The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay

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      We climbed down from the cart, the guvnor keeping his eye on the bull terrier, who snarled and strained at its rope just ten foot from us. The yard, which would have been nothing but thick mud on a warmer day, was frozen solid, rutted and pitted and hard to walk on. A pile of dung the size of a brougham lay up against one of the stock sheds. The farmhouse itself had seven windows upstairs, six below, with a green-tiled dairy at the far end. Everything was gone to seed: the walls of the house were spattered with mud up to the eaves; the chimneys were cracked and in need of repointing; the thatch was rotted, bare in places, ragged.

      The guvnor knocked hard on the door. Nobody answered, but after we’d knocked a few more times one of the sheds wrenched open and a man stepped out. He wore a patched canvas apron that went down to his boots. Mixed with the mud that covered it were bloody smears of purple and crimson, stuck with bits of yellow fat. Behind him in the shed, a row of white pigs hung upside down from a beam, twitching and bewildered, the odd, defeated grunt falling from their lips.

      The man’s face was wet with sweat. His blond hair was thinning and combed tight over his forehead, across which was a red line where his cap would have sat. His eyebrows and eyelashes were also blond, giving him a half-born look. He walked toward us, stopping to pet the dogs on his way. They went quiet at his touch.

      ‘Morning,’ he said when he reached us. He looked at us in a strange, innocent way.

      ‘We’ve come on official business to see Birdie Ockwell, sir,’ said the guvnor, his eyes fixed on the butcher’s apron. ‘Are you her husband?’

      The man stepped in the house and shut the door.

      The guvnor was about to knock again when I stopped him.

      ‘Wait a bit, sir.’

      He pressed his ear to the door and listened. After a few minutes, it opened again. She was a small, pinched woman, her eyes keen and bright, her mouth down-turned. A silver cross hung from her neck.

      ‘Yes?’ she asked, taking us in with a quick flick of her eyes.

      ‘I’m Mr Arrowood,’ replied the guvnor. ‘This is my assistant, Mr Barnett. We’re here to see Birdie Ockwell.’

      ‘I’m her sister-in-law,’ said the woman sharply, her accent not as poor as her clothes. ‘I look after Birdie. You may talk to me about anything that concerns her. What matter is it?’

      ‘It’s a legal matter concerning her family, Miss Ockwell,’ answered the guvnor, lifting his document case for her to notice. ‘Something I believe she’ll be pleased to hear.’

      She looked at the case for a moment, then showed us through to the parlour. It was five times bigger than the Barclays’, the furniture grand and solid, expensive in its time but now aged. The long sofa and chairs were frayed and split at the padding, the oak chest scratched and chipped. The big Persian rug was faded, eaten bare in places by moths. By the window stood the newly born man, his fingers fiddling with his bloody apron.

      ‘Lawyers, Walter,’ she announced. ‘Bringing some good news for Birdie.’ She turned to us. ‘This is her husband, Mr Arrowood. You can tell him, I suppose?’

      She crossed the room, sat in a low chair under a lamp, and began to sew.

      ‘What’s it about?’ asked Walter. He had the same accent as his sister, but his voice was slow and over-loud. ‘Someone left her some money, did they?’

      ‘We really must speak directly to your wife, Mr Ockwell,’ said the guvnor. His tone had changed. At the door he was gentle and friendly, but now, in the house, his voice was hard as a judge handing out sentence. ‘Please summon her immediately.’

      ‘She’s not here,’ said Walter.

      ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d be more specific,’ said the guvnor. ‘I do have other things to do today. Where exactly is she?’

      ‘Visiting her parents, isn’t she, Rosanna?’ said Walter, looking back at his sister.

      ‘Oh, dear, dear.’ The guvnor tutted and shook his head. ‘We’ve come such a long way. We’ll have to go directly to the Barclays’ house, I suppose.’ He picked up his briefcase and turned to me. ‘Come, Mr Barnett. Saville Place, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘My, but this has been a waste of time.’

      He marched towards the door with me behind him.

      ‘Wait, Mr Arrowood,’ said Miss Ockwell, getting up from her chair. She smiled, straightening her skirt. ‘It isn’t her parents she’s visiting but Polly’s. Our brother Godwin’s wife. Walter has a habit of only half-listening. Due to spending so much time with the pigs, so we like to tease him. The old woman’s poorly so it wouldn’t be right for you to visit Birdie there, but if you just tell us what it’s about we’ll make sure she knows.’

      ‘Please, Miss Ockwell. I’m a busy man and I’ve little patience for repeating myself. When will she be back?’

      ‘Tomorrow.’

      ‘Then she must come to London to see me. Send me a note with a time, either tomorrow or the day after. No later. We need to conclude the affair.’

      ‘Of course, sir,’ said Miss Ockwell.

      The guvnor gave her the address of Willows’ coffeehouse on Blackfriars Road, the place where we usually arranged our meetings.

      She walked us to the hallway.

      ‘We’ll tell her when she returns,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘It’s about a will, did you say?’

      ‘As soon as possible, Miss Ockwell,’ replied the guvnor, jamming his hat on his head. ‘Good day.’

      Outside, the lad was shivering. The dogs were over the other side of the yard with Edgar, one of the builders who’d welcomed us in the pub. He was feeding them something out of an old rag, stroking them as they ate. He stood up when he saw us and muttered to his brother, who was hammering at something inside the wide doors of one of the stock sheds. Skulky stopped, his red cloth tied tight over his mouth, the mallet clenched in his hand. The two of them watched us as the lad drove out the side of the yard.

      We rolled along behind the long barn, then onto the rutted drive and past the main gate. When we were out of sight of the builders, the guvnor asked the lad to stop. He turned to look back at the ragged farmhouse, his face hard, his eyes screwed up against the wind. He shook his head. Alone on the top of the hill, under the heavy grey sky, that wretched farm looked like the sort of place you could arrive at and never leave.

      ‘Look,’ he murmured.

      One of the leaded upper windows was opening. We couldn’t make out anything behind the thick, black glass, but a hand appeared, throwing something light into the breeze. The window closed. It was a long way off, but we could tell what it was by the way it rose and danced in the air, drifting and twisting before disappearing behind the barn.

      It was a feather.

      The guvnor turned to me and nodded.

      ‘She’s in there,’ СКАЧАТЬ