The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay

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      ‘Watch the door!’ the parson barked after her. He drained another glass of port, then took a big swallow of milk. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve told her about the draught a hundred times. Some of them just won’t learn anything.’

      We sat in silence for a few moments, staring into the fire.

      ‘So, private agents,’ he said at least, recovering his cheer. ‘How exciting! Did you read how Holmes rescued the young Lord Saltire? What a genius! I suppose you study his methods, do you?’

      The guvnor took another drink before answering.

      ‘Holmes is a deductive agent,’ he said at last. ‘He relies on clues and documents: footprints, marks on the wall, shipping tables and so on. The Saltire case was solved by examing bicycle tyre tracks.’ He stopped as if remembering something. His eyes narrowed, his voice dropped. ‘Tell me, Reverend, are you familiar with the case of the naval treaty?’

      ‘Yes, quite astonishing. If not for Holmes we’d be at war this very day.’

      ‘That’s certainly a popular opinion, sir, but there’s an interesting detail in that story. Easily missed. Holmes admits that he’s helped the police on fifty-three cases, and only claimed the credit for four. That means Watson hasn’t written the other forty-nine. It seems rather a lot of cases to keep hidden away given his great appetite for publicity, don’t you think? I can’t help wondering about all those cases. Could it be that on those occasions his method failed him?’

      ‘Failed him? How?’

      ‘Holmes works by physical clues and his famous logic, but I’ve found in my work that many cases do not have clues. Instead, they have people, and people are not logical. Emotions are not logical. To solve those cases you need to get inside the person. You must understand their pain, their confusion, their desire for recognition. You must try to see how they see the world, and I’ll give you ten to one they don’t see it as you do. I’ve nothing against Holmes, Reverend, it’s just that he believes emotions are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I work differently. I’m an emotional detective. I try and solve my cases by understanding people.’

      ‘Bravo, Mr Arrowood!’ exclaimed the parson, tossing the remainder of the port down his throat. ‘I’ve some knowledge of the criminal mind in my work as a magistrate too, you know. My experience has taught me that we don’t talk enough about Hell to the criminal classes. About the woe unutterable, unimaginable, interminable. If we did, perhaps there’d be less crime in this world, don’t you think?’

      Arrowood peered at him over his eyeglasses, his open lips wet with port. He seemed to have gone blank.

      ‘Ah, but I’m on my hobby horse again,’ said the parson. ‘Please, tell me all about your work.’

      For the next half-hour the guvnor told him stories of our cases, while the parson fed us port and drank just as much himself, always following it with a clutch of his chest, a clear of his throat, a drink of milk. He seemed thrilled by it all, gasping with surprise, choking with delight. He asked question after question. The guvnor was happier than I’d seen him for a long time.

      ‘You’re a fascinating man, Mr Arrowood,’ said the parson, walking us through to the front door where two cricket bats danced in the corner. ‘I’ve had a delightful evening.’

      ‘William,’ said the guvnor. ‘Call me William.’

      ‘Good Lord! And I’m also William. Call me Bill!’

      They looked at each other with such affection it seemed they might break into a Mazurka.

      ‘May I ask you a favour, Bill?’ said the guvnor. ‘Would you have a word with Birdie about this business? Perhaps drop by at the farm?’

      ‘Of course I will, William, although I’m sure the Barclays are mistaken. Miss Rosanna would never allow Walter to prevent Birdie seeing her parents. Now, you must call in next time you’re in Catford. Here, wait. Let me lend you a book I authored on the bells of Kent and Surrey.’ He pulled a blue volume from a small pile by the front door. ‘Have you read it?’

      ‘No, I haven’t, Bill,’ said the guvnor as he inspected the cover. ‘I must have missed it somehow.’

      ‘I’d like to know what you think of it. Come for tea the next time you’re here. Any day at all. It’s been such a delight. Promise me. I’ll be offended if you don’t.’

      ‘What an excellent evening,’ said the guvnor as we walked along the new tramlines towards the station. ‘He’ll be an ally, I think. And we might need one in this place.’

      The moon was clear in the frozen sky, the trees and buildings picked out in silver and grey. Nobody was about but for three men up ahead, pulling a tarp over a wagon stood outside one of the building sites. When they noticed us, they quickly tied off the ropes, whispering to each other as they worked. There was something in the way they moved that wasn’t right – I’d seen it too many times before.

      ‘Maybe trouble, sir,’ I whispered, gripping the cosh in my pocket.

      ‘Keep walking,’ he murmured, increasing his stride.

      They stood by the wagon, watching us get near. Though their caps were pulled low over their faces, I recognized the two overgrown builders from their grizzled beards. It was Skulky and Edgar. The other fellow, shorter but thickset, wore a scarf under his bowler and over his ears. He had his arms behind his back; the outline of a cudgel jutted from the tails of his coat.

      ‘Evening, lads,’ I said.

      They didn’t reply. As we passed, the short fellow pulled the stick from behind his back. I turned quick, the cosh in my hand.

      ‘Leave it, Weavil,’ growled Edgar.

      The short bloke stepped back behind the cart.

      We walked on quickly, the men’s eyes on our backs all the way.

      ‘D’you think they meant to rob us?’ I asked when we were sure they hadn’t followed.

      ‘I hope that’s all it was,’ he said, glancing back.

      We hurried toward the station, the guvnor lurching and stumbling from the port. In his gloved hands was clasped the parson’s book on the bells of Kent and Surrey.

Chapter Eight

      The guvnor was abed when I got to Lewis’s house in the Elephant and Castle next morning. His sister Ettie went to rouse him while I waited in the parlour. There were no lamps lit and the fire was cold. Crates of the guvnor’s books and crockery were piled here and there between the stained and threadbare furniture; a bunch of old swords from Lewis’s shop was stacked against the wall.

      When the guvnor came down, his eyes were barely open. A great stink of fish and stale grog filled the room, and from his face the colour of pork fat and the sweat that speckled it I could see he’d gone to the Hog on the way home last night. I should have known he’d stop there to poison himself with cheap gin after getting such a start on with the parson. Ettie, wearing a tight frown, folded her arms over her thick jacket as she sat. He opened his mouth, to ask for tea no doubt, but seeing her eyes fire up he shut it again and looked at me. His СКАЧАТЬ