The Guardian of Secrets

by Jana Petken

  “And where is she now?” he asked the jury. “Why is she not here? Is it because she is afraid it would be established that she was the guilty party and not me? Is it because her true character would be revealed?”

  His lip trembled when he was asked about the night of the murder. He had gone for a walk after Celia told him that he was useless, that she hated him. She threw his dinner at him for no reason and a piece of crockery had hit him in the face. Her uncontrollable violent outbursts were what hurt him the most. He showed the jury the scar just above his eye.

  “She did that!” he cried. “Wouldn’t anyone be hurt? Wouldn’t you?” he asked the jury, with tears now rolling down his face.

  Late on the night of the murder, he returned to the house and noticed Celia’s strange behaviour. He’d commented to her about the spots of blood on the floor. He thought at first that it was the blood from his lip where the crockery had hit him earlier, but there was too much of it to be his. Later he heard her tell the police that they had been together all that evening when he knew it wasn’t true. He said that his wife is a very clever liar. She even told people that he had hit her, which of course wasn’t true either. He could never lay a finger on his wife, he’d added, shaking his head. He could never hit any woman, no matter how much she provoked him.

  When Mr Bats asked him how the jewellery had gotten inside his own bag, he merely shrugged his shoulders and pointed to where Marie was sitting. “Marie Osborne came to the house to collect Celia’s things. She was in the house alone for a long time. Celia must have given her the watch and ring. I just know she planted them in my bag. That’s the only explanation I’ve got. She’s always hated me, jealous just like her niece. Ask Tom Butcher sitting back there.”

  Joseph pointed again, this time to Tom. “He brought her to the house with him that day, and I heard her insisting that she go inside alone. He heard her say that just as I did. Don’t you all see what’s happening here?” he exclaimed, spreading his hands as though it was all so clear. “Marie Osborne is covering up her niece’s crime. That’s what she’s doing!”

  When the jury shifted their eyes in her direction, Marie had been forced to bite her lip to stop herself from calling out. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and now as she watched him stand in the dock with cocky arrogance, hands locked behind his back in iron handcuffs and that same pleading, innocent look on his face, she knew that it was going to be even more difficult to prove his guilt than she had previously thought. Joseph was a master of disguise and an expert in the art of deception, she had decided a long time ago. The previous day, she had seen the disbelieving faces of Peter’s neighbours and friends as they sat passively in the courtroom, but like her, they were powerless to stop his lies.

  The judge, a stranger, had replaced Mr Ayres’s old friend Justice Thompson on the defence lawyer’s insistence. This judge was an unknown entity, but he had made it clear to all present that Joseph Dobbs was on trial for the crime of murder, and that he, for one, was not interested in any character assassinations.

  “A man who could face the death penalty if found guilty would not go to the gallows on hearsay,” he had stated repeatedly.

  Mrs Baxter, Tom Butcher, Sergeant Butler, Mr Ayres, and Marie had all testified in the last week, and even Dr Sutton, eloquently describing Celia’s cuts, bruises, and terror, had failed to move the jury, who seemed to have fallen into Joseph’s web of charm and deceit. She wondered how it could be possible to deceive twelve people and a judge of high standing, but Joseph seemed to be doing just that! It was all so unfair, but she was beginning to accept the fact that he could walk away from this a free man, simply because the prosecution could not prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

  A woman sat outside the courtroom without moving a muscle or making a sound. She was dressed in black from her head to her feet and wore a thick black silk veil that completely concealed her face and neck. Black woollen gloves covered her hands, which lay still on her lap, and black boots peeking out from under her long skirt shifted nervously on the stone floor. She had waited patiently since early morning to be called by the clerk of the court, terrified, angry, but most of all, filled with a sadness that threatened to send her flying back to the hellish life she had just come from.

  When she was eventually called, two policemen helped her into the crowded courtroom. She walked with painful tiny shuffling footsteps and leant heavily on two wooden canes that thudded softly on the courtroom floor.

  All heads turned to look at her. But the faceless woman ignored her surroundings and concentrated instead on reaching the witness stand The tall and fragile creature continued until she was seated. When she was made comfortable in the witness box, she was given a glass of water, and then the clerk placed the Bible in her hand. Her voice was barely audible as she promised to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and it finally trailed off into silent exhaustion.

  “Would you state your name, please?” Mr Bats asked her in a loud, clear voice.

  The woman looked nervously around the room before settling her hidden eyes on Joseph. “My name is Doreen Pickens.”

  Joseph’s sharp intake of breath was clearly audible, and the court’s attention turned towards him as he gasped again and lowered his head.

  “Do you recognise the man sitting in the dock?”

  An eerie silence fell on the courtroom. All were caught up in the tense atmosphere and holding their breath. “Yes,” the woman said slowly. “I should recognise him. I knew who he was as soon as I saw his likeness in the newspaper. He’s my son, Michael Pickens.”

  No one could have imagined the impact the woman would have in the proceedings. Chaos ensued as journalists and artists started scribbling frantically in notebooks. The soft voices of the spectators in the public gallery rose to a deafening crescendo. Marie’s body froze, and she clutched her throat with her hand, as though the motion would help her breathe. Mr Bats coughed loudly to gain maximum attention from his audience, but it was deafened by the hundred different conversations taking place.

  “Silence! I will have silence in my court, by God I will … Silence, I say!” the judge shouted, banging his gavel down hard.

  The chorus of voices grew softer as one by one the people in the crowded courtroom turned their attention back to the witness.

  Mr Bats tried again. “Mrs Pickens, could you tell the court when you last saw your son?”

  “I last saw him on the day he murdered my husband and destroyed my life.”

  Marie gasped. The crowd, jury, and judge sat open-mouthed, and then the sea of voices rose in waves that drowned the courtroom and beyond. The gavel fell repeatedly in an attempt to silence the mobbed gallery.

  “I will have silence! I will have order or you will all be removed from my court!” the judge shouted in a desperate attempt to gain control.

  Eventually, there was silence.

  “Could you tell the court what happened on that day? Take your time,” Mr Bats continued.

  “My husband told Michael that he had to leave, that he was no longer welcome in our home. He said that he never wanted to see him again, and that if he came back, he would call the police. You see, Michael had hit me and I had just got out of the hospital. My husband was a very patient man, he was a saint, but he just couldn’t cope with the strain of having Michael around any longer. I believe my son has the devil in him. He lies and cheats. He can’t help it. He became increasingly violent, and his gambling debts were draining the farm of all profits. Oh, we knew he stole from us, but he was our son, and we thought that he’d somehow grow out of his evil ways and find the good Lord. That was our dearest wish.”

  Mr Bats stared at the jury, shifting his gaze from one juror to the next until he had connected with all of them.

  “How did your husband die, Mrs Pickens?”

  “He was burned to death. Michael burned him alive, God forgive his dark soul.”

  “And how do you suppose he did that?”

  “Michael
… the house … He set it ablaze. We never stood a chance that night. The only warning we had was the sound of breaking glass. I managed to shake myself out of a deep sleep, but I couldn’t wake my husband, and I was unable to move him on my own. I went to the bedroom door; it was barred from the outside. Smoke was coming into the room, so I crawled to the window and opened it. I was so high up … I didn’t know what to do. The flames were coming up the stairs … The smoke was choking me!”

  Mr Bats stepped forward to put his hand on the witness stand. “Take your time, Mrs Pickens. Would you like some water?”

  She shook her head and waved Mr Bats away. “I tried to wake my husband again, but he didn’t move. The smoke was all around us, and I couldn’t see very well. I wanted to drag him from the bed, but I felt so dizzy. The room was so dark and dense with smoke.”

  Mr Bats gave Doreen Pickens some water now without being asked. She was sobbing, and her body twitched in painful spasms.

  The judge asked her, “Are you all right to continue?”

  “Yes, My Lord. Yes, please. I want to.”

  “You were saying?” Mr Bats asked her.“The smoke was everywhere. I was suffocating. I tried the door again, and it crumbled before my eyes. The flames rushed into the room like the wind. They touched my hair first and set it alight, then my nightgown. I felt my way to the window like a blind person and jumped; I can’t remember anything after that. They thought I was dead too when they eventually found me in the morning. At the time, the doctor said that I was lucky to be alive, but I don’t feel lucky. I broke most of my bones in the fall, and my burnt skin is still so painful sometimes that I wish I had died that night. My life is a living hell. God has forsaken me, and he took my wonderful husband because of Michael – all because of him!”

  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 annoy
ance 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.”