The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (21 page)

Joseph had already determined that the four men in front of him were powerful and crazy enough to carry out their threats. He also knew that apart from a swollen cheek to go with his swollen lip from Michael Durkin, he was actually lucky to be alive.

He accepted the pen that John Stein handed him, and as he signed his name, he made a silent promise. He would hunt Celia down, find her, break every bone and every layer of skin in her body until she begged for her own death, and then he’d go after Marie fucking Osborne and do the same to her!

“You might be dressed in the clothes of posh fucking gents but underneath you’re nothing but a bunch of thugs,” he told the four men. “Now give me back my jewellery and get out of my fucking house!”

A moment later, John was putting the divorce papers into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go, boys. We’ve no more business here,” he said.

He turned once more to Joseph and walked towards him until their faces were inches apart. He wondered how his beautiful cousin could have loved such a man. He thought about her rape, the bruises, and the indignation she’d suffered, and for the first time in his life, he wanted to kill someone. Instead, he smiled and then spoke in an even tone.

“Here, take them. I got what I came for.” He thrust the bag into Joseph’s hand and then walked out of the room to join the others without looking back.

Joseph went to his blue bag and grabbed the bottle of whisky peeping out of the top of it. He opened the bottle, put it to his lips, and gulped it down as though it were water. He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve and breathed deeply. He’d got away with just about everything, including Marie’s money, a beating, death, and his poker debt. He’d even managed to get the old man’s stuff back into the bargain. He would have no problem selling the watch and ring in London; in fact, he should have thought about that sooner. He sat for a while longer, and his hand shook so much that he had to hold it with his other hand just to light his cigarette.

He let out another long sigh. Any self-doubts he may have had evaporated as he became totally convinced that twice today he’d been given a sign. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but at that moment, he felt the exhilaration of pride. Lady Luck had looked kindly on him and had taken his side against some pretty big odds. It was all suddenly clear to him; he didn’t need a farm or the Merrill name, for as long as he had Lady Luck showing him the way, he would always be a winner. It also dawned on him that he would never come back to Merrill Farm. Even if he could, even if he hadn’t signed those papers, he would never want to set foot in the place again. He had been set up from the start. Celia and Marie Osborne had probably paid John Stein right from the beginning. The poker game was probably rigged too—that’s why he lost it! He took another gulp of whisky and put it back into the bag. Rigging a poker game was the worst of it. That was a mortal sin.

After a few minutes, he had calmed himself down sufficiently to dress in the suit now lying crumpled on the floor. Afterwards, he looked at his image in a shard of glass, the remains of a mirror that had hung on the wall. He smiled, sweeping his hair back from his eyes. He looked good, too good for this place and far too classy for the likes of Celia fucking Merrill!

He closed the bedroom door behind him and then stood for a moment to light a cigarette. His bag was thrown over his shoulder, and he held on to the straps with his free hand. He felt nothing, neither defeat nor victory. He took one more look around the dirty hallway and beckoned his new life, breathing it in like a breath of fresh air, but as he took his first step downstairs, he knew that he would never really be free until Celia Merrill was dead.

Tom Butcher and Sergeant Butler stood as silent as death itself in the downstairs hallway. They had heard Joseph whistling a tune upstairs, but they had remained still, with the patience of hunters waiting for their prey.

Joseph saw them. Standing on the bottom step, he looked from one to the other with lines of confusion creasing his forehead.

“What the hell’s going on… Tom… Butler? What are you doing here? Christ, it’s like a fucking railway station up here today. What do you all want with me?” he asked them.

Sergeant Butler took a step forward, taking the lead. A look of satisfaction crossed his face just before he regained his policeman-like stony expression. We have a warrant to search your house and belongings,” he told Joseph.

“Why?”

“In connection with Peter Merrill’s death,” Sergeant Butler said.

Joseph laughed. “What are you talking about? Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know anything about Peter’s death.”

“Let us have a look, then.”

“A look at what?” Joseph asked.

“At everything.”

Ignoring Sergeant Butler, Joseph turned to Tom in desperation. “Tom, I don’t know what he’s on about. What the fuck does he think he’ll find here? You know me; you and me are friends. Tell him I had nothing to do with Peter’s murder…”

No response from Tom.

“That interfering old cow Marie Osborne has got something to do with all this. She’s put Butler up to this,” Joseph tried again.

“Marie Osborne’s got nothing to do with this, Joseph. Sergeant Butler asked me to come and bear witness,” Tom growled at Joseph. “I’m here for no other reason than to see justice done, and watch the way you talk about Miss Osborne.”

Joseph’s fear and anger grew. He couldn’t understand why Tom, his friend, was not sticking up for him. He thought about the bulls he’d sold him and about the times they’d drunk together in the pub, when he’d felt that at least there was one person in the village that he could actually have a decent conversation with. He shook his head and wondered why Tom was now turning against him, just like everyone else.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re going to witness, Tom? I’ve done nothing wrong. I loved Peter; you know that. This is fucking stupid! Tom, you of all people…”

“It may seem stupid to you, Joseph, but we take murder very seriously,” Sergeant Butler interrupted, shutting him up.

For a moment, no one spoke, and in the silence, Joseph began to formulate a plan. There was no way he was going to stick around for this charade. He had things in his bag that no one should see and places to go where no one would find him. He thought quickly, and once the plan was clear in his mind, he spoke.

“Go on, then. Search for whatever it is you’re looking for. You won’t find anything, because thanks to dear Miss Osborne, who sent the bailiffs in this morning, there’s not even a drawer to get your scabby hands into.”

Sergeant Butler smiled. “Thank you, Joseph. We will, starting with your bag, if that’s all right with you?”

Joseph’s panicked face drew a thunderous look from Tom Butcher. “You heard him. Give us your bag.”

“Where’s your warrant?” Joseph asked Sergeant Butler “I want to see it for myself. No warrant, no search. I know the law.”

Joseph’s palms bled perspiration, and his head was spinning. He couldn’t play for any more time. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had the money, the watch, and the ring in the bag, and that would be all the evidence they would need to put him away. The warrant was handed to him. He looked at it for a second, trying to go over his escape plan. He was cornered where he stood, and the front door was barred to him. He looked at the warrant again, took a sharp breath, and threw the warrant in Sergeant Butler’s face.

Joseph pushed Sergeant Butler as hard as he could into Tom Butcher’s arms. Without looking back, he darted back up the stairs, making for the bedroom, and when he got there, he locked its door behind him. He went to the window, climbed out onto the ledge, and looked down. He could hear the two men banging on the door, shouting for him to come out. He pressed himself against the wall, knowing there was no way back.

“It’s now or never,” he kept saying. “Do it, Joseph. Just jump!”

He was fast; that was his advantage. His only option was to get to the ground, make a run for it, and hope that Tom and Butler would be too slow to catch him. He tightened his grip on the bag, closed his eyes, and leapt off the ledge.

Joseph landed awkwardly, heard a sickening cracking sound, and screamed out in agony. Tears jumped from his eyes and ran in torrents down his cheeks. He had never cried before, not like this, but knives were burning into his leg and groin, and a blinding white pain took over. All he wanted was to lose consciousness, to let the darkness take him. He tried to stand, roll over, crawl, but he couldn’t move a muscle without the agony that took his breath away. He looked down the length of his leg. From a tear in his trousers, a bone shaft protruded like a chicken leg, serrated at the edges. A stream of blood mixed with clear liquid stained his trouser leg, and he howled again, shocked at the sight of his own injury.

Hands reached out from nowhere, gripping him tightly at the shoulders. He struggled in a vain attempt to break free but was paralysed by a force that knocked the wind out of him. He looked up. It was John Stein!

“Hello, Joseph. Nice to see you again,” John Stein said with a smile.

“Christ, not you again! Bastards, the lot of you!” Joseph cried out.

“Now, Joseph, there’s no need for language like that,” John said as though talking to a child.

Joseph moaned with pain. “I’m hurt. Help me. Get a doctor, for Christ’s sake!”

Sergeant Butler appeared and made no comment about the state of Joseph’s leg; the bag lying on the ground to the side of Joseph’s head seemed to be of more interest to him. Joseph’s fingers still gripped the bag strap, and he looked up in defeat, unable to stop it from being ripped from his grasp. Sergeant Butler picked it up and undid the buckles.

Crumpled clothes came out first. They were wet and smelled of whisky. He opened the bag wide and looked inside, careful this time not to touch anything. The broken whisky bottle lay in a puddle at the bottom of the bag. A saturated brown paper bag and soggy white envelope with banknotes floated between shards of glass and alcohol. A clock with a smashed face was still ticking beside an undamaged bottle of cologne… He dipped his fingers into the bag and headed straight for what was left of the white envelope containing the money. He handed it to Tom Butcher and then resumed his search. He lifted out the brown paper bag and looked straight at Joseph, who wore a terrified expression. When he opened the bag, the watch and ring sparkled in the sunlight, and Sergeant Butler nodded his head in recognition.

“Do you recognise these, Tom?” Tom nodded.

“Yes, they belonged to my friend Peter Merrill.”

Joseph swallowed uncomfortably. His injury and the blinding pain that consumed him took second place to the reality that now stared him in the face. Arty Weisman and Mathew Gates were holding him down, and he tried to shrug them off whilst directing his hatred towards John Stein and David Stern. He’d been tricked, led like a lamb to the slaughter, and it was all down to the Jew.

“You fucking Jewish bastard,” he hissed at John.

“Joseph Dobbs, I’m arresting you for the murder of Peter Merrill,” Sergeant Butler told him. “You have to come with me now, and if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut from now on. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

“I don’t fucking understand any of this,” Joseph told him, sobbing loudly. “I don’t know how those things got into my bag. I didn’t put them there, and you can’t say that I did… Go on, Stein. Tell them.” He turned his head just in time to see John Stein’s victorious smile.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” John said with equal innocence to Sergeant Butler. “I only met this man a couple of weeks ago. I hardly know him. I just came for the money he owes me.”

“You’re a liar. You had the jewellery. You know Celia!”

“Celia?” John shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, I only met him a couple of weeks ago.”

Joseph swore loudly as the pain shot up and down his leg. He had to do something, get out of this somehow. He turned to Tom; Tom liked him. He would help him.

“For God’s sake, Tom, tell them… Tell them they’ve got it wrong, that I never killed Peter… Don’t let them do this. It’s a mistake! I’m innocent. Tell them, Tom!”

“Tell it to the judge,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “The only thing I’ll tell the rest of them is that you’re a murdering bastard who beat his wife and tried to kill his own son before he was even born!” Tom took a step closer, and Joseph cowered even deeper into the ground.

“But, Tom…”

“But Tom nothing… Every time you spoke to me, Joseph, I wanted to knock your teeth out. Didn’t know that, did you? Didn’t know I wanted to kill you as soon as look at you? The only good thing about knowing you is that now I get to watch you die. You’re going to hang, Joseph, hang at the end of a rope, even if I have to carry you and your gammy leg to the scaffold. You’re going to feel that rope cut into your neck and squeeze the breath from your miserable body, and I’ll be there to watch. And know this: I’m not your friend; I’ve never been your friend.”

John Stein and the others carried Joseph between them. Joseph screamed with pain and humiliation until the pain made him breathless and he fell unconscious on to the back of the police wagon.

“Where will you take him?” John Stein asked Sergeant Butler.

“Goudhurst first, to get him processed, then London, straight to hospital by the looks of it.”

“Well, at least he won’t be able to run,” Tom Butcher said without pity.

Sergeant Butler shut the door of the wagon and smiled. “No. His running days are well and truly over.”

Chapter 24

M
arie and John ate a light lunch in Tom’s kitchen. John was silent, clearly lost in thought, his face as hard as stone. Marie wanted to ask him the question that would either give her peace or would continue to haunt her. She decided that she couldn’t wait a moment longer.

“So do you think we’ve done enough to end it? Is it finally over?”

John stopped eating and faced Marie and her question. “Mother, all I can say is that the divorce papers that Joseph signed will be enough to get him out of the farm for good. When Mr Ayres returns from Spain, he’ll begin legal proceedings to pass the deeds to Celia. Joseph will never be able to set foot on the place again. He’s finished there.”

“That’s wonderful news. Thank goodness Celia signed her divorce papers before leaving for Spain. Mr Ayres told me that she put her name to so many documents the day she left that she didn’t have a clue what she’d signed by the time she’d finished… I’m glad we decided not to tell her about our plans. What if all this had gone wrong? You know Joseph could have run sooner. I think I would have, had I been in his shoes.”

John had to smile at his mother. There was a lot that even she didn’t know. “Joseph has been watched, Mother. I’ve had men on him ever since the game in London. He would never have got away. Anyway, Joseph’s arrogant and vain. He’s the type who doesn’t run. He’s the typical gambler, believing he’s indestructible. He has the ‘live to fight another day’ mentality, and like all gamblers, he possesses the unshakeable belief that what’s been lost today can be won back tomorrow. Gambling is a sickness.”

“Will he get away with Peter’s murder?” Marie asked him, pointedly this time.

John had thought about that for a while now. He didn’t want to give his mother false hope, so he couldn’t and wouldn’t answer the question directly. Instead, he said, “He will stand trial, that’s a certainty, but as far as a conviction goes, ultimately that will be decided by a jury. Of course, we do have Peter’s ring and watch, which will make compelling evidence although it won’t necessarily prove his guilt. At this moment, the evidence is still circumstantial.”

“But the fact that he had them on his person… Surely that must count for something.”

“Yes, of course, but don’t forget that Celia gave him his alibi. We cannot place him at the scene of the crime because the crime scene was not where Peter died, and there was no forensic evidence to point the finger at Joseph at the time of the murder. To be honest, I think the only way we will get him for sure is if we’re allowed to bring his character into question. Then, please God, the jury will hopefully believe him capable of just about anything, including the crime of murder.”

Marie finished her lunch in silence and thought about what John had just said. Her son talked a lot of sense. A guilty verdict was not going to be easy to obtain from a panel of strangers who didn’t know Joseph as they did. But he was guilty of so many terrible things where they did have proof—for example, his cruelty towards Celia. What he did to her might even be construed as attempted murder. Then there were his gambling habit and his debts. The sacking of all the farm workers, selling all the animals, his insatiable need for money, the destruction of the farm and fist fights with the men in the village would surely all count for something. Celia cut into her thoughts; she didn’t regret her decision not to allow Celia to be a witness. She had suffered terribly at Joseph hands and, in her opinion, having to face him in a courtroom full of people would just finish her off.

“I believe in English justice, darling,” she told John after a while. “We’re going to win. I just know it.”

John finished eating and went outside for a cigarette. He didn’t share his mother’s confidence in the British justice system. He had seen and heard of many occasions when a known criminal had been acquitted because of flawed evidence or not enough evidence. They had done the groundwork and more. His mother had made it clear right from the start that apart from getting Joseph hanged, she wanted to make sure that he suffered indignation, humiliation, and fear. They had successfully achieved their goal and more, but everything else was out of their hands now. Would Joseph hang at the end of a rope? He really didn’t know.