Читать книгу The Murder Pit - Mick Finlay - Страница 19

As we gained the almshouses, a young copper of eighteen or so came up to us. He wore a dented helmet and a badly shaped overcoat, long in the sleeve and frayed, like he’d been given it from an older copper who’d worn it all his life.

‘Excuse me, sirs,’ he said, his voice unsure. ‘Sergeant Root says you’re to come to the station for a word.’

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched up the road, hoping no doubt we’d follow without him having to speak again. I was glad of it: I needed something to move us on from the silence of the walk back to town.

It was a bare room, unswept, unpainted, cold enough to freeze the nose off a brass monkey. Mould speckled the ceiling; damp rose from the floorboards. Sergeant Root was sat at a desk reading a paper. He had a long, droopy face, his neck hidden by a double chin. His moustache was thick, his eyes melancholy.

‘The agents, Sarge,’ said the lad.

‘Right,’ whispered Root.

The guvnor offered his hand. ‘I’m Mr Arrowood, Sergeant. This is my assistant, Mr Barnett.’

The copper nodded, his eyes losing what little light they had in them. He looked the guvnor up and down, at his shoes starting to split at the knuckle, at the blue astrakhan coat rubbed bare around the buttons, at the nose blooming like cocksomb. He turned to the boy. ‘Here’s a lesson for you, lad. These fellows get paid to watch folk. Spying through windows. Hiding behind trees. Cause a lot of trouble for decent families, they do.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The guvnor started to protest but Root held up his hand.

‘I’ve had complaints about you, Arrowood, poking your nose into the Ockwells’ private affairs. I know what Mr Barclay’s been saying about them, but it ain’t true. They’re a good family. Been running that farm for generations. It’s no crime if a married woman doesn’t want to see her parents. Never has been, never will be. Now, I don’t want you upsetting folk here on my patch. D’you understand?’

‘But she’s in trouble, Sergeant,’ said the guvnor. ‘The Ockwells refuse to let us talk to her. Yesterday Walter chased us off with a shotgun. He assaulted Mr Barnett.’

‘Way I heard it you refused to leave his property.’

‘Birdie was in the upper window,’ said the guvnor. ‘She was trying to signal to us.’

‘Was she now. What did she say?’

‘She didn’t speak. No doubt she was afraid of being overheard. She held a picture of Brighton Pavilion to the glass.’

The sergeant raised his eyes at the young copper who dropped his head, hiding his smirk.

‘I’m certain they’re keeping her prisoner, Sergeant,’ said the guvnor. ‘She was asking for help.’

‘Asking for help, was she? Listen, Arrowood, in my experience a lady never shows a picture of Brighton Pavilion when she needs help. Not in my experience. You know she’s weak-minded, I suppose?’

‘She has a scar on her head where the hair’s been torn out.’ The guvnor’s voice was rising. I could see he was getting up steam, so I took his arm to remind him to keep civil. ‘You know Walter’s a violent man. You must at least make sure she’s safe. It’s your duty.’

‘Don’t tell me what I must do!’ barked the copper, suddenly losing his patience. ‘Get out! And if I hear you’ve been bothering anyone again I’ll haul you in for creating a nuisance.’

‘We’ve heard of three dead children on the farm,’ said the guvnor, wrenching out of my grip. ‘D’you know about that?’

‘Three dead children? What are you talking about?’

‘Mrs Gillie said there’d been three dead children at the farm over the last few years yet only one was buried.’

‘Mrs Gillie,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head that had no join with its neck. ‘You listen to me, Arrowood. She’s a mad old fox that woman. Sits in those woods doing all knows what, spells and whatnot. Middle of the night, all on her own. Ain’t nobody hasn’t suffered something on account of that old devil. She’s just making trouble as she always does. Take my word on it, if there’d been dead children I’d know about it.’

‘But you have to investigate!’ demanded the guvnor.

‘Make sure they leave, PC Young,’ said the sergeant, stepping into the back room and shutting the door.

Later that evening we paid a visit to the Barclays to tell them what had happened on the farm.

‘We think she was trying to communicate,’ said the guvnor. ‘Does the picture mean anything to you?’

The Barclays looked at each other.

‘We did take her to Brighton once,’ said Mr Barclay. ‘Yes, we did. She must have been saying she wants to come home to us.’

‘She used to keep magazines,’ said his wife. ‘She carries things she’s attached to. Feathers as well. She was always picking them up from the street.’

The guvnor put on his thinking face and stared at the unlit fire.

‘Feathers,’ he muttered. ‘So I was right. She was trying to attract our attention that time as well.’

‘What’ll you do now?’ asked Mr Barclay.

The guvnor sighed. ‘We hope to talk to some of the labourers tomorrow, see what they know. But since the family won’t allow us to see her and Birdie never leaves the house alone, we really do need the police to help. Root won’t budge, so we need someone higher. D’you know anyone of position who could exert some influence?’

‘I’m afraid we’re not well connected, Mr Arrowood.’

‘What about Kipling’s brother?’

‘He moved away before we arrived. We never met him.’

‘Your employer, then. He’s a wealthy man, I suppose. He must know someone.’

‘I could try,’ answered Mr Barclay with a shudder. ‘Though he’s not generally a helpful man.’

When I asked for another payment, Mr Barclay gave it with no objection. We promised to report back to them in two days time.

When we reached the camp next morning there was no sign of Mrs Gillie. The caravan door stood open, the old horse watching us from its tether. It was wrapped in piles of sack, yet still it shivered and snorted and moved from leg to leg. A bucket with the mugs we drank from the day before was on its side by the fire.

The guvnor called out for the old woman, his voice rising through the bare trees. He called again. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat.

‘Quarter to noon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she’s relieving herself.’

‘D’you think she’s got second sight?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what she said about our wives?’

‘I don’t know. But she’s alone; she lost her husband. She might have just recognized the same in us somehow.’

I went over to feel the fire.

‘Stone cold. Hasn’t been lit yet today.’

He climbed the wooden stairs of the caravan and peered inside the doorway.

‘Mrs Gillie? Are you there?’

He stepped in. A moment later he turned back to me.

‘Have a look around the trees, Barnett. She might have had a fall.’

It wasn’t a big copse. Perhaps a hundred yards over to the lane, and two hundred wide from the Ockwells’ field to the neighbours. I wandered around, calling her name. The trees were bare, the ground crisp with frozen leaf: not many places she could be hiding. I ducked under some rhododendron, where I found Mrs Gillie’s privy hole. I checked behind a couple of fallen trees overgrown with ivy and poked around a bramble thicket by the neighbour’s field. Mrs Gillie was nowhere to be found.

‘Look at this,’ said the guvnor when I got back. I followed him up into the caravan. It was dark inside. The shutters on the window were closed; the door, shaded by a hood, let in little light. He pulled the blanket from the bed and held it up. Underneath was her striped coat.

The guvnor groaned as he lowered himself to his knee. He reached under the bed and drew out her soldier’s boots.

‘Gone out without her coat and boots,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘On the coldest day of the year.’

I lit the tallow candle on her table and we looked around the little wooden room. The guvnor was twitching, the way he does when he’s worried. He wrung his hands and cleared his throat; he stepped from one foot to the other.

We went back outside, where he called out again. The crows cawed in the trees above.

‘Barnett, look!’

He was pointing with his walking stick at the red box she kept her wooden flowers in. It was on its side in the leaves below the caravan, its lid hanging open. Two flowers, broken in pieces and dirty with mud, lay upon the floor.

‘Something’s happened to her,’ he said quietly.

Just then we heard someone walking through the leaves on the other side of the stream.

‘Thank the Lord,’ he exclaimed, clapping me on the arm. ‘She’s back.’

But it wasn’t Mrs Gillie who came through the trees. It was the two fellows we’d seen before up at the farm. They were dressed miserably, in greasy old smocks, patched and stitched so you almost couldn’t see what colour they were. Whatever they wore on their feet was wrapped round with rags thick with mud. The tall one wore an ancient felt hat that hadn’t any shape; the short one, the wide-faced Mongol, wore the same battered brown bowler with its rim torn off as before. His smile was full and warm.

‘Good day, sirs,’ he said, his voice all nose and little lung.

‘Good day,’ said the guvnor and me almost together.

The fellow walked straight over to the nag and stroked its neck. ‘Hello, Tilly, how’s your leg?’ he asked, gentle as a child. The horse snorted, throwing its head back. ‘Oh, you hungry girl? That it?’

The tall fellow stood watching as the Mongol felt under the axle of the caravan and pulled out a nosebag. He hooked it over the horse’s head, then rested the side of his face on the horse’s flank as it ate.

‘That’s better, Till,’ he murmured, running his hand up and down its belly. ‘That’s what you wanted.’

‘My name’s Arrowood,’ said the guvnor to the tall bloke. ‘This is Barnett.’

The bloke didn’t reply. His weather-worn face was run through with thin blue veins, his head shaved like he had nits. There was an anger in his eyes I’d seen before in drinkers spoiling for a brawl, made harder with his sharp nose and upturned eyes. His wiry beard was more dried mud than hair.

‘Digger don’t talk,’ said the Mongol, coming over to us. ‘I’m Willoughby, sir.’

‘I’m most pleased to meet you, Willoughby,’ said the guvnor. ‘And you, Digger. Is Mrs Gillie here?’

‘Back soon, I reckon.’ Willoughby’s thick tongue curled out between the black stumps that were his teeth. Then, for no reason that I could see, he added, ‘I’m happy.’

‘That’s good to hear, my friend. And you both work at Ockwell’s farm, do you?’

‘Best workers, we are. Got three horses. Count Lavender, he’s the big white shire. You got a horse, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Mrs Gillie’s my friend, she is. She leave soup?’ he asked, patting his belly. ‘Got pinchy in here.’

‘No, Willoughby. The fire’s out.’

Digger made an angry noise with his throat.

‘No soup?’ said Willoughby, stooping to check the pot.

‘I don’t think so, son,’ said the guvnor.

Willoughby looked quick over his shoulder, across the stream to the field they’d come from. ‘Got to hurry. Get back to work.’

‘D’you know Mrs Birdie, Willoughby?’

‘She’s my friend, she is. I like Mrs Birdie.’

‘We like her too, Willoughby. How is she, d’you think?’

‘Happy, sir.’

‘I see.’ The guvnor reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the block of toffee, and broke off two pieces. He gave them to the men.

‘Thank you, sir!’ said Willoughby. His eyes shone in delight, his mouth wide like he was laughing. But instead of eating it, both men put the toffee in their pockets.

‘D’you think Mrs Birdie’s in any trouble?’ asked the guvnor in his gentle voice.

‘She’s happy. Pretty lady. And Dad is.’

‘D’you know why she won’t see her parents? They’re worried.’

Willoughby shook his head. ‘Won’t see her parents, no.’

‘But why? D’you know why she won’t?’

‘Not allowed in the house. Me and Digger. Miss Rosanna say.’

‘You’re not allowed in the house?’

‘Not allowed. Get mud all over, see. Mud and stink. You ain’t got a horse, sir?’

‘No, Willoughby.’

‘We got three horses. I look after them, I do. You my friend, Mr Arrowood?’

‘Yes, my dear. Listen, can you bring Mrs Birdie to meet us? It’s very important we talk to her. We’d give you a shilling if you’d do it.’

Willoughby shook his head. ‘Not allowed. She only come out for washing.’

‘Then how do you know she’s happy?’

‘She’s happy, sir,’ answered Willoughby. This time he was a little quieter, a little less smiley. He looked at me. ‘You my friend, Mr Barnett?’

‘’Course I am, mate,’ I said.

‘D’you know her, Digger?’ asked the guvnor.

Digger looked up, the anger returning to his sharp face.

‘He don’t speak,’ said Willoughby.

‘Does he understand?’

‘Understands. Don’t speak is all, sir.’

‘Well, it’s good to meet you both. So very good.’ The guvnor grasped Willoughby’s arm and squeezed it. When he made for Digger’s, the bloke stepped away.

‘Tell me, Willoughby, what do you do on the farm? What work?’

‘Yeah, work. We do.’

‘But what work? What d’you do?’

‘Do horses, feed the pigs, clear the dung. Berkshires, they are, sir. Few Large Whites. Sowing, but that’s not much. Turnip, potato. Do the, spread the dung too. Helps them grow, sir.’ Here he had to catch his breath. He couldn’t seem to talk for long before starting to pant. ‘Best workers. That’s Digger and me. And Tracey Childs. He’s gone now. Three best workers. Three brothers. Look after each other.’

‘D’you like working for the Ockwells?’ asked the guvnor.

‘Happy,’ said Willoughby. ‘Going back to my brother’s soon. Go live there. Dad do it.’

‘Your father? That’s good.’

‘No. Dad, he do it.’

‘Not your father?’

‘Mr Godwin, he’s my dad. We’re family now.’

‘Mr Godwin’s your father?’ asked the guvnor, his head tilted in confusion.

‘He died, father did. Mr Godwin’s my dad now. Dad, I call him.’

‘Ah, I see. You mean you just call him Dad.’

‘Call him.’

‘Did you grow up here in the village, Willoughby?’

‘Kennington, with John. And father. And ma.’

‘And what about Digger? Where’s he from?’

‘He don’t talk.’

‘D’you like working here, Digger?’ asked the guvnor. ‘You can nod or shake your head.’

Digger held the guvnor’s eye for a moment. His breath caught, like he was nervy. He looked away.

‘We’re best workers,’ said Willoughby, his smile broad again. ‘Dad say it. Best he’s had. We’re family now. And Mr Walter, and Miss Rosanna. They love us. Like family. D’you know my brother, Mr Arrowood? John. D’you know him?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve never met your brother.’

‘I go live with him. Dad say. Dad knows John.’

The fellow nodded. His tongue came out of his mouth and passed over his cracked lips.

‘Willoughby, I want you to think hard now. Is there any reason Birdie’s not happy? Any reason at all?’

‘Happy,’ he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

‘Do they hurt her?’

‘Hurt her.’

‘They do?’

Willoughby fell silent. He looked up at the crows, his mouth opening and closing.

‘I’m happy,’ he said at last.

The guvnor looked at me and frowned. ‘Tell me, do they have any children up there?’

Willoughby shook his head and glanced over at the field again.

‘Got to go, sir. Get back to work.’

Digger had already turned and was crossing the stream. Willoughby followed.

‘D’you know where Mrs Gillie is, Willoughby?’

‘Seen her last night. Over larch field.’

‘Well, bye bye, lads,’ said the guvnor. ‘We’ll call on you again.’

‘I hope so,’ said Willoughby. ‘I’ll dream of that.’

‘What a pleasant boy,’ said the guvnor as they disappeared through the trees.

‘Reckon he’s a man, sir,’ I replied. ‘Twenty-five year at least.’

‘Well, I like him.’ He sighed, patted his belly, and looked around the camp. It was only then I spotted the crows, three of them, standing by a bush on the other side of the stream. They were pecking away at something hidden in the leaves. A bad feeling came over me. As I approached, the birds hopped away, watching me with their dead, black eyes. One had a string of flesh hanging out of its mouth. It was only when I stepped over the fallen tree I saw what they’d been picking at: it was Mrs Gillie’s cat, its innards pulled and scraped from its shell.

‘Look, William,’ I said, pointing.

Its skull was beaten to a pulp.