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.’
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
