The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay

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СКАЧАТЬ The beautiful Polly Gotsaul. She used to attend every week, but she hasn’t been for more than a year. A nervous disorder of some kind, I’m told. Makes it difficult for her to leave the house.’ He sighed. ‘I used to so enjoy looking on her heavenly face from the pulpit.’

      ‘Do either of them come down here to the shops?’ I asked.

      ‘Rosanna does the shopping.’

      The maid pushed open the door, a tray in her hands. The draught from the hallway came in quite strong, blowing an envelope off the mantel and directly into the coal fire.

      ‘Sarah!’ cried the parson, leaping from his chair and hurrying over to the grate. Quick as a mouse he took hold of the tongs and fished the letter out, blowing down the flames. ‘You’ve done it again, you careless girl! How many times must I tell you not to put my letters there?’

      ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, her head bowed. The tray trembled in her red hands, rattling the knives.

      ‘Well, get on with it,’ he growled.

      She passed us each a plate of fruit cake. The parson poured more port, while she poured him a mug of milk from a jug.

      ‘Do you know Birdie Ockwell, Sarah?’ asked the guvnor, his mouth full.

      ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘I seen her in church but only that. My sister works up there in the dairy, sir.’

      ‘And what does she say about Birdie?’

      ‘Don’t know as she does, sir. She’s sick with the diphtheria. Hasn’t been there for two week at least.’

      ‘Could we talk to her, Sarah, d’you think?’

      ‘She ain’t well, sir. Ain’t really with us.’ She bit her lip. ‘Won’t be long, so says the doctor.’

      ‘Ah,’ said the guvnor. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. She covered her face with her hands and turned away.

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ