The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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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.
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 hands shook as he reached for the laudanum on the side table.
‘We need to get another payment, sir,’ I said.
He nodded and took a sip. He burped.
‘William, please control yourself,’ whispered Ettie.
He nodded again, took another sip, shut his eyes. I bit my lip, trying to prevent the smile as was forcing itself on me. I’d often seen him like this after a night in the Hog, where most times he’d end up in the arms of Betts, the woman who worked the punters there in the back room. Betts had offered him comfort since Isabel left. Though he suffered for it next day, I knew it to be a good thing for him. He was a man as sometimes needed to hurt himself a little to stay balanced.
‘Are you off to the mission today, Ettie?’ I asked, giving the guvnor time to settle himself.
She nodded, pushing a finger under her scarf to give her neck a bit of a scratch. Ettie spent half the week working for a mission that visited the slums and provided refuge to young women who’d been forced to work the streets by their menfolk. They had a campaign against the three most notorious slum landlords too, the ones who supplied only a couple of privvies for three hundred or more people and were happy to let open sewers run through the middle of their courts. Thomas Orme Smith, Samuel Chance and Dr Bruce Kennard were they, with Orme Smith owning the worst slum of all, a dark and diseased warren named Cutlers Court. The mission sent letters to the papers and held vigils outside their houses, embarrassing them before their neighbours. It caused a lot of bad feeling, and there were many in London hated that mission and the women associated with it.
‘We’ve two new girls in,’ she said, sitting forward. As the guvnor reached for the laudanum again, she snatched it from the table. ‘Last night we had bricks through the refuge windows again. Some people in this city are unforgiveable, Norman. As if those women haven’t had it hard enough already.’
Her eyes were bitter and it made me sorry. It was my city, from my first breath through all the good and bad things that ever happened to me. London was part of me, and I felt shame for what it could do to people
She breathed in deep and made herself smile.
‘You know I’ve known you for over six months and never met your wife, Norman? We thought you might visit over Christmas.’
‘She’s been away,’ I said, feeling my voice change.
‘Where?’
‘It’s been . . .’ I started to say, but then a terrible weariness came over me and I couldn’t go on. I’d