The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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he cried with each blow. ‘Birdie! Birdie!’
The hounds became frantic, tearing and pulling at their ropes.
‘Come along, Barnett!’
I took up a stone and started beating an old tin bath as was half-filled with water, shouting Birdie’s name along with the guvnor.
We’d been whacking away for a minute or two, when suddenly the guvnor stopped.
‘Up there,’ he whispered, stepping away from the house so he could see better.
In a window above the parlour was a ghostly face. It was the same window the feather was thrown from the first time we visited.
‘Is that you, Birdie?’ called the guvnor gently.
The face moved towards the glass.
It was her. The glass was grimy and uneven, but it was her all right. She gave a quick smile, then looked behind her into the room. We could see her head, her hair covered in a dark scarf, her shoulders. Her mouth hung open. She raised her bandaged hand as if to wave, but held it there like she wanted us to see it.
‘Open the window!’ called the guvnor.
She bent her head below the ledge and came up again, fiddling with something on her lap. Then she pressed the open page of a magazine to the glass, showing us a picture.
‘What is it, Barnett?’ asked the guvnor.
‘I think it’s the Royal Pavilion. In Brighton.’
‘Open the window, Birdie!’ called the guvnor once more. ‘Talk to us!’
As he spoke, the front door opened. It was Godwin again.
‘I warned you, Arrowood,’ he said softly. In his good hand was a shotgun.
He raised the gun at us, the butt planted on his belly. He was panting, his face red: there was something unhinged in his eyes as told me he’d lost control of himself.
I stepped back, pulling Arrowood with me.
There was a roar and smoke was all around us. It caught in my throat, making me choke; my ears were ringing. As I tried to get hold of my senses, Godwin quickly turned the shotgun around and lashed out at me with the butt.
It cracked me in the side of the head, sending me staggering towards the raging dogs. I just caught myself in time, jumping back out of their reach while Godwin swung out at me again with the shotgun. This time he missed.
‘The next shot’s in your shoulder, Arrowood,’ he hissed, his eyes burning. He thrust the shotgun barrel in the guvnor’s chest. His finger was on the trigger; his shoulders jerked compulsively. ‘Leave us alone!’ he bellowed.
The boss was pale.
‘C-calm, sir,’ he stammered, pulling me back by my arm. ‘W-we’re l-leaving.’
We quickly backed away, along the side of the house, past the barn. Ockwell watched us all the way, his shotgun following our movement. When we’d turned the corner and were out of sight, we ran.
We only slowed when we reached the lane. The guvnor was short of breath, his steps quick, his ankles weak. He looked back at the farm buildings again, then stepped up on a fence to see the fields running along the road. Behind us, in the stock sheds, a ruckus of pig squealing started up. We walked on, down the hill.
‘What now?’ I asked as we reached the bottom and started back up the other side.
He clutched my arm as we climbed the slope. He was puffing hard. ‘I think we’ll pay the parson a visit. They usually know everybody’s business. Perhaps he can talk to Birdie.’
We’d just got to the brow when we heard the sound of a horse and cart behind. It was Godwin, whipping his horse, hurtling up the hill towards us.
‘Christ,’ I said.
The horse was galloping, its head tossing, its eyes bulging. The lane was banked high on either side with hedgerow: there was no way off, nowhere to hide.
‘Has he got his gun?’ asked the guvnor, moving behind me.
‘I can’t see. It’s not in his hands.’
In moments the horse and cart reached the brow and came flying toward us. We pressed ourselves against the wet thorns of the bank, trying to get out of the way. Godwin clutched the reins tight, a scarf wrapped round his mouth, a cap low over his eyes. He stared straight ahead like we weren’t there, a grimace on his face, his long jaw jutting forward like a Brixton tram. The cart passed inches from our feet.
And then he was ahead, charging towards town and disappearing around the corner.
It was almost dark when we reached the village. As we passed the pub, we spied a fellow leaning against a woman in the dark of the side alley. Night was falling and we couldn’t make them out too clear, but we heard him murmur something in her ear and she laughed in a loose, half-cut way. The guvnor stopped to have a better look. There was a shuffling as the bloke pulled her skirt up over her knees, then he started to thrust up against her. She let out a squeal, holding her bonnet to her head with one hand and gripping his shoulder with the other. He grunted; his cap jerked to the floor. His limp arm hung by his side.
I pulled the guvnor away.
‘Well, well,’ he said when we were further down the road. ‘Clubbing you must have excited him. I hazard that wasn’t his wife he was wooing.’
We walked along the side of the green, the grass silver with frost in the fading light. A gravedigger was working alone on the far side of the churchyard, swinging a pick at the frozen turf. The old bloke looked over as we walked up the path to the parsonage, tipping his cap and taking a moment to rest.
The parson opened the door with a great smile.
‘How nice of you to call,’ he said when the guvnor had introduced us. His voice was quite hoarse. ‘I’m Sprice-Hogg, parson here at St Laurence’s. I think I saw you the other day at the station.’
He invited us into the parlour, where a warm fire was smoking.
‘Now, before we talk let me have some tea brought,’ he said. ‘And a little mutton, perhaps? I was about to eat.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble,’ said the guvnor.
‘No trouble at all,’ said the parson with a smile. ‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it. From Hebrews.’
‘Ah!’ said the guvnor. ‘A favourite quote of my father’s, Reverend.’
He left us warming our hands. The room was big and gloomy, and there wasn’t enough furniture to fill it. A small writing desk, a sofa, and a high-backed chair were on one side. An old dining table was at the other. On the mantel stood a picture of Jesus Christ knocking at the door of a poor English cottage.
The parson returned with a tray of food. The maid followed, carrying a teapot and cups. She was a solid young woman, very broad in the shoulders and thin in the ankles, with just a little curve to her back that wasn’t going to get any better as she got older.
The meat was fatty and a little past its best, but I was feeling weak from the cold and it was good to get it down. As we ate, the parson talked about the renovation of his church, the organ fund, the history of his bell. His face held a kindly look, and on his nose were little round spectacles. His thick, white hair was golden in the gas light, the edge of his moustache wet from the teacup.
‘That was very tasty,’ said the guvnor, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He sipped his tea and held down a burp. ‘Are you married, Reverend?’
‘Oh, no, no,’ laughed the parson, picking up a decanter of port from the desk