The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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‘Best coat I ever had. Bought it in Newmarket when autumn turned and wore it ever since. I’ll be buried in it too, if undertakers don’t filch it off my carcass.’ Her voice fell. ‘Listen, my lover. I left a note in the caravan if I happen to be alone when I go, and that may be any day now at this awful age I am. About the horse and the caravan and whatnot. A will. Willoughby knows up there on the farm, but you seem an honest man, Mr Arrowood, so if I croak when you’re still around, sir, just remember. In the black jar. I’d be obliged. I aim to still be breathing come spring when my sons come for me, but at my age I got to think about it.’
The guvnor nodded. ‘Of course, Mrs Gillie, though I’m sure it won’t be necessary. Tell me, have you heard anything about Birdie, ma’am? About how she’s treated?’
She shook her head.
‘Who could we talk to?’
‘You could try Willoughby I suppose,’ she said. ‘Willoughby Krott, one of their workers. Maybe he can tell you. Wears a bowler with no brim.’
‘How many workers do they have up there?’
‘Just Willoughby and Digger, but he don’t talk. And there was Tracey used to work there up till a few month ago.’
‘Where can we find this Tracey?’ he asked.
‘You won’t find him. He’s gone. I hope he’s somewhere better, is all. Ockwells work them too hard, they do. Work them to death up there.’
‘Does Willoughby live on the farm?’
‘In the barn. The two of them come see me. I give them a bit of soup when I can. Always hungry, those lads.’
‘Can you ask him to meet us?’
She looked hard at the guvnor, then picked up her cat and gave it a good old stroke.
‘Please, Mrs Gillie. We must find out if Birdie’s safe, and we’ve nobody else to talk to. Godwin threatened to shoot us if he saw us on the farm again.’
She shut her eyes and finished her tea.
‘Come at noon tomorrow,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll do my best. Only promise me you won’t ask Willoughby where he come from before the farm. He don’t like it and I won’t see him upset.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘His people put him away in Caterham asylum. Gets quite beside hisself just to think about it.’ She tapped her chest, her bright eyes a little moist. ‘You treat him good. Got a special place for him in here, see.’
The guvnor nodded and got up from his stool. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gillie.’
‘And you’ll look into those three dead children? Promise me that, lover.’
‘I promise,’ said the guvnor solemnly.
As we started off down the path, she said, ‘You ain’t really married, are you, Mr Arrowood?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Where’s she staying then? Not with you, I don’t think.’
The guvnor turned. His voice was low.
‘She’s staying with friends a little while. Goodbye, madam.’
‘Best get a move on, sir,’ I said, taking his arm and pulling him on, fearing what was going to come next.
‘And where’s your wife, then, Mr Barnett?’ called Mrs Gillie after us.
That old tinker must have had some magic about her, for I found myself stopped still, my feet stuck to the ground. Big as I was, I felt a hot tear under my eye. I shook my head, knowing the time had come.
‘She’s dead,’ I said, my throat clamping up.
‘Ah, sorry, darling.’
The guvnor was stood there on the path, staring at me, his mouth hanging open.
I turned to walk away.
‘Norman,’ he said, taking my arm.
I nodded, pulling away from him, walking on. He took my arm again to stop me. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Summer.’
‘Summer? The Cream case?’
‘Before that. She went up to Derby to see her sister. Just went for a visit, to see the nippers. She had some presents for them.’
My throat clenched up. I coughed, feeling my ears ringing. He rubbed my back. A gust of icy wind raced through the copse.
‘She loved those children, didn’t she?’ he said at last.
I nodded, staring at the wet, grey leaves on the floor.
‘Caught the fever and that was it. Took her in two days.’
‘Oh, Norman.’
‘I didn’t even know she was sick.’
He breathed heavy.
‘And that was it.’ I took a deep breath to steady my shaking body. When I spoke again my voice was broken. ‘I never saw her again. Never even said goodbye.’
‘You should have told me,’ he said after some time.
‘I . . . couldn’t.’
I couldn’t. I didn’t want his comfort. I didn’t want him or Ettie to make it easier. I wanted to suffer. I needed to suffer. I shook my head, and finally, standing there in the damp, cold trees, the rest of it came out too, our room, the silhouettes on the wall, the blankets like sheets of ice, and all her things around me damp and spidery. I told him about her smell, her sense that sometimes I was sure was watching me as I shivered in the dust and the draughts and then I wasn’t sure, and then I was, and how I woke one morning to find my torn sock darned as I’d slept. I told him how I couldn’t bring myself to talk to anyone but her brother Sidney, how I couldn’t hardly even say it out loud to myself because when I did it was like losing another piece of her. It all came out in a rush and a tumble, all those months it was buried inside me, like a hot dam busting. And when it was all gone, I fell silent and empty. Then, in the freezing dusk, the crows began to caw in the trees all around us, the noise getting louder and louder, like they were jabbing me, clawing me, biting me. I turned and hurried out of that copse, feeling his hand upon my back and all my thoughts drowning in the evil mess of the screaming crows.
‘I’m so sorry, Norman,’ he said as we climbed the hill back to the village. ‘We thought she’d left you. Oh my poor, dear friend. I knew there was something changed about you. I just never thought it was this.’
The cold had crept into my blood. Darkness was falling.
As we gained the almshouses, a young copper of eighteen or so came up to us. He wore a dented helmet and a badly shaped overcoat, long in the sleeve and frayed, like he’d been given it from an older copper who’d worn it all his life.
‘Excuse me, sirs,’ he said, his voice unsure. ‘Sergeant Root says you’re to come to the station for a word.’
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched up the road, hoping no doubt we’d follow without him having to speak again. I was glad of it: I needed something to move us on from the silence of the walk back to town.
It was a bare room, unswept, unpainted, cold enough to freeze the nose off a brass monkey. Mould speckled the ceiling; damp rose from the floorboards. Sergeant Root was sat at a desk reading a paper. He had a long, droopy face, his neck hidden by a double chin. His moustache was thick, his eyes melancholy.
‘The agents, Sarge,’ said the lad.
‘Right,’ whispered Root.
The guvnor