The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (26 page)

As her voice trailed off into soft sobs, she lifted her veil and revealed her face. The courtroom gasped in shock, and that shock brought silence. Doreen Pickens ignored the courtroom; instead, she stared unashamedly at Joseph Dobbs, forcing him to see her. On her face, purple and black blotches covered wrinkled remnants of skin. She had no nose, just two holes that expanded when she breathed. She had no lips. Instead, her mouth was surrounded by what looked like white crinkled paper. The remains of ears were wax-like stubs on each side of her head. Her head was bald and black, with a sprinkling of fine hair, so few that one could count them. She had one good eye, but the other had no eyelid, and it continued to glare fixedly, unseeing and lifeless, at her son.

“Why, Michael? Why did you do this to us? Why?” she wailed.

For the first time since the trial began, the man in the dock stood in silence, his head bowed and humbled. The only noise that could be heard was the weeping and whispered voices of the people in the public gallery. Even the judge had to ask for a glass of water.

Joseph opened his eyes, shifted his feet, and then spoke abruptly, clearly without thinking first. “The paper said you were both dead.”

“Yes,” his mother replied, still ignoring Mr Bats and the public alike. “They thought I was dead, but I’m not. Sorry to disappoint you.”

The judge sat stone-faced and thumped his gavel again. The court was adjourned until the next day, and Doreen Pickens was helped from the witness box, her face covered once again.

Marie and Mr Ayres walked into the grey light of day and caught a cab to her house. This woman’s evidence had changed everything, and Joseph, or Michael, as they’d just found out, would no longer be able to pull the wool over the jury’s eyes. He was finished; he had not denied his mother’s claim. His mask had been removed, and in that moment, his face had displayed the sickening true evil of his character. From now on, the jury’s opinion of him would be forever changed.

When they arrived in court the next morning, the atmosphere was decidedly different. Joseph stood, aided by crutches, humbled and unsure of himself. His mother was once again being questioned, this time by the defence lawyer, Mr Burns.

“Mrs Pickens, I know this must be a terrible ordeal for you, and I am so sorry I have to add to your suffering, but I must ask you if you have undeniable proof that it was in fact your son, known here as Joseph Dobbs, that set the fire. Or do you just think that it may have been him because of the fight you both had?”

She didn’t falter. “I know it was him,” she said, looking directly at the jury. “Michael had agreed to leave and was unusually kind to me on that last day. He had never been kind, never had a good word to say to me or to his father. He must have been planning to kill us all day.”

“You couldn’t possibly know that, Mrs Pickens,” Mr Burns berated her.

“I know he made the tea that night, just before he left. He brought it to my bedroom, something he’d never done before. Later, the police found an empty bottle of laudanum in the downstairs remains.”

Mr Burns dismissed her. “That’s all very well, but can you know for certain that it was he who set the fire?”

“Yes, because my husband stayed with me in the bedroom all evening. He didn’t light the gas lamps in the parlour, and the only laudanum bottle he bought was with me in the bedroom, Mr Burns. Who else but Michael could have done it?”

Mr Burns approached the bench; he did not want to continue this particular line of questioning and knew by the expression on the jury’s faces that their perception of his client had altered. It would therefore be a dangerous game to continue and one he would most certainly lose.

“My Lord,” he said, out of earshot of the jury. “I know this must be very upsetting for Mrs Pickens, but what bearing does her evidence have on this trial? Surely her testimony should be struck from these proceedings. It is a different matter entirely and therefore a waste of the court’s time. Her testimony is also very disparaging to my client’s character and, I think your lordship would agree, is, at the very least, prejudicial.”

“Would council approach the bench… now, please,” the judge called.

Marie pricked up her ears, trying to hear the slightest word in the conversation going on at the bench. The courtroom was silent, waiting for the judge to speak. Mr Bats shook his head angrily and returned to his seat. Marie held Mr Ayres’s hand, and he squeezed it. The judge then turned to the jury and addressed them with an authority that broached no argument.

“Joseph Dobbs, or Michael Pickens, or whoever he is, is on trial for the murder of Peter Merrill. He must not be judged for arson, the death of his father, or for his mother’s sad injuries. However, Mrs Pickens’ evidence does prove that the man in the dock is using a false name and therefore guilty of perjury in this court, and as this does have a direct bearing on this case, I am obliged to recall the accused to the witness box. Mr Bats, I will not tolerate any questions about the parents of the accused, do you understand me?”

Joseph’s attitude was sullen, and he kept his eyes firmly focused on the witness box as he crossed the room to replace his mother just vacating it. Once there, he fidgeted nervously, waiting for Mr Bats’ barrage of questions.

“State your name,” Mr Bats said loudly and without niceties.

“Michael Pickens.”

“Louder please.”

“My name is Michael Pickens!”

“That’s better. Mr Pickens, will you tell the court why you lied about your true identity.”

“Because I didn’t like the name Pickens… There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Answer the question correctly or you’ll be held in contempt of court!” the judge said harshly, interrupting Bats’ next question.

Joseph nodded apologetically. “I changed my name because I wanted to have a new start in life and because I didn’t want my parents to find me. We didn’t get on, you see, and it was the only way I could be free of them.”

“After you changed your name, what did you do?” Bats asked him.

Joseph was not the patient or self-assured man that he’d been the first time Mr Bats questioned him. This time he was under pressure, with his back against the wall, and his annoyance was clearly evident.

“What does it matter what I did! I told you I wanted a new start.”

“And I told you,” the judge said with equal impatience, “that if you don’t answer the questions in the correct manner, you’ll be held in contempt of court. Now, I won’t warn you again. What did you do when you changed your name?”

“I made my way south to look for a job, and then I settled in Kent.”

Mr Bats walked closer, close enough to smell Joseph’s foul breath. “After your arrival at Merrill Farm, did you continue to use the name Joseph Dobbs?”

“Yes.”

“So you lied to Peter Merrill?”

“Yes.”

“And when you married his daughter, Celia Merrill, did you sign the name Joseph Dobbs on the wedding certificate?”

“Yes, so what?” Joseph told him.

“Well, it would appear, Mr Pickens, that in marrying a woman using a false name, you have committed fraud. Therefore, the marriage cannot be recognised by the law, rendering it illegal.”

“Objection!” the defence lawyer shouted. “My client was married in a church, and that marriage is still recognised by the Church. His signature has nothing to do with legalities as far as the Church is concerned. Therefore, he is still married to Celia Dobbs.”

Joseph looked gratefully at his own lawyer and received a smile in reply.

“I disagree, My Lord,” Bats objected again.

“We can all discuss this over a cup of tea one day, but for the moment, Mr Bats, continue the cross-examination.”

Mr Bats bowed his head to the judge and then returned to Joseph. “This also means that when you were given full control of Merrill Farm after the death of Peter Merrill, you were in fact once again committing fraud, as the Joseph Dobbs who signed the documents accepting the responsibility for the farm did not in fact exist… or does he?”

“No, I found the name in a graveyard.”

“You stole your name from a corpse?”

“Yes, I just said so, didn’t I? Anyway, he didn’t need it anymore, did he? It doesn’t mean I’m a murderer, does it? I can change my name if I want. It’s not a crime.”

As the courtroom once again filled with the raised voices of the public, Bats knew it was time to test Joseph’s control. He drank some water from a glass on his table and took a deep breath. This would probably be one of the biggest gambles of his career, but his gut instincts told him that Joseph’s arrogance would somehow want to justify everything he’d done, and he’d give him every opportunity to do just that.

He stared long and hard at Joseph’s face. A nervous twitch had appeared around Joseph’s eyes and mouth, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Bats took another deep breath and then released it in slow measure.

“Mr Pickens, are we to believe anything you have said here in this court, or has everything been a fabrication, like your name? You see, if you lied about your name, then aren’t we to presume that you’re lying about everything else?”

“I’m not lying about anything else,” Joseph replied lamely.

Bats smiled at him in disbelief, mocking him. “You’re a gambler; you admitted that yourself. You’re an alleged woman abuser, and we now find out that this is not the first time you have been accused of murder. My God! Where will your indiscretions and lies end, I ask you?”

“My Lord, I object! My client is not on trial for the alleged murder of his father,” Mr Burns shouted out.

“Objection sustained. The jury will disregard all relevance to Mr Pickens’ father. Be careful, Mr Bats.”

George Bats was unflustered. He had made his point, and the jury would remember it, no matter what the judge told them.

“So, Mr Pickens, what other crimes have you committed in your lust for power and greed? It’s been established that you’re not a very good gambler. You lost everything in a poker game, did you not? You lost all your money, your furniture, and your self-respect; and people have testified that you were not welcome in the village where you lived because of your cruel behaviour towards your wife! Are we now to believe you… or them?”

“Mr Bats, where is this line of questioning leading? Get to the point, please,” the judge said harshly.

“Sorry, My Lord. Of course. Mr Pickens, isn’t it strange that you told the police that you were with your wife all evening on the night of Peter Merrill’s death? Yet only yesterday, you called your wife a liar and stated in this courtroom that you had in fact left her alone for a while on that particular evening. So, I ask you now, were you with her or not, because if you were not, you could have easily had the time to murder Peter Merrill. Is that not so?”

Joseph tried to think straight, tried to understand the question. His leg ached. His head was throbbing. He wanted to lie down, collect his thoughts. He wanted to tell Bats to fuck off.

“You’re trying to trick me!” he blurted out instead. “I can’t remember everything about that night. I might have left her for a few minutes, but that’s all.”

“Not enough time for her to kill her father, then?”

“What do you mean? I don’t know… Maybe… I do know that I didn’t kill him. I had no reason to kill him. I loved him!”

“You loved him? No reason to kill him?” Mr Bats laughed in disbelief. “Mr Pickens, you had every reason to kill Peter Merrill. He wanted to give you the farm after his death. You were in debt. You wanted power and money, and he was in your way! Is this not so? Is that not motive enough?”

“No!” Joseph spat. “I told you my wife wanted the farm. I didn’t care one way or another.”

“Come now, Mr Pickens. The farm was the only thing you cared about. All the witnesses have testified that Merrill Farm has given you a grand life, made you quite an important fellow.”

“That’s not true. I worked hard on that bloody farm, and Celia, with all her fancy ways, just wanted to spend the money it made.”

“Your parents hated you, didn’t they?” Mr Bats said unexpectedly. “The people of Goudhurst have also testified that you were despised in the village, and that you were so much in debt that you had to sell most of Merrill Farm’s assets to feed your gambling habit. You beat up a Mr Jack Stubbs, the stationmaster, I believe. You hit him in full sight of at least a dozen men in the pub because he insulted you for hitting your wife!”

“It was a fight, that’s all. Anyway it wasn’t true. I never hit her. I told you she’s a liar!”

“You’re the liar, Mr Pickens. You’re a man swathed in secrets. You milked Peter Merrill and his daughter, Celia, for everything they had, didn’t you Michael?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why? Are you so ashamed of your real name that you can’t bear to hear it being spoken? Did you think that by changing your name you could escape your past?”

“I…”

“Mr Pickens, you can’t forget who you are, because no matter what name you go under, you’ll always be rotten, always be a failure. No change of name is going to erase that fact! Isn’t that right, Michael?”

Mr Bats stopped talking when he saw that Joseph was having great difficulty controlling his temper. His eyes flashed dangerously, and his hands gripped the bar of the witness box so tightly that his knuckles were white. Come on, Joseph Dobbs, Mr Bats silently urged. Spill the beans; let it all come out. Show us your famous temper.

“Am I right? Answer the question!”

Joseph shrugged nervously. “So maybe I was wrong to use a false name, but that doesn’t mean I’m a murderer. I deserved Merrill Farm!” he shouted to the crowded room. “And that’s what they couldn’t accept in the village. They were all jealous of me, the whole lot of them. They were jealous of what I’d achieved!”

Bats laughed loudly and moved closer. “You didn’t deserve the farm, and you achieved nothing! Oh, you were clever in the beginning; there’s no denying that. You managed to reel in the biggest fish of your life, but you just couldn’t hide what you really are: a murdering, lying abuser of defenceless women.”