The Murder Pit

‘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.’