The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (6 page)

Chapter 4

M
rs Baxter, the housekeeper, stirred the pot of stew and clucked her tongue angrily as she did so. She had not left Celia’s side since the terrible events that had torn her world apart. She had filled the kitchen with groceries, had cleaned the house from top to bottom, and had catered to Celia. Mrs Baxter was a strong, solid presence in a house that was now filled with fear and loathing, unwittingly shielding Celia from Joseph Dobbs, who now preferred to spend all his time working in the fields or in the pub rather than abide by Mrs Baxter’s household rules. She was a practical, disciplined, and highly organised person who had never been married, although as a housekeeper, she had the courtesy title of missus. She was not known for emotional outbursts or displays of womanly weakness. She ran the house as though it were her own, butting heads with Peter Merrill over the years over Celia’s upbringing, controlling all household matters, and winning at every turn.

However, in the few short days since Peter Merrill’s death, she had come to discover that the new master was a different kettle of fish entirely, and this was why her anger threatened to boil over, just like the stew. To her mind, Joseph Dobbs was rude and arrogant, and he had made it abundantly clear that she was not wanted in the home she’d practically lived in for more than twenty years. She clucked again; her battles with him would undoubtedly be even more vigorous than her previous ones with the late Peter Merrill.

She secretly despised Joseph for the man he was and for the way he behaved. In her opinion, he was shielding a secret past, a murky, shameful past that had driven him from the north like a destructive wind. It frustrated her no end that Celia couldn’t see past his good looks, and at times his sickening charm left her cold. He had descended on the village in a flurry of snow and by summer behaved as though he was lord of the manor, looking down his nose at the common village folk who had welcomed him as one of their own

Mrs Baxter wasn’t fond of men in general and had known men like Joseph Dobbs through her large family of brothers and sisters, and being a determined and stubborn woman, she would not rest until she forced Celia to see that he was no more than a drunken gambler who neither loved nor respected her. She would make it her business to find out all she could about him from every gossip in Goudhurst, and she would do it sooner rather than later.

Celia’s face was drawn and deathly pale. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and when she did manage to close her eyes, she was faced with dreams full of such horrific images that they left her exhausted and listless for the entire day. Her nightmares were always the same. She stood bruised and beaten in a forest of trees so thick that she could not see the sky. Dead people walked towards her. They came from a thick grey mist so dense that she thought she would choke on it. Some of the dead had blood on their faces; others had their heads open at the crown, showing pieces of flesh and bone. Insects were nesting there, crawling in and out of the wounds. As the corpses grew closer to her, they cried out her name in anguish and despair in what seemed like a thousand voices. They pleaded for her help, but she was unable to reach them because she couldn’t move her body, which was sinking in a muddy pool.

Joseph appeared from the back of the crowd and stood in the middle of the broken bodies. One of the dead turned around and screamed her name; it was her father, his face distorted and bloody, his mouth snapping open and shut with her name on his lips as he tried to tell her something. That was the worst part of all because no matter how many times she tried, she just couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Joseph laughed at him, then at her. He laughed until the sound of his laughter became so deafening that it drowned out the other voices until they disappeared entirely. Then he walked closer and closer towards her, his mouth finally swallowing her whole.

Celia spent her waking hours reliving the events that had led to the news of her father’s death. She didn’t want to remember, but the experience was so deeply etched within her that it had now become part of her. She recalled that after his attack, Joseph had left her in the parlour where she lay, but where had he gone afterwards? She had asked herself that question ever since she had learned of her father’s death. Her own suspicions, that Joseph was responsible for her father’s murder, surfaced over and over again, and a voice in the recess of her mind was becoming so loud that it was developing a life of its own, its nagging persistence urging her to listen. Of course, she told herself, she could never tell her aunt Marie, who’d be arriving from London at any moment. She couldn’t tell anyone. She had no proof, and she had lied about that night to Sergeant Butler.

Joseph had not come near her since that terrible night, but she knew that it was only a matter of time before he showed his true colours again. His attentiveness towards her was evident to everyone who came to the house, but she was all too aware that it was only an elaborate act put on for the benefit of Sergeant Butler, who now called in at the farm on a daily basis with updates on his enquiry. In a farcical display of support, Joseph held her hand whenever there were guests at the house, but his fingers digging into her palms were a constant reminder for her not to let anything slip out of her mouth.

Marie Osborne, Celia’s aunt on her mother’s side, arrived just before dinner on the night before the funeral. Marie was a commanding figure, tall and elegant but with sharp mannish features softened only by kind eyes that sparkled with laughter. She had a temper that was well documented. She was a woman known for her unruffled vision of life, and she rarely allowed her emotions to come to the fore. She was also disciplined in every way and spoke with a heavy voice that broached no argument, but the humour, temper, and unruffled calmness was absent now. Her eyes were swollen with grief and a lack of sleep, also lifeless with the dull pain that the death of a loved one brings. She walked with a lack of confidence, talked in a voice that was barely audible, and had not smiled since her arrival in Goudhurst.

The family sat at the table: Marie, Celia, and Joseph. Celia forgot about her own problems for a moment and watched her aunt playing with her uneaten food. Her heart went out to her. She had never seen her aunt so vulnerable or pitiful, and it scared her, for she had always been the strongest force in her life, her surrogate mother and the one person she’d always turned to in the turbulent years since her mother’s death.

Marie was rich, so wealthy that she’d become nourishment for the gossipmongers in Goudhurst for well over twenty years. No one, not even Celia, could comprehend how a plain village girl like her aunt had become so rich, but everyone speculated to distraction on the subject. Celia continued to watch her. Her aunt Marie, her rock, had crumbled, and she decided there and then that she couldn’t and wouldn’t add to her suffering by talking about her marital problems.

Over dinner, nothing was said. No thoughts were shared, no subject broached. The meal of three courses seemed to go on forever in a polite silence that was, to Celia’s dismay, incapable of cloaking her aunt’s distaste for Joseph. She had always known that the two didn’t get along, but in the silence, their dislike for each other was almost tangible in the suffocating, dreary atmosphere.

Dessert was cleared from the table, and relief spread across all three of their faces. Celia fiddled with the lace tablecloth, and Joseph announced that he was going to the pub.

“I’m meeting some mates,” he said. “We’re going to have a drink to celebrate Peter’s life… I’ve had enough of this bloody mourning and crying.”

“Sit down, Joseph!” Marie’s booming voice echoed around the room. “Sit down. I want to talk to you both, and I mean
both
.”

Celia watched in silence as Joseph did as he was told without comment, sure that he was seething with rage. He did not take kindly to orders, especially from a woman. She smiled to herself; her aunt Marie was back.

“What is it, Auntie?” she asked, wanting to break the uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” Marie snapped in her usual fashion. “I’ve been here for hours, and not one of you has told me a thing about what happened to Peter. You both must know something: what the police have said, what their suspicions are, what they are planning to do in their investigation. And why you, Celia, have a face like a smashed-in pumpkin. There is something you are keeping from me, and I want to know what it is!”

Joseph squirmed in his chair, unable to meet Marie Osborne’s penetrating eyes. Celia, head down, continued to concentrate on unravelling the braided threads at the edge of the tablecloth. Her aunt saw everything; she was clever, intuitive, and meticulous in everything she did. It was going to be difficult keeping her in the dark, but she had to.

“We don’t know much, Auntie,” Celia said at length. “We’ve told you everything we know ourselves.” She then looked to Joseph for help.

Joseph leaned forward in his chair and glared angrily at Celia. “The police are convinced that Peter was murdered by a thief, a traveller, probably long gone. They found Peter on Tree Top Hill early in the morning.” He told Marie this with a voice laced with impatience. “They’re doing everything they can to find his killer. They’ve turned the village upside down for evidence and have come up empty-handed so far. As for Celia, she’s already told you about her nasty fall, and if I might say so, Marie, she doesn’t need to be interrogated like this by you, so leave it be. There’s nothing more to tell you, and that’s that.”

“That’s that? That’s that!” Marie blazed, half standing, half sitting, and evidently feeling like her old self again. “My brother-in-law has just been murdered. Murdered! So don’t you dare tell me ‘that’s that’! Do you know why he was walking up that dammed hill so late at night in the first place? No! Do you know where he was beforehand? No! Have you told me what you two were doing the night he was killed? No! I’ve been sitting at this table for over an hour, yet neither of you has had the courtesy to even attempt to put my mind at ease. Celia, you’re covered in bruises and won’t say a truthful word to me about them, and Joseph, you ate like a pig so as not to miss the pub before it closes because that’s all you seem to care about! My darling brother-in-law, whom I loved, is in a coffin, so don’t tell me you know nothing about anything, because I don’t believe the pair of you!”

Celia felt new tears gathering. They were a common occurrence nowadays and seemed to be set off by the slightest thing. She wiped her eyes and opened her mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry…”

“Marie, don’t you upset Celia; she’s had enough upset.” Joseph said in a timely interruption. “Look, you’ve made her cry. Are you happy now?”

“I’m not talking to you, Joseph. I want to hear from my niece,” Marie told him.

“You will talk to me! You’re in my house.”

“I’m in Celia’s house! This is Merrill Farm, belonging to a Merrill, or had you forgotten that?”

“No, but maybe you’ve forgotten that Celia is my wife, and as her husband, I have a say in everything that goes on here!” Joseph shouted.

“It seems to me that you’re not interested in what’s going on here, Joseph. From what I’ve been hearing, you’ve spent most of the week in the pub playing poker and getting drunk. Don’t you think your time would have been better spent looking after your wife?”

“Enough!” Celia cried out. “Can’t we please get through this without bickering?”

Celia took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Her eyes pleaded with her aunt to remain silent. Joseph took a slug of the whisky he’d just poured, and Celia noted that he was rattled. His hand shook, his face looked as though it were about ready to burst, and only she knew that she’d be the one to pay for this later. She watched him gulp down the last of his whisky. She would have to placate him and take his side against her own aunt, she thought, even though he didn’t deserve her loyalty:

“Auntie, please don’t talk to Joseph like that.” She wanted to take back the words, but instead she said, “Joseph’s been working hard, and he is grieving, even though he doesn’t show it. This is his house, his home, and if he decides that he wants to go out, then he should go out!”

She turned her attention to Joseph, who was itching to leave the room. “Don’t worry about me, Joseph. Go to the pub and have a drink for my father. I will be fine here with my aunt.”

The room grew silent. Joseph left, banging the door behind him. Celia ignored the hurt in her aunt’s eyes; her only objective now was to survive Joseph’s temper. She would be alone with him soon enough, afraid, defeated, and miserable in a future that she alone had built.

Chapter 5

I
t was cold and raining heavily, but the church was crowded with mourners from all over the county. Celia sat in the front pew, flanked by her aunt Marie and Joseph. Joseph held her hand, but she suspected that this was neither a gesture of sympathy nor support but another warning: a silent but deadly threat.

After the service, she walked slowly beside Joseph at the head of the long procession winding its way through Goudhurst towards the wrought iron gates of the walled cemetery. Those who hadn’t been able to fit into the church lined the pavements with caps in hands and heads bowed. Shops were closed, and most of the houses had drawn their curtains.

The rain was now falling in horizontal sheets across the narrow road and was accompanied by streaks of lightning. Celia looked up at the sky and was blinded by the force of the wind. Bitterness and anger surfaced, making her unconsciously lengthen her stride. Nature was showering its grief, she thought. It was pouring down on the land for a man who’d spent his life lovingly tending it, a man taken away before the autumn of his life. She took the last few steps to the place of no return; this is where she would say goodbye to him, where she had said goodbye to her mother a few years earlier. This is where she would come for solace in the months and maybe years to come, where she would continue to grieve for the life she’d lost and the life she still had to live.

Her mother’s headstone had been removed temporarily to allow her father’s name to join hers, and as Celia stared at the hole in the ground, she felt a cold shiver run up and down her spine. She inexplicably sensed that months and years would never come… and that she would be joining them both soon enough.

The house was filled with mourners. Joseph sat apart from the crowd on the hard-backed chair in the corner of the parlour. He wore a serious and mournful expression, drank a small sherry, and ate one of Mrs Baxter’s apple tarts.

Celia watched Joseph out the corner of her eye and knew exactly what he was thinking. If only she had the courage at that very moment to voice her suspicions, tell everyone about what he’d done to her, demand that he be thrown out, that would be the end of the nightmare. She sighed. She didn’t have the courage. She was a coward and a liar.

Celia scanned the room. Tom Butcher and John Malone stood in the far corner, glasses of sherry looking peculiarly tiny in their big country hands. They were her father’s closest friends, each knowing him since childhood. They were whispering to each other, deep in conversation. Their wives, along with Mary Shields, sat in a perfectly straight line on the couch, neither speaking nor drinking. Celia couldn’t help but notice that Mary Shields was particularly upset. She was staring unseeingly, her eyes so swollen that she could hardly keep them open. Her father’s lover, Celia voiced to herself, was suffering just as much as she was. The police had questioned Mary several times that week after she’d informed them that Peter had spent his last evening with her. She later told them, and afterwards Celia, that she had planned to marry Peter, and that he was going to inform her and Joseph of this the night he died.

Celia saw Simon Ayres, the family lawyer, standing at the window and staring out at the rain. She felt sorry for him most of all, for he had the unenviable task of reading the will after the mourners left. Simon Ayres was a man dedicated to his work, someone who had been in her life forever, and he was a most loyal friend to her father. She had not had a lengthy conversation with him since his arrival earlier that morning, and she would not have one now. He was like family to her, and his task would be a difficult one, for it would be conducted in a most businesslike manner. She had no clue about what he might say or what effect the outcome of the will would have on her life, but as she continued to study his pensive demeanour, she had a sudden but clear premonition that the reading would not go well. She would not speak to him or influence his professional neutrality in any way, of course, but she prayed that he would get the whole thing over as quickly as possible.

She moved to the far corner of the room and stood against the wall, hoping that she could somehow become invisible. She cast her eyes around the crowded room again and thanked God that at least the wake was going well and that everyone seemed to be enjoying the company. She watched Mrs Baxter handing sandwiches to John Sweeny and Derek Pike, two of the regular labourers who’d been working at Merrill Farm for years. They thanked her and then carried on talking with hushed voices. As usual, Mrs Baxter had taken over, and Celia had never been so grateful. Mathew Greene, the vicar, was talking to her aunt Marie, and every now and again, they looked in her direction. Everyone seemed to be whispering in a conspiracy that didn’t involve her. She had to get out of the room. She didn’t want their pity; she didn’t deserve it.

Marie Osborne made her excuses to the vicar and followed Celia. Marie had noticed a dramatic change in her niece since the wedding. She was painfully thin, sullen, and withdrawn to such an extent that they had barely shared two words together since her arrival. One of her eyes was slightly swollen, whilst her cheek had the yellowish pallor of a fading bruise. Celia’s injuries had shocked her to the core, and the reason she gave for them was as believable as the old king’s faithfulness to the queen!

Marie passed Joseph on her way out of the room. Her first impressions of him had not altered in the last few months. She was experienced in the ways of men and had been in their company in places that no wives would dare to go, or be allowed to go. Respected as a renowned painter, an intelligent conversationalist, and a woman of substantial independent wealth, she was in a position to move in most circles. She had met royalty, politicians, and men of great standing. But she had also known gamblers and drunks who had lost their entire fortunes, turning into rogues with their reputations in tatters. She was convinced that Joseph Dobbs was such a man, although he’d never had a fortune and she believed the term ‘rogue’ was not a word strong enough to describe him; he was so much more than that.

Celia was busying herself in the kitchen, loading a tray with pastries brought by Mary Shields. Her head was bowed, and she made a point of ignoring her aunt, who was leaning against the frame of the open door:

“Celia, put down that tray. Walk with me,” she heard her aunt say in a manner that broached no argument.

Celia hid her face; her aunt was the last person she wanted to have a conversation with. She was sure that she would blurt something out to her in a moment of weakness.

“No, I can’t just now, Auntie. I have to help Mrs Baxter,” she said.

“Now, Celia. I am not taking no for an answer.”

Celia took off her apron, put on her coat, and buttoned it right to the top button with fingers that shook with apprehension. Her aunt would undoubtedly ask her about the bruises, and she would keep asking until she got a satisfactory answer. If only Joseph hadn’t marked her face. She’d thought about that all week. If he had left her face alone, she would not have had to endure the endless badgering from Sergeant Butler, Mrs Baxter, and her aunt, who’d always had the knack of getting her to open up entirely. No one else had that affect on her. She suddenly wanted to laugh. She had accepted Joseph’s beating, and now she was berating him for not doing a proper job of it. She stifled a nervous giggle and followed obediently behind her aunt, who was marching down the orchard path like a soldier going into battle and looking forward to it.

As Celia walked, she steadied herself and planned her defence. The next few minutes would be crucial. She would have to guard her tone and her words. She was determined to keep her secret safe, as Joseph would kill her if the truth came out. When they reached the wooden bench at the bottom of the narrow lawn, they sat down, wrapping their shawls tightly around their heads against the cold, damp air.

“My darling Celia,” Marie began. “I can only imagine your pain. This has been a dreadful shock for you, for all of us.

“Auntie, I just don’t understand why this happened… Why Papa?” She looked at her aunt for the first time.

“I don’t know, dear. It’s all so senseless and incomprehensible. We may never accept his death, even if his murderer is caught, but your father wouldn’t want to see you like this, darling. Why, you’re nothing but skin and bones. You must look after yourself better. Making yourself ill won’t bring your father back to you.”

Celia lowered her head and focused her eyes on her hands folded on her lap. If she spoke now, a flood of tears would surely follow.

“Celia, I asked you about what happened to your face when I arrived, and I have to tell you that I don’t believe you fell down the stairs. I’m sorry, but I don’t. Tell me the truth now. Please tell me what happened. You’ll feel so much better if you do.”

“Don’t worry about me, Auntie. I really did slip coming down the stairs.” Celia said, finding her voice at last. “Why would you think differently? I slipped, and it was a silly thing to do. It could have happened to anyone, so why do you find it so unbelievable? Please, Auntie, don’t ask me about it again. My father’s dead and what happened to me pales in comparison.”

She looked deeply into her aunt’s eyes. There was no pity there, only disappointment. “Did you know that my father was going to marry Mary Shields?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

“No,” Marie said, not quite sounding truthful.

“Me neither. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. I wonder how many other secrets went to the grave with him.”

“Your father was still a relatively young man, Celia dear. It was inevitable that he’d want to share his life with another woman. That’s the way of men.”

“Yes, Auntie, I know, but all the same, he should have told me. We never kept secrets from one another, ever. I would have been happy for him.”

“I know that, and he knew that too. He probably felt guilty for keeping it from you, but I think he just felt that you weren’t ready to accept another woman in your life. He loved your mother so much, and he loved you more than life itself. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. I’m sorry. I’m just angry at everything and with everyone at the moment. I can’t explain it. I feel so abandoned, and I just want him back. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him.”

“And I didn’t get the answers I was looking for,” Marie said.

Celia stood up, pulled the shawl even tighter across her face, and hid her eyes from the pity she saw.

“Auntie, I want to go in now so no more questions, please. I can’t… I just can’t…”

Watching her aunt shake her head in defeat, she felt utterly ashamed of herself, but as they walked towards the house, she also accepted that her silence and the consequences that would come from it had irreversibly sealed her fate. She longed to tell her aunt the truth, that her husband had beaten her, that he had violated her body. That she thought he was her father’s killer. But if she did, she would have to deal with the questions and ramifications. She needed more time to think, to clear her head, for her shame was almost too much to bear now.

Her pitiful behaviour on the day Sergeant Butler told her the news was humiliating beyond words. She had believed in Joseph’s love for her. She had pretended that he still did love her, even after the news of her father’s death. If others learned the truth, found out that her husband had raped her and that she suspected that he had killed her father, she would be even more humiliated. Her vanity and her blind obsession with love may have caused her father’s death, and she alone would carry the burden of that knowledge. She alone would have to live with the consequences. She could not, would not, condemn the man she’d married to the whole world without proof of guilt, solid proof. Her job now would be to find the evidence, even if it meant having to share her home with Joseph Dobbs in the meantime.

The two women reached the front door just in time to see the last of the mourners leave. The vicar, staggering and slightly the worse for wear after drinking too much sweet sherry, led the procession down the long path. John Malone, Tom Butcher, and their wives escorted Mary Shields, who was still crying and looking as though she was incapable of supporting herself. Mrs Baxter, carrying her bag and coat, was also crying. Celia quickened her step and reached the old woman just as she was about to climb the three steps that led to the main gate.

“Mrs Baxter, you’re leaving too?” she asked.

Mrs Baxter tossed her head and sniffed into her handkerchief. She sobbed again and then spoke in a muffled voice, barely audible. “Yes, I must get off, and I have to tell you, Celia, that I’m flabbergasted and disappointed in you. Your husband has told me not to come back, today of all days. Really, couldn’t you have told me yourself instead of leaving it to him to do your dirty work?”

“What are you talking about, Mrs Baxter? Of course you’re coming back. You know I can’t do without you.”

Mrs Baxter sniffed again, then straightened herself and shot an angry glance at Joseph, who was still standing at the front door, talking to Simon Ayres.

“Well, you will have to do without me from now on because your husband has sacked me!” she shouted. “I just don’t understand. I swear I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. After all these years of service, I can’t believe it!”

“Maybe you should have a word with Joseph, Celia, dear,” Marie said, clearly trying to defuse the situation.

Celia nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, of course I will. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Mrs Baxter, I assure you I know nothing about this. I’ll sort it out, I promise. You go home now, and I’ll come and see you tomorrow.”

Mrs Baxter kissed her and then, with the help of Tom Butcher’s wife, climbed the steps to the gate and caught up with the departing procession.

Celia was furious. Her head was aching, and she felt like screaming at the whole world. How dare Joseph, she thought all the way into the house. Mrs Baxter had been at the farm for as long as she could remember. She was as much a member of the family as Joseph. How could he take it upon himself to dispose of her like that, without a word? Merrill Farm was hers, not his!