Читать книгу The Murder Pit - Mick Finlay, Mick Finlay - Страница 12

Chapter Four

When we went for coffee the next afternoon, Ma Willows handed us a wire. It was from Rosanna Ockwell, saying that Birdie was back and that they’d call on us the next day at four. The guvnor clapped me on the back, collected the newspapers from the counter, and sat heavily on a bench by the window.

‘Some of that seed cake, Barnett!’ he called over, flicking through the Pall Mall Gazette. ‘Big slice, Rena, if you don’t mind,’ he added.

Rena Willows rolled her eyes at me. Her coffee shop wasn’t the finest place, but we’d done a lot of our business there over the years and Rena never interfered. I wondered sometimes if she had a fancy for the guvnor, unlikely as that seemed with his head like a huge turnip and that belly as stretched like a great pudding right down between his legs when he sat.

He ate the cake down quick, as if he hadn’t eaten for days though I knew from my own eyes that he’d wolfed a great plate of oysters not two hours before. He blew on his mug of coffee and wiped the crumbs from the newspaper.

‘D’you reckon they’ll bring Birdie?’ I asked him.

‘They’re living on their uppers by the look of that farm. If they think there’s an inheritance, they’ll bring her.’

‘Why did you act so short with them yesterday?’

‘They didn’t strike me as people who’d be affected by kindness, Barnett. People like that are impressed by authority. When they decided I was a lawyer, it seemed a good idea to try and confirm their expectations, and better to do that by my manner rather than by telling them falsities. Birdie was in that house, I knew it as soon as Walter told us she was at her parents. It couldn’t have been a mistake: she hasn’t seen her parents since the wedding and he’d certainly know that. The man just doesn’t think quickly enough to lie well.’ He gurgled as he sipped his coffee, then without warning sneezed over my hand. ‘But why won’t they let us talk to her? That’s the question.’

‘Maybe Walter’s hurt her and they don’t want anyone to see it,’ I said, wiping myself off on my britches.

‘Well, with luck we’ll have a look at her tomorrow. We must get the Barclays here at the same time; we may just close the case. Not even Holmes could have done it faster. I had a note from Crapes this morning by the way: he might have some work for us. Just as well, as we’ll not be earning much from this one.’

Crapes was a lawyer who sometimes put work our way. It usually meant keeping a watch on a husband or wife for a few days and trying to catch them in an affair. We didn’t much like those cases: what the guvnor really wanted was something as would earn him a reputation, as would get his name in the papers like that other great detective in the city.

He turned back to the paper spread out on the table before us.

‘Did you hear about this lunacy case in Clapham?’ he asked after a while. ‘The woman didn’t believe in marriage. She wanted to live with her lover, so the family had her committed to the Priory. They found a doctor to diagnose her with monomania.’ He looked up at me. ‘Caused by – listen, Barnett, I’m talking to you – caused by attending political meetings while menstruating. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’

I shook my head.

‘No, because the fool doctor’s just made the diagnosis up,’ he said, turning the page violently. Immediately his brow dropped and a groan came from his throat. I looked down to see what irked him:

LORD SALTIRE FOUND SAFE. SHERLOCK HOLMES SOLVES MYSTERY. ‘BEST DETECTIVE THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN,’ SAYS DUKE OF HOLDERNESSE.

The whole column was given to the story. The guvnor breathed heavy as he read it, shaking his head in despair.

‘What’s he done now?’ I asked.

‘Earned himself six thousand pounds, Barnett,’ he said, flinging the paper across the coffee shop. His lip quivered like he was weeping inside. His voice dropped to a whisper.

‘For two days’ work.’

We were back at Willows’ the next afternoon. It was already getting dark, and a cold rain had been falling all day. The Barclays were inside, wrapped in their coats and hats like they were sat on an omnibus. Mr Barclay was nervy, his pink face pinker from being out in the freezing wind, while Mrs Barclay sat calm and noble, her chin high, looking over the other punters. The guvnor, afraid that Birdie might do a runner when she saw her parents, moved them to a little table at the back of the shop, behind a bunch of cabbies having a break from the cruel streets.

‘This is your chance to see how she is,’ he said. ‘Be gentle and don’t do anything that might anger Walter. Don’t accuse him. And don’t make your daughter feel guilty.’

‘Of course not,’ said Mr Barclay. His eyes darted here and there; his leg jiggled, making the table shudder.

‘Barnett, go and wait outside. Let them enter first. If they turn back when they see Mr and Mrs Barclay you must block the door until I’ve a chance to persuade them.’ He turned back to our employers. ‘Then it’ll be up to you.’

I went and stood on the street, my hands jammed in my pockets against the cold, my cap collecting the fine rain. Three empty hansoms were parked by the kerb, their melancholy horses standing silently. Two young girls out on the monkey wandered past, their hands out to everyone they passed. On the other side, a crumpet man marched along with a tray on his head, clanging his bell and wailing, but he surely knew that nobody eats crumpets in the rain.

It wasn’t long before I saw Rosanna Ockwell striding down Blackfriars Road towards me. She was wrapped in a thick brown coat, a scarf, a plain black bonnet tied under her chin.

‘Mr Barnett,’ she said with a brisk nod. ‘He’s inside, is he?’

‘He is.’ I opened the door for her.

She stepped into the shop, looking around the busy tables until her eyes fell on the Barclays.

‘What’s this?’ she asked sharply, turning back to me. ‘Why are they here?’

‘It concerns them, ma’am,’ I answered, blocking the door.

She glared at me, anger in her keen eyes. There was something uncanny about those eyes: when she laid them on you it was as if she could see your every weakness, every bad thing you’d done.

‘Is Birdie with you, Miss Ockwell?’ asked the guvnor, rising from his seat.

‘Around the corner,’ she replied, turning to him. Her face was quite white except the few strong hairs about her lip. ‘She won’t come now, though. Not with these two here.’

‘But why not?’

‘She doesn’t want anything to do with them, that’s why. They never treated her right. Never wanted her.’

‘It’s a lie!’ cried Mr Barclay, leaping from the table. ‘It’s your family that’s put her up to it! You fetch her here, or there’ll be trouble, I warn you!’

The cabbies had gone quiet, turning on their benches to watch the show. Rena stopped her work and crossed her arms over her great belly.

‘Pray, have a seat, Miss Ockwell,’ said the guvnor in his softest voice. ‘Let’s talk this out.’

‘She wants rid of them.’

‘She does not!’ shrieked Mr Barclay, slapping his hand down hard on the table. ‘You’re a damned liar!’

‘Be quiet, Mr Barclay!’ barked the guvnor.

‘Birdie’s a young lady that needs someone to stand for her and I’m happy to do it, Mr Arrowood,’ said Rosanna. She spoke clear and firm. ‘I promised Birdie to keep them away and that’s what I’ll do.’

‘Oh dear, dear,’ said the guvnor. ‘But there’s some negotiation. Details and so on.’

‘I won’t allow them to talk to her. They only upset the poor girl.’

Mr Barclay jumped to his feet again.

‘Who the blazes d’you think you are telling us we can’t speak to our own daughter?’ he cried. ‘It’s you that’s poisoned her to us, madam. You and your blasted brother. Take us to her now or there’ll be trouble!’

‘Sit down, sir!’ said the guvnor. He turned back to Miss Ockwell, took her arm gently, and led her toward the counter so as the Barclays couldn’t hear.

‘Don’t fight with them,’ he said, his voice low. ‘We’ll never get this business done that way, and we do need her, Miss Ockwell. How about you go and get her, eh? I’ll control Mr Barclay.’

As he spoke, Mrs Barclay rose from the table and crossed the room. She pushed past me, opened the door to the street, and stood holding it for Miss Ockwell, her long face with its three teardrop moles sombre beneath her neat hat.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Mr Barclay. ‘We haven’t finished!’

‘We’ll wait for you here, madam,’ said the guvnor to Miss Ockwell.

Miss Ockwell turned to leave, but as she reached the door, Mrs Barclay, quite a foot taller, stepped in her way. For a moment there was confusion as Miss Ockwell tried to get past, first this way, then that. Then, just as suddenly, it was over and she’d left the shop.

‘What the blazes did you do that for, Martha?’ asked her husband.

‘You were making it worse, Dunbar.’

‘Get after her, Barnett,’ said the guvnor. ‘Make sure they come back.’

I was already out the door as he said it. Up ahead I could see the short figure of Rosanna Ockwell, marching quick towards St George’s Circus. I ran after her through the crowds. At the junction she turned down Charlotte Street. I reached the crossroads just in time to see her going into the Pear Tree Tavern, a big place near the corner.

I waited outside for a few minutes in the wet, but it wasn’t a pub I knew and I started to worry there was another way out round the back. Just as I was crossing to go inside, a hansom came out one of the side alleys, pausing to let a coster’s cart loaded with turnips pass on the road. The street there wasn’t too well-lit, and it was only when the cab began to move off that I saw the three figures inside. It was Rosanna and Walter, both staring ahead in silence. A woman sat on the far side of the cabin. Her face was turned to the other window, but I knew it had to be Birdie.

I guessed they must be going to London Bridge station, so I hopped into a passing hansom. When we arrived, I raced up the stairs and saw them ahead making their way to the platform. Walter towered over the two women; though Rosanna could only have been five two or so, Birdie was even shorter.

The train was waiting, its steam up.

‘Oi!’ I shouted, running over to them.

They turned. Birdie’s mouth hung open in her thin face; her old coat and drooping felt hat were made for a thicker woman. In real life she did look like a birdie, like a finch with a tiny, hooked beak and round, innocent eyes.

‘You chased us?’ demanded Miss Ockwell.

‘You said you were coming back, ma’am,’ I said.

‘She didn’t want to, did you, Birdie?’

Birdie looked at me curiously, her eyes deep and brown like her mother. One of her hands was bandaged round and round in a stained rag. In the other she held a grey pigeon feather. She said nothing.

‘I’m Norman, ma’am,’ I said to her. ‘I know your mother and father.’

‘Hello, Norman,’ she said, her voice low. Her mother’s gentle smile appeared on her face.

‘I like that feather,’ I said.

She held it up to show me, her smile lightening up the gloomy station. I smiled back.

‘Your parents really miss you, Birdie,’ I said. ‘They’re only round the corner. Would you like to come see them?’

‘She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want,’ said Walter, his voice flat. He wore a proper collar and tie, a dark suit, a bowler hat over his thin, blond hair. He seemed out of place in the city.

‘Maybe just for a minute, eh, Birdie?’ I asked. ‘Come and say hello.’

Birdie said nothing; still she smiled, but her eyes fell to the floor.

Ahead of us the conductor cried, ‘All aboard!’ and gave his whistle a toot.

‘Come now,’ said Rosanna, gripping her sister-in-law’s arm and marching her towards the train. She must have been pinching real tight as Birdie let out a little gasp.

‘You can get the next one, Birdie,’ I said, following along. ‘Come on, they’re waiting for you.’

‘He can’t tell you what to do, girl,’ said Walter. ‘He doesn’t own you.’

Just as they reached the train, Birdie’s boot caught on a missing cobble. She fell, crying out as her head struck the wet flagstone, but straight away she was up onto her hands and knees and reaching out for her hat. It seemed to me that the little woman was used to falling.

‘Get up!’ ordered Rosanna, taking Birdie’s arm and yanking her hard to her feet. Birdie gasped again.

‘You’re hurting her,’ I said.

‘I’m not hurting her, I’m helping her.’

Birdie’s smile was gone, her eyes full of tears. It was only then, with her hat off, that I saw the scar at the back of her head where her hair should be. It was about the size of an egg, a shocking bright red of sore, livid flesh, the hair above and below gummed with yellow pus. It seemed as a whole patch of her scalp had been torn off.

‘What happened to your hair, Birdie?’ I asked as clouds of steam rose around our feet.

‘Got it caught in the mangle,’ said Rosanna, pulling the hat from Birdie’s hand and fitting it on her head so it covered the scar. ‘Didn’t tie it up right, did you, silly girl?’

Birdie looked at me. Her eyes flicked real quick at Rosanna, then back at me.

‘It hurt, Norman,’ she said, her voice so soft and low.

‘Who did that to you?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t do it,’ said Birdie.

‘It was the mangle,’ said Rosanna. ‘Now, come. Get on the train.’

‘Your mama misses you, you know,’ I said as a couple of men in black overcoats pushed past us to the carriage door. ‘Why not just come and say hello? Just real quick.’

Birdie was opening her mouth to speak when Walter seemed to explode with rage. He smashed his fist hard against the panel of the train, a wild look in his eye.

‘Stop talking about her mama!’ he bellowed. ‘She doesn’t want to hear about them!’

He stepped forward and took hold of my coat, but he was slow and before he’d got a proper grip I swung my arm, knocking his hands away. For a moment he looked surprised, then the fury returned and he started toward me again.

‘Calm down, Walter,’ ordered his sister, getting hold of his arm and pulling him back. ‘Get on the train.’

She pushed him to the door. He did as she told him, like her touch had made him go soft. As he climbed into the carriage, his too-short britches rode up his legs, showing his dirty grey drawers tied at the ankles.

‘She doesn’t want to see them, Mr Barnett,’ said Miss Ockwell, now guiding Birdie aboard the train as well. ‘You’ve given her the chance. She’d have said if she did. Ask Mr Arrowood to send the documents and any questions to our lawyer, Mr Outhwaite, forty-two Rushey Green. We’ll see she signs.’

She climbed into the carriage and slammed the heavy door. I watched them through the window as they took their seats. The train wasn’t fitted with lights, but I could see Birdie sat between them on the bench, her hands clasped on her lap. Her mouth hung open, her eyes looking down on her knees. She seemed so alone. Walter sat by the window nearest me, his elbow rested on the ledge, his eyes shadowed by the rim of his bowler.

The conductor gave two blasts on his whistle. With a great hiss of steam and a clanking of the wheels, the train moved off. At the last moment before they were gone, Birdie looked up at me again. Now she didn’t smile: instead her brow furrowed and her lips tightened. It was the saddest look I’d ever seen.