The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (19 page)

There were two carriages waiting for the small party. One was provided for their transportation, and the other was for the luggage. Celia stared at the brightly coloured wooden carriages. They looked nothing like their London counterparts, and she hoped that the three-hour journey would not be too uncomfortable. As she waited for the luggage to be loaded onto the second carriage, she pulled down the wide brim of her hat, shading her eyes from the sun. She was still getting used to the intensity of light and heat in the air, but nonetheless, she lifted her head upwards, allowing the hot breeze to caress her skin. It reminded her of days sitting huddled and far too close to the flames at Merrill Farm’s kitchen fireplace.

“There’ll be plenty of time to catch the sun, Celia. Watch you don’t get burned now,” George Rawlings said, escorting her to the first carriage.

“I know. I’ve never felt such heat, Mr Rawlings. It’s like a raging fire!”

“You just wait till August gets under way.” He laughed. “That’ll shock you, pet.”

When he helped her into the carriage, she noticed that it was surprisingly spacious. There was more than enough room for three adults and a baby. The seats were covered in velvet. There were blinds to block out the sun, and mosquito nets adorned the windows. She smiled, instantly relieved to note that contrary to what her aunt Marie had told her, the twentieth century had arrived in her new country, at least as far as the transport was concerned.

“Are you ready for your big adventure, pet?” George Rawlings asked, settling himself in the seat opposite.

“Yes, thank you. Just about.”

“All right. Then let’s get going!”

Chapter 23

M
ichael Durkin was nineteen years old and had worked for the Goudhurst blacksmith since the age of thirteen. He stood tall and flexed his muscles outside the front entrance to Merrill Farm, waiting impatiently for Joseph to open the door. He hated the man he’d come to see, so the task he had been given by his boss had felt more like a gift than a chore, a long—awaited opportunity to take Joseph down a peg or two.

He knocked on the door again with his fist and smiled to himself. Joseph Dobbs had hidden behind the Merrill name for far too long, flaunting its power and abusing its longstanding reputation, but those days were over now. The last of the Merrills had gone, and Joseph’s power and influence had gone with them. The news had spread fast. Joseph wasn’t welcome in the pub or at any of the poker games in Goudhurst. He was finished, and in everybody’s opinion, the sooner he cleared off, the better.

The door opened to show Joseph dressed in a white shirt, faded grey and full of small holes from cigarette burns. His legs were bare, and only a pair of black socks with holes in the toes stood between him and the cold stone floor. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed in a face that was now half covered in an untidy growth of hair that sprang from just below his ears and ran across his shallow cheeks and down to the bottom of his chin.

Joseph rubbed his tired bloodshot eyes and focused on the man standing on his doorstep. Durkin, he thought with contempt. He wanted money.

“What do you want, Durkin?”

“My boss wants his money.”

“Tell him he’ll have to wait till the end of the month and tell him that I don’t need a visit from his whipping boy.”

“I’m no whipping boy, you git! I’m Jim’s messenger, and the message is that if you don’t pay up now, today, you’ll be in the shit.”

“I’ll be in the shit,” Joseph mimicked. “Fuck off, Durkin. I’ll make you eat your own shit if you talk to me like that again. Who the fuck d’you think you are coming here with a mouth the size of the Blackwall Tunnel?”

“I told you. I’m Jim Brannon’s messenger, that’s who.”

“Well, here’s a message for him: if he wants his money, tell him to deal with me directly. I’m not going to be told what to do by the likes of you,” Joseph spat.

“I’m not leaving till you pay up.”

“Fuck off—”

Joseph’s mouth was still open when Michael Durkin’s fist hit him in the centre of his jaw. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud, lying still and swallowing his first taste of blood from a front tooth that hung on to his gum by a thread of skin. He stood up on shaky legs, wiping away the blood trickling down his chin, and took a minute to gather his thoughts. He wouldn’t retaliate. Durkin was bigger than he was, and there would be no element of surprise; he was bound to come out worse if he hit him back. He was hung-over and felt like shit.

“Tell your boss he’ll get his money tomorrow,” he told Durkin with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And as for you, Durkin, get off my fucking land and don’t come back! You won’t get off so lightly the next time. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Do you get that message?”

Joseph slammed the door shut and spat blood out of his mouth. His hangover had just got worse, and he needed a drink. He headed straight for the kitchen. He needed to think a few things through, get his head straight. It was time to choose, to stay or to go today. Ever since the game in London, he had been wallowing in his own self-pity, and that wasn’t like him. His defeat at the hands of men not fit to lick his boots when it came to poker had been a hard medicine to swallow, and it had caused him to lose focus on the bigger picture. He made up his mind that he couldn’t afford to hang around any longer. He was finished with Goudhurst and the farm, and there was no more profit to be made out of the Merrill family. He’d been left high and dry with unfulfilled dreams, a father-in-law who had outwitted him, and a wife who’d driven him mad.

He put the whisky bottle to his mouth and laughed; even his whisky supply was running out. He only had three bottles left and no money to buy any more. He took a slug and felt the loose tooth land on his tongue and slide awkwardly down his throat… He coughed and then drank some more whisky just to make sure the tooth hadn’t got stuck somewhere.

He cut some cheese and put it between two slices of stale bread before turning his attention back to matters at hand. His bank account was empty; the farm’s money and bank holdings were now out of his grasp and had been ever since Ayres froze him out a month ago.

His only assets now were the remaining livestock and farm tools, which always sold well at the Maidstone auction houses, and some china and crystal that he could probably get rid of in the pawnshop in Sidcup. He fully expected Ayres to turn up and turf him out, but he wanted to leave on his own terms, with enough money to set himself up in rooms in London. He would need to buy new clothes, maybe get a new identity, and most importantly, he needed time to ransack the farm of everything.

He threw the uneaten sandwich on the floor and walked into the parlour, looking around the room and picking up the ornaments one by one. He nodded his head. He would stay, give himself three days to get out, and in that time, one way or another, he’d get what he needed.

Marie Osborne walked into Tom Butcher’s kitchen and sat down at the table. “Well, Tom, what we thought would happen did,” she told him.

“Yes, you were right,” Tom agreed. “Joseph came yesterday afternoon, and I put him on to John Malone like you told me to. He’s got the animals at his place now. I did what you asked and gave John the money you left me, and he didn’t ask any questions when I told him it was to help Celia. He told me to thank you for all the extra money for the feed and said to tell you that he’ll take good care of the livestock till you decide what you want to do with them. He said they were in a bad way though, skinny and flea infested.”

Marie shook her head in disgust. “I can imagine. Thank you, Tom. I’ll go and see John when this is all over, and I must say that finishing this nasty business can’t come soon enough for me. I’ve just been to see Jim Brannon, and he told me that he sent Durkin up to Merrill Farm yesterday morning. Joseph got a bloody lip apparently.”

Tom smiled. “So that’s where it came from. Good for Durkin.”

Marie accepted a cup of tea and a slice of cake. She removed her hat; it was going to be a long day. She took a sip of her tea and then carefully placed the cup in the centre of the saucer.

“When this is all over, Tom, I’d like to put a proposition to you, something that I believe will be mutually beneficial.”

“Yes, of course. Anything… Marie, can I ask you something now?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m baffled about most of what’s going on here. I’m dying to know how you knew about the bulls, not to mention Joseph selling the rest of the animals yesterday, How did you know he would do that? And how is this helping Celia? She’s left, and it seems to me that Joseph’s won.”

Marie considered her answer carefully. She had always intended to tell Tom everything, and now was as good a time as any. She took another sip of her tea and wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “It’s a long story, my dear, but let’s just say that Joseph is a man of few surprises. We manipulated him into a position as one would a domino piece. We put him exactly where we wanted him to be, and he didn’t disappoint us.”

Clearly confused by the term ‘us’, he asked, “You mean you and Celia?”

“No, dear, this has nothing to do with Celia. She knows nothing about this.” Marie smiled at Tom, who was looking as confused as ever.

“I think I had better begin at the very beginning,” she told him.

Tom’s wife, Edna, sat down, joining her husband, who was hanging on to Marie’s every word. First Marie told them that she had the undisputable evidence to convict Joseph for Peter’s murder and the subsequent theft of the ring and watch. Then she let them in on her biggest secret: John Stein, his involvement, and that he was her son. Finally, she told them about Celia’s rape and the regular beatings that followed it.

Tom wiped his eyes; all his suspicions had just been confirmed. He stood on legs weakened at the knees by the graphic account of Peter’s murder and Celia’s suffering. His eyes blazed with pent-up fury and prolonged niceties towards Joseph, forced upon him by his involvement in Marie’s plan, a plan he knew little about.

“I knew it—I bloody well knew it,” he said, banging his fist on the table. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to beat the life out of that murdering bastard? I’m so sorry, ladies. Excuse my foul language.”

Marie and Edna nodded her heads.

“So when are we going to finish this?” he asked Marie.

“Hopefully today,” Marie told him. “This is it. We will only get this one chance, Tom. I just hope that Joseph is as predictable as we believe him to be.”

“Well, you’ve been right so far.”

Marie was silent for a moment, and then she told them that they had indeed been lucky so far, but there had been mistakes made along the way, and Celia had paid a high price for them.

“You know, Tom, we could have done things differently, and sooner maybe, but we can’t turn the clock back, I’m afraid. This is why today is so important.”

Tom nodded his head in agreement. Sadness crossed his eyes for a brief moment as he thought once again about Peter, the biggest casualty of all.

“Marie, just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Nothing yet, Tom,” she told him. “My son and his friends should be at Merrill Farm within the hour, and the bailiffs should be with Joseph as we speak. They’ll keep him from running until you get there, along with Mr Ayres and Sergeant Butler.”

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall up at Merrill Farm right now,” Tom said.

Marie smiled for the first time. “You and me both, Tom. You and me both.”

Joseph opened the front door. The two men were dressed immaculately, in matching black suits and ties. They stood with hats in hand, and one held a folder of papers between his fingers. Behind them was a horse and cart that had high wooden sides and a roof made with iron beams and thick white sheeting.

“Good morning, sir,” one of the men said to Joseph. “We’re looking for Joseph Dobbs.”

“Who’s looking for him?” Joseph asked, eying them and the cart suspiciously.

“Are you Joseph Dobbs?” the man asked again.

Joseph looked briefly at the papers in the man’s hand and nodded. Christ, he was too late, he thought, kicking himself for not getting the stuff out sooner. It didn’t take a fool to guess who they were.

“Yes, I’m Joseph Dobbs. What’s this all about?” he asked the man with the papers.

“It’s about an outstanding debt, sir. We are the court’s bailiffs, and we have a warrant here from the judge to remove all furniture and any other movable possessions from this house or to receive from you the sum of five hundred pounds. This, I believe, is the amount owed to a Miss Marie Osborne of Bermondsey, South East London.”

The man with the folder gave his hat to his colleague and then lifted his knee and balanced the folder on it. He took out a document, peered at it, and nodded, signifying that it was the correct loan sheet. “Is that your signature on this loan document, Mr Dobbs?”

Joseph swore under his breath. Marie Osborne would get what was coming to her and so would her sidekick, Ayres.

“Yes, it’s mine,” he told the man. “But you’re not taking a bloody thing from this house. You can forget that! This five hundred pounds was a personal loan. She’s my aunt by marriage, for fuck’s sake!”

“She may well be, sir, but it doesn’t alter the fact that she now wants her money back. According to this document, she gave you until the first of July to repay the debt. It’s now the sixth. So pay us or step aside. We don’t want any trouble here.”

“Will you give me a minute to get dressed? Just five minutes?” Joseph asked him.

“Five minutes, Mr Dobbs. No longer. We’ll wait here inside the hallway if that’s all right with you.”

Joseph nodded, opened the door, and let them pass. He needed to think for a minute, go through his options.

Upstairs in his bedroom, he grabbed the whisky bottle that sat on the bedside table and drank from it. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. Things were moving faster than he’d thought. He could feel the vultures circling. The old cow wanted him out now that Celia was gone, and if he knew her as well as he thought he did, this wouldn’t be the end of it.

Downstairs again, he stood in front of the two men, clearly surprising them by bowing deeply before ushering them into the parlour. He smiled at them, swept his outstretched arms around the room, and then picked up ornaments one by one, showing them as one would at an auction house.

“Take what you want. It’s all a load of shit anyway. You’ll not get a penny out of me, though. Tell the old bag that I don’t have her five hundred pounds and I never will; she can go whistle.”

“Mr Dobbs, are you sure you wouldn’t rather pay the money?”

Joseph grunted and waved his arm again. “Yes, I’m sure. So what are you waiting for? Go ahead and take it all, but if you touch my personal stuff, I’ll break your fucking noses! Is that clear enough?”

It could be a lot worse, Joseph thought, as he watched the steady flow of furniture being put into the cart. He sat on the bench outside the front door, and it dawned on him that maybe, just maybe, Lady Luck was trying to tell him something. Was it time for him to leave, get out today? Leaving so soon would mean that he wouldn’t be able to sell the stuff in the barns, like the tools and whatnot. The bailiffs would see to that, but he’d received a fair amount of money from John Malone for the animals, and he could always come back later. The place was still his, technically, and who would stop him? He took a slug of whisky and laughed aloud, tipsy from nerves and alcohol. This was happening because it was all meant to be. It was brilliant! He’d go somewhere new and get some money together, and then he’d come back and start over with pockets full of guineas and enough power to run this whole village the way he wanted.