The Murder Pit
‘Somebody should investigate them children,’ she said at last. ‘Heard three of them joined the angels, yet only one was buried.’
‘Which children, Mrs Gillie?’ asked the guvnor.
She hung a kettle over the fire and threw on a few sticks, getting a bit of a blaze going. As she straightened up, her hand clasped on her back, her face screwed up in pain. She was taller than you’d think from her little head, six foot at least.
‘You want to buy some wooden flowers, sirs?’ she asked
‘No,’ said the guvnor. ‘Whose children are you talking about?’
She plodded over to the caravan, where a red box was fixed to the side. The flower she pulled out was painted blue and yellow and orange. She held it careful, like it’d snap at the smallest pressure. ‘Pretty, eh? Look nice in your house, I suppose. Only a shilling and cheap at the price.’
‘A shilling?’ said the guvnor. ‘It’s worth no more than a penny.’
‘Price is a shilling.’
The guvnor grunted and fished a coin from his purse. She gave him the flower. ‘Be careful with that, your Lordship. It’s very fine.’
‘How did the children die, Mrs Gillie?’ I asked.
She drew another wooden flower from the red box.
‘You like this one, Mr Barnett? A penny to you.’
‘A penny!’ cried the guvnor. ‘But I paid a shilling!’
She tutted and shook her head. Then she laughed.
It was only when I paid up and took the flower she answered the question.
‘Couldn’t say how they died, sir, but I’ll tell you something else. Only but one was baptized and only but one’s buried down in the churchyard.’
‘Whose children were they?’ asked the guvnor again.
‘I’ve said enough. Last thing an old tinker needs is trouble from a landowner, specially with me down here on my own.’
‘Where did you hear about this?’ asked the guvnor.
‘You could say a little fairy told me.’
She wandered over to the old nag and gave it a kiss on the nose. A great, wracking cough took over her body, and she had to grip the horse’s neck to keep herself upright. Her thin, sooty face turned pink; tears fell from her eyes as she choked and hacked. The guvnor held her shoulders, then, when she’d finished, hugged her to his chest. After her breathing steadied, she pushed him away.
‘Kettle’s boiled.’ She spat on the floor then ground it into the mud with her boot. ‘Set yourselves down while I make some tea.’
We watched her as she poured the hot water into an old can.
‘Ain’t married, are you, sirs?’ she asked as she held out a wooden mug for the guvnor. It was roughly carved, its outside singed and stained black, its handle broke off.
‘I certainly am,’ answered the guvnor, sneezing into his belcher.
‘Are you? Got a sense you weren’t.’
‘A sense?’ asked the guvnor, his smile a little unsure. ‘What sense?’
‘A desperate sense, if you like.’ She handed me a slimy glass jar, then pulled a few broken biscuits from her pocket and gave us each a piece. ‘You as well, Mr Barnett.’
‘Well, we are desperate, Mrs Gillie,’ said the guvnor. ‘We’re investigating a case concerning Walter Ockwell’s wife, Birdie. We’re sure she’s in some kind of trouble but we can’t get in to see her. The police refuse to help.’
‘Sergeant Root won’t do nothing against the family. It was the same when my old man was beaten over there on the road.’
‘You think that had something to do with the Ockwells?’ I asked.
‘Ain’t many use this road. Goes to the farm and then on a ways, but folk ain’t got much cause to come here. Only the Ockwells really. Most times it’s empty. Happened the day of Spring Fair. A lot of drinking goes on with the young lads at Spring Fair. Always does. Then they wander home.’
‘Are you saying it was the Ockwell boys?’ asked the guvnor.
‘All I can say is old Mr and Mrs Ockwell took Mr Gillie in and tended to him good when it happened, right up until he passed to the angels. Paid for a doctor and all. Why they did it, I couldn’t tell you. Could have been good Christian charity, could have been something else.’
‘But you suspect?’
‘All I know is nobody was never even questioned. Sergeant Root wouldn’t investigate. Said it was a tinker feud.’ She shook her head. ‘My old man never had a feud with nobody. Never in his life.’
‘That’s terrible, Mrs Gillie,’ said the guvnor. ‘But why d’you stay here with all that’s happened? Aren’t you afraid?’
She looked up into the tangle of bare branches. ‘I like to be near him. He ain’t left yet, see.’
We sat for a while drinking tea and listening to the crows move in the trees above. Her cat sat by the fire, licking its paws.
‘Can you tell us anything else about those dead children, Mrs Gillie?’ asked the guvnor, his voice soft and kind.
‘No chance, mister, not with me so old out here on my own all winter and my Tilly lame. I helped you enough already. But I tell you that farm’s a sorrowful, hateful place. Sometimes I hear those pigs screaming so bad I want to tear off my ears.’
She pushed a bit of biscuit in her mouth and softened it with a drink, wincing as the hot tea hit her devilish black tooth.
‘I’ve never seen a coat like that, Mrs Gillie,’ said the guvnor after a minute or so.
‘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.
Chapter Ten
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 offered his hand. ‘I’m Mr Arrowood, Sergeant. This is my assistant, Mr Barnett.’
The copper nodded, his eyes losing what little light they had in them. He looked the guvnor up and down, at his shoes starting to split at the knuckle, at the blue astrakhan coat rubbed bare around the buttons, at the nose blooming like cocksomb. He turned to the boy. ‘Here’s a lesson for you, lad. These fellows get paid to watch folk. Spying through windows. Hiding behind trees. Cause a lot of trouble for decent families, they do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The guvnor started to protest but Root held up his hand.
‘I’ve had complaints about you, Arrowood, poking your nose into the Ockwells’ private affairs. I know what Mr Barclay’s been saying about them, but it ain’t true. They’re a good family. Been running that farm for generations. It’s no crime if a married woman doesn’t want to see her parents. Never has been, never will be. Now, I don’t want you upsetting folk here on my patch. D’you understand?’
‘But she’s in trouble, Sergeant,’ said the guvnor. ‘The Ockwells refuse to let us talk to her. Yesterday Walter chased us off with a shotgun. He assaulted Mr Barnett.’
‘Way I heard it you refused to leave his property.’
‘Birdie was in the upper window,’ said the guvnor. ‘She was trying to signal to us.’
‘Was she now. What did she say?’
‘She didn’t speak. No doubt she was afraid of being overheard. She held a picture of Brighton Pavilion to the glass.’
The sergeant raised his eyes at the young copper who dropped his head, hiding his smirk.
‘I’m certain they’re keeping her prisoner, Sergeant,’ said the guvnor. ‘She was asking for help.’
‘Asking for help, was she? Listen, Arrowood, in my experience a lady never shows a picture of Brighton Pavilion when she needs help. Not in my experience. You know she’s weak-minded, I suppose?’
‘She has a scar on her head where the hair’s been torn out.’ The guvnor’s voice was rising. I could see he was getting up steam, so I took his arm to remind him to keep civil. ‘You know Walter’s a violent man. You must at least make sure she’s safe. It’s your duty.’
‘Don’t tell me what I must do!’ barked the copper, suddenly losing his patience. ‘Get out! And if I hear you’ve been bothering anyone again I’ll haul you in for creating a nuisance.’
‘We’ve heard of three dead children on the farm,’ said the guvnor, wrenching out of my grip. ‘D’you know about that?’
‘Three dead children? What are you talking about?’
‘Mrs Gillie said there’d been three dead children at the farm over the last few years yet only one was buried.’
‘Mrs Gillie,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head that had no join with its neck. ‘You listen to me, Arrowood. She’s a mad old fox that woman. Sits in those woods doing all knows what, spells and whatnot. Middle of the night, all on her own. Ain’t nobody hasn’t suffered something on account of that old devil. She’s just making trouble as she always does. Take my word on it, if there’d been dead children I’d know about it.’
‘But you have to investigate!’ demanded the guvnor.
‘Make sure they leave, PC Young,’ said the sergeant, stepping into the back room and shutting the door.
Later that evening we paid a visit to the Barclays to tell them what had happened on the farm.
‘We think she was trying to communicate,’ said the guvnor. ‘Does the picture mean anything to you?’
The Barclays looked at each other.
‘We did take her to Brighton once,’ said Mr Barclay. ‘Yes, we did. She must have been saying she wants to come home to us.’
‘She used to keep magazines,’ said his wife. ‘She carries things she’s attached to. Feathers as well. She was always picking them up from the street.’
The guvnor put on his thinking face and stared at the unlit fire.
‘Feathers,’ he muttered. ‘So I was right. She was trying to attract our attention that time as well.’
‘What’ll you do now?’ asked Mr Barclay.
The guvnor sighed. ‘We hope to talk to some of the labourers tomorrow, see what they know. But since the family won’t allow us to see her and Birdie never leaves the house alone, we really do need the police to help. Root won’t budge, so we need someone higher. D’you know anyone of position who could exert some influence?’
‘I’m afraid we’re not well connected, Mr Arrowood.’
‘What about Kipling’s brother?’
‘He moved away before we arrived. We never met him.’
‘Your employer, then. He’s a wealthy man, I suppose. He must know someone.’
‘I could try,’ answered Mr Barclay with a shudder. ‘Though he’s not generally a helpful man.’
When I asked for another payment, Mr Barclay gave it with no objection. We promised to report back to them in two days time.
When we reached the camp next morning there was no sign of Mrs Gillie. The caravan door stood open, the old horse watching us from its tether. It was wrapped in piles of sack, yet still it shivered and snorted and moved from leg to leg. A bucket with the mugs we drank from the day before was on its side by the fire.
The guvnor called out for the old woman, his voice rising through the bare trees. He called again. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat.
‘Quarter to noon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she’s relieving herself.’
‘D’you think she’s got second sight?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what she said about our wives?’
‘I don’t know. But she’s alone; she lost her husband. She might have just recognized the same in us somehow.’
I went over to feel the fire.
‘Stone cold. Hasn’t been lit yet today.’
He climbed the wooden stairs of the caravan and peered inside the doorway.
‘Mrs Gillie? Are you there?’
He stepped in. A moment later he turned back to me.
‘Have a look around the trees, Barnett. She might have had a fall.’
It wasn’t a big copse. Perhaps a hundred yards over to the lane, and two hundred wide from the Ockwells’ field to the neighbours. I wandered around, calling her name. The trees were bare, the ground crisp with frozen leaf: not many places she could be hiding. I ducked under some rhododendron, where I found Mrs Gillie’s privy hole. I checked behind a couple of fallen trees overgrown with ivy and poked around a bramble thicket by the neighbour’s field. Mrs Gillie was nowhere to be found.
‘Look at this,’ said the guvnor when I got back. I followed him up into the caravan. It was dark inside. The shutters on the window were closed; the door, shaded by a hood, let in little light. He pulled the blanket from the bed and held it up. Underneath was her striped coat.
The guvnor groaned as he lowered himself to his knee. He reached under the bed and drew out her soldier’s boots.
‘Gone out without her coat and boots,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘On the coldest day of the year.’
I lit the tallow candle on her table and we looked around the little wooden room. The guvnor was twitching, the way he does when he’s worried. He wrung his hands and cleared his throat; he stepped from one foot to the other.
We went back outside, where he called out again. The crows cawed in the trees above.
‘Barnett, look!’
He was pointing with his walking stick at the red box she kept her wooden flowers in. It was on its side in the leaves below the caravan, its lid hanging open. Two flowers, broken in pieces and dirty with mud, lay upon the floor.
‘Something’s happened to her,’ he said quietly.
Just then we heard someone walking through the leaves on the other side of the stream.
‘Thank the Lord,’ he exclaimed, clapping me on the arm. ‘She’s back.’
But 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.