck … Bloody horrible sight. Imagine doing that to your old mother!”
Simon and John stood open-mouthed, unable to speak or think until they heard Bat’s heavy authoritarian voice.
“What are you doing to find him, you and your useless troop of idiots?”
“There are men out looking for him, police and wardens. They’ve got his description and another description of what his mother was wearing when she came into the prison last night. He’s probably got rid of the clothes by now, though. I’m sorry, gents. He’s long gone, and it’ll be a devil of a job to find him.”
Simon walked down the street with John. Simon tried to even his stride on shaky legs. He had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, born out of shock and horror. He was praying; praying for Joseph’s quick capture, but at the back of his mind he was sure that Joseph’s escape would have grave consequences on all of their lives., and that now their problems were just beginning all over again.
Simon spoke first. “Christ, what am I going to tell your mother?”
“We’ll tell her the truth; she won’t accept anything less. Do you want me to come with you?”
Simon thought about it for a moment. “No. I’ll go alone. We need you to see what the police are doing about this. I don’t trust that prison warden. I suspect he’s clueless about the situation. We need to take matters into our own hands if necessary.”
John stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if the police are not doing their job, I’ll send a bloody private army after Dobbs myself!”
When Marie opened the door, Simon took a deep breath. In all the years they had known each other, he’d never lied to her, and he would not lie now. She was strong, he kept thinking, simultaneously trying to convince himself of this. She would cope with the truth, and as always, she would come up with a plan to protect Celia.
Marie was still in her night attire. Her hair was unkempt, and her eyes were swollen and red. She sniffed into her handkerchief and then gave Simon Ayres a quizzical look.
“Is it over already, so quickly? Did he cry? Did he die easily? Was his mother there?” She asked him these questions without pausing for breath or noticing the grey pallor of his complexion.
“Marie, sit down, dear. Don’t speak another word; just sit down.” Simon spoke with calm authority. “I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it. Joseph didn’t hang …”
After hearing the story, Marie staggered like a drunk to the drinks cabinet and poured them each a large brandy. It wasn’t yet midmorning, but she determined that she at least needed it to help her over the shock of it all.
“Simon, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that a prison full of guards and men at the front gate were so neglectful in their duty. Dear God, Joseph is a murderer due to die this morning – a dangerous man. How could they have been so stupid? I’ll see to their dismissal myself, I swear I will!”
“It’s already done. The guards responsible have been sacked. The warden will be dismissed too.”
Marie gave a satisfactory nod of her head. “Well, I wish I could say that their punishment brought me some comfort, but I don’t think anything will make me feel better. I can’t bear to think about Joseph roaming the streets. When did you say this happened?”
“According to the warden, it was about ten o’clock last night.”
“Twelve hours ago. He’ll be long gone. They’ll never catch him now, will they?”
Simon sat beside Marie on the couch and held her hand. With his free hand, he pushed a tendril of hair away from her eyes, which were filling up with moisture.
“He could head north or to the coast. But he’s known in the north, and his picture will be on all the front pages of every newspaper tonight, so it’s more likely that he’ll try for the South and a ship to get him across the channel. The port authorities in Dover and Folkestone have been warned to look out for him, and his picture is being distributed all over the country as we speak. But like you say, he has a twelve-hour start. Marie, the most important thing right now is to decide between us what we’re going to tell Celia.”
Marie stood up and poured herself another brandy. She was as bad as Joseph Dobbs, drinking in the morning!
“Celia must not know he’s alive,” she told Simon with her back to him. “She must be told that he’s dead; otherwise, she’ll live in fear for the rest of her life, wondering if he’ll find her again. She’s not strong, you know that.”
“Joseph would be stupid to go after Celia. He has bigger problems to deal with. He’s on the run, and he won’t dare look for her here in London … or Kent, for that matter. And never in a million years will he find out that she’s in Spain. Why should he? No one knows, apart from you, John, and me. My main concern is that she may find out through other sources that we lied to her. Information on Joseph could come in any form, from a newspaper or from someone other than her who has seen a newspaper and, God forbid, meets her in some quirk of fate, but that’s highly unlikely.”
Marie handed Simon a brandy and sat back down beside him. “She’ll have to remain in Spain for as long as possible. She might find out the truth at some point in the future,– or never – but one thing is certain: she’s not ready to deal with it now. We’ll just have to convince her to remain with the Martinéz family and hope that we can catch the beast of a man and hang him before any more damage is done!”
Simon patted her on the knee and nodded to himself, saying, “It’s risky not telling her, but yes, I agree with you. You must go to her. Can I arrange passage for you?”
“No, I’ll go after Christmas. It’s only two months away, and that’s when I’m expected there. She has no need to know about any of this until she’s at least passed the holidays. I
’ll tell her that Joseph is dead when I see her. She sounded so happy in her last letter. Please don’t ask me to spoil it all for her. She’s still coming to terms with everything, and I know her. First, she’ll want to come straight back home, and we can’t even consider allowing that. The farm isn’t ready for her, and she’s not ready for the farm. I still have all the furniture in storage, and the herd has to go back to the fields. There are broken windows to fix and bills to be paid, and I still have to tell her that she has a cousin. She’s not ready for any of this! And neither am I, now that I think about it.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Marie, dear. I’ll see to everything,” Simon told her. “I’ll make sure that the finances are in order. Tom’s eldest son, John, has agreed to manage the farm until Celia decides what she wants to do with it. Tom is taking on Dick Simmons from the village to replace him, and I’ve agreed to pay his wages for the next six months or until we find out what Celia wants. And as for John, she’ll be absolutely delighted to find out that she has a cousin! So you see, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Except that Joseph might be stupid enough to turn up at some point. I’m sorry, Simon, but my mind is made up. I’ll write to Celia now and tell her that I’ll see her after Christmas, just as we planned. I’ll also tell her that everything is being taken care of and that Joseph is in prison awaiting trial. That’s all she needs to know right now. Simon, please don’t look at me like that! If you knew Celia as well as I do, you’d know that deep down she doesn’t really want to know all the ins and outs of the matter. Just knowing that Joseph is arrested will be enough to put her mind at rest, and a peaceful mind is all she needs right now.”
“But what peace can she have?” Simon asked her.
Marie sighed; he was not listening.
“The peace of not knowing means not having to decide anything. Heavens above, Simon, but sometimes I think you don’t know women at all!”
He smiled, and she smiled back. They sat for a while, watching the rain tap against the window, both of them engrossed in their own thoughts. Simon closed his eyes and rested his head against a cushion on the sofa.
“So Celia is not a widow after all,” he said sleepily. “I’d better begin divorce proceedings again.”
Marie stumbled to the window and pressed her forehead on the glass pane. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to face Simon, who was beginning to doze off.
“Oh, God, what have I done?”
He opened his eyes just in time to see her slump into an armchair as though her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“The night before Joseph’s execution, I destroyed the divorce papers. All of them!”
Chapter 28
It was almost Christmas, and the mountain peaks behind La Glorieta were white with a recent flurry of snow. The days remained dry and sunny, but at night it was cold, with a dampness that seemed to penetrate the skin and reach right into the bones. Alone in her room, Celia sat facing the window that looked out over those snowy mountains and smiled with contentment. She opened her journal and turned to a blank page. She hadn’t written for five days. Long busy days and late nights had left her far too sleepy to take the time to recall her adventures.
21 December 1913
It was colder than usual today on our journey back, but I wrapped up warm in the carriage and was so full of delightful memories of Valencia that I hardly noticed the biting chill in my bones. Ernesto has not been home very often of late, so when he suggested an excursion to Valencia, I found my tummy fluttering with excitement. Now it is a race against time to get the oranges off the trees before the winter frost kills them, and Ernesto has been up at the crack of dawn, overseeing the managers who are responsible for the transport of the oranges to Valencia. Rosa told me the other day that most of the other landowners don’t even bother to go to their haciendas during the picking season. She said that they prefer to stay in the city to enjoy the continuous round of parties and balls. Apparently, many visit their land only once a year, and that’s only because of the hunting season, not because they want to work. Ernesto is dedicated. He is the best farmer I have ever known – apart from my father.
I have been reading all about Spanish current affairs, and I’m now taking an interest in everything that is going on in this part of Spain, from the latest agricultural techniques to the political climate, which never seems to be completely stable. Mr Rawlings told me once that the Spanish race was both passionate and prone to dramatise, and I can see that this is true and exhibited in the way the newspapers report their stories. My Spanish lessons are going well, although I must admit that it is my close friendship with Don Miguel, not the classroom, that has taught me the rudiments.
Today after dinner, we sat in front of his fire discussing our mutual love of the written word. He devours books, and I’m sure that there are not enough of them in the world to satisfy his hunger. I must write to Mr Rawlings and beg him to bring a pile of them on his next visit to Spain. Now I must talk about my visit to Valencia; I have saved this until last.
Our first stop was the fruit and vegetable market, just recently built. Marta and Rosa purchased delicious foods. They filled baskets with nuts, dates, olives, and almond nougats, known as turrón. I thought the servant’s arm was going to break with the strain of it all. Afterwards, we went our separate ways in order to buy gifts for the night of the three kings, but Ernesto accompanied me. The poor man had been nominated to show me the best of Valencia’s historical buildings, when I’m sure he had better things to do!
We walked through the old cobbled streets and into the ancient market squares that surround the cathedral. Two octagonal towers, the spire of the church of Santa Catalina, and the Miguelete dominate the square, and Ernesto told me that the buildings dated back to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Large Gothic mansions that house the clergy were on the outer part of the square. They were impressive buildings in a style that I had never seen before, and the great detail of the sculptures on the outer walls was truly marvellous. Inside the cathedral itself, there were small crypts and private chapels, all beautifully decorated with gold leaf covings. A golden chalice sat on a red satin cloth, protected behind a glass case, and Ernesto told me that history recorded that it was the actual chalice that Jesus Christ drank from at the Last Supper. A pope came here to Valencia two hundred years ago to drink from it and to bless it. I don’t know if I believe the story to be true or not, but Ernesto does with all his heart.
After the cathedral, we went to La Lonja de la Seda. That’s the silk trader’s building. Inside, corridors of great marble pillars and high dome-shaped ceilings dominated the entire building. The ceiling was so high that I thought my neck was going to break just looking at it. There were fifty or more small wooden desks with one chair on either side dotted around the vast floor space, and Ernesto told me that in the days when silk was a major export, every clerk had his own desk to barter and negotiate prices with the silk producers. Outside, the noise of building works filled the air. To the left and right of La Lonja, new tower blocks sat tall and proud in the Valencia skyline and Ernesto told me that the largest insurance companies owned them; they became even richer because of the expanding citrus trade.
Then we met once more with Marta and Rosa, and I was sorry that my time alone with Ernesto had ended. Why do I feel this way? I love the way he talks, the way in which he gestures animatedly with his hands. He is intelligent and funny. He makes me laugh and makes me feel so alive. No one has ever made me feel this way!
Last night we stayed in Valencia. My goodness, what a house I slept in! No, not a house. It was a palace belonging to the Marqués de Dos Fuentes, who is Ernesto’s uncle. It was probably the most magnificent building I’d seen all day. An architect called Hipólito Rovira built the palace, and it was in Gothic style. The alabaster doorway was the most amazing piece of workmanship I’ve ever seen. The hallways, with ceilings decorated in gold leaf, paintings, and ceramic mosaics dating back to the
seventeenth century, left me breathless. It was truly exquisite but maybe a bit too grandiose and eccentric. I wasn’t surprised to learn that its illustrious designer had died insane.
We dined at a wonderful restaurant last night, right in the centre of the city. The diners, elegantly dressed in dinner suits and gowns sparkling with diamonds, laughed and danced in a way I’d never seen before, and although I never said so, I surmise that these people are not tied to the confines of the strict religious protocols for which Spain is famed. They seemed to be enjoying themselves with an abandonment of all rules governing behavioural correctness. The ladies danced so close to their partners that their bodies touched at the most intimate places, and when they kissed, it was in a way that would most certainly be frowned upon, even in London. All the books I read before coming to Spain, about Spanish culture, stated that unmarried ladies dare not even talk to or dance with gentlemen to whom they were not betrothed for fear of the permanent destruction of their reputations. Maybe the Spanish aristocracy lives by a set of rules governed entirely by them. It reminds me of the hypocrisy of King Edward VII. He preached family values yet cheated on his wife on a regular and very public basis, and many blamed him for setting an example of low moral standards. But what do I know of such things?
And the food! In addition to lobster and caviar, there were dishes with large fish, their heads still attached and their dead eyes still wide in shock. There were racks of lamb, chickens, pig, and venison, but what held my attention was the great paella pan filled with rice, meat, shellfish, and vegetables. Red prawns, black mussels, pieces of chicken, and green beans were nestled on top of a bed of yellow rice. someone must have spent a great deal of time designing the pan, as all the ingredients were so perfectly placed.
