The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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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 and pouring out three glasses. ‘The parish keeps me occupied.’
‘It seems a prosperous place,’ said the guvnor.
‘We’ve become a London suburb. The newcomers are building the big houses, but we have an older community and some areas of quite poor housing. Agricultural wages are so very low these days, I’m afraid. The farmers always complain they can’t find workers.’
‘Perhaps they should pay more, Reverend,’ I said.
‘Many farms are in debt, Mr Barnett,’ answered the parson, finishing his port quick and pouring each of us another glass. ‘So, tell me. What brings you to Catford?’
‘We’re private investigative agents,’ explained the guvnor.
‘Good heavens! Are you investigating a case here?’
The guvnor told him about the Barclays’ worries and the difficulties we’d had trying to speak to Birdie.
‘We saw her in the upper window today,’ he said, taking out his notebook and pencil. ‘She pressed a picture of Brighton Pavilion to the window. D’you have any idea what that might mean, Reverend?’
The parson shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. But the Ockwells are a good family. I can’t imagine they’re preventing her seeing her parents.’
‘You told the Barclays that Walter had a violent history,’ I said.
‘Yes. A bad story, that was. He’d been to market at Lewisham to sell some pigs and somehow lost the money. He hasn’t a full share of good sense at the best of times but he’d taken too much brandy and got himself into a rage. Set about one of the local men with a stick. The chap lost an eye. He was quite wild, they say: a few fellows had to hold him down until the police came. The constables found the money in Walter’s wagon. He was in prison for two months for that. It’s was all over the papers.’
‘How did his first wife die?’
‘She was walking up a hill behind a loaded wagon. The axle broke and the whole lot fell on her, broke her spine. She died a few days after. It’s a rather common story on the farms, I’m afraid. Even a child knows that’s something you should never do.’
‘Was Walter with her when it happened?’
‘Yes, but there was no suggestion he was responsible, except for not maintaining the wagon, of course.’ He poured us more port.
‘D’you think he’s a danger, Reverend?’
‘Not usually,’ answered the parson, standing to get his pipe from the writing desk. ‘But he can have quite a temper when he thinks someone’s making fun of him or if he’s taken a drink. He’s a strong fellow. The Ockwells had been having some financial troubles and losing that pig money would have been hard for them. The farm’s been in decline since old Mr Ockwell died. They only moved from arable to pigs in the first place because of the grain imports. Nobody expected meat would be next. Free trade and all that, Mr Arrowood. Quite a disaster. Godwin took out a loan to buy a patent for a moveable steam engine a few years ago. Thought he’d lease it out but the damn thing turned out to be quite useless. That’s when he was attacked with apoplexy – you noticed his speech?’
The guvnor nodded as he scribbled away in his notebook.
‘I don’t know how they keep going, frankly. They’ve been lucky to keep their workers.’
‘Who knows them best around here?’ asked the guvnor.
‘The family have always kept to themselves. They were packed off to boarding school when they were young, so they didn’t really get to know the local children.’
‘And Birdie? D’you think she’s happy?’
‘She’s so quiet. It’s hard to get a word out of her at church.’
‘Does she attend regularly?’
‘She didn’t attend at all for the first few months. Then she came regularly for a few weeks, but she seems to have stopped again. Rosanna always attends. She’s extremely pious, always has been, and she’s had her own disappointments, of course. Her fiancé died a month before her wedding. This was when her father was alive. Then she was all set to go to university to study medicine when Godwin got them into further debt.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s borne it all with such strength.’
There was silence as the guvnor wrote it all down. Finally he looked up: ‘And Godwin’s wife?’
‘Ah. 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