by Jana Petken
“Celia?” Sergeant Butler repeated. “I’m going to ask you again. Were you and Joseph together all night?”
“Yes, I was with my husband all evening. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Celia kept her eyes averted, ashamed at her outburst, but she knew what he was thinking. He was a police officer and had probably seen bruises like hers before. It was not uncommon for a man to give his wife a beating every now and again, but she would not confirm his suspicions.
“He was with me … He was with me.”
“How did you get those bruises?”
“Oh, them. It’s nothing – an accident, just as I said, just as my husband said. I was distracted … Yes, that’s it. I remember now. I was busy looking out of the hall window … I had washing out on the line, and I thought it was going to snow. I didn’t look where I was putting my feet, and I slipped coming down the stairs.”
Her voice trailed off, and she began to laugh, a high-pitched laugh that was almost like the sound of a squealing pig. She heard it, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. What was she saying? Why was she lying so much? Why couldn’t she make herself tell the truth? Did it mean that she’d rather have Joseph than be alone? Was she so afraid of losing everything that she’d defend a husband who’d almost killed her?
“Oh God, no… Please no!” She was crying now.
“Celia, did you fall down the stairs, love?”
“Yes.”
Celia stood up then, defeated. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone? Her head hurt, and her body ached, but worst of all, she wanted to die too.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, gulping pathetically for air.
Sergeant Butler sat down at the long wooden table in the kitchen. Celia waited for the water to boil and stared out the window at the light snowfall. Her mind screamed with unanswered questions and irrational suspicions. It was inconceivable. Her father was lying on a slab somewhere, his body still, lifeless, and cold – inconceivable but true. She touched her cheek and heard echoes of Joseph’s words: Your da’ sold you to me as part of a deal. He’s going to give me the farm when he dies … The kitchen door abruptly opened and the subject of her thoughts faced her across the room. She stood still and looked into Joseph’s eyes, hoping to see some measure of truth behind them, some evidence that he regretted his behaviour the night before – that he had nothing to do with the death of her father.
“Joseph, you’re back,” she said in a dead voice.
Joseph’s kind eyes stared back at her. He opened his arms, and walking towards her, he said, “Yes, dearest, I’m here. I’m so sorry about your father.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ll take care of everything. You just rest. My God, look at your poor face. Did you tell Sergeant Butler about your fall yesterday?”
Celia’s rigid body tried not to flinch when Joseph dug his fingers into her skin. Only she knew what he was really doing and what he really felt. His fingers dug deeper, and she looked at him with the same contempt that lived in his eyes. He was warning her not to say anything about the night before, and he was afraid. She turned from him and faced Sergeant Butler.
“Yes, I did. I told him that it was very silly of me to fall down the stairs, but my stupidity is not important now. My father has been murdered, and finding his killer is what we should all be focusing on.”
She looked into his eyes once more and took a step back. He loosened his grip and coughed uncomfortably.
“Joseph, please make some tea for Sergeant Butler. I’m going to rest. Is that all right, Sergeant?”
“Of course it is, Celia. We’ll keep you informed if there are any more developments, and once again, I am so sorry for your loss. He was a good man, your father, and he’ll be sorely missed.”
Chapter 4
Mrs 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 mur
der, 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.�
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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
It 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.