The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (16 page)

Chapter 18

C
elia’s recovery was slow and painful to watch. For days, she suffered raging fevers, leaving her too weak to feed the baby or keep her eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. She lived from day to day in pain or in the depths of the same nightmare that had inflicted itself on her after her father’s death. A wet nurse had been employed to look after the baby, and Mrs Baxter and Marie sat by her bedside day and night. The house was filled with frightened whispers, but then, on a cloudless day, Celia’s fever broke, and she spoke for the first time.

After two weeks of constant care, she felt her strength return. The farm and everything in it became distant and unobtrusive. She would not go back there; all she wanted now was to see the new life that beckoned her. She pushed all thoughts of Joseph from her mind, purging the nightmare that had lived with her for so long. He was dead to her now, and he would remain buried forever in some dark place in the recesses of her mind. She was going to Spain, to a family who, according to Mr Ayres, would care for her, love her, and more importantly, not ask any questions.

Mr Ayres had travelled to Goudhurst several times to see Marie and Celia, and it was on one of his visits, after lunch, that Celia broached the subject of her future. “I feel stronger, and Peter is doing fine. I really think it’s time for me to leave the village,” Celia told Marie and Simon Ayres.

“Are you sure, dear?” Marie asked her with a sideways glance at Mr Ayres. “I mean, it’s all right feeling strong whilst you’re doing nothing, but don’t you think it’s a bit early to be travelling?”

“Well, I thought London for a week or two and then Spain. What do you think, Mr Ayres?”

Simon Ayres scratched his head, just as he always did when asked a question. “Well, I’m all for you leaving the village. Yes, London, then Spain.”

“Good.” Celia smiled.

Mr Ayres told her, “The doctor seems to think that you’re well on the road to recovery, so there really isn’t anything to stop you going in, say, a week. Marie said, “You know, to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to think that going to Spain may not be such a good idea after all.”

“Marie, Celia wants to go,” Simon Ayres pointed out.

Celia smiled to herself thinking for the umpteenth time that her aunt and Mr Ayres made a perfect match, wondering how long it would take them to realise that they both loved each other.

“ “Auntie. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea, and Mr Ayres is right. There’s no reason at all to stay here when I feel so much better. Mr Ayres, tell me again what this Spanish family is like, please.”

Simon Ayres put down his cup and crossed his legs. “Well now, let’s see. They are very well to do and are connected to the aristocracy. They have enough land to swallow Merrill Farm ten times over. The estate is inland of Valencia, which is on the eastern side of the Spanish peninsula. Ernesto Martinéz runs the whole thing. He’s connected to Mr Rawlings, remember, the shipping man we told you about. I don’t know much about the rest of the Martinéz family, but I do know that Rawlings thinks very highly of them all. Ernesto is an only son, and I believe he has four sisters, dotted all over the place.”

Celia thought about what she’d heard so far. She liked the idea of a big family but was unsure about how she would fit in.

“What will I do when I get there?” she asked him.

“You’ll be asked to speak English to Ernesto’s son, his sister, and mother. Ernesto’s very happy about the whole arrangement. He seems a compassionate sort of fellow, and when I told him that you had just lost your husband in a terrible accident and that you desperately needed a holiday, he was more than willing to offer his family’s hospitality.”

Marie pointed out, “Yes, but do you really know anything more about this man apart from the fact that he is probably spoiled rotten by four doting sisters! I mean, you’ve only met him twice.”

“Of course I don’t know him well, my dear, but as I said, Mr Rawlings does, and he’s very fond of him, so that’s good enough for me.”

Chapter 19

J
oseph left Merrill Farm early in the morning, hoping to reach Tom Butcher’s farm before breakfast time. Peter Merrill’s two prize bulls were tied to the back of his cart by ropes that were too tight around their necks and much too short in length to enable them to walk without grazing their legs against the back wheels of the cart. Joseph had thought about doing the deal at Merrill Farm, thus giving Tom all the responsibility for the bulls’ transportation, but he had been given very little time to plan this private matter and had felt sure that the only way to guarantee success would be if the sale of the bulls took place in Tom’s own front yard.

Getting to Tom’s farm by the quickest route had meant Joseph walking the bulls behind the cart for about two miles across Merrill Farm’s own fields. Then he’d gone through the connecting gate into Tom’s farmlands, reaching Tom’s house another mile down a one-track dirt road used by carts taking hops to the oast houses.

He stood in the centre of Tom’s small yard with the horses’reins wrapped loosely around his left hand and whistled shrilly with the fingers of his other, startling the horse and bulls alike. He looked down at his fingers as they left his mouth and noticed that they were shaking. He lifted them again to his mouth and coughed into them. He was nervous, unsure if Tom would have the money or the means to take charge of the beasts, unsure if the London poker game would be worth the loss of the two major assets that he had trailed for miles. He whistled again, and a dog ran towards him. It was Tom’s dog and was never far from his owner’s side. He bent to stroke it, and it rolled over onto its back.

“I see my Barney has taken quite a shine to you, Joseph,” Tom Butcher said, walking towards him from the direction of the kitchen. “I was just having breakfast.”

“Sorry, Tom,” Joseph apologised, knowing it was breakfast time and the only time he was guaranteed to find Tom at home.

A look of surprise and curiosity flew across Tom’s eyes. He looked again at the bulls and then back to Joseph. “That’s all right,” he said absently. “What brings you here, anyway? A long way to walk those beasts, is it not? They’re Peter’s best bulls, if I’m not mistaken. Are you taking them somewhere?”

Joseph held his hand up, showing its palm. “I am, as a matter of fact. I’m taking them to your field, if you let me.”

“If I let you?”

“That’s right. If you say yes… Tom, don’t look at me like that. Hear me out before you say anything.”

Tom stared at the bulls and nodded his head. “All right,” he said.

“I’m selling them, and I thought of you first.”

“Selling them?”

“That’s what I said, selling them. Now you know me. I’m a fair man, so you know you’d be doing yourself a big favour by taking them off my hands. These are my best bulls, the best in the whole bloody county. You’ll be a fool to turn them down at the price I’m asking. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime offer, not one I’m going to repeat, so what do you say?”

Tom looked the bulls over, his eyes going straight to the deep cut on the biggest bull’s foreleg. He fingered the bull’s skin and clearly decided it wasn’t important.

“Well, Joseph, to be honest with you, I really don’t know what to say. I mean, what in God’s name are you selling them for, anyway? You’ll never get animals like these again. They’re worth a bloody fortune, and they were Peter’s pride and joy!”

Joseph cleared his throat. Tom had always been a good bloke to him, especially in the early days. He’d sympathised with him over Peter’s death and had tried to give him advice on the farm, even though he didn’t want or need it. He’d never looked down his nose at him either, not like all the rest. He was, in fact, one of the only people he genuinely liked, and he didn’t want to spoil their friendship. He took a step closer to Tom and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. Somehow he had to convince him to take the bulls and for the price he was asking; anything less would be a disaster:

“Look, Tom, I really don’t want to get into why I want to get rid of them. Let’s just say that I’m investing money in something else and leave it at that. You know I’m a good businessman, so I’m going to ask you to trust me and believe me, Tom, that if I do well, I’ll make sure you do all right out of it too. And one more thing: do you mind not mentioning Peter? He’s dead, and the farm belongs to me now—and so do the bulls. So, Tom, do we have a deal or not?” Joseph asked him, licking his lips.

“Well, how much do you want for them?” Tom asked.

“Four hundred and fifty guineas,” Joseph said.

“What! You’re joking! There’s not a farm in Kent with that kind of money.”

“I disagree. I can mention two or three right now that are champing at the bit for these bulls. Look, I’ve come to you first out of friendship, but if you don’t think you’re interested, tell me now and I’ll go elsewhere.”

Tom’s greedy eyes took in the bulls again. He walked round them, feeling their flanks, their bellies, and their members between their legs.

“Best bloody bulls I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“So do you want them or not?”

“Course I want them! It’s just the money side of things. I might be able to get something from the bank manager, a loan, maybe. Can you wait until tomorrow, see how I get on?”

Joseph nodded, but he wasn’t happy; it was cutting things a bit fine. “Are you sure you’ll be able to get the money?” he asked him.

Tom nodded, and Joseph was satisfied. “All right, you’re a good man, and I trust you.”

“Are you going to leave them with me?” Tom asked.

“Yes, if you give me what you’ve got on you now. You can bring the balance to Merrill Farm tomorrow, say around eleven but no later; I’m off to do some business in London. And, Tom, I’d be grateful if you kept this to yourself for the time being. Don’t want the whole bloody county knowing Merrill Farm’s business. You know what a shower of greedy, nosy bastards they all are.”

Once the deal had been struck, Joseph relaxed and concentrated on his trip to London. The last couple of weeks had flown by, and he’d anticipated having a bit more money than he’d found himself with this morning. It hadn’t been a good month. He’d tried out some changes in strategy, played recklessly a couple of times, but he’d told himself that they were only practice games, for at the end of the day, London was the big one.

When he got back to Merrill Farm, he poured a large whisky and counted the money in the brown envelope. Everything was going according to plan, he thought, relaxing his tense muscles; selling the two bulls had been necessary. The timing might be wrong, but he was going to sell all the livestock soon enough. At first, he’d thought about taking the bulls to market, but that would have been too public, and Ayres would have got wind of it. Then he thought about who would take them off his hands and be discreet about it; Tom Butcher had been his only candidate. Another thought then came to mind, and he poured another drink.

He recalled the conversation with John Stein, the bit about jewellery and houses in particular. Peter’s watch and ring had been hanging around the house for far too long. It was time to get rid of them. He would take them to London as collateral, should he need it. He also decided that now that he had the money for the bulls, he’d book into a hotel and make a night of it, nothing too fancy but near the rooms where the game was to be held. He’d have a good rest beforehand, have a wash, and then put on his best suit, the one he got married in. He needed to blend in with the rich bastards he was going to meet. They weren’t going to make him feel like a pauper!

The next morning, Joseph was saddling his horse, and he cursed at the sound of an approaching horse and cart. It was far too early to be Tom Butcher, he thought, and he didn’t have time to waste on anyone else today. He spat on the ground and walked into the yard. The scowl on his face deepened when he saw Marie. What the fuck did she want? he wondered. There she was, sitting like Lady Muck on Tom’s trap, and why was Tom with her?

“Tom? What the hell is she doing here?” he said, ignoring Marie completely.

Marie stepped down, adjusted her skirts, and brushed the dust away with her gloved hands. “Good morning to you too, Joseph,” she said politely. “Celia wants some of her belongings. I’m taking her to London.”

Joseph wore an unfathomable expression. He couldn’t care less about Celia or the brat she’d just had. He was actually quite pleased that Celia had decided not to come back; he’d had to say something back to the old bag. She wasn’t going to get the last word this time. “That’s her choice. Take her and keep her. I really don’t care.” He shrugged.

“You really are the most disagreeable man I’ve ever met. Do you mean to tell me that you have no interest whatsoever in seeing your own child?”

“I asked to see him. I came to that Baxter woman’s house, and you wouldn’t let me in, remember. And I can’t force Celia to come back to me, so what’s the point in arguing about it? At the end of the day, Peter left me the farm to look after, and that’s all I’m concerned with now.”

While Marie busied herself inside the house, Tom explained to Joseph that his and Marie’s arrival together had been no more than a coincidence, that he’d literally bumped into her in the high street, and since they were both coming to Merrill Farm, he’d offered her a lift. He then told him that she knew absolutely nothing about the bulls and that his secret was safe.

With rage building up inside him, Tom watched Joseph’s greedy eyes counting out the pile of notes and coins. How long, he wondered, could Joseph maintain the lifestyle that was destroying Peter’s farm? Joseph had killed Peter to get his hands on the estate; he believed that with all his heart, and he had said as much to Sergeant Butler. He had thought about it constantly and had wanted to do something about it instead of sitting idly waiting for the justice Peter deserved, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t take the law into his own hands. He would wait patiently for Joseph’s downfall, and it would come. Joseph had been a curse, an infestation worse than any parasite, flea, or tick in the summer! Goudhurst was a village where every neighbour and every friendship was valued, and Joseph was beneath its dignity, reputation, and tradition. He suddenly thought that if this were the seventeenth century, Joseph would be a pile of ashes in the village green, or he’d be hanging by the neck on some tree. He’d have been burnt at the stake while everyone watched, drinking beer and sitting on the benches outside the pub. Tom closed his eyes and visualised the scene. Joseph was squealing like a pig and crying, pleading for mercy. The whole village celebrated his death, and they all got drunk…

Upstairs, Marie picked her way through the rooms. Celia had told her that she’d hunted unsuccessfully for Peter’s watch and ring, but Marie thought that since she was here, it wouldn’t do any harm to look for them one last time. She knew that Joseph slept in Peter’s old room, and she believed that if the watch and ring were still in the house, that’s where she’d find them. She collected the items of Cilia’s that she’d come for and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She stood for a moment, pricking up her ears for the sound of footsteps, and then went to the landing window. Tom was outside, smile planted on his face, and still talking about she couldn’t imagine what, but he’d continue to keep Joseph busy until she went outside to join him. She still had time to look around.

The stench coming from inside Peter’s suite of rooms made her take a step backwards. The bedroom was filthy, smelling of urine and filled with dirty clothes that had been thrown into an untidy heap in the corner, half covering the chamber pot, which was full to the brim. Small heaps of coins were lying on every surface, along with betting slips and admission tickets for various racecourses. She looked at the spent betting slips; there were hundreds of them. He must have kept all of them as mementos.

She cast her eyes around the room again. The bed was half covered in greying sheets that stank of sweat, tobacco, and alcohol. She could see four empty whisky bottles, some lying on the floor, broken underneath the window ledge, and some on top of the ledge itself. She shook her head and hurried through his wardrobe and chests of drawers.

The metal box in the bottom drawer, covered with a white shirt, stared her in the face, and she hesitated only for a second. She had a sixth sense about some things, and every bone in her body now told her that the jewellery was inside. It was padlocked, and she began to search for the key inside all the other drawers, leaving nothing untouched. She examined socks, sleeves, and long johns, even turning them inside out, but they gave up nothing.

She turned to the bed again and decided as a last resort to check underneath it. The prayer book on the night table fell when she bumped into it. It had belonged to her sister Lillian, and she recognised the inscription on the first blank page:

To
my
darling
Lillian,
may
all
your
prayers
be
answered.

Peter

A key stuck out between the middle pages, and she picked it up with fingers that trembled. It turned easily in the metal box’s lock, and she lifted the lid, looking over at the door at the same time. Apart from some coins and an old photograph, there was nothing interesting inside. However, just as she was about to close it, she noticed fraying around the bottom edges of the inside lining. She picked at the sides with the key until the whole silk flooring lifted to reveal exactly what she’d been looking for. She covered her mouth to stifle her outrage and quickly put everything back the way it was. They had their proof, and now they had to decide how to use it.

Her head was spinning with so many what-ifs going through her mind all at once: What if Joseph now decided to move them? Sell them? Bury them? And worst of all, not take them to the game? That would be unthinkable. It might ruin the entire plan. She thought that Joseph surely wouldn’t sell them after all this time. He must be feeling even more confident now, what with Celia out of the way. And could he really sell them with Peter’s initials inscribed on them? She scolded herself. What-ifs wouldn’t get her anywhere. She looked around the room, making sure everything was as it should be, and closed the door. She then picked up Celia’s belongings stacked at the top of the landing and left the house with an outward calm and an inward rage.