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
