by Jana Petken
“If you’ve got anything to say, young man, I suggest you keep it till morning. I’m going to bed, so put the bloody lamp out and lock up. That’s an order!”
“Stay where you are, you old git!” Joseph shouted as Peter began to walk away. “Stay right where you are. My days of taking orders from you are over.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the anger growing inside him. “Joseph, don’t be an ungrateful pig-headed ass. I’ve given you everything I have. The best bloody estate in the county has been handed to you on a plate, not to mention my daughter. Is this all the thanks I get, cheek from you?” He was now shouting. “You arrived on my doorstep penniless and hungry. I fed you and gave you my daughter’s hand, for God’s sake, but don’t think that just because you married her, I’ll let you get away with this. It’s not too late to change my will. I’ll cut you off without a penny, son-in-law or no son-in-law … Now get in the house before you say something you’ll regret!”
Joseph’s mask dropped, and the real man now faced Peter. He wore an ugly scowl and the hatred that he’d been born with shone from his eyes, glazed with the excitement a hunter feels just before killing his prey.
“Peter, I want you to know that this isn’t personal. In fact, I like you. You’re a good bloke and have been good to me, but you’re in my way. It’s as simple as that. I’m not a patient man, and you could go on for years, and I don’t like the sound of that … I want Merrill Farm now – and everything that goes with it. I deserve it, and I’m going to have it.”
He stopped talking, scowled again, and looked Peter over from head to toe.
Peter gasped and then stuttered, “What are you saying?”
“You people are so fucking stupid. Do you think that just because you’re the bloody lord of the manor and took me in, gave me food and a bed, that I’d feel obliged to you for the rest of my life? I’ve worked my arse off for you. Married your daughter, taking her off your hands so that you could fuck that slut in the village … What, you think I don’t know about her?”
Peter took a couple of steps backwards. Joseph sensed his fear and watched him, reading his mind through the ever-changing expressions on his face. The old man probably couldn’t believe what was happening. He was probably trying to decide if this was a prank, he thought. He was a stupid, stupid man for signing over the farm. He didn’t know him, didn’t have a clue about the real Joseph Dobbs. Stupid and naive, a pathetic combination.
“Don’t look so shocked, Peter. I know everything that goes on in this village because it’s my village. I’ll own it soon … and everyone in it.”
“Joseph, have you gone mad?”
“No,” Joseph said, shrugging his shoulders. “In fact, I’ve never seen things so clearly. For instance, I realised tonight that I hate you and your daughter almost as much as I love poker. Celia got a bloody good seeing to earlier on. It was long overdue. She just doesn’t know when to keep her trap shut … She’ll keep it shut now, though. By God she will!”
Clearly forgetting his fear, Peter took an angry step forward. “If you’ve harmed one hair on my daughter’s head, I’ll kill you! Now shut your mouth and put that spade down … I said to put it down – now!”
Joseph looked at the spade in his hand and put it on the ground. He turned his back on Peter as though to leave and then spun around without warning, throwing his first punch and catching Peter squarely on the chin. Peter stumbled backwards on shaky legs that threatened to crumple beneath him and stared at Joseph in disbelief.
“You’ll kill no one, Peter. I’m doing the killing tonight, and when I’ve finished with you, I’ll fuck your daughter again over your dead body, just for the hell of it.”
Peter moved, screaming as he lurched forward with the full force of his body behind him. His clenched fist flew through the air and brushed the side of Joseph’s head. He stumbled, losing momentum, and Joseph struck the first blow with the blunt iron spade.
Peter stared stupidly into Joseph’s eyes and fell to the ground. He lay motionless on the bloodstained straw, looking around him through misty eyes, desperately searching for a weapon of his own. Blood poured down the side of his face and into his mouth. He was seeing double; everything was moving: Joseph, the ground, the walls, and even the straw that surrounded him darted back and forth. He looked up to see Joseph’s hazy outline bending over him and at that moment knew he was going to die. For an instant, time stopped and a thousand thoughts and images filled his head: My Celia … My God … Celia, what have I … done to you? Sorry …
Joseph smirked, raised the spade, and rained it down on Peter’s head until only pulp was left. Joseph’s breathing was fast and heavy. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his heart pound and the pulse in his neck race. He abruptly dropped the spade on the floor and stared at Peter’s still, lifeless body. He kneeled down beside it and took the bank notes and coins from his pockets, along with his wedding ring and watch. He’d already hitched the horses to the cart, and he’d also made sure that Celia was locked inside the house. He was pleased with his performance; it had been quick and easy. Peter never went to bed without checking the barns first, that was like the old man’s sacred duty, a routine that never altered. He almost wished the old man was still alive so that he could thank him for being a predictable old git. Joseph, still intoxicated, giggled stupidly and then grew serious with his thoughts. Now all he had to do was take the body down the hill towards the village and dump it at the side of the road behind the tall hedges lining the grassy verge. There were always gypsies in the area, and they would be blamed for the robbery and murder of the old man. There was no reason that anybody would ever suspect him …
Celia lay on the parlour room floor. She couldn’t move, yet every part of her body shook. The ceiling spun as she stared up at it. She felt sticky hot liquid trickling down her inner thighs: blood. Joseph had gone, and she prayed that her father would come back before he did. Her mind spun with the eerie echo of Joseph’s words as she went over the conversation repeatedly, trying to make sense of it. There had been so many lies, she realised with sickening clarity, and Joseph was a good liar. She didn’t know the man she’d married, loved, and now hated. There were so many deceptions on all sides: her father’s secret affair, Joseph’s motives for marrying her, his greed and love of whisky. Why had she missed the signs? Joseph had called her stupid, a chorus of stupid, over and over again … and she was.
When she felt capable of moving, she dragged her aching body up the stairs. She locked the bedroom door, didn’t light the lamp, and felt her way to the washbowl by the bed. She scrubbed between her legs and winced with pain, all the time thinking that she would never feel clean again. Falling on top of the bed, she wondered where Joseph was now. She reached out for the lamp and hid it under the covers. If he got through the door and came near her, she’d kill him!
When Joseph had disposed of the body, he returned to the barn. He first cleared away the bloodied straw and cleaned the weapon, which he returned to its usual place. He then washed himself with the buckets of cold water that were always kept there in case of fire, emptied them, re-laid new straw, and unhitched the horses, putting them back into their stalls. He also scrubbed the cart, which was caked in Peter’s blood, and cursed at the length of time it took to get rid of the stains that were now ingrained in the wooden floor. Why do people have to bleed so much? he wondered with a disapproving shake of his head. He took one more look around the barn, checking that everything was in order, before shutting the doors behind him.
Joseph got a scrubbing brush and a bucket with soapy water from the kitchen and deposited them on the parlour floor, cursing as he did so. The silly cow had bled all over the floor, just like her father; he would have to clean her blood up too! His thoughts raced until he calmed them sufficiently to think more clearly about what was going to happen next. Celia had probably gone to bed, where she’d remain until morning. The police would be turning up at some stage when they eventually found the body of th
e old man, and he’d have to see them before she did, pave the way for all the questions that would be thrown at them.
When he’d finished cleaning, he poured himself a large whisky. After everything he’d been through, he deserved it. He felt the satisfaction of a general who’d just won a great victory after a long campaign. The farm was finally his. The inheritance he’d craved in Yorkshire had gone in a puff of smoke, but he’d got what he wanted in the end. A different farm in a different place mattered not. The fact that it was his was what mattered. This was his ticket to the life he’d always dreamed of, the life he deserved.
He poured another whisky. Celia wouldn’t talk. She still loved him. She would be as silent as the grave they would put her father into, and she would learn to do his bidding. She was too proud to tell anyone that her husband had played rough – too proud and too stupid.
Chapter 3
Celia flinched as she eased her aching body out of bed. She stood shakily in front of the nightstand and washbasin and stared at her reflection in the mirror above them. She sucked in her breath; was that her staring back? One side of her face, raised and pink with faint tinges of red and blue appearing just under her eye, hurt at the soft touch of her fingers. Her top lip was darkened and swollen, and a small gash above her right eye was caked in dried blood. Her eyes, wide with fright and grief for dreams lost and sullied, stared back at her without pity or recognition; she was changed forever. She would never lie between the sheets and yearn for Joseph’s touch or a kind word from his mouth, and she would never look at her own face, once filled with hope and love, in the same way ever again.
She peeled off her nightgown and inspected her body. There wasn’t much to see in the soft orange light peeking through the curtained window. It looked just as it always did: rather thin, ribcage prominent under her breasts, and stomach so flat that it appeared to have caved in. She had never studied herself in such detail. Her loss of weight had only been evident in the clothes she wore. Through her obsession with Joseph, she had lost all appetite … Her hunger for him had left no room for food. She cast her eyes down the length of her body and sucked in her breath when she saw the bruising on and between her thighs. Angry imprints of Joseph’s hands were clearly visible, making her shudder with shame and disgust, with humiliation and utter hatred.
She washed her face with a damp cloth, and tears again stung her eyes. She wiped them away. She had to be strong. She had to get to her father, find him at all costs, and tell him everything, no matter how humiliating and shocking the story was.
It was late, and she prayed that her father was still in the house. Her mind raced as she threw on some clothes. She ignored her tangled hair, her underclothes, and her stockings. Time was of the essence. She had to get to her father.
She suddenly stopped what she was doing and stared with wild eyes at the bolted door. What would she do if she found Joseph and not her father downstairs? What would she say to him? What would he do when he saw her?
“Please, God,” she whispered. “Let Papa be here.”
She held her breath, unlocked the door, and slowly turned the door handle. Outside in the hallway, her eyes darted from left to right and down the length of the stairs. She went first to her father’s bedroom; it was empty. She then looked inside the three unused bedrooms and again down the hallway. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and cocked her head to one side. Nothing moved; the house was deathly quiet. She tiptoed slowly and as quietly as she could down the wooden stairs that led to the ground floor. Every second stair seemed to creak, announcing her impending arrival at the bottom, but she kept going.
A loud knock at the front door made her jump, and then her body froze as she hung on the wooden railing that followed the stairs to the bottom.
“Calm down, Celia,” she said softly to herself. “Calm yourself. It’s the coal man; this is his delivery day.”
She reached the bottom, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
“Celia, my God!” Sergeant Butler, the village police officer, said at the sight of her.
Celia ignored his words. The first thing that came to her mind was that Joseph had turned himself in to the police. No, it was impossible, she thought. He wouldn’t do that, but how else could they know?
“Sergeant Butler, what brings you here?” she asked.
“Celia, may I come in for a moment? I have something to tell you. It’s about your father.”
Celia looked at the pair of sympathetic eyes staring at her. So this wasn’t about her and Joseph. It was about her father. Sergeant Butler held his helmet in his hand. His head was bowed, and his whole demeanour was what she could only describe as solemn. Jumbled thoughts bounced through her weary mind, and she pushed them away; they were too awful to entertain. Her heart was pounding, and her throat was so dry. No words would leave her mouth. She stood tight-lipped at first but eventually whispered, “What’s happened? Is Papa all right? Is he hurt?”
“Celia, dear, let’s go inside,” Sergeant Butler spoke softly.
Celia nodded and led him into the parlour. She sat down, not taking her eyes from Sergeant Butler’s kind face. She waited for him to speak terrible words to her, but he stood frozen in time, helmet in hand, shifting from one foot to the other as though afraid to say them.
“What is it? Please just tell me,” she begged now.
“Celia, I’ve known your father for years, and there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to come right out with it. I’m afraid your father met with a terrible accident last night. He’s dead. I’m so sorry … so sorry.”
Celia stared into his face. His words rang in her ears, but her tired mind fought them. She couldn’t believe them. She wouldn’t believe them; it wasn’t true.
“Dead?” Her mouth dropped open. “You say my father is dead … How can that be?”
“The coroner is not sure at this moment when he died or what caused his death, but he did say that it happened sometime late last night. He was found early this morning by the side of the road on Tree Top Hill. Again, I’m very, very sorry.”
Celia looked at him with a blank expression. A million thoughts and images were confusing her mind, and she felt as if she’d been struck down with some disease that had robbed her of her speech. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, and she shook her head repeatedly until she eventually found her voice.
“No! No, you must be mistaken. Papa went to have dinner with a friend, that’s all. It can’t be him! Are you sure it’s him? Did you see him? Everyone loved my father. Who would want to hurt him? Was it an accident? Do you think a horse maybe …? Tell me you’ve made a mistake! Please …”
She took a deep breath and willed him silently to tell her that it was some other poor soul who had died, not her father.
“There’s no mistake, Celia. I saw your Joseph earlier this morning. He was in the lower field and told us not to wake you, as you’d had a bad fall yesterday. He came with us to the mortuary and officially identified your father’s body, even though there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was him. I’ve known your father all my life, as has Dr Sutton, so there is no mistake. Celia, you need to understand what I’m telling you.”
Celia lowered her head and stared at the floor. Sergeant Butler cleared his throat and spoke again.
“Joseph also told us that he’d seen your father just before he left the farm last night. He said Peter was wearing jewellery: his gold ring and pocket watch.”
“Yes, he never takes them off. Why?”
“That confirms it. You see, at first we didn’t have any motive for murder, for as you said, your father was popular in these parts. We thought that he’d maybe had a bad fall or that, as you said, a horse and rider had stumbled on him, but the jewellery Joseph mentioned was nowhere to be seen when we found him; neither was his wallet. So it leads me to believe that he was the victim of a robbery, a bloody robbery! Begging your pardon, Celia; it’s just that your father walked up that hill all his life with nev
er so much as a cut knee on a stray branch.”
Celia nodded. “How did he die?”
“All we can tell you at this point is that he was struck down by some kind of heavy blunt object. According to Dr Sutton, he would have died almost immediately. He wouldn’t have suffered.”
Celia covered her face with her two hands and through them spoke with a voice laced with sarcasm. “Of course he suffered. He died, didn’t he? I want to see him.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, love. It will be better if you just try to remember your father as he was. As I’ve said, Joseph has seen his body, so it would be for the best if you just left it all to him. There’s no need for you to go and upset yourself even more. Joseph should be home soon. He asked me to take care of you until he gets here. He also told me that you and he spent last evening together. Were you together all night?”
Celia walked to the window and looked up at the dreary sky. She had to think things through, get everything straight in her mind before she spoke again. Suddenly, a thought struck her with an almost physical force, and her eyes opened wide. Where did Joseph go after he’d finished with her … and for how long? Could he have killed her father? She was sure now that he was certainly capable of murder, but how could he do such a thing to the man who had been like a father to him? How could he kill him in cold blood … and for what possible reason? Everything was so confusing, and he was waiting for her to speak.
“Yes, we were together all night,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Joseph was with me. I had an accident …”
She hated herself; fear had made her say those things. Joseph would kill her if she told Sergeant Butler about what he did to her, and she was alone now without her father, who would have protected her. She’d been lonely many times, but she’d never been so truly alone, and she’d never been so afraid. What if Joseph had been telling the truth? What if her father had, for some reason, left the farm to him? What would happen to her? She would not be able to rid herself of Joseph! She knew nothing about the running of the farm. Her father always had good workers and farm managers, and he had taken care of the finances alone. He’d stubbornly refused to have an accountant. He’d always maintained that he couldn’t trust any man with eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose and beady little pupils looking down into the lenses, masking their true expression. Her father had made sure that she was educated as a lady, but he never thought to teach her the rudiments of farm business, as he always said that she would marry the right kind of man, someone who would look after her and the farm after he had gone. Celia laughed inwardly at the irony of it all. Her father was dead and look at the kind of man he’d left her with, a man that she was now terrified of. A man she would probably be tied to forever, a man who may have been responsible for his death.