The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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of her eyes.
‘I’m Mr Arrowood,’ replied the guvnor. ‘This is my assistant, Mr Barnett. We’re here to see Birdie Ockwell.’
‘I’m her sister-in-law,’ said the woman sharply, her accent not as poor as her clothes. ‘I look after Birdie. You may talk to me about anything that concerns her. What matter is it?’
‘It’s a legal matter concerning her family, Miss Ockwell,’ answered the guvnor, lifting his document case for her to notice. ‘Something I believe she’ll be pleased to hear.’
She looked at the case for a moment, then showed us through to the parlour. It was five times bigger than the Barclays’, the furniture grand and solid, expensive in its time but now aged. The long sofa and chairs were frayed and split at the padding, the oak chest scratched and chipped. The big Persian rug was faded, eaten bare in places by moths. By the window stood the newly born man, his fingers fiddling with his bloody apron.
‘Lawyers, Walter,’ she announced. ‘Bringing some good news for Birdie.’ She turned to us. ‘This is her husband, Mr Arrowood. You can tell him, I suppose?’
She crossed the room, sat in a low chair under a lamp, and began to sew.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Walter. He had the same accent as his sister, but his voice was slow and over-loud. ‘Someone left her some money, did they?’
‘We really must speak directly to your wife, Mr Ockwell,’ said the guvnor. His tone had changed. At the door he was gentle and friendly, but now, in the house, his voice was hard as a judge handing out sentence. ‘Please summon her immediately.’
‘She’s not here,’ said Walter.
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d be more specific,’ said the guvnor. ‘I do have other things to do today. Where exactly is she?’
‘Visiting her parents, isn’t she, Rosanna?’ said Walter, looking back at his sister.
‘Oh, dear, dear.’ The guvnor tutted and shook his head. ‘We’ve come such a long way. We’ll have to go directly to the Barclays’ house, I suppose.’ He picked up his briefcase and turned to me. ‘Come, Mr Barnett. Saville Place, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘My, but this has been a waste of time.’
He marched towards the door with me behind him.
‘Wait, Mr Arrowood,’ said Miss Ockwell, getting up from her chair. She smiled, straightening her skirt. ‘It isn’t her parents she’s visiting but Polly’s. Our brother Godwin’s wife. Walter has a habit of only half-listening. Due to spending so much time with the pigs, so we like to tease him. The old woman’s poorly so it wouldn’t be right for you to visit Birdie there, but if you just tell us what it’s about we’ll make sure she knows.’
‘Please, Miss Ockwell. I’m a busy man and I’ve little patience for repeating myself. When will she be back?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Then she must come to London to see me. Send me a note with a time, either tomorrow or the day after. No later. We need to conclude the affair.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Miss Ockwell.
The guvnor gave her the address of Willows’ coffeehouse on Blackfriars Road, the place where we usually arranged our meetings.
She walked us to the hallway.
‘We’ll tell her when she returns,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘It’s about a will, did you say?’
‘As soon as possible, Miss Ockwell,’ replied the guvnor, jamming his hat on his head. ‘Good day.’
Outside, the lad was shivering. The dogs were over the other side of the yard with Edgar, one of the builders who’d welcomed us in the pub. He was feeding them something out of an old rag, stroking them as they ate. He stood up when he saw us and muttered to his brother, who was hammering at something inside the wide doors of one of the stock sheds. Skulky stopped, his red cloth tied tight over his mouth, the mallet clenched in his hand. The two of them watched us as the lad drove out the side of the yard.
We rolled along behind the long barn, then onto the rutted drive and past the main gate. When we were out of sight of the builders, the guvnor asked the lad to stop. He turned to look back at the ragged farmhouse, his face hard, his eyes screwed up against the wind. He shook his head. Alone on the top of the hill, under the heavy grey sky, that wretched farm looked like the sort of place you could arrive at and never leave.
‘Look,’ he murmured.
One of the leaded upper windows was opening. We couldn’t make out anything behind the thick, black glass, but a hand appeared, throwing something light into the breeze. The window closed. It was a long way off, but we could tell what it was by the way it rose and danced in the air, drifting and twisting before disappearing behind the barn.
It was a feather.
The guvnor turned to me and nodded.
‘She’s in there,’ he said.
When we went for coffee the next afternoon, Ma Willows handed us a wire. It was from Rosanna Ockwell, saying that Birdie was back and that they’d call on us the next day at four. The guvnor clapped me on the back, collected the newspapers from the counter, and sat heavily on a bench by the window.
‘Some of that seed cake, Barnett!’ he called over, flicking through the Pall Mall Gazette. ‘Big slice, Rena, if you don’t mind,’ he added.
Rena Willows rolled her eyes at me. Her coffee shop wasn’t the finest place, but we’d done a lot of our business there over the years and Rena never interfered. I wondered sometimes if she had a fancy for the guvnor, unlikely as that seemed with his head like a huge turnip and that belly as stretched like a great pudding right down between his legs when he sat.
He ate the cake down quick, as if he hadn’t eaten for days though I knew from my own eyes that he’d wolfed a great plate of oysters not two hours before. He blew on his mug of coffee and wiped the crumbs from the newspaper.
‘D’you reckon they’ll bring Birdie?’ I asked him.
‘They’re living on their uppers by the look of that farm. If they think there’s an inheritance, they’ll bring her.’
‘Why did you act so short with them yesterday?’
‘They didn’t strike me as people who’d be affected by kindness, Barnett. People like that are impressed by authority. When they decided I was a lawyer, it seemed a good idea to try and confirm their expectations, and better to do that by my manner rather than by telling them falsities. Birdie was in that house, I knew it as soon as Walter told us she was at her parents. It couldn’t have been a mistake: she hasn’t seen her parents since the wedding and he’d certainly know that. The man just doesn’t think quickly enough to lie well.’ He gurgled as he sipped his coffee, then without warning sneezed over my hand. ‘But why won’t they let us talk to her? That’s the question.’
‘Maybe Walter’s hurt her and they don’t want anyone to see it,’ I said, wiping myself off on my britches.
‘Well, with luck we’ll have a look at her tomorrow. We must get the Barclays here at the same time; we may just close the case. Not even Holmes could have done it faster. I had a note from Crapes this morning by the way: he might have some work for us. Just as well, as we’ll not be earning much from this one.’
Crapes was a lawyer who sometimes put work our way. It usually meant keeping a watch on a husband or wife for a few days and trying to catch them in an affair. We didn’t much like those cases: what the guvnor really wanted was something as would earn him a reputation, as would get his name in the