Mick Finlay - The Murder Pit

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?’

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