MICK FINLAY was born in Glasgow but left when he was a child, living in Canada and then England. Before becoming an academic, he ran a market stall on Portobello Road, and has worked as a tent-hand in a travelling circus, a butcher’s boy, a hotel porter, and in various jobs in the NHS and social services. He teaches in a Psychology Department, and has published research on political violence and persuasion, verbal and non-verbal communication, and disability. He now lives in Brighton with his family.

The Murder Pit

Mick Finlay

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Mick Finlay 2018

Mick Finlay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008214777

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

Praise for Arrowood

‘Arrowood is a flawed but engaging hero and the plot spins from peril to twist and back with real panache.’

The Times

‘A fantastic creation.’

The Spectator

‘Richly inventive.’

Daily Telegraph

‘Strongly reminiscent of Robert Galbraith’s Cormoran Strike novels…a memorable detective who can stand among the best.’

Harrow Times

‘Mick Finlay’s atmospheric, detailed, singular London is a terrifying place I hope to return to again and again.’ Ross Armstrong, bestselling author of The Watcher

‘If you ever thought the Sherlock Holmes stories might benefit from being steeped in gin, caked in grime and then left unwashed for weeks…Mick Finlay’s 1895-set detective debut is for you.’

Crime Scene

‘A book with enough warmth, charm, humour, and intrigue to signal the start of an excellent new series.’ Vaseem Khan, author of The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra

‘Stunningly dark and atmospheric crime debut…Arrowood is just the opener for a thrilling and original new series.’

Lancashire Evening Post

‘Readers of historical detective fiction will enjoy this well-set, darkly humorous addition to the canon.’

Historical Novel Society

To the good people of Haslemere Avenue

and 33P. Late 80s, early 90s.

Author note

In the 1890s, the terms ‘idiot’ and ‘imbecile’ were used to refer to people we now describe as having learning, developmental or intellectual disabilities. Down’s syndrome was known as ‘Mongolism’ and people with the condition were often called ‘Mongolian Idiots’, ‘Mongoloids’ or ‘Mongols’. Although it’s uncomfortable to hear these labels nowadays, the term ‘Down’s syndrome’ only came into use in the 1960s.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Praise

Dedication

Author Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Historical Notes and Sources

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

South London, 1896

Horror sometimes arrives with a smile upon her face, and so it was with the case of Birdie Barclay. It was early New Year, the mud frozen in the streets, smuts drifting like black snow in the fog. Shuddering horses trudged past, driven on to places they didn’t want to go by sullen, red-faced men. Crossing sweepers stood by waiting for punters to drop them a coin, while old folk clutched walls and railings lest they should slip on the slick cobbles, sighing, muttering, hacking up big gobs of germs and firing them into the piles of horse dung as collected at every corner.

We hadn’t had a case for five weeks, so the letter from Mr Barclay inviting us to call that afternoon was welcome. He lived on Saville Place, a row of two-bedroom cottages under the train lines between the Lambeth Palace and Bethlem. When we reached the house we could hear a lady inside singing over a piano. I was about to knock when the guvnor touched my arm.

‘Wait, Barnett,’ he whispered.

We stood on the doorstep listening, the fog bunched thick around us. It was a song you’d often hear in the pubs near closing time, but never had I heard it sang so very fine and sad, so full of loneliness: ‘In the gloaming, oh my darling, when the lights are dim and low, and the quiet shadows falling, softly come and softly go.’ As it built to the refrain, the guvnor shut his eyes and swayed with the chords, his face like a hog at stool. Then, when the last line came, he started singing himself, flat and out of time, drowning out the lady’s mournful voice: ‘When the winds are sobbing faintly, with a gentle unknown woe, will you think of me and love me, as you did once long ago?’

I think it was the only line he knew, the line that spoke most direct to his own battered heart, and he ended in a choke and a tremble. I reached out to squeeze his fat arm. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded for me to knock.

A broad, pink-faced fellow opened the door. The first thing you noticed was his Malmsey nose, round at the end and coated in fine fur like a gooseberry; beneath it the thick moustache was black though the hair around his bald scalp was white. He greeted us in a nervy voice and led us through to the front room, where a tall woman stood next to a pianoforte. She was Spanish or Portuguese or somesuch, dressed in black from head to toe.

‘These are the detective agents, my dear,’ he said, wringing his hands in excitement. ‘Mr Arrowood, Mr Barnett, this is my wife, Mrs Barclay.’

On hearing our names a warm smile broke over her face, and I could see from the way the guvnor bowed and put his hand flat on his chest that he felt humbled by the lady: by her singing, her deep brown eyes, the kindness in her expression. She bade us sit on the couch.

The small parlour was packed out with furniture too big for it. The pianoforte was jammed between a writing desk and a glass-fronted cabinet. The couch touched the armchair. A gilded Neptune clock took up most of the mantel, its tick ringing out maddeningly loud.

‘Now,’ said the guvnor, ‘how about you tell us your difficulty and we’ll see what we can do to help?’

‘It’s our daughter, Birdie, sir,’ said Mr Barclay. ‘She was married six months ago into a farming family, but since the wedding we’ve heard nothing from her. Nothing at all. No visits, no letters, not even this Christmas last. I’ve twice tried to call for her but they wouldn’t even let me in the house! Said she’s out visiting. Well, sir, it simply cannot be true.’

‘Surely young ladies visit?’ asked the guvnor.

‘She’s not the type to visit, sir. If you knew her you’d understand that. We’ve been driven wild with worry, Mr Arrowood. It’s as if she’s disappeared.’

‘Did you have a quarrel before the wedding? It can be a very upsetting occasion.’

‘She isn’t like that,’ answered Mrs Barclay. Against her husband’s nerves she was a woman of great calm. Her long face was tan; her black hair fell loose down her back. Three small moles dripped from one eye down the side of her cheek. Noticing me watching, her humble smile returned. ‘Birdie never quarrels. She’ll do what you say even if it hurts her, that’s why we’re so concerned. She’d never cut us off. We think they must be preventing her.’

‘Very worrying,’ said the guvnor, nodding his great potato head. His side-hair was tangled and stiff; his belly strained the buttons of his shabby astrakhan coat. He took out his notebook and pen. ‘Now, tell us about her husband. Leave nothing out.’

‘Walter Ockwell’s his name,’ said Mr Barclay. His hands flitched as if it irked him to speak of his son-in-law. ‘The family own a pig farm outside Catford. We don’t trust the man. He’s odd, and not in the usual farmer way either. I can’t describe it any better. Doesn’t meet your eye. We didn’t know it before the wedding but he’s had a spell in prison for clubbing a man half to death in a fight. The parson told me when I was last there. Hit him so hard on the side of the head the eye just exploded. Shattered the cavity, you see. The eye was hanging down his cheek on a bit of string.’ Mr Barclay shuddered. ‘Well, sir! That parson might have told us before the wedding, don’t you think? And if that wasn’t enough, it turns out he’s been married before. The poor woman passed over some two years past.’

The guvnor stopped writing and gave me a look.

‘How did she die?’ he asked.

‘A wagon fell onto her, that’s what the parson says. We went to the police, but they were no help. Sergeant Root told us Birdie’d likely see us when she was good and ready. That’s why we’ve come to you, sir. It could be he’s hurt her and they don’t want us to know.’

The guvnor’s face was grim. Gone was the warm smile.

‘And you haven’t heard from her even once?’

‘It’s as if she’s disappeared. She might be dead for all we know.’

‘Who else lives on the farm, sir?’

‘There are five of them. The mother’s bed-bound. Rosanna’s the sister, she’s not married, and Godwin the brother, and his wife Polly. It was the sister wouldn’t let me in both times. I asked for Walter but he was away in the north somewhere looking at pigs. There was no welcome there for me, I can tell you. I demanded she let me in but she out and out refused. What could I do? I told her to ask Birdie to visit us on a matter of urgency but I don’t know if she even got the message. Same with our letters. Do you see, sirs? Our daughter’s become a ghost!’

‘How did she meet her husband, if I may ask?’ asked the guvnor.

‘We had an introduction from an associate at my firm. We wanted a better match but her mind was set. And also—’ Here he glanced at his wife. ‘We weren’t sure another man would have her.’

‘Dunbar!’ she cried.

‘The agents must know everything, dear.’ He turned back to us, the pressure gone from his voice. ‘Birdie suffered some damage coming into this world and never quite developed fully. She needs a lot of guidance. The doctor called it amentia. Weak-minded, in other words. Walter’s not too far off either, I’d say. We both thought that, didn’t we, dear?’

‘She’s mentally defective?’ asked the guvnor, writing in his pad.

‘She’s only mild,’ said Mrs Barclay. ‘She understands perfectly well though she’s a bit slow with her talking. You wouldn’t know from looking at her and she’s a good worker: they’ve no cause for complaint there. She’ll do just what she’s told.’

‘And what would you like us to do?’

‘We want you to bring her back home,’ replied Mr Barclay, stepping over to his wife but then changing his mind and retreating to the fire.

‘What if she doesn’t want to be brought, sir? What then?’

‘She doesn’t know her own mind, Mr Arrowood,’ said Mr Barclay. ‘She’ll believe anyone, do whatever they say. If they’ve turned her against us, we need to get her away from them. If we can get her back here we’ve a doctor who’ll swear that the marriage’s invalid due to her being mentally unsound. We can have it annulled.’

‘You want us to kidnap her, Mr Barclay?’ asked the guvnor in his sweetest voice.

‘It’s not kidnapping if it’s for the parents.’

‘I’m afraid it is, sir.’

‘At least find out if she’s safe,’ said Mrs Barclay, her voice a-quaver. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘That she’s not mistreated.’

The guvnor nodded and patted her hand. ‘We can do that, madam.’

He tapped me on the knee.

‘The price is twenty shillings a day plus expenses,’ I said. ‘Two days in advance for a case as this.’

As I spoke, the guvnor hauled himself to his feet and stepped over to inspect a picture of a sailing ship hanging by the door. Though he was tight with his money and often short of it, Arrowood never liked asking for payment. He had a high opinion of himself, and was ashamed to be the sort of gentleman who needed compensation for his services.

‘If it only takes a day we’ll repay you what we haven’t used,’ I said as Mr Barclay pulled a purse from his waistcoat and counted the coins. ‘We’re honest. No one’ll tell you any different.’

When it was done, the guvnor turned away from the picture.

‘How long have you lived here, madam?’

‘How long?’ asked Mrs Barclay, glancing at her husband.

‘Oh, a few years,’ he said, leaning his elbow on the high mantelpiece then jerking if off again as if he’d landed it on a hot plate. ‘Perhaps five.’

‘Five years,’ nodded the guvnor.

‘Yes, it’s a respectable area. Kipling’s brother lived on this street, you know.’

‘Well, well, how wonderful,’ muttered the guvnor. ‘May I ask what your profession is, sir?’

‘I’m senior clerk with an insurance agent, sir.’

‘Tasker and Sons,’ said his wife. ‘Dunbar’s been with them twenty-two years. And I’m a singing instructor.’

‘You have a delightful voice, madam,’ said the guvnor. ‘We heard you earlier.’

‘She was taught by Mrs Welden. My wife was one of her best. She’s sung with Irene Adler at the Oxford: Lord Ulverston paid her a special compliment.’

‘That was a few years ago,’ murmured Mrs Barclay, dropping her eyes. She went to the little writing desk and opened it, pulling out a bright blue peacock’s feather. ‘When you see Birdie, give her this. Tell her I love her and miss her.’

‘And tell her I’ll buy her a new dress to match it when she comes back,’ added her husband.

The guvnor nodded. ‘We’ll do our best to help you. You did the right thing calling us.’

Before leaving, they gave us a photograph of Birdie and directions to the farm. As we walked down Saville Place, a boy with two scarves wrapped around his head came towards us out of the fog.

‘Hey lad,’ asked the guvnor, pointing back at the little house. ‘D’you know where they’ve gone, the people who lived there before the Barclays?’

‘Mr Avery’s gone to Bedford, sir,’ replied the boy, his breath coming out white from his mouth, his hands clasped under his armpits for warmth. ‘You want the address? My mum’ll have it.’

‘No, thank you. And when did the Barclays move in?’

‘Maybe two month past, sir. Maybe three.’

As we turned into the Lambeth Road, I asked him how he knew.

‘All that furniture was recently bought,’ he replied. He reached inside his waistcoat, pulled out a punnet of chocolate stars and offered me one. They were warm and melting from his having stored them so close to the heat of his chest fat. He took a couple and threw them in his mouth. ‘Not a mark on any of it. When I asked Mrs Barclay how long they’d been there she didn’t seem to know what to say. I thought that very queer. And did you notice the outlines of all those missing pictures where the wallpaper had been protected from the soot? They’d have had a fire in that room for the last few months, so those pictures weren’t long removed. The only one they had was that great ship. I had a look at the wall underneath and there was no picture trace at all, Barnett. It must have been put up recently.’

‘A bit of a guess then, sir.’

He laughed.

‘It’s always a guess, Barnett. Until confirmed. Anyway, we must watch out for those two. They’re hiding something.’

I smiled to myself as we walked. Though it would irk him to hear me say it, he was sometimes more like Sherlock Holmes than he realized. He put the last chocolate star in his mouth and dropped the empty punnet on the street.

‘What d’you think of the case?’ I asked.

‘It could be nothing, but if I were the parent I’d be worried. A weak-minded young woman being prevented seeing her family. A violent husband.’ He licked his fingers and wiped them on his britches. ‘Poor Birdie might be in a lot of trouble. The problem is, I’m not sure what we can do about it.’

Chapter Two

Next morning we took the train from London Bridge. It rattled slow as an ox above the sooty terraces and warehouses of Bermondsey, then out through Deptford, New Cross and Lewisham. The further we got, the more the fog thinned until, just before Ladywell, it wasn’t there no more.

The guvnor put down his paper, opened the document case he’d brought, and pulled out the Barclays’ photograph. It was a picture of five women in summer bonnets standing in a park. Birdie was the shortest of them by some way. She stood open-mouthed between her mother and a young woman whose hand she held. She wore a drab cotton dress, her head tilting to the side as she looked at the young lady next to her. Birdie seemed lost in a pleasant dream.

‘I’m not familiar with the feeble-minded, Barnett,’ he said. He wheezed a little as he talked, his side whiskers spurling from his cheeks like woollen clouds. ‘I’m not sure I’ll know if she’s being coerced. Are they harder to read, d’you think?’

‘There was one lived below when I was growing up,’ I told him. ‘He used to get right cross with things. Don’t think he ever left his old ma.’

‘Little Albert’s the only one I know,’ he said, staring at the photograph. ‘I must say I’ve never felt I understood quite what’s going on in his head. Isabel had a soft spot for him.’

‘Did you hear from her over Christmas?’

The guvnor’s wife, Isabel, had left him a year or so ago and now lived with a lawyer in Cambridge. Recently she’d asked him to petition for a divorce, using her infidelity as grounds. He hadn’t done it.

‘She sent a card,’ he answered with a wave. ‘I think she’s beginning to see through that little swindler.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She asked when the building work would be finished.’

I nodded slowly, holding his gaze.

‘I’m reading between the lines, Barnett!’ he said, a little irritation in his voice. ‘If she’s wondering when our rooms are going to be finished it means she’s thinking about coming back to London. It was always him pushing her into it anyway.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, sir,’ I said. ‘Remember what happened last time.’

He fell silent. The train stopped between stations and we waited.

‘What did you bring that briefcase for?’ I asked him.

‘I’m going to try something. But I forgot to ask about your Christmas, Barnett. Did you enjoy it?’

I nodded. I’d spent it alone getting hammered in a pub on Bankside where nobody knew me. I couldn’t tell him that, just as I couldn’t tell him why. It had been more than six months, and still I couldn’t tell him.

‘My sister cooked a bird,’ he said. ‘Lewis doesn’t celebrate, of course, although he did eat more than his share. Ettie was off delivering sugar mice to the street children for half the day. Then Lewis was abed with cramps. What a glutton he is, and don’t ask me about my sister. Lord, how that woman can eat. And she’s the cheek to urge me to take purgatives. Ah, that reminds me.’

He reached inside his coat and held out a knitted thing to me.

‘It’s a Christmas gift, Barnett. A muffler. That thing you’re wearing’s in tatters.’

He’d never given me a gift before, and I was touched. I opened it out, a red and grey scarf of thick wool. I wrapped it around my neck.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Remember that next Christmas.’ He patted me on the knee and picked up his newspaper again. The train started to move.

‘More on the Swaffam Prior murder,’ he said. ‘They’re calling for the Police Inspector’s dismissal. Look here, a whole column on the poor chap. Damned editor doesn’t understand the nature of evidence. God forbid they ever get hold of one of our cases. And this campaign! The Sheriff of Ely, the Bishop. All sorts of do-gooders. How can they know? I mean really. They assume a fourteen-year-old boy can’t remove an old woman’s head. Tripe! A fourteen-year-old can do anything a man can do.’

He turned the page.

‘Oh Lord,’ he groaned. ‘What’s happened to this paper? That charlatan’s never out of it.’

‘Sherlock Homes again, sir?’

‘He’s been asked to investigate the disappearance of some young Lord from his school. Son of the blooming Duke of Holdernesse. Well, he’ll be right at home there.’ He read on a bit, his purple lips hanging open among the tangle of his whiskers. ‘What? No! Oh, Lord. Oh no, no.’ He was blinking convulsively, confusion writ upon his brow. ‘There’s a six-thousand-pound reward, Barnett. Six thousand pounds! I could solve five hundred cases and not earn half that amount!’

‘They’re an important family, sir,’ I said. ‘Isn’t the Duke a Knight of the Garter?’

He snorted. ‘Holmes used to be more discreet.’

‘You don’t know it was Holmes told the press.’

‘You’re right. It was no doubt Watson, trying to sell a few more books.’

There were no cabs at Catford Bridge station so we walked down past a row of almshouses towards the green. It was a frosty day, the sky low and dark over the buildings. Though it wasn’t bright, it was some relief to be out of the murky air of the city. I felt my steps grow lighter, my head clear.

Catford was an old farming village being eaten by London. There was building work going on everywhere: a tramway to Greenwich was being laid; bricklayers were putting up the walls of a bank next to the pump; foundations were being dug out for a grand new pub. Off the main street, past the small houses near the station, big villas for merchants and city workers were rising. Poorer areas were hidden here and there, in the shadows of the tram depot and the forge, where the families of farm workers lived in rickety sheds and damp basements, crammed into wretched houses with boarded windows and broken gutters.

The Plough and Harrow was just the sort of place you found outside town – a stone floor that could have done with a broom for the mud, walls panelled in dark wood, a half door that served as a counter. A glum grandma sat with a blank-faced younger fellow on the benches at one side of the fire, while three old blokes with veined cheeks and pipes in their mouths played dominoes on the other. An ancient dog with matted hair chewed a stick by their feet.

‘Any cabs around here, madam?’ the guvnor asked the landlady after we’d got a couple of pints.

‘The lad may take you in the cart if it’s local,’ she answered. She wore a cowboy hat like you see in the Buffalo Bill shows.

‘The Ockwell farm,’ said the guvnor. ‘D’you know the family, madam?’

‘Godwin’s in here often enough. Why you asking?’

‘We’ve some business with them, that’s all,’ answered the guvnor, taking a swig of his porter. He smiled at the lady. ‘I do like that hat.’

‘Why thank you, pardner.’ Her face softened; she ran her finger along the edge of the brim. ‘American fellow gave it me.’

‘Decent people, the Ockwells,’ growled one of the old men by the fire. ‘Family been here two hundred year at least, maybe more.’

‘They be straight with you long as you be straight with them,’ said another. He lifted his foot and shoved the old dog away from their table. ‘Ain’t nobody’s fools, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

The door opened and two builders, both with wild, grizzled beards, walked in. One was a big, bald fellow wearing a muddy moleskin suit with two jackets, a peaked cap topped with a knob of wool. The other was just as tall but thin, a red cloth wound around his neck, his corduroy jacket covered in rips and poorly made repairs. A shock of hair sprouted from his cap and ran into the tangle of his beard.

‘Morning, Skulky, morning, Edgar,’ said the landlady, setting out two tankards for them. Without a word, they began to drink.

‘The brothers are up Ockwell farm at the minute, fixing their well,’ she said to us. ‘Ain’t you, lads?’

‘That’s their concern, is it?’ asked the thin bloke.

‘These gentlemen was just asking about the farm, Skulky,’ she said. ‘Got some business with them.’

‘From London, are they?’ he asked.

‘South London,’ I said. ‘You know the family, do you?’

‘Perhaps you could tell him this ain’t London, Bell,’ said the bald one, scratching his beard. ‘Perhaps you could tell them folk respect each other’s privacy down here.’

The builders finished their pints and left.

Chapter Three

Five minutes later, a boy of nine or ten came in and led us out to an ancient cart. He drove us down along the green, turning off the main road onto a narrow dirt lane where the houses gave way to fields. We lurched and rocked down a hill then began to climb again. At the top we joined another lane more pitted and uneven than the last. On either side were fields of frozen mud and frosted grass. Little huts were scattered here and there, and pigs stood around everywhere like fools. A cold wind raced across the land.

‘Up there, sir,’ said the boy.

Ahead we could see the farm buildings. Two barns, a stables, some tumbledown animal sheds with rusty corrugated iron, and on the other side of them a big house. Everything looked like it needed fixing: slates were missing from the roofs, doors sat crooked, weeds grew from the guttering. A couple of old ploughs lay broken and mouldering outside the gate. Nothing about that farm looked right. And just as I took it all in, the dogs began to bark.

They guarded the main gate, straining at their ropes in a wild fury. One was a white bull terrier, all muscle and teeth, the other the biggest bull mastiff I ever saw. Its short coat was tan, its snout black. Instead of trying to get past them, the boy drove the cart around the back of a barn and in a side entrance right next to the house. When the dogs saw us appear again, they hurtled back across the yard but were brought up just short of the wagon by their ropes. It didn’t improve their temper none.

‘Mr Godwin fights them,’ said the boy. ‘Best in Surrey, they reckon.’

Just then, a couple of filthy men came through the main gate and crossed to one of the huts on the other side of the yard. Both wore coarse old clothes, smocks bulked out with what looked like sacks padded underneath them. One stared at us, his muddy face thin and severe. The other, a Mongol, waved with a great, wide smile. I waved back. He wore just the crown of a bowler hat upon his head, the rim missing. The mastiff sniffed the air, turned away from us, and tore off towards the workers. The Mongolian let out a cry, a look of horror on his face, while the thin bloke grabbed his sleeve, pulling him into the shed before the dog reached them.

We climbed down from the cart, the guvnor keeping his eye on the bull terrier, who snarled and strained at its rope just ten foot from us. The yard, which would have been nothing but thick mud on a warmer day, was frozen solid, rutted and pitted and hard to walk on. A pile of dung the size of a brougham lay up against one of the stock sheds. The farmhouse itself had seven windows upstairs, six below, with a green-tiled dairy at the far end. Everything was gone to seed: the walls of the house were spattered with mud up to the eaves; the chimneys were cracked and in need of repointing; the thatch was rotted, bare in places, ragged.

The guvnor knocked hard on the door. Nobody answered, but after we’d knocked a few more times one of the sheds wrenched open and a man stepped out. He wore a patched canvas apron that went down to his boots. Mixed with the mud that covered it were bloody smears of purple and crimson, stuck with bits of yellow fat. Behind him in the shed, a row of white pigs hung upside down from a beam, twitching and bewildered, the odd, defeated grunt falling from their lips.

The man’s face was wet with sweat. His blond hair was thinning and combed tight over his forehead, across which was a red line where his cap would have sat. His eyebrows and eyelashes were also blond, giving him a half-born look. He walked toward us, stopping to pet the dogs on his way. They went quiet at his touch.

‘Morning,’ he said when he reached us. He looked at us in a strange, innocent way.

‘We’ve come on official business to see Birdie Ockwell, sir,’ said the guvnor, his eyes fixed on the butcher’s apron. ‘Are you her husband?’

The man stepped in the house and shut the door.

The guvnor was about to knock again when I stopped him.

‘Wait a bit, sir.’

He pressed his ear to the door and listened. After a few minutes, it opened again. She was a small, pinched woman, her eyes keen and bright, her mouth down-turned. A silver cross hung from her neck.

‘Yes?’ she asked, taking us in with a quick flick 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.

Chapter Four

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 papers like that other great detective in the city.

He turned back to the paper spread out on the table before us.

‘Did you hear about this lunacy case in Clapham?’ he asked after a while. ‘The woman didn’t believe in marriage. She wanted to live with her lover, so the family had her committed to the Priory. They found a doctor to diagnose her with monomania.’ He looked up at me. ‘Caused by – listen, Barnett, I’m talking to you – caused by attending political meetings while menstruating. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’

I shook my head.

‘No, because the fool doctor’s just made the diagnosis up,’ he said, turning the page violently. Immediately his brow dropped and a groan came from his throat. I looked down to see what irked him:

LORD SALTIRE FOUND SAFE. SHERLOCK HOLMES SOLVES MYSTERY. ‘BEST DETECTIVE THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN,’ SAYS DUKE OF HOLDERNESSE.

The whole column was given to the story. The guvnor breathed heavy as he read it, shaking his head in despair.

‘What’s he done now?’ I asked.

‘Earned himself six thousand pounds, Barnett,’ he said, flinging the paper across the coffee shop. His lip quivered like he was weeping inside. His voice dropped to a whisper.

‘For two days’ work.’

We were back at Willows’ the next afternoon. It was already getting dark, and a cold rain had been falling all day. The Barclays were inside, wrapped in their coats and hats like they were sat on an omnibus. Mr Barclay was nervy, his pink face pinker from being out in the freezing wind, while Mrs Barclay sat calm and noble, her chin high, looking over the other punters. The guvnor, afraid that Birdie might do a runner when she saw her parents, moved them to a little table at the back of the shop, behind a bunch of cabbies having a break from the cruel streets.

‘This is your chance to see how she is,’ he said. ‘Be gentle and don’t do anything that might anger Walter. Don’t accuse him. And don’t make your daughter feel guilty.’

‘Of course not,’ said Mr Barclay. His eyes darted here and there; his leg jiggled, making the table shudder.

‘Barnett, go and wait outside. Let them enter first. If they turn back when they see Mr and Mrs Barclay you must block the door until I’ve a chance to persuade them.’ He turned back to our employers. ‘Then it’ll be up to you.’

I went and stood on the street, my hands jammed in my pockets against the cold, my cap collecting the fine rain. Three empty hansoms were parked by the kerb, their melancholy horses standing silently. Two young girls out on the monkey wandered past, their hands out to everyone they passed. On the other side, a crumpet man marched along with a tray on his head, clanging his bell and wailing, but he surely knew that nobody eats crumpets in the rain.

It wasn’t long before I saw Rosanna Ockwell striding down Blackfriars Road towards me. She was wrapped in a thick brown coat, a scarf, a plain black bonnet tied under her chin.

‘Mr Barnett,’ she said with a brisk nod. ‘He’s inside, is he?’

‘He is.’ I opened the door for her.

She stepped into the shop, looking around the busy tables until her eyes fell on the Barclays.

‘What’s this?’ she asked sharply, turning back to me. ‘Why are they here?’

‘It concerns them, ma’am,’ I answered, blocking the door.

She glared at me, anger in her keen eyes. There was something uncanny about those eyes: when she laid them on you it was as if she could see your every weakness, every bad thing you’d done.

‘Is Birdie with you, Miss Ockwell?’ asked the guvnor, rising from his seat.

‘Around the corner,’ she replied, turning to him. Her face was quite white except the few strong hairs about her lip. ‘She won’t come now, though. Not with these two here.’

‘But why not?’

‘She doesn’t want anything to do with them, that’s why. They never treated her right. Never wanted her.’

‘It’s a lie!’ cried Mr Barclay, leaping from the table. ‘It’s your family that’s put her up to it! You fetch her here, or there’ll be trouble, I warn you!’

The cabbies had gone quiet, turning on their benches to watch the show. Rena stopped her work and crossed her arms over her great belly.

‘Pray, have a seat, Miss Ockwell,’ said the guvnor in his softest voice. ‘Let’s talk this out.’

‘She wants rid of them.’

‘She does not!’ shrieked Mr Barclay, slapping his hand down hard on the table. ‘You’re a damned liar!’

‘Be quiet, Mr Barclay!’ barked the guvnor.

‘Birdie’s a young lady that needs someone to stand for her and I’m happy to do it, Mr Arrowood,’ said Rosanna. She spoke clear and firm. ‘I promised Birdie to keep them away and that’s what I’ll do.’

‘Oh dear, dear,’ said the guvnor. ‘But there’s some negotiation. Details and so on.’

‘I won’t allow them to talk to her. They only upset the poor girl.’

Mr Barclay jumped to his feet again.

‘Who the blazes d’you think you are telling us we can’t speak to our own daughter?’ he cried. ‘It’s you that’s poisoned her to us, madam. You and your blasted brother. Take us to her now or there’ll be trouble!’

‘Sit down, sir!’ said the guvnor. He turned back to Miss Ockwell, took her arm gently, and led her toward the counter so as the Barclays couldn’t hear.

‘Don’t fight with them,’ he said, his voice low. ‘We’ll never get this business done that way, and we do need her, Miss Ockwell. How about you go and get her, eh? I’ll control Mr Barclay.’

As he spoke, Mrs Barclay rose from the table and crossed the room. She pushed past me, opened the door to the street, and stood holding it for Miss Ockwell, her long face with its three teardrop moles sombre beneath her neat hat.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Mr Barclay. ‘We haven’t finished!’

‘We’ll wait for you here, madam,’ said the guvnor to Miss Ockwell.

Miss Ockwell turned to leave, but as she reached the door, Mrs Barclay, quite a foot taller, stepped in her way. For a moment there was confusion as Miss Ockwell tried to get past, first this way, then that. Then, just as suddenly, it was over and she’d left the shop.

‘What the blazes did you do that for, Martha?’ asked her husband.

‘You were making it worse, Dunbar.’

‘Get after her, Barnett,’ said the guvnor. ‘Make sure they come back.’

I was already out the door as he said it. Up ahead I could see the short figure of Rosanna Ockwell, marching quick towards St George’s Circus. I ran after her through the crowds. At the junction she turned down Charlotte Street. I reached the crossroads just in time to see her going into the Pear Tree Tavern, a big place near the corner.

I waited outside for a few minutes in the wet, but it wasn’t a pub I knew and I started to worry there was another way out round the back. Just as I was crossing to go inside, a hansom came out one of the side alleys, pausing to let a coster’s cart loaded with turnips pass on the road. The street there wasn’t too well-lit, and it was only when the cab began to move off that I saw the three figures inside. It was Rosanna and Walter, both staring ahead in silence. A woman sat on the far side of the cabin. Her face was turned to the other window, but I knew it had to be Birdie.

I guessed they must be going to London Bridge station, so I hopped into a passing hansom. When we arrived, I raced up the stairs and saw them ahead making their way to the platform. Walter towered over the two women; though Rosanna could only have been five two or so, Birdie was even shorter.

The train was waiting, its steam up.

‘Oi!’ I shouted, running over to them.

They turned. Birdie’s mouth hung open in her thin face; her old coat and drooping felt hat were made for a thicker woman. In real life she did look like a birdie, like a finch with a tiny, hooked beak and round, innocent eyes.

‘You chased us?’ demanded Miss Ockwell.

‘You said you were coming back, ma’am,’ I said.

‘She didn’t want to, did you, Birdie?’

Birdie looked at me curiously, her eyes deep and brown like her mother. One of her hands was bandaged round and round in a stained rag. In the other she held a grey pigeon feather. She said nothing.

‘I’m Norman, ma’am,’ I said to her. ‘I know your mother and father.’

‘Hello, Norman,’ she said, her voice low. Her mother’s gentle smile appeared on her face.

‘I like that feather,’ I said.

She held it up to show me, her smile lightening up the gloomy station. I smiled back.

‘Your parents really miss you, Birdie,’ I said. ‘They’re only round the corner. Would you like to come see them?’

‘She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want,’ said Walter, his voice flat. He wore a proper collar and tie, a dark suit, a bowler hat over his thin, blond hair. He seemed out of place in the city.

‘Maybe just for a minute, eh, Birdie?’ I asked. ‘Come and say hello.’

Birdie said nothing; still she smiled, but her eyes fell to the floor.

Ahead of us the conductor cried, ‘All aboard!’ and gave his whistle a toot.

‘Come now,’ said Rosanna, gripping her sister-in-law’s arm and marching her towards the train. She must have been pinching real tight as Birdie let out a little gasp.

‘You can get the next one, Birdie,’ I said, following along. ‘Come on, they’re waiting for you.’

‘He can’t tell you what to do, girl,’ said Walter. ‘He doesn’t own you.’

Just as they reached the train, Birdie’s boot caught on a missing cobble. She fell, crying out as her head struck the wet flagstone, but straight away she was up onto her hands and knees and reaching out for her hat. It seemed to me that the little woman was used to falling.

‘Get up!’ ordered Rosanna, taking Birdie’s arm and yanking her hard to her feet. Birdie gasped again.

‘You’re hurting her,’ I said.

‘I’m not hurting her, I’m helping her.’

Birdie’s smile was gone, her eyes full of tears. It was only then, with her hat off, that I saw the scar at the back of her head where her hair should be. It was about the size of an egg, a shocking bright red of sore, livid flesh, the hair above and below gummed with yellow pus. It seemed as a whole patch of her scalp had been torn off.

‘What happened to your hair, Birdie?’ I asked as clouds of steam rose around our feet.

‘Got it caught in the mangle,’ said Rosanna, pulling the hat from Birdie’s hand and fitting it on her head so it covered the scar. ‘Didn’t tie it up right, did you, silly girl?’

Birdie looked at me. Her eyes flicked real quick at Rosanna, then back at me.

‘It hurt, Norman,’ she said, her voice so soft and low.

‘Who did that to you?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t do it,’ said Birdie.

‘It was the mangle,’ said Rosanna. ‘Now, come. Get on the train.’

‘Your mama misses you, you know,’ I said as a couple of men in black overcoats pushed past us to the carriage door. ‘Why not just come and say hello? Just real quick.’

Birdie was opening her mouth to speak when Walter seemed to explode with rage. He smashed his fist hard against the panel of the train, a wild look in his eye.

‘Stop talking about her mama!’ he bellowed. ‘She doesn’t want to hear about them!’

He stepped forward and took hold of my coat, but he was slow and before he’d got a proper grip I swung my arm, knocking his hands away. For a moment he looked surprised, then the fury returned and he started toward me again.

‘Calm down, Walter,’ ordered his sister, getting hold of his arm and pulling him back. ‘Get on the train.’

She pushed him to the door. He did as she told him, like her touch had made him go soft. As he climbed into the carriage, his too-short britches rode up his legs, showing his dirty grey drawers tied at the ankles.

‘She doesn’t want to see them, Mr Barnett,’ said Miss Ockwell, now guiding Birdie aboard the train as well. ‘You’ve given her the chance. She’d have said if she did. Ask Mr Arrowood to send the documents and any questions to our lawyer, Mr Outhwaite, forty-two Rushey Green. We’ll see she signs.’

She climbed into the carriage and slammed the heavy door. I watched them through the window as they took their seats. The train wasn’t fitted with lights, but I could see Birdie sat between them on the bench, her hands clasped on her lap. Her mouth hung open, her eyes looking down on her knees. She seemed so alone. Walter sat by the window nearest me, his elbow rested on the ledge, his eyes shadowed by the rim of his bowler.

The conductor gave two blasts on his whistle. With a great hiss of steam and a clanking of the wheels, the train moved off. At the last moment before they were gone, Birdie looked up at me again. Now she didn’t smile: instead her brow furrowed and her lips tightened. It was the saddest look I’d ever seen.

Chapter Five

As we walked along Blackfriars Road, the guvnor was silent. He tapped his walking stick against the kerb, humming Mrs Barclay’s sad song to himself. I kept quiet, knowing he was pondering our next step.

‘Tell me again what happened at the station,’ he said at last, shaking his head as if to loosen a tangle of thoughts inside. ‘Exactly. Every detail.’

As I went through it, he asked me about their faces and how they stood, how they looked at each other, how they spoke. I knew he’d ask, and on my way back to meet him I’d gone over the details in my mind, describing it to myself lest I’d forget. The guvnor saw people clearer than me, clearer than most people. It was why he was a good detective. He was always trying to improve himself, always reading books on the psychology of the mind and buying pamphlets and papers to follow the big cases as were going on. Lately he’d been into a book by Mr Carpenter about unconscious cerebration, as he was fond of explaining to us, but his favourite for the last couple of years was a book on emotions by Mr Darwin. He’d studied all the pictures in there, learning all the different ways emotion is displayed in the body.

‘It’s clear they control her,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘But more important is why she didn’t answer your questions when she had a chance. Perhaps she didn’t want to disagree with either of you. That would fit with what the Barclays told us about her being meek.’ He ran the tip of his walking stick along the railings next to the pavement. ‘Or she might be unsure of her own mind. It’s likely she’s not used to making decisions for herself.’

‘I wasn’t sure she understood what I was asking.’

‘Her parents said she understands everything. It’s talking she’s not clever with.’

He paused as we reached a pea soup man, his belly gurgling. Then he shook his head and walked on.

‘And Walter said, “He can’t tell you what to do,” did he? That’s interesting. He could have said, “Ignore him, Birdie.” He could have told you to leave her alone. But he chose to say it this way. It suggests he’s concerned about who has the power to tell who what to do. The Barclays say he’s rather slow. Did he strike you that way?’

‘Hard to say, sir. His voice is flat and he seems a bit clumsy. Looked like his sister had charge of him.’

‘I thought the same when we were at the farm. I wonder if he’s concerned about people telling him what to do. And he said, “He don’t own you.” Is that how he sees marriage, I wonder?’

We stepped onto the street to avoid a bent old woman carrying two great sack bundles over her shoulders. A bit of carpet was tied over her head; her filthy overcoat trailed along the greasy street. Behind her wandered a bloke sucking on the bones of a pig’s trotter.

‘Keep up!’ she croaked.

He darted after her, his black suit shining with filth under the gas lamps.

‘Walter’s temper worries me, Barnett. Was he really going to assault you?’

‘Looked like it.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that scar, either. Did Birdie confirm it was the mangle?’

‘She said, “I didn’t do it.” I don’t know if she meant she didn’t tie her hair up or that it wasn’t her fault.’

A boy turned into the street ahead of us, a tray of muffins hanging around his neck. His cap was torn and too big for him; his smock was stained.

‘Lovely muffins!’ he cried at the streams of tired folk trudging along with their carts and sacks.

‘Hello, lad,’ said the guvnor, a great smile lighting his face.

‘Mr Arrowood!’ cried the boy.

It was Neddy, the lad we used now and then when someone needed watching or messages needed taking. He was eleven or so, maybe twelve or ten, and always up for earning a bit of money: his ma liked a drink too much to bring in food regular so it was down to him to feed his two little sisters. Neddy lived on Coin Street, same as the guvnor, but we hadn’t seen much of him that winter. There’d been an arson attack on the guvnor’s building six month before, and him and his sister Ettie had been staying with his oldest friend Lewis as they waited for the builders to repair their rooms.

‘Oh, but it’s good to see you, my dear,’ said the guvnor, giving the lad’s shoulders a squeeze. ‘And how’s your family?’

‘Always hungry, sir. The more I get the more they want, far as I can see. The little one got right chesty over Christmas. Had to get the doctor in for her.’

‘Is she better?’

‘Still cries a lot, sir.’

The guvnor peered through his eyeglasses at the boy’s face. We were just between the light from two street lamps.

‘When’s the last time you had a wash?’

‘This morning,’ said Neddy, wrinkling his nose.

‘Ha!’ laughed the guvnor. ‘Here, give us a couple of muffins, you little imp.’

He took the muffins from Neddy and handed over a coin. Then he fished in his waistcoat and pulled out a shilling. ‘Take that in case you need to get the doctor in again.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Should have some work for you soon, my boy,’ he said, handing one of the muffins to me.

‘It’s rock hard,’ I said. ‘How old are these?’

‘Old enough, Mr Barnett,’ said Neddy with a smile. One of his front tooths was missing from the Fenian case; his hair fell into his eyes.

The guvnor laughed. He loved that little lad.

‘Mine’s still warm,’ he said, taking a bite. ‘You took the wrong one, Barnett. Anyway, we’ll let you know about that work, Neddy.’

‘Any time, Mr Arrowood. You let me know.’

We watched him dart after a couple of other punters.

‘So Birdie looked in low spirits in the train?’ he asked, shoving the last piece of warm muffin in his gob.

‘That’s what it looked like to me. And I felt she wanted to show me too. But I couldn’t swear by it. It was dark, and she only looked up quick.’

‘We can all recognize grief,’ he said. ‘Mr Darwin says it’s universal: raised inner eyebrows, furrowed forehead, lowered mouth corners. The Hindoos, the Malays, the ancient Greeks – all the same. If we couldn’t recognize sadness in others we couldn’t sympathize. And what would society be without sympathy, Barnett?’

‘Like London sometimes, sir.’

We reached St George’s Circus, where I was going to take a different road back to my rooms in The Borough.

‘Now, what of Mrs Barclay?’ he asked me, stopping by the church stairs. He uncapped his pipe and pushed down the tobacco with his thumb. ‘What restraint, though? Surely the greatest insult to a mother is to tell her she’s done wrong by her daughter?’ The guvnor was getting worked up now, his brow arched in excitement. ‘And then she passes that note.’

‘Who passes a note?’

‘Why Mrs Barclay. You didn’t see?’

He laughed at my surprise.

‘It was when they bumped: she slipped it into Miss Ockwell’s hand in the confusion. You didn’t see?’

‘I said I didn’t see.’

‘I thought it best not to ask her about it at the time. If she was hiding it from Mr Barclay, the chances are she’d deny it.’ He lit his pipe, his eyes a-twinkle under the gas light. ‘Meet me at London Bridge station tomorrow at half past midday, my friend. We’re going back to Catford. We’re going to help poor Birdie with whatever trouble she’s in.’

I watched him as he walked off towards the Elephant and Castle, his great behind juddering like a shire horse. I smiled to myself. The guvnor had finally got interested.

Chapter Six

Arrowood was in a cheery temper the next day when I met him at the station. I could tell he’d been up to something but he wouldn’t say what; he just tapped his finger on his hooter with a wink. I wondered if maybe he’d been seeing a woman. I hoped so. I was sure Isabel wasn’t coming back, and him holding out for her so long only caused him frustration. He never once blamed her for leaving him: he knew he’d driven her away, but now the hope she’d come back kept him going and drove him mad at the same time. He was sure the lawyer she’d taken up with in Cambridge was pushing her into it. The lawyer was younger than him, more reliable, more comfortable. The lawyer gnawed at him as bad as Sherlock Holmes himself, eating him from the inside, giving him acid in his gullet and cramps in his belly. The man was a bleeding macer, a bug hunter, a pissening hound, and the very thought of him brought on the guvnor’s gout, made him itch his arse furiously when he sweated, caused him murderous headaches after a night in the Hog.

There were no cabs at Catford Bridge and the lad at the pub was out so we had to walk to the farm. Nobody passed us on the lane, and we had to stop regular for the guvnor to catch his breath and curse his shoes. The dogs started barking before we reached the gate, but we went the way the lad had taken us, round the back of the barn and coming into the farmyard at the far side. Still they ran at us, barking and snarling, wild and angry. The guvnor flinched as the ropes brought them up just short, his hand on my sleeve, taking care to stay behind me as we approached the house.

A man we hadn’t seen before answered the door. He had a jaw like a bootscraper, his face lined and weather-beaten, his head bald under his brown cap. One arm hung limp by his side, the hand cupped in his pocket. It had to be Godwin, the other brother.

‘Afternoon,’ he said, his eyes moving from the guvnor to me and back. He spoke like a drunk, with only one side of his face moving. The dogs kept up their noise behind us.

‘I’m Mr Arrowood, this is Mr Barnett. We’ve some official business with Birdie Ockwell.’

‘I know who you are, Mr Arrowood, but Birdie won’t see you.’ Though his words were slurred he spoke correct, like his brother and sister. ‘I think my sister told you that already.’

A crashing sound came from inside the house, then, buried beneath all the barking, a woman shouted.

‘Dogs!’ cried the man. They stopped for a moment, then started up again. The man picked up a stone from a pile as lay by the door and hurled it at them. They jumped back, whining.

‘We’ve come all the way from London,’ said the guvnor. ‘It really is most important we talk to her.’

‘You’re to do it through Mr Outhwaite.’

‘We cannot do that, sir,’ said the guvnor, trying on his kindest smile. ‘We’ve no choice but to return until we see her.’

‘You don’t want to become a nuisance, old chap.’

The guvnor thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’m going to be honest with you, Mr Ockwell. We aren’t lawyers. Birdie’s parents sent us. They’re worried she hasn’t answered their letters. They wanted us to talk to her, to make sure she’s content. All we need is five minutes with her and then we’ll never come again.’

‘So there’s no inheritance?’ asked Godwin, lifting his hand to wipe away some spit from the droopy side of his mouth.

‘I’m afraid not. I said we were on legal business, that was all. Miss Ockwell assumed we were lawyers. I’m afraid I didn’t correct her.’

‘Three rail fares that cost us.’

The guvnor fished in his purse and pulled out a shilling and a sixpence. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble, sir.’

Godwin took the coins. ‘Now bugger off, and don’t come back or you’ll taste my shot.’

‘Just five minutes, Mr Ockwell. Please.’

‘Tell her parents she’s happy as a lark,’ said Godwin, and slammed shut the door.

The guvnor cursed. He looked up at the windows then around the yard, at the wretched buildings and farm rubbish strewn all over the place. At the corner of the house he spied a rusty iron rod. He hurried over to collect it, then, making sure he was out of range of the dogs, began hammering on a milk urn as stood by the door.

‘Birdie!’ he cried with each blow. ‘Birdie! Birdie!’

The hounds became frantic, tearing and pulling at their ropes.

‘Come along, Barnett!’

I took up a stone and started beating an old tin bath as was half-filled with water, shouting Birdie’s name along with the guvnor.

We’d been whacking away for a minute or two, when suddenly the guvnor stopped.

‘Up there,’ he whispered, stepping away from the house so he could see better.

In a window above the parlour was a ghostly face. It was the same window the feather was thrown from the first time we visited.

‘Is that you, Birdie?’ called the guvnor gently.

The face moved towards the glass.

It was her. The glass was grimy and uneven, but it was her all right. She gave a quick smile, then looked behind her into the room. We could see her head, her hair covered in a dark scarf, her shoulders. Her mouth hung open. She raised her bandaged hand as if to wave, but held it there like she wanted us to see it.

‘Open the window!’ called the guvnor.

She bent her head below the ledge and came up again, fiddling with something on her lap. Then she pressed the open page of a magazine to the glass, showing us a picture.

‘What is it, Barnett?’ asked the guvnor.

‘I think it’s the Royal Pavilion. In Brighton.’

‘Open the window, Birdie!’ called the guvnor once more. ‘Talk to us!’

As he spoke, the front door opened. It was Godwin again.

‘I warned you, Arrowood,’ he said softly. In his good hand was a shotgun.

He raised the gun at us, the butt planted on his belly. He was panting, his face red: there was something unhinged in his eyes as told me he’d lost control of himself.

I stepped back, pulling Arrowood with me.

There was a roar and smoke was all around us. It caught in my throat, making me choke; my ears were ringing. As I tried to get hold of my senses, Godwin quickly turned the shotgun around and lashed out at me with the butt.

It cracked me in the side of the head, sending me staggering towards the raging dogs. I just caught myself in time, jumping back out of their reach while Godwin swung out at me again with the shotgun. This time he missed.

‘The next shot’s in your shoulder, Arrowood,’ he hissed, his eyes burning. He thrust the shotgun barrel in the guvnor’s chest. His finger was on the trigger; his shoulders jerked compulsively. ‘Leave us alone!’ he bellowed.

The boss was pale.

‘C-calm, sir,’ he stammered, pulling me back by my arm. ‘W-we’re l-leaving.’

We quickly backed away, along the side of the house, past the barn. Ockwell watched us all the way, his shotgun following our movement. When we’d turned the corner and were out of sight, we ran.

We only slowed when we reached the lane. The guvnor was short of breath, his steps quick, his ankles weak. He looked back at the farm buildings again, then stepped up on a fence to see the fields running along the road. Behind us, in the stock sheds, a ruckus of pig squealing started up. We walked on, down the hill.

‘What now?’ I asked as we reached the bottom and started back up the other side.

He clutched my arm as we climbed the slope. He was puffing hard. ‘I think we’ll pay the parson a visit. They usually know everybody’s business. Perhaps he can talk to Birdie.’

We’d just got to the brow when we heard the sound of a horse and cart behind. It was Godwin, whipping his horse, hurtling up the hill towards us.

‘Christ,’ I said.

The horse was galloping, its head tossing, its eyes bulging. The lane was banked high on either side with hedgerow: there was no way off, nowhere to hide.

‘Has he got his gun?’ asked the guvnor, moving behind me.

‘I can’t see. It’s not in his hands.’

In moments the horse and cart reached the brow and came flying toward us. We pressed ourselves against the wet thorns of the bank, trying to get out of the way. Godwin clutched the reins tight, a scarf wrapped round his mouth, a cap low over his eyes. He stared straight ahead like we weren’t there, a grimace on his face, his long jaw jutting forward like a Brixton tram. The cart passed inches from our feet.

And then he was ahead, charging towards town and disappearing around the corner.

Chapter Seven

It was almost dark when we reached the village. As we passed the pub, we spied a fellow leaning against a woman in the dark of the side alley. Night was falling and we couldn’t make them out too clear, but we heard him murmur something in her ear and she laughed in a loose, half-cut way. The guvnor stopped to have a better look. There was a shuffling as the bloke pulled her skirt up over her knees, then he started to thrust up against her. She let out a squeal, holding her bonnet to her head with one hand and gripping his shoulder with the other. He grunted; his cap jerked to the floor. His limp arm hung by his side.

I pulled the guvnor away.

‘Well, well,’ he said when we were further down the road. ‘Clubbing you must have excited him. I hazard that wasn’t his wife he was wooing.’

We walked along the side of the green, the grass silver with frost in the fading light. A gravedigger was working alone on the far side of the churchyard, swinging a pick at the frozen turf. The old bloke looked over as we walked up the path to the parsonage, tipping his cap and taking a moment to rest.

The parson opened the door with a great smile.

‘How nice of you to call,’ he said when the guvnor had introduced us. His voice 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 she does, sir. She’s sick with the diphtheria. Hasn’t been there for two week at least.’

‘Could we talk to her, Sarah, d’you think?’

‘She ain’t well, sir. Ain’t really with us.’ She bit her lip. ‘Won’t be long, so says the doctor.’

‘Ah,’ said the guvnor. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. She covered her face with her hands and turned away.

‘Watch the door!’ the parson barked after her. He drained another glass of port, then took a big swallow of milk. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve told her about the draught a hundred times. Some of them just won’t learn anything.’

We sat in silence for a few moments, staring into the fire.

‘So, private agents,’ he said at least, recovering his cheer. ‘How exciting! Did you read how Holmes rescued the young Lord Saltire? What a genius! I suppose you study his methods, do you?’

The guvnor took another drink before answering.

‘Holmes is a deductive agent,’ he said at last. ‘He relies on clues and documents: footprints, marks on the wall, shipping tables and so on. The Saltire case was solved by examing bicycle tyre tracks.’ He stopped as if remembering something. His eyes narrowed, his voice dropped. ‘Tell me, Reverend, are you familiar with the case of the naval treaty?’

‘Yes, quite astonishing. If not for Holmes we’d be at war this very day.’

‘That’s certainly a popular opinion, sir, but there’s an interesting detail in that story. Easily missed. Holmes admits that he’s helped the police on fifty-three cases, and only claimed the credit for four. That means Watson hasn’t written the other forty-nine. It seems rather a lot of cases to keep hidden away given his great appetite for publicity, don’t you think? I can’t help wondering about all those cases. Could it be that on those occasions his method failed him?’

‘Failed him? How?’

‘Holmes works by physical clues and his famous logic, but I’ve found in my work that many cases do not have clues. Instead, they have people, and people are not logical. Emotions are not logical. To solve those cases you need to get inside the person. You must understand their pain, their confusion, their desire for recognition. You must try to see how they see the world, and I’ll give you ten to one they don’t see it as you do. I’ve nothing against Holmes, Reverend, it’s just that he believes emotions are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I work differently. I’m an emotional detective. I try and solve my cases by understanding people.’

‘Bravo, Mr Arrowood!’ exclaimed the parson, tossing the remainder of the port down his throat. ‘I’ve some knowledge of the criminal mind in my work as a magistrate too, you know. My experience has taught me that we don’t talk enough about Hell to the criminal classes. About the woe unutterable, unimaginable, interminable. If we did, perhaps there’d be less crime in this world, don’t you think?’

Arrowood peered at him over his eyeglasses, his open lips wet with port. He seemed to have gone blank.

‘Ah, but I’m on my hobby horse again,’ said the parson. ‘Please, tell me all about your work.’

For the next half-hour the guvnor told him stories of our cases, while the parson fed us port and drank just as much himself, always following it with a clutch of his chest, a clear of his throat, a drink of milk. He seemed thrilled by it all, gasping with surprise, choking with delight. He asked question after question. The guvnor was happier than I’d seen him for a long time.

‘You’re a fascinating man, Mr Arrowood,’ said the parson, walking us through to the front door where two cricket bats danced in the corner. ‘I’ve had a delightful evening.’

‘William,’ said the guvnor. ‘Call me William.’

‘Good Lord! And I’m also William. Call me Bill!’

They looked at each other with such affection it seemed they might break into a Mazurka.

‘May I ask you a favour, Bill?’ said the guvnor. ‘Would you have a word with Birdie about this business? Perhaps drop by at the farm?’

‘Of course I will, William, although I’m sure the Barclays are mistaken. Miss Rosanna would never allow Walter to prevent Birdie seeing her parents. Now, you must call in next time you’re in Catford. Here, wait. Let me lend you a book I authored on the bells of Kent and Surrey.’ He pulled a blue volume from a small pile by the front door. ‘Have you read it?’

‘No, I haven’t, Bill,’ said the guvnor as he inspected the cover. ‘I must have missed it somehow.’

‘I’d like to know what you think of it. Come for tea the next time you’re here. Any day at all. It’s been such a delight. Promise me. I’ll be offended if you don’t.’

‘What an excellent evening,’ said the guvnor as we walked along the new tramlines towards the station. ‘He’ll be an ally, I think. And we might need one in this place.’

The moon was clear in the frozen sky, the trees and buildings picked out in silver and grey. Nobody was about but for three men up ahead, pulling a tarp over a wagon stood outside one of the building sites. When they noticed us, they quickly tied off the ropes, whispering to each other as they worked. There was something in the way they moved that wasn’t right – I’d seen it too many times before.

‘Maybe trouble, sir,’ I whispered, gripping the cosh in my pocket.

‘Keep walking,’ he murmured, increasing his stride.

They stood by the wagon, watching us get near. Though their caps were pulled low over their faces, I recognized the two overgrown builders from their grizzled beards. It was Skulky and Edgar. The other fellow, shorter but thickset, wore a scarf under his bowler and over his ears. He had his arms behind his back; the outline of a cudgel jutted from the tails of his coat.

‘Evening, lads,’ I said.

They didn’t reply. As we passed, the short fellow pulled the stick from behind his back. I turned quick, the cosh in my hand.

‘Leave it, Weavil,’ growled Edgar.

The short bloke stepped back behind the cart.

We walked on quickly, the men’s eyes on our backs all the way.

‘D’you think they meant to rob us?’ I asked when we were sure they hadn’t followed.

‘I hope that’s all it was,’ he said, glancing back.

We hurried toward the station, the guvnor lurching and stumbling from the port. In his gloved hands was clasped the parson’s book on the bells of Kent and Surrey.

Chapter Eight

The guvnor was abed when I got to Lewis’s house in the Elephant and Castle next morning. His sister Ettie went to rouse him while I waited in the parlour. There were no lamps lit and the fire was cold. Crates of the guvnor’s books and crockery were piled here and there between the stained and threadbare furniture; a bunch of old swords from Lewis’s shop was stacked against the wall.

When the guvnor came down, his eyes were barely open. A great stink of fish and stale grog filled the room, and from his face the colour of pork fat and the sweat that speckled it I could see he’d gone to the Hog on the way home last night. I should have known he’d stop there to poison himself with cheap gin after getting such a start on with the parson. Ettie, wearing a tight frown, folded her arms over her thick jacket as she sat. He opened his mouth, to ask for tea no doubt, but seeing her eyes fire up he shut it again and looked at me. His hands shook as he reached for the laudanum on the side table.

‘We need to get another payment, sir,’ I said.

He nodded and took a sip. He burped.

‘William, please control yourself,’ whispered Ettie.

He nodded again, took another sip, shut his eyes. I bit my lip, trying to prevent the smile as was forcing itself on me. I’d often seen him like this after a night in the Hog, where most times he’d end up in the arms of Betts, the woman who worked the punters there in the back room. Betts had offered him comfort since Isabel left. Though he suffered for it next day, I knew it to be a good thing for him. He was a man as sometimes needed to hurt himself a little to stay balanced.

‘Are you off to the mission today, Ettie?’ I asked, giving the guvnor time to settle himself.

She nodded, pushing a finger under her scarf to give her neck a bit of a scratch. Ettie spent half the week working for a mission that visited the slums and provided refuge to young women who’d been forced to work the streets by their menfolk. They had a campaign against the three most notorious slum landlords too, the ones who supplied only a couple of privvies for three hundred or more people and were happy to let open sewers run through the middle of their courts. Thomas Orme Smith, Samuel Chance and Dr Bruce Kennard were they, with Orme Smith owning the worst slum of all, a dark and diseased warren named Cutlers Court. The mission sent letters to the papers and held vigils outside their houses, embarrassing them before their neighbours. It caused a lot of bad feeling, and there were many in London hated that mission and the women associated with it.

‘We’ve two new girls in,’ she said, sitting forward. As the guvnor reached for the laudanum again, she snatched it from the table. ‘Last night we had bricks through the refuge windows again. Some people in this city are unforgiveable, Norman. As if those women haven’t had it hard enough already.’

Her eyes were bitter and it made me sorry. It was my city, from my first breath through all the good and bad things that ever happened to me. London was part of me, and I felt shame for what it could do to people

She breathed in deep and made herself smile.

‘You know I’ve known you for over six months and never met your wife, Norman? We thought you might visit over Christmas.’

‘She’s been away,’ I said, feeling my voice change.

‘Where?’

‘It’s been…’ I started to say, but then a terrible weariness came over me and I couldn’t go on. I’d lived with the secret for so long it felt like the truth was frozen inside.

I shook my head, realizing that it wouldn’t be my decision in the end. Ettie was looking at me like she could see something of my thoughts. I turned my eyes back to the cold, grey ash in the hearth. The wind rattled the windows.

‘Did you manage to see Birdie yesterday?’ she asked after a while.

As I told her what had happened, the guvnor’s shakes began to ease and the colour came back to his face. He drank from a jug of water at his side. Again and again his cheeks inflated with a parade of silent burps.

‘It doesn’t sound as if you know any more than the Barclays told you,’ she said when I’d finished.

‘Of course we do,’ growled the guvnor. ‘Every step takes us nearer. That’s how these cases work.’

‘Does that apply to our builders, William?’ asked Ettie, suddenly vexed. ‘Are we nearer getting our rooms back each day they do no work?’

‘They’ve promised they’ll be back this time.’

‘We can’t impose on Lewis much longer. Please, William. It’s not fair.’

‘I’m doing my best!’

‘They’re playing you for a fool. Why don’t you take Norman to see them?’

‘No, Ettie!’ cried the guvnor.

‘Will you talk to them, Norman?’

‘If you want,’ I said, my voice hollow.

She heard my tone and her face fell.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘I’m happy to do it, Ettie.’

I looked away. Whenever I started to feel easy, one of them’d remind me how they really saw me. I was his rough. What else could I be with these worn-out boots, this voice thick with the Bermondsey slums? Though I only lived in that foul court for six years, it seemed I’d never escape it.

‘Norman, I’m sorry,’ she said, her face as serious as I’d ever seen it. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Really.’

She looked at me for a while, not knowing how to fix it, then went off to make some tea. The guvnor rested his head on the antimacassar and shut his eyes, working at healing himself.

Soon Ettie came back with the tray. I took a biscuit: the guvnor took four.

‘She’s asking for our help,’ he said when he’d refreshed himself. His face was sombre. ‘I’m sure of it. It kept me awake last night, seeing her up there, that picture, wondering what it means.’

‘But she didn’t actually speak?’ asked Ettie.

‘No, but I felt her sadness so clearly. Her fear. Norman felt the same when he saw her on the train. Sometimes all we have to work with are our feelings.’

‘Our feelings can lead us in the wrong direction, William, as well you know.’

‘Remember that book I was reading on crowd behaviour?’ He peered down at the pile of books by his chair and pulled out a green volume to show us. ‘Le Bon writes that emotions are contagious. I can’t say I properly understand how it works, and I’m not sure he does either, but there’s no doubt that emotions can be transmitted from one heart to another if we attend with care. Music can do it, can’t it?’

‘I suppose,’ said Ettie slowly.

A screaming started up in the road just outside the house, a child. The guvnor flinched, clutching his head. Then a woman’s scolding voice, then a man’s gruff roar joined in. They fought on and on as Lewis’s three clocks, each out of time with the others, ticked on the mantel.

‘We need to get to her, damn it!’ he cried suddenly, his fist banging down on the side table. ‘She couldn’t be more vulnerable! And that scar on her head might just be the start of a terrible journey. We have to think of something, Norman.’

‘Why don’t I go up there and try?’ asked Ettie. ‘They might react differently to a woman.’

‘No, Sister.’

‘But why not? The Ockwells aren’t going to let you in, that much is clear. The Barclays have tried the police and they won’t help. You’ve no other way to get to her.’

‘This is our work, Ettie. Walter has a history of violence. I don’t want you up there on your own. Anyway, why would you have more success than us?’

‘Women can sometimes do things that men cannot,’ she said, her chest rising in indignation. ‘What other choice have you, William? She’s asking for help. You said it yourself.’

He gazed vacantly at his sister across the room, pondering. His stomach groaned like a lonely cow. Finally he turned to me.

‘Remember those two labourers we saw the other day in the farmyard? The ones chased by the dog? Let’s see if we can find them in the fields. They might be able to tell us something. But first run down to the shop and get us a kidney pudding, will you, Barnett? And a dozen oysters.’

Chapter Nine

We happened to find a butcher’s cart on its way to the Ockwell farm as we set out from the station that afternoon. He dropped us in the dip before the lane rose to the farm entrance, out of sight of the house, and there we pushed through a hedgerow. The field to our right was full of pigs, their heads bent, guzzling a scatter of turnips on the ground. The ground was frozen hard.

We followed a path between a small woodland and a paddock, where a couple of sulky horses stood, their bodies wrapped in coal sacks. They glanced at us with a hungry look in their eyes but didn’t come over. That suited me fine: I never believed a horse was a man’s friend like some folk said. A London horse is a slave, that’s what I always thought, and if you looked deep enough into their eyes you could see how they’d like nothing more than to give you a good kick up the arse.

Now we could see the barns up the hill. We moved on to the fields on the other side, making a wide circuit around the edge of the farm. There was nobody about. A dozen scrawny cows; some winter cabbages; another pig field of hard mud and low huts. The guvnor was limping, puffing, sneezing, unhappy with so much walking. After another ten minutes we found ourselves on a small path through a copse, a field on one side, a stream on the other. The water was black and half-frozen over, the trees above bare but for a handful of rooks crying out. Soon we could see the lane ahead.

‘Damn these shoes,’ complained the guvnor, wheezing proper now. His boots had got burned in the fire at his rooms, and, being a bit tight with his money over certain things, he’d been loaning a pair of Lewis’s shoes that didn’t fit him too good. ‘I was hoping Ettie would get me a pair for Christmas. She gave me another bible.’

I broke a couple of pieces of toffee from the slab in my pocket and handed him one. His scarf was wrapped around his chin, his bowler pulled so low all I could see were his puffy eyes and running nose. For a few minutes we worked on the toffees.

‘Monogrammed,’ he said at last. ‘Just like the last one.’

‘Is Petleigh still visiting her?’ I asked.

‘He came before New Year with a plum cake. I’ve never met anyone who plays cards so badly. He’s even worse than you.’

Isaiah Petleigh was an inspector with Southwark Police. He’d helped us with a few cases over the years and caused us problems on a few others. A few months back the inspector had taken an interest in Ettie and started calling upon her.

‘What does she think of him?’

‘I don’t know, Barnett. Ettie’s Ettie. She gets on.’

‘You lost, masters?’ came a voice.

It was an old woman, sat on a fallen tree behind a big mound of ivy. Her hands were wrapped in rags, and layers of old skirts covered her legs. She wore a most fantastical coat, like a stuffed blanket, red and gold and purple and tied round the middle with a rope.

‘Don’t get many gents walking through, is all,’ she croaked, her eyes shining bright from her sooty face. Further back in the copse, next to a narrow track, was a wooden caravan, its doors open, black pots hanging from roof hooks and a tin chimney poking out the top. A nag in a ragged coat stood chewing a pile of straw. ‘You the new land agent?’

‘No, madam. I’m Mr Arrowood. This is Mr Barnett.’

‘Mrs Gillie,’ said the crone.

‘D’you know the people who own the farm over there, Mrs Gillie? The Ockwells?’

‘Been stopping here all my life, sir. Knew old Mr and Mrs Ockwell since way back. He’d be turning in his grave if he saw the place now. She can’t be too happy neither, in her bed knowing all what’s going on. Richest farm round here, it was. Place’s a ruin these days. Fields ain’t draining proper; fences held together with string. Them pigs ain’t happy neither.’

‘How d’you know the pigs aren’t happy?’ asked the guvnor.

‘Spend too long lying down. A happy pig snorts merry, like. A merry snort. Like you, I shouldn’t wonder, like you when you’ve had a skinful.’

‘I never snort, madam.’

The old tinker laughed, showing us the most awful mouth I’d ever seen. There was only one tooth you could see in there, growing up from the bottom and separating halfway up, where the two parts twisted, one behind the other, like two burnt black twigs.

‘D’you see much of the family, mum?’ I asked her.

‘Don’t have nothing to do with them, not since the old master died.’ She nodded back towards the village and sighed. ‘My Mr Gillie was beaten on the road over there a few year back. Old Mr and Mrs Ockwell took him into their house. Poor old bugger didn’t last the week.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear it,’ said the guvnor.

‘What’s your business with them?’

‘We’re private investigative agents, working on a case.’

The old woman looked at us for a time, her jaw moving like she had a bit of pork rind in her mouth she was working on. A frozen cat padded out from behind the caravan and rubbed its back against her legs. Below her skirts she wore a pair of old soldier’s boots, cracked and worn and bound round with leather cords.

‘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.

‘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 with him. Dad say. Dad knows John.’

The fellow nodded. His tongue came out of his mouth and passed over his cracked lips.

‘Willoughby, I want you to think hard now. Is there any reason Birdie’s not happy? Any reason at all?’

‘Happy,’ he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

‘Do they hurt her?’

‘Hurt her.’

‘They do?’

Willoughby fell silent. He looked up at the crows, his mouth opening and closing.

‘I’m happy,’ he said at last.

The guvnor looked at me and frowned. ‘Tell me, do they have any children up there?’

Willoughby shook his head and glanced over at the field again.

‘Got to go, sir. Get back to work.’

Digger had already turned and was crossing the stream. Willoughby followed.

‘D’you know where Mrs Gillie is, Willoughby?’

‘Seen her last night. Over larch field.’

‘Well, bye bye, lads,’ said the guvnor. ‘We’ll call on you again.’

‘I hope so,’ said Willoughby. ‘I’ll dream of that.’

‘What a pleasant boy,’ said the guvnor as they disappeared through the trees.

‘Reckon he’s a man, sir,’ I replied. ‘Twenty-five year at least.’

‘Well, I like him.’ He sighed, patted his belly, and looked around the camp. It was only then I spotted the crows, three of them, standing by a bush on the other side of the stream. They were pecking away at something hidden in the leaves. A bad feeling came over me. As I approached, the birds hopped away, watching me with their dead, black eyes. One had a string of flesh hanging out of its mouth. It was only when I stepped over the fallen tree I saw what they’d been picking at: it was Mrs Gillie’s cat, its innards pulled and scraped from its shell.

‘Look, William,’ I said, pointing.

Its skull was beaten to a pulp.

Chapter Eleven

The same young fellow was behind the desk of the police station when we arrived. He went into the back room to fetch Sergeant Root, who listened to the guvnor’s story with a frown, his dirty fingers tap-tapping on the desk.

‘She’s joined another camp,’ he said when the guvnor finished, his eyelids drooping like he was bored. ‘They don’t stay in one place long.’

‘She’s left her horse, her coat, her boots,’ answered the guvnor. ‘Her caravan door was wide open, Sergeant.’

‘They’re easy like that. I appreciate you letting us know, sir.’

Root turned back to the room.

‘Sergeant!’ said the guvnor sharply. ‘You must at least go down and have a look. She’s an old woman, for pity’s sake!’

‘Tinkers disappear, that’s what they do. And usually after they’ve emptied a house of its silverware. You know they’ve been thieving from the building sites, I suppose?’

‘There’s been trouble, I tell you,’ said the guvnor. ‘The flowers she sells are scattered on the ground. And how d’you explain the cat? No animal could have done that.’

‘Killing a cat ain’t a crime, Arrowood, just as not wanting to see your parents ain’t neither.’

The young copper nodded at this. His neck was pale and long out of his frayed uniform jacket. Root pulled out his watch.

‘Half one, Thomas,’ he said to the lad. ‘I’m off for dinner. You hold the fort.’

He took a thick, black overcoat from the peg and wrapped himself in it.

‘Please, Sergeant,’ said the guvnor. Though he seemed to be asking a favour, his voice had a hard edge to it. ‘Have a look. That’s all we ask.’

The copper buttoned his coat, then pulled his gloves from his pocket. He took his helmet from another hook and jammed it on his head. Finally, he replied:

‘Mr Arrowood. I’m grateful you bringing this to me, but it’s honest folk as pay our wages, not the likes of them. If she’s had trouble it’s from her own kind. They don’t want to be like the rest of us. Don’t want to be in with us.’ He opened the door and stepped out. ‘Her and her lot been staying round here when it suits them ever since I can remember. They’ve their own justice. Don’t appreciate the police poking around their affairs.’

‘She might be in danger!’ exclaimed the guvnor, making a grab for his arm.

‘Get off me!’ barked the copper, his face and neck come over quite red. He prised the guvnor’s fingers from his arm, stepped out into the cold street, and banged shut the door.

‘Damn!’ cursed the guvnor. He looked at the lad. ‘I don’t suppose you’d come and have a look, son?’

‘Wouldn’t know what to look for, sir,’ said the boy. ‘I only started here last week. Just been stood here, really.’

We had a sandwich in the pub, then called on Sprice-Hogg. The parson was on his way out. His overcoat was missing two buttons; his curly white hair fell from his broad-brimmed hat.

‘We enjoyed ourselves the other night, didn’t we, gentlemen?’ he asked, his smile like a basket of chips.

‘That we did, Bill,’ replied the guvnor.

‘I visited Birdie yesterday. She really does want nothing to do with her parents. It seems they wanted rid of the poor girl.’

‘And she told you that, did she?’

‘Rosanna told me, but Birdie was there. She wanted Rosanna and Walter with her. She lacks confidence in her speaking.’

‘Did Birdie tell you she wanted them with her, Bill?’

‘Well, it was Walter went to fetch her. I believe she asked him.’

The guvnor frowned for a very brief moment. ‘But we don’t know if she really did want them there?’

‘Ah, I see. You think like a detective. I’m afraid I don’t, but I can’t imagine they prevented her seeing me alone. I’ve known them for years. They wouldn’t do that.’

‘Thank you, Bill,’ said the guvnor with a sigh. ‘Listen, we wanted to catch Godwin away from the farm. D’you know if he goes to the pub very often?’

‘He’ll be there tonight, I’m sure. A bit too fond of a drink, that man.’

Sprice-Hogg had an appointment, but he suggested we wait in the parsonage until evening, and soon we were sat in his parlour warming our feet by the coals. Sarah brought us tea and the papers, and we spent a few hours in comfort.

‘Idiots!’ declared the guvnor, waking me from a doze.

‘Sir?’ I asked, my mind fugged from sleep. He was reading the Illustrated Police News.

‘A whole page on the damn Swaffham Prior case. They’ve found another fool to blame. Some bombazine. Good Christ, the paper’s all but tried and convicted him. And there were more speeches in Parliament defending the boys.’

He turned the page furiously.

‘Another article on criminal anthropology,’ he murmured. He studied it for a few moments. ‘D’you believe Lombroso’s scheme? That you can identify a criminal from his face?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘They’ve some pictures here.’ He studied the paper, then peered at me through his eyeglasses. Then he examined the paper again. ‘Well, look at you,’ he said at last. ‘Oh dear, dear, Barnett. I believe you’re one of these types. Bulging forehead; long lobes; eyes far apart. Dear, dear. It appears you’re a degenerate, my friend.’

‘I haven’t got a bulging forehead.’

‘It bulges, Barnett. Don’t be vexed with me for saying it.’

‘My eyes are no more apart than yours.’

He concentrated on lighting his pipe, but I could see he was trying to stop himself grinning. When it had a blaze, he said, ‘I didn’t say I agree with Lombroso. You just match one of his types.’

I said nothing. Truth was I sometimes suspected I was a degenerate. He didn’t know some of the things I’d done back when I lived with my ma in one of the worst courts in Bermondsey. Down there you had to be a degenerate to get by, and I’d done a few things I wasn’t proud of, things he’d never had to do coming from the background he did. It started when I was eleven, the very week we moved out of the spike to that dismal room with the wet floor in the most run-down building in the court. We could only get the room on account of me getting a job in the vinegar factory, but that very first Saturday three older lads jumped me on my way home and nicked my wages. The same happened the next Saturday, and the Saturday after, and soon ma and me were four weeks behind on the rent and run out of tick in the shop. That’s how I went out late one night, when my ma was asleep, looking for them. I didn’t know what I’d do until I found the youngest passed out from gin by the outhouse. Then I knew: I went back to the room where there was a can of paraffin, almost empty. A box of matches. I set him alight and watched him burn until he woke, screaming and twisting. That was the start of it all, of all the things I’ve tried to forget.

‘What are you going to do, Norman?’ he asked, bringing me back from my thoughts. ‘Now that Mrs Barnett… well, now you’re on your own?’

‘Just keep on, William. What else?’

‘I mean, are you going to stay in that room? Isn’t it lonely?’

‘For now,’ I said, hearing my voice lose its strength. ‘But we’ll see. I just don’t know.’

He watched me for some time, then we fell back to reading our papers. My eyes scanned the words but now my head was so full of memories I couldn’t take in any of the meaning. Soon the guvnor’s paper fell on the floor. He was asleep, his chin fallen on his chest, snoring like a fattened Berkshire. I took the pipe from his mouth, put it on the mantel, and left the house.

The Ockwell graves were in a corner behind the church. I found the baby’s marker quickly. The small stone was still fresh, a simple crucifix above the name: Abigail Ockwell, 12 November–13 November, 1893. Beloved daughter. There were no other recent graves, no other little Ockwells by her side. Her grandfather was buried there, 1891, his stone bigger than the child’s, almost up to my waist, a space on it for his wife still clinging on to life from her sickbed. At the bottom of the stone, a fourth child: Henry Ockwell, died aged four, 1863. Around these two graves the grass was clipped short, but further back it grew longer. Here were the ancestors, the great- and great-great-grandparents, great uncles and aunts, the dates stretching back to the 1600s.

It was half three or so when I reached Mrs Gillie’s camp. The trees all around were still, even the shining black crows above were silent. There was old Tilly, packed in sacking, looking at me like I’d come to rescue her. There the remains of the fire, the kettle. There was little left of the cat but bone and bloody fur. I opened the caravan door and went in: her coat and boots were just as we left them. The red box that had been on the floor outside was now inside, the broken flowers gone. Someone had been here and tidied them away.

I walked around the copse again, checking under the rhododendron and holly, kicking through piles of dead leaves. I climbed over the fence into the fields and searched the ditches and hedges and paths all around.

She wasn’t there.

In the cold twilight, I led the horse over to the stream, where I broke up the ice for her to drink. Then I tied the horse again and filled her nosebag. She looked at me like she wanted an explanation.

‘No idea, mum,’ I said. She snorted and pushed her nuzzle into my shoulder.

When I got back to the parsonage, night had fallen. Sprice-Hogg was back, and he and the guvnor sat in the parlour drinking port, a bowl of boiled eggs between them upon the couch, their stockinged feet stretched out to the fire.

‘They’ve cleared away the evidence,’ said the guvnor when I’d told them about the red box. He rose, brushed the bits of eggshells from his crotch, and began to pace the painted floorboards. ‘But where is she, damn it! She could be lying injured somewhere. And it’s our fault.’

‘Your fault?’ asked Sprice-Hogg.

‘People who’ve helped us with information have been hurt before,’ said the guvnor. His eyes fluttered. ‘She had a premonition. Why else would she talk about her own death the way she did? She must have worried we’d tell someone and we did. We told Root what she’d said.’

‘We don’t know it had anything to do with her talking to us, sir,’ I said. ‘It could have been thieves, or someone come looking for her sons.’

‘It was right after she told us about her husband and the children!’ barked the guvnor. ‘Someone doesn’t want us investigating. Why else would they clear away the evidence of a struggle? Tell me, Bill, d’you know anything about three children dying at the farm in the last few years? Mrs Gillie mentioned it. Only one was buried.’

The parson shook his head. ‘Polly’s poor child died about three years ago, God rest her soul, but there haven’t been any other children up there for years. William, really, I wouldn’t take what Mrs Gillie says too seriously. A little too fond of the gin, that one.’

‘D’you really think Root let it out?’ I asked.

‘He’d only have to mention it in the pub,’ answered the guvnor. ‘Either that or we were being watched.’

‘I’ll go down to her caravan in the morning,’ said Sprice-Hogg. ‘I’m sure she’ll be back by then. If not, I’ll try and persuade Sergeant Root to organize a search party.’

‘Thank you, Bill, that would help. One more question: d’you ever see the farm labourers?’

The parson shook his head. ‘They’ve never been to church, I’m afraid, and I don’t think I’ve seen them in town either. They keep to themselves.’

Sarah pushed open the door and began to lay the table for soup.

‘How’s your sister, Sarah?’ asked the guvnor.

She shook her head. ‘Not long now, sir,’ she said, so low it was hard to make out. It must have distracted her, for as she lifted the soup tureen from the tray she stumbled. Sprice-Hogg let out a shriek as it fell on its side on the table, its lid off, the soup pouring out over the napkins and cutlery.

‘Useless heifer!’ he barked, raising his arm as if to strike her. Sarah flinched, covering her face, but he checked his hand, lowering it slowly to the table.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, again and again, trying to mop it up with her pinafore. She began to cry.

‘You are a singularly stupid girl,’ muttered the parson, sitting watching her from his chair. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that blue streak last week either.’

‘It wasn’t her fault, Bill,’ said the guvnor, kneeling to clear the floor with a napkin. ‘Her skirt snagged on a nail.’

The parson glared at her; she kept her eyes down, sniffing, scraping the thick soup from the table onto the tray. Finally, she turned and hurried from the room.

‘Have a seat, gentlemen,’ said Sprice-Hogg, the irritation still in his voice. ‘At least there’s enough for half a bowl each.’

When we’d eaten, the parson brought over the decanter of port. After two more glasses, the guvnor shook his head.

‘We’ve work to do this evening, my friend.’

The parson’s face fell.

‘Please, indulge me, William. It’s an excellent barrel. And I’m eager to hear if you enjoyed my book.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, though I’m looking forward to it very much. But now we must go and see if we can find Godwin. I’m hoping he’ll be more approachable with a few drinks in him.’

‘Just one more? For friendship sake?’

‘We cannot.’

‘Of course,’ agreed the parson, putting the stopper back on the decanter. He looked at the ruby liquid as the flame from the lamp played on it and sighed. ‘We did enjoy ourselves the other night, didn’t we?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.