The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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it wasn’t Mrs Gillie who came through the trees. It was the two fellows we’d seen before up at the farm. They were dressed miserably, in greasy old smocks, patched and stitched so you almost couldn’t see what colour they were. Whatever they wore on their feet was wrapped round with rags thick with mud. The tall one wore an ancient felt hat that hadn’t any shape; the short one, the wide-faced Mongol, wore the same battered brown bowler with its rim torn off as before. His smile was full and warm.
‘Good day, sirs,’ he said, his voice all nose and little lung.
‘Good day,’ said the guvnor and me almost together.
The fellow walked straight over to the nag and stroked its neck. ‘Hello, Tilly, how’s your leg?’ he asked, gentle as a child. The horse snorted, throwing its head back. ‘Oh, you hungry girl? That it?’
The tall fellow stood watching as the Mongol felt under the axle of the caravan and pulled out a nosebag. He hooked it over the horse’s head, then rested the side of his face on the horse’s flank as it ate.
‘That’s better, Till,’ he murmured, running his hand up and down its belly. ‘That’s what you wanted.’
‘My name’s Arrowood,’ said the guvnor to the tall bloke. ‘This is Barnett.’
The bloke didn’t reply. His weather-worn face was run through with thin blue veins, his head shaved like he had nits. There was an anger in his eyes I’d seen before in drinkers spoiling for a brawl, made harder with his sharp nose and upturned eyes. His wiry beard was more dried mud than hair.
‘Digger don’t talk,’ said the Mongol, coming over to us. ‘I’m Willoughby, sir.’
‘I’m most pleased to meet you, Willoughby,’ said the guvnor. ‘And you, Digger. Is Mrs Gillie here?’
‘Back soon, I reckon.’ Willoughby’s thick tongue curled out between the black stumps that were his teeth. Then, for no reason that I could see, he added, ‘I’m happy.’
‘That’s good to hear, my friend. And you both work at Ockwell’s farm, do you?’
‘Best workers, we are. Got three horses. Count Lavender, he’s the big white shire. You got a horse, sir?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Mrs Gillie’s my friend, she is. She leave soup?’ he asked, patting his belly. ‘Got pinchy in here.’
‘No, Willoughby. The fire’s out.’
Digger made an angry noise with his throat.
‘No soup?’ said Willoughby, stooping to check the pot.
‘I don’t think so, son,’ said the guvnor.
Willoughby looked quick over his shoulder, across the stream to the field they’d come from. ‘Got to hurry. Get back to work.’
‘D’you know Mrs Birdie, Willoughby?’
‘She’s my friend, she is. I like Mrs Birdie.’
‘We like her too, Willoughby. How is she, d’you think?’
‘Happy, sir.’
‘I see.’ The guvnor reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the block of toffee, and broke off two pieces. He gave them to the men.
‘Thank you, sir!’ said Willoughby. His eyes shone in delight, his mouth wide like he was laughing. But instead of eating it, both men put the toffee in their pockets.
‘D’you think Mrs Birdie’s in any trouble?’ asked the guvnor in his gentle voice.
‘She’s happy. Pretty lady. And Dad is.’
‘D’you know why she won’t see her parents? They’re worried.’
Willoughby shook his head. ‘Won’t see her parents, no.’
‘But why? D’you know why she won’t?’
‘Not allowed in the house. Me and Digger. Miss Rosanna say.’
‘You’re not allowed in the house?’
‘Not allowed. Get mud all over, see. Mud and stink. You ain’t got a horse, sir?’
‘No, Willoughby.’
‘We got three horses. I look after them, I do. You my friend, Mr Arrowood?’
‘Yes, my dear. Listen, can you bring Mrs Birdie to meet us? It’s very important we talk to her. We’d give you a shilling if you’d do it.’
Willoughby shook his head. ‘Not allowed. She only come out for washing.’
‘Then how do you know she’s happy?’
‘She’s happy, sir,’ answered Willoughby. This time he was a little quieter, a little less smiley. He looked at me. ‘You my friend, Mr Barnett?’
‘’Course I am, mate,’ I said.
‘D’you know her, Digger?’ asked the guvnor.
Digger looked up, the anger returning to his sharp face.
‘He don’t speak,’ said Willoughby.
‘Does he understand?’
‘Understands. Don’t speak is all, sir.’
‘Well, it’s good to meet you both. So very good.’ The guvnor grasped Willoughby’s arm and squeezed it. When he made for Digger’s, the bloke stepped away.
‘Tell me, Willoughby, what do you do on the farm? What work?’
‘Yeah, work. We do.’
‘But what work? What d’you do?’
‘Do horses, feed the pigs, clear the dung. Berkshires, they are, sir. Few Large Whites. Sowing, but that’s not much. Turnip, potato. Do the, spread the dung too. Helps them grow, sir.’ Here he had to catch his breath. He couldn’t seem to talk for long before starting to pant. ‘Best workers. That’s Digger and me. And Tracey Childs. He’s gone now. Three best workers. Three brothers. Look after each other.’
‘D’you like working for the Ockwells?’ asked the guvnor.
‘Happy,’ said Willoughby. ‘Going back to my brother’s soon. Go live there. Dad do it.’
‘Your father? That’s good.’
‘No. Dad, he do it.’
‘Not your father?’
‘Mr Godwin, he’s my dad. We’re family now.’
‘Mr Godwin’s your father?’ asked the guvnor, his head tilted in confusion.
‘He died, father did. Mr Godwin’s my dad now. Dad, I call him.’
‘Ah, I see. You mean you just call him Dad.’
‘Call him.’
‘Did you grow up here in the village, Willoughby?’
‘Kennington, with John. And father. And ma.’
‘And what about Digger? Where’s he from?’
‘He don’t talk.’
‘D’you like working here, Digger?’ asked the guvnor. ‘You can nod or shake your head.’
Digger held the guvnor’s eye for a moment. His breath caught, like he was nervy. He looked away.
‘We’re best workers,’ said Willoughby, his smile broad again. ‘Dad say it. Best he’s had. We’re family now. And Mr Walter, and Miss Rosanna. They love us. Like family. D’you know my brother, Mr Arrowood? John. D’you know him?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never met your brother.’
‘I go live