Читать книгу The Murder Pit - Mick Finlay - Страница 14

As we walked along Blackfriars Road, the guvnor was silent. He tapped his walking stick against the kerb, humming Mrs Barclay’s sad song to himself. I kept quiet, knowing he was pondering our next step.

‘Tell me again what happened at the station,’ he said at last, shaking his head as if to loosen a tangle of thoughts inside. ‘Exactly. Every detail.’

As I went through it, he asked me about their faces and how they stood, how they looked at each other, how they spoke. I knew he’d ask, and on my way back to meet him I’d gone over the details in my mind, describing it to myself lest I’d forget. The guvnor saw people clearer than me, clearer than most people. It was why he was a good detective. He was always trying to improve himself, always reading books on the psychology of the mind and buying pamphlets and papers to follow the big cases as were going on. Lately he’d been into a book by Mr Carpenter about unconscious cerebration, as he was fond of explaining to us, but his favourite for the last couple of years was a book on emotions by Mr Darwin. He’d studied all the pictures in there, learning all the different ways emotion is displayed in the body.

‘It’s clear they control her,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘But more important is why she didn’t answer your questions when she had a chance. Perhaps she didn’t want to disagree with either of you. That would fit with what the Barclays told us about her being meek.’ He ran the tip of his walking stick along the railings next to the pavement. ‘Or she might be unsure of her own mind. It’s likely she’s not used to making decisions for herself.’

‘I wasn’t sure she understood what I was asking.’

‘Her parents said she understands everything. It’s talking she’s not clever with.’

He paused as we reached a pea soup man, his belly gurgling. Then he shook his head and walked on.

‘And Walter said, “He can’t tell you what to do,” did he? That’s interesting. He could have said, “Ignore him, Birdie.” He could have told you to leave her alone. But he chose to say it this way. It suggests he’s concerned about who has the power to tell who what to do. The Barclays say he’s rather slow. Did he strike you that way?’

‘Hard to say, sir. His voice is flat and he seems a bit clumsy. Looked like his sister had charge of him.’

‘I thought the same when we were at the farm. I wonder if he’s concerned about people telling him what to do. And he said, “He don’t own you.” Is that how he sees marriage, I wonder?’

We stepped onto the street to avoid a bent old woman carrying two great sack bundles over her shoulders. A bit of carpet was tied over her head; her filthy overcoat trailed along the greasy street. Behind her wandered a bloke sucking on the bones of a pig’s trotter.

‘Keep up!’ she croaked.

He darted after her, his black suit shining with filth under the gas lamps.

‘Walter’s temper worries me, Barnett. Was he really going to assault you?’

‘Looked like it.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that scar, either. Did Birdie confirm it was the mangle?’

‘She said, “I didn’t do it.” I don’t know if she meant she didn’t tie her hair up or that it wasn’t her fault.’

A boy turned into the street ahead of us, a tray of muffins hanging around his neck. His cap was torn and too big for him; his smock was stained.

‘Lovely muffins!’ he cried at the streams of tired folk trudging along with their carts and sacks.

‘Hello, lad,’ said the guvnor, a great smile lighting his face.

‘Mr Arrowood!’ cried the boy.

It was Neddy, the lad we used now and then when someone needed watching or messages needed taking. He was eleven or so, maybe twelve or ten, and always up for earning a bit of money: his ma liked a drink too much to bring in food regular so it was down to him to feed his two little sisters. Neddy lived on Coin Street, same as the guvnor, but we hadn’t seen much of him that winter. There’d been an arson attack on the guvnor’s building six month before, and him and his sister Ettie had been staying with his oldest friend Lewis as they waited for the builders to repair their rooms.

‘Oh, but it’s good to see you, my dear,’ said the guvnor, giving the lad’s shoulders a squeeze. ‘And how’s your family?’

‘Always hungry, sir. The more I get the more they want, far as I can see. The little one got right chesty over Christmas. Had to get the doctor in for her.’

‘Is she better?’

‘Still cries a lot, sir.’

The guvnor peered through his eyeglasses at the boy’s face. We were just between the light from two street lamps.

‘When’s the last time you had a wash?’

‘This morning,’ said Neddy, wrinkling his nose.

‘Ha!’ laughed the guvnor. ‘Here, give us a couple of muffins, you little imp.’

He took the muffins from Neddy and handed over a coin. Then he fished in his waistcoat and pulled out a shilling. ‘Take that in case you need to get the doctor in again.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Should have some work for you soon, my boy,’ he said, handing one of the muffins to me.

‘It’s rock hard,’ I said. ‘How old are these?’

‘Old enough, Mr Barnett,’ said Neddy with a smile. One of his front tooths was missing from the Fenian case; his hair fell into his eyes.

The guvnor laughed. He loved that little lad.

‘Mine’s still warm,’ he said, taking a bite. ‘You took the wrong one, Barnett. Anyway, we’ll let you know about that work, Neddy.’

‘Any time, Mr Arrowood. You let me know.’

We watched him dart after a couple of other punters.

‘So Birdie looked in low spirits in the train?’ he asked, shoving the last piece of warm muffin in his gob.

‘That’s what it looked like to me. And I felt she wanted to show me too. But I couldn’t swear by it. It was dark, and she only looked up quick.’

‘We can all recognize grief,’ he said. ‘Mr Darwin says it’s universal: raised inner eyebrows, furrowed forehead, lowered mouth corners. The Hindoos, the Malays, the ancient Greeks – all the same. If we couldn’t recognize sadness in others we couldn’t sympathize. And what would society be without sympathy, Barnett?’

‘Like London sometimes, sir.’

We reached St George’s Circus, where I was going to take a different road back to my rooms in The Borough.

‘Now, what of Mrs Barclay?’ he asked me, stopping by the church stairs. He uncapped his pipe and pushed down the tobacco with his thumb. ‘What restraint, though? Surely the greatest insult to a mother is to tell her she’s done wrong by her daughter?’ The guvnor was getting worked up now, his brow arched in excitement. ‘And then she passes that note.’

‘Who passes a note?’

‘Why Mrs Barclay. You didn’t see?’

He laughed at my surprise.

‘It was when they bumped: she slipped it into Miss Ockwell’s hand in the confusion. You didn’t see?’

‘I said I didn’t see.’

‘I thought it best not to ask her about it at the time. If she was hiding it from Mr Barclay, the chances are she’d deny it.’ He lit his pipe, his eyes a-twinkle under the gas light. ‘Meet me at London Bridge station tomorrow at half past midday, my friend. We’re going back to Catford. We’re going to help poor Birdie with whatever trouble she’s in.’

I watched him as he walked off towards the Elephant and Castle, his great behind juddering like a shire horse. I smiled to myself. The guvnor had finally got interested.