The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (37 page)

We
take
boat
trips
around
the
headland
and
past
the
cliff-top
of
the
San
Antonio
lighthouse,
stopping
off
in
the
port
of
Jávea
for
lunch.
It
is
truly
a
magical
place.

When
I
go
to
bed
at
night,
I
no
longer
feel
the
panic
I
have
long
since
felt.
As
I
lie
beside
my
love,
I
feel
only
a
sense
of
joy
in
knowing
that
with
him
I
have
found
peace.
Joseph
Dobbs
has
ceased
to
invade
my
dreams.
His
terrible
laughter
has
drifted
away
from
my
ears,
and
I
can
no
longer
see
his
vile
face.
He
is
a
memory,
just
as
my
aunt
told
me
he
would
be.

Some of the family remained at the beach until the beginning of September. However, Ernesto insisted that he be allowed to return to La Glorieta. He didn’t relish the thought of leaving Celia or going back to an empty house, but he believed that the outbreak of war in Europe would undoubtedly affect his business in some way or another. Changes would be inevitable, and his family and the peasants under his care would be casualties of a war, so far away in terms of kilometres yet so close to home because of the impact it would have on all of them. He had already received a telegram from Mr Rawlings in which he was warned of future difficulties in sea trade because of German submarine missions to raid British and allied commerce. This new development lay heavily on his mind, for without his trade with Britain, most of his crop would be left to rot in the bowels of some warehouse in Valencia or, even worse, lost at the bottom of the ocean.

By October, it was apparent to all Spaniards that Spain would not enter the war. It was also evident that the conflict was not one that would disappear overnight and that both sides would soon be preparing for a form of warfare that neither had experienced nor anticipated.

Ernesto worked tirelessly, accompanying his produce personally to the docks in Valencia. He accepted that the dangers at sea were out of his control, but some ships were still getting through, and as long as there were ships, he would load the produce just as he always did.

Celia, along with her aunt, worried constantly over the fate of all the people they knew in England. They wondered if the young men from Goudhurst, John and his friends, and Simon Ayres’s secretaries had been given their marching orders. It was so difficult to get news of what was happening back home that sometimes Marie was sure she was going to worry herself into an early grave. As usual, Simon Ayres was there to calm her fears. He was in constant communication with England and assured the two women that as of yet, John, his friends, and anyone close to them had not been called upon to bear arms. But they all knew that it would only be a matter of time.

Chapter 35

T
he rage on Joseph Dobbs’s face and in his demeanour was evident in the small bar across the street from the British Consulate. He sat lopsided on the bar stool, smoking one cigarette after another and staring endlessly at the door as though his life depended on it. Every now and then, he cursed, mumbling into his glass. He cursed loudly this time, thinking about the person he was waiting for and not caring who heard him. He hated waiting for anyone, let alone the hapless Roddy fucking Smyth what’s-his-face! He didn’t like being so close to a British government building either; it had been Roddy’s idea to meet there, not his. He swore again. Roddy had come to the end of his usefulness. He didn’t need him anymore. He had his new name now and an open road into the poker games that interested him.

He had used Roddy’s services a couple of times. The first time was to help him dispose of a prostitute’s body. They had both gone to the whorehouse one night after a game of poker that had hurt his pockets and his pride. Roddy chose a small fat thing with big tits and had practically run up the stairs to fuck her, while he went for the best-looking girl there, with fair hair and pale eyes, reminding him a bit of Celia. Her name was Sissy—a stupid fucking name for a woman. She seemed to like it rough, so he’d given it to her rough. He didn’t hear her complain, thought she was enjoying it, but he’d choked the life out of her and couldn’t really say when or how it happened. He only knew that she’d stopped breathing.

Joseph asked for another drink whilst thinking about what happened next. That was it, he remembered: Roddy had been in another room in the brothel, Le Grand Plaisir—stupid fucking name. He grunted. He’d never had a grand pleasure there, and he’d paid for it. He bided his time in the room with the dead woman until he heard Roddy’s scream. Roddy always screamed when he had an orgasm, silly git!

When Roddy left the prostitute’s room, he’d been waiting for him. Thank fuck the room faced the back of the building or they would have been seen for sure, he thought now. They took the body out of the room and onto the fire escape, wrapped in a sullied sheet. Roddy had been reluctant to help at first. He’d cried like a baby. “Oh, no, I can’t do this,” he’d sobbed. “I’ll go to jail… Oh, my family, my work. No, please don’t make me!” He was fucking pathetic, but he soon put him right on a few things, and eventually, after telling him what would happen if he didn’t help, he came to his senses.

Together they’d dumped the whore in a rat-infested alleyway hardly ever frequented by decent folk, and those that they did see that night were too drunk or high on opium to give a damn. He’d never gone back to that place, but Roddy had, and according to him, nobody had ever asked about a dead whore. She’d been a nonentity, a waste of space that the world and he didn’t miss.

He asked for another whisky and then faced the door again. No sign of him yet. Roddy was probably the most gullible and stupid man he’d ever come across in the poker circuit: a diplomat who ran a department in the consulate yet at the same time a grovelling, snivelling arsehole begging him for money and looking up to him like he were some kind of fucking saviour. He slammed his glass down on the counter and made himself a promise. If Roddy didn’t turn up tonight with all the money he owed him, he’d kill the bastard and his entire family. The thought suddenly struck him. He’d bailed Roddy out of too many poker games to remember; the bastard was bringing him bad luck.

Joseph stood and stretched, grunting and pulling at the crotch of his trousers at the same time. His arse was getting sore on that fucking bar stool. He asked for another whisky, thinking that life was so fucking hard sometimes. It had been hard wriggling his way into good quality games and even harder getting the snotty bastards he played with to accept him. And now things were changing for the worse!

He swore and knocked his glass over attempting to get back on to the bar stool. Just when he finally got to where he wanted to be, things had to change. He looked at the other people drinking and eating in the bar and screwed up his face in anger. “War, war, fucking war!” he mimicked like an old wife to the couple sitting next to him.

That was the only word he heard nowadays, and it was for that reason he wanted Roddy to pay up in full, before the fucking war started. He looked at the clock on the wall again. Roddy was an hour late. He ordered another whisky and thought about all the reasons why he might be late. Could he be caught up in something at the consulate? He tapped his fingers on the bar counter. Might he be trying to get the money together, even at this late hour? He looked at the clock again and gulped the whisky down in one. Roddy wasn’t coming.

Joseph stood up on wobbly legs and threw some francs on the counter. “If someone comes in and asks for Harry Miller, tell him I’ll be seeing him tomorrow and tell him he’d better have what I’m waiting for,” he slurred to the bartender.

“Ah, Monsieur Miller,” the bartender said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Pardon, I just remember now! I have a note for you, from a Monsieur Rodereek Smyth Burton.”

Chapter 36

C
elia cradled both her daughters in her arms and smiled lovingly at their father. There was no more pain, save a nagging ache. There was no more fear of death, for the doctor had categorically stated that she was in good health, considering.

The babies had arrived so quickly, and the appearance of two, not one, had left the whole household in a state of shock. They decided to name the girls María, for Celia’s aunt, and Marta, for Ernesto’s mother. Twin babies had never been born in either family, as far as they all knew, but two babies had been born and they were welcomed nonetheless.

Celia remained in bed for over a week, and during that time, Marie and Simon arranged to return to London. They would travel with Ernesto as far as the Valencia docks and board Mr Rawlings’s ship on 20 January.

Celia put on a brave face at dinner the night before they left. She had known for a while that her aunt would leave, but the impending departure had not seemed real until now. The conversation was kept to subjects not dealing with the war. Celia had insisted on a pleasant evening, without any references being made about war-torn London. There were to be no tears.; her aunt’s mind was made up, and no one was to try to talk her out of it.

On the morning of 20 January, Celia waved goodbye from the front door of the house. She had decided not to accompany the party to Valencia, although in reality, her aunt Marie had made the decision long before.

Simon, who had fought tooth and nail to remain in Spain, encircled his wife’s waist at the door of the carriage, and Celia imagined that of the two, only he understood the risks of a crossing that would be fraught with dangers.

20
January
1915

My
Aunt
Marie
and
Mr
Ayres
left
us
today,
promising
to
write
and
promising
to
remain
safe
in
London.
Auntie
was
afraid,
I
know
she
was,
but
she
pretended
otherwise,
saying
that
she
couldn’t
wait
to
get
involved
in
the
war
efforts
that
awaited
her.

After
dinner
tonight,
I
felt
the
need
to
be
alone.
Marta
and
Rosa
are
oblivious
to
the
dangers
that
face
my
English
family.
They
have
their
hands
full
with
four
children,
who
now
appear
to
have
three
mothers,
and
they
have
never
set
foot
on
my
country’s
shores
and
cannot
possibly
feel
as
I
do.
Everything
is
so
peaceful
here,
but
part
of
me
wishes
that
I
too
had
left
on
the
ship
today.
I
could
have
played
a
small
part
in
the
war
raging
against
my
country.
I
could
have
worked
my
land
and
helped
to
feed
our
army.
Instead,
I
can
only
pray
from
afar
for
the
safety
of
those
I
love.

My
beautiful
baby
girls
are
asleep,
and
I
count
my
blessings
every
time
I
look
at
them.
They
are
adorable
and
have
made
my
happiness
complete.
Aunt
Marie
has
taken
family
portraits
back
with
her,
one
for
Mrs
Baxter
and
the
other
for
my
cousin,
John.

As
I
watch
the
girls
sleep,
I
am
also
reminded
of
Pedro’s
infancy.
My
brave
son
who
fought
for
life
before
he
was
even
born
was
not
surrounded
by
a
father’s
love,
as
he
and
my
girls
are
now,
yet
when
I
look
at
him,
I
see
his
father
in
him.
It
scares
me
a
little
because
Pedro’s
features
are
not
mine.
He
is
a
miniature
of
Joseph
Dobbs
 
.
 
.
 
.