The Guardian of Secrets

by Jana Petken

  Joseph began walking down the hill, suited and booted in clothes bought by the prostitute Suzanne, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the new identity papers and what they would mean to him. They would open up his shady world. There would be no more hiding his name or himself from prying eyes. His new looks would give him the freedom to move through Paris without wondering if every stranger he saw had been sent after him. Marie Osborne and Stein, the Jew, wouldn’t give up – vindictive bastards. In an hour, he would be Harry Miller; he’d chosen that name because of a Harry Miller he’d known in Yorkshire. The man had taught him the rudiments of poker and had been his mentor until he beat him fair and square. The old man outgrew his usefulness after that.

  With the new name, he would also be allowed entrance into games in big fancy hotels, guarded by men in top hats and tails, and into clubs where names on documents with official stamps were taken before you were even allowed to sit down. Money wasn’t enough to join the elite groups in Paris, but membership and an unsullied past was everything.

  Joseph tripped over a loose stone in the road and swore loudly. Shooting pain coursed up and down his bad leg, and he cursed again. Celia Merrill came to mind, and his animated mood turned to rage. He had not given up on the idea of finding her, tearing out her throat, and choking her in her own blood. She was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. His bad leg, prison, and all the humiliation that went with it were her fault. Looking at a life sentence in a foreign country, comfortable but forced upon him, eating frogs’ legs and fish with eyes staring at him every time he took a bite was her fault too. He was stuck here, listening to a mumble jumble of words he didn’t understand, just trying to survive, while she was probably sitting in Merrill Farm right now, living her life as though he’d never existed.

  She had stolen that farm from him, had taken everything he’d worked for. He’d languished in hospital and prison for months because of her. He’d been saved because she had to be punished, and he had to be the one to administer the sentence. That was his mission in life now. He might not exist in her mind, but she existed for him; every day and every night she existed, playing with his mind until he wanted to kill the nearest person to him just to keep the vein in his neck from bursting. He wasn’t finished with her yet, not by a long shot. Thinking about Celia led to thinking about England. Years would have to pass before it would be safe for him to set foot in Kent; he wasn’t a fool. But one day he would. She’d look up and see him at her door, and he would be the last thing she ever saw.

  Chapter 34

  Aunt Marie and Mr Ayres now lived in a small but adequate guesthouse in La Glorieta’s ample grounds. Mr Ayres had arrived shortly before the wedding and had surprised everyone with the announcement that he would be staying indefinitely. Ayres and Partners had been left in capable hands, he’d added, and he had no plans to take back the reins in the foreseeable future.

  Most days, Marie found time to paint, while Mr Ayres passed his hours in lively conversation with Don Miguel. The latter had mellowed somewhat, was less grumpy, and for the first time in years, he had taken an interest in life around him. When he insisted on dining together every night, Mr Ayres ensured that mealtimes became occasions for debate and energetic discussions on topics from art to politics. Don Miguel, in return, remarked to Ernesto that maybe life wasn’t too bad after all.

  Marie and Marta fussed over Celia, who at times despaired at their persistent and unwanted attention. She was not allowed to tax herself in any way, thanks to her aunt Marie, who had informed everyone that Dr Sutton’s warning about the risks involved with another pregnancy were to be taken seriously.

  “We must be very careful. It’s a miracle that she’s even carrying another child; she’s not strong,” she told the family on a daily basis.

  As time went on, Celia herself admitted that she was suffering with an aching back and permanent tiredness, and she succumbed to the idea that, for a while anyway, her active life would have to be curtailed. She was not allowed to ride, travel to Valencia on the ladies’ shopping trips, and was even refused the pleasure of weekly picnics with her husband, yet she’d never been happier.

  On 28 June, Mr Ayres returned from Valencia just in time for dinner, and after joining the rest of the family in the dining room, he imparted news that would change their lives forever.

  “Have you heard?” he asked them with a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Heard what?” Ernesto asked, placing his wine glass on the table.

  “Oh dear, so you haven’t heard, then …”

  “Simon, for goodness’ sake, tell us!” Marie interrupted in her usual fashion.

  “I’ve just heard some extraordinary news. It would appear that Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife have been assassinated in Sarajevo!”

  No one spoke. Expressions of shock and disbelief spread across the faces at the table, and gasps of outrage filled the air. Don Miguel, Ernesto, and Marie immediately wanted to know who had been responsible, but Mr Ayres told them that details of the murders were sketchy at best, and that he didn’t know any more at that point.

  “Where is Sarajevo?” Marta asked, distracting Simon.

  “It’s in Serbia, Mother,” Ernesto told her patiently.

  “And where is Serbia, dear?”

  “It’s in the Balkans, Marta,” Marie told her with less patience.

  “But who would do such a terrible thing?” Celia asked.

  “Well, in the absence of a suspect, I can only believe that it’s the Serbian government or an agent of the Serbs,” Ernesto told her.

  “Nonsense!” Don Miguel said with indignation. “Why would they do such a despicable thing to Austria? Why, there’s no motive at all.”

  “There’s always a motive, Father. Ever since the war between the Balkan League of Serbia, Greece, and Bulgaria against Turkey, we’ve heard nothing but reports of infighting within the league for the spoils of Turkish territories. Look at Hungry and Austria, who invested heavily in Serbia and then insisted that an independent Albanian state be formed and that Serbia be excluded from the Adriatic coast. Why, that alone almost caused a war, what with Russia threatening to join forces with Serbia against them. These last couple of years have been like a game of chess, with Serbia taking Macedonia, a territory earmarked for the Bulgarians, who were no match for the Serbian and Greek forces. Don’t you see what’s happened, Father? Serbia has become strong and powerful because of that Balkan war, and its victory for nationalism has been a disaster for the Hapsburg monarchy. It was clear last year that Hungary and Austria could not afford another retreat.”

  “Yes, but I still don’t see …”

  “Father, do you remember the words of the kaiser in nineteen twelve?”

  Simon, “Yes. I seem to remember him saying something about not getting involved.

  Ernesto nodded. “I’ll keep out of it. Let them get on with their war undisturbed. Well, after the war, he was the one who urged Austria and Hungary to take a firm stance against Serbia over Albanian independence. He assured them of Germany’s unswerving support after it was made clear that his country was having a major reconsideration of her military position and of her relationship with Austria and Hungary.”

  “That’s right. The kaiser must have made some kind of deal, if you ask me,” Simon said.

  “Would anyone like to eat?” Marta interjected. “The food is getting cold. All this talk about murders and assassinations … It’s all so far away. We have enough problems in our own country without worrying about some other place. Now eat!”

  Ernesto nodded patiently to his mother before speaking again to Simon. “Do you remember that the nineteen twelve report clearly said that the kaiser was quoted – quoted, mind you – as saying that he would stand behind Austria and Hungary and would draw his sword?”

  “Yes, I see where you’re going now,” Don Miguel said.

  “My God, how awful. This is serious. The death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand has probably removed one of
the strongest influences for peace at court,” Marie said with her head in her hands. “So what will happen now?”

  “God only knows,” Ernesto said to the group.

  That night, long after the ladies had retired, the men of the house argued their own beliefs as to not who had killed the archduke and his wife but what the repercussions of the murder would mean to the rest of Europe.

  In the following weeks, there was talk of little else, and the growing suspicion that Serbia had been responsible for the double murder left Ernesto in little doubt that the rest of Europe must accept the consequences of a possible general war. The newspapers reporting on the responses of the other European heads of state were convinced that the death of the archduke had opened a gateway to destruction that would undoubtedly involve all the other European alliances, and Ernesto prepared his family for the inevitable announcement.

  On 3 July, Ernesto’s fears were confirmed when Austria and Hungary sent an ultimatum to Serbia, reading as follows: Her government was required to suppress any and all anti-Austrian organisations and propaganda, and they must dismiss any officials to whom the Vienna government might object to. It was framed in such extreme terms that it was almost impossible for Serbia to accept, and Europe held its breath.

  Within a week, Europe was at war after Serbia’s reaction was conciliatory but did not meet Austria and Hungary’s demands. While the men of the house debated over what the effects of the crisis would mean for Spain, the women sat in their salon, sewing feverishly and in silence, afraid to utter the terrifying words of war, which could mean the end of life as they knew it.

  Marie was sure that Britain would not enter the conflict and said as much to the men one night at dinner. However, while she impressed Don Miguel with her argument for neutrality, Mr Ayres and Ernesto were both of the opinion that Britain would find it hard to remain outside the conflict with her allies, such as Belgium being invaded by Germany.

  In the middle of July, the family left La Glorieta and travelled in convoy to the sea. Their summer house was situated on the shores of the Mediterranean, on the outskirts of a small fishing village called Dénia. The villa on the Dénia beach was not as large as the house at La Glorieta. It was intimate, with no separate salon for the men and women of the house. This secretly pleased Marie, who sometimes despaired at not being allowed to take part in discussions, which the men believed should be conducted out of earshot of the delicate ears of women. She tired of hearing ‘We mustn’t frighten the ladies’ and similar comments. But Marie was well aware of the politics and strategies of the European countries, and she had a lot to say about the whole thing. She would be damned if she’d let them keep her out of the conversation, she told Simon one evening.

  Towards the end of July, John Stein and his family, Ernesto’s sisters, their children, and even their husbands joined them by the sea. Marta insisted on the whole family attending, with no excuses. This, according to her, was just in case Spain was thrown into chaos. On 3 August, Britain declared that she would stand by her treaty with Belgium and entered the war. John left for England, taking his family with him, and Marie finally gave way to tears.

  Celia, still not sure why all this was happening, admired her husband’s intelligent arguments and was grateful that her aunt had not returned to England, but she had to admit that she felt happier when she was with the children and could at least forget about the whole thing, for a while anyway. She wrote in her journal:

  4 August 1914

  Life has remained untouched in this small fishing town. Old women dressed in black herd their brood of grandchildren around their feet and sit outside their white-walled houses on chairs made from straw. They seem oblivious of the events taking place in the world, and I can understand why, for the fear, uncertainty, and even the spiral of madness in the rest of Europe has so far left them untouched. Death and destruction is nowhere in sight in this sleepy haven. The hysteria at the villa, however, has left me thinking constantly about this distant and invisible war raging, and I pray that it never reaches these shores.

  Most mornings we take the short walk to the village. Its residential area, called El Raset, is centred round an impressive castle and nestles at the water’s edge. The harbour, crowded with fishing boats, is a hive of activity throughout the day, for when the boats are not at sea, scores of men converge to participate in the tedious tasks that keep the fleet afloat. The reparations of nets, boat hulls, and sails are never ending. Rocks used to build walls, halting the sea from swallowing the village, are dug out from the white granite mountains nearby and arrive in a never-ending stream on carts pulled by skinny, exhausted donkeys and mules.

  We take boat trips around the headland and past the cliff-top of the San Antonio lighthouse, stopping off in the port of Jávea for lunch. It is truly a magical place.

  When I go to bed at night, I no longer feel the panic I have long since felt. As I lie beside my love, I feel only a sense of joy in knowing that with him I have found peace. Joseph Dobbs has ceased to invade my dreams. His terrible laughter has drifted away from my ears, and I can no longer see his vile face. He is a memory, just as my aunt told me he would be.

  Some of the family remained at the beach until the beginning of September. However, Ernesto insisted that he be allowed to return to La Glorieta. He didn’t relish the thought of leaving Celia or going back to an empty house, but he believed that the outbreak of war in Europe would undoubtedly affect his business in some way or another. Changes would be inevitable, and his family and the peasants under his care would be casualties of a war, so far away in terms of kilometres yet so close to home because of the impact it would have on all of them. He had already received a telegram from Mr Rawlings in which he was warned of future difficulties in sea trade because of German submarine missions to raid British and allied commerce. This new development lay heavily on his mind, for without his trade with Britain, most of his crop would be left to rot in the bowels of some warehouse in Valencia or, even worse, lost at the bottom of the ocean.

  By October, it was apparent to all Spaniards that Spain would not enter the war. It was also evident that the conflict was not one that would disappear overnight and that both sides would soon be preparing for a form of warfare that neither had experienced nor anticipated.

  Ernesto worked tirelessly, accompanying his produce personally to the docks in Valencia. He accepted that the dangers at sea were out of his control, but some ships were still getting through, and as long as there were ships, he would load the produce just as he always did.

  Celia, along with her aunt, worried constantly over the fate of all the people they knew in England. They wondered if the young men from Goudhurst, John and his friends, and Simon Ayres’s secretaries had been given their marching orders. It was so difficult to get news of what was happening back home that sometimes Marie was sure she was going to worry herself into an early grave. As usual, Simon Ayres was there to calm her fears. He was in constant communication with England and assured the two women that as of yet, John, his friends, and anyone close to them had not been called upon to bear arms. But they all knew that it would only be a matter of time.

  Chapter 35

  The rage on Joseph Dobbs’s face and in his demeanour was evident in the small bar across the street from the British Consulate. He sat lopsided on the bar stool, smoking one cigarette after another and staring endlessly at the door as though his life depended on it. Every now and then, he cursed, mumbling into his glass. He cursed loudly this time, thinking about the person he was waiting for and not caring who heard him. He hated waiting for anyone, let alone the hapless Roddy fucking Smyth what’s-his-face! He didn’t like being so close to a British government building either; it had been Roddy’s idea to meet there, not his. He swore again. Roddy had come to the end of his usefulness. He didn’t need him anymore. He had his new name now and an open road into the poker games that interested him.

  He had used Roddy’s services a couple of times. The first time w
as to help him dispose of a prostitute’s body. They had both gone to the whorehouse one night after a game of poker that had hurt his pockets and his pride. Roddy chose a small fat thing with big tits and had practically run up the stairs to fuck her, while he went for the best-looking girl there, with fair hair and pale eyes, reminding him a bit of Celia. Her name was Sissy – a stupid fucking name for a woman. She seemed to like it rough, so he’d given it to her rough. He didn’t hear her complain, thought she was enjoying it, but he’d choked the life out of her and couldn’t really say when or how it happened. He only knew that she’d stopped breathing.

  Joseph asked for another drink whilst thinking about what happened next. That was it, he remembered: Roddy had been in another room in the brothel, Le Grand Plaisir – stupid fucking name. He grunted. He’d never had a grand pleasure there, and he’d paid for it. He bided his time in the room with the dead woman until he heard Roddy’s scream. Roddy always screamed when he had an orgasm, silly git!

  When Roddy left the prostitute’s room, he’d been waiting for him. Thank fuck the room faced the back of the building or they would have been seen for sure, he thought now. They took the body out of the room and onto the fire escape, wrapped in a sullied sheet. Roddy had been reluctant to help at first. He’d cried like a baby. “Oh, no, I can’t do this,” he’d sobbed. “I’ll go to jail … Oh, my family, my work. No, please don’t make me!” He was pathetic, but he soon put him right on a few things, and eventually, after telling him what would happen if he didn’t help, he came to his senses.

  Together they’d dumped the whore in a rat-infested alleyway hardly ever frequented by decent folk, and those that they did see that night were too drunk or high on opium to give a damn. He’d never gone back to that place, but Roddy had, and according to him, nobody had ever asked about a dead whore. She’d been a nonentity, a waste of space that the world and he didn’t miss.