Green laughed. “This cave’s always been popular with animals,” he said. He then picked up a lantern from inside the cave and proceeded to light it. As the cave became illuminated, Billings could make out a wooden bed tucked away in a corner and a brazier standing beside it. There were several animal hides scattered on the dust floor. There was a small copper pot which must have been used for heating water and a stool with a jar placed on it. Inside the jar was a burnt-out candle stub.
“Not a very jolly home, is it, Sergeant?”
“How did Brendan get to be employed by Lord Palmer?” Billings asked, still looking around him with disgust at the pitiful surroundings.
“Well, he just replied to the advertisement Lord Palmer placed in the Abingdon Herald.”
“For what position?”
“Lord Palmer were looking for a hermit to live in these woods. Arr, that’s right. You heard correctly, a hermit. Apparently this whole area which lies between Boars Hill and the river Thames were holy once. All to do with a certain St Aebbe, some northern princess who introduced Christianity to the Saxons. Lord Palmer told me all about her. A shrine were built to her on Boars Hill, or perhaps it were Cumnor Hill. Anyway it were some hill north of here, and they called it Aebbeduna – that’s Aebbe’s Hill in the old Saxon language – which is where the name Abingdon comes from. Hermits would come to live on the hill in medieval times, and I guess Lord Palmer thought it’d be funny to recreate that. People with money have different kinds of interests than us ordinary folks.”
“Yes. They do.”
“I recognized Brendan when he showed up for the interview. I’d seen him in these woods before. Came here to poach, I think. We get a lot of poachers around here. I even shot at him once or twice, I think.”
“Shot at Brendan?”
“Oh, not to hit him. Just to chase him away. Anyway, I never said nothing about it to Lord Palmer. Poor man meant no harm, he were only doing what he had to survive.”
“How much did Lord Palmer offer him?”
“Three shillings a week for a whole year. For that Brendan was offered shelter and a robe to clothe himself with, and sandals for his feet, but no socks. And he’d have water and bread, and perhaps a few other things to make soup with, but no meat. And he gave him a staff, coz apparently a hermit must have a staff, and he told him not to shave or cut his hair or his fingernails. And if he completed his twelvemonth there’d be a hundred pound bonus.”
“Where did Brendan come from?”
“Scotland, I think.”
“Why do you think Scotland?”
“Well, there were a woman up in Scotland he’d write to. I used to post his letters for him.”
“A woman?”
“Arr, a woman. Lorna Lochrane. He’d address the letters care of to the post office in Whithorn, Wigtownshire. He only wrote to her a couple of times. He weren’t allowed to write, of course, but I smuggled in some paper and some ink after he’d signalled me for them.”
Billings took his notepad and pencil out of his satchel and started making notes. His hand started trembling as he did so and Green looked at him with concern.
“Is it too cold for ’ee here, Sergeant?” he asked.
“No, no, it’s nothing, I...”
“Come on in. I got something here that’ll warm you up.”
Green crouched down and, carrying the lantern, went into the grotto. Billings hesitated as he looked around him at the numerous cobwebs which clung to the corners of the doorway and the dead moths which were trapped in them.
“Come on in,” Green repeated and he started pulling the bed away from the stone wall. Behind the bed there was a small hole in the wall and Green pulled out a dusty old bottle and two tin cups. “Gin,” he said proudly, holding the bottle up in one hand and the cups in the other. “Sit down and I’ll pour ’ee a cup.”
Billings entered reluctantly and sat down on the filthy bed.
“I got it for him,” Green said as he poured the drinks. “Smuggled it in for him. He weren’t allowed no liquor, of course, but he looked so downright miserable, the poor bugger, I thought he needed something to lighten his spirit. And this stuff warms you up like nothing else can. He liked his gin, so he did. He went through four bottles a week. Here ’ee goes. Put that down yer! Cheers!” He downed his gin in one go then refilled his cup immediately afterwards.
“So did you spend many nights in here chatting and drinking gin with Brendan?”
“How could I have chatted with him? He had no tongue.”
“Of course, I don’t know why I....”
“I’d have done it, though. If I could. I’d have sat here with the poor feller and I’d have chatted with him all night. He were a sensitive feller. Even if he did look like a wild man in them dirty rags and that dirty, tangled hair. Although he did smell. I don’t know whether ’ee’s noticed that?”
“Yes, I have.”
“He had a real problem with his odour. And it weren’t that he didn’t wash. He washed regularly. I saw him do it. Washed himself and washed his clothes. But the smell remained and it were very hard to be close to be him. So I never did speak to him. Why, he’d already been living here for six weeks before I noticed that he had no tongue. Six weeks, can ’ee imagine? I used to bring him his bread, see, and he’d take it from me and then he’d chew on it, and chew and chew, like a bloomin’ cow. It were a peculiar way of eating, but I never thought nothing of it until one day he nearly choked. He were coughing and gagging and I ran into the shed and slapped him on his back and then he opened his mouth and tried putting his fingers down his throat to get to the little morsel, and that’s when I saw it! I were shocked. ‘You have no tongue!’ I cried. Then he looked at me angrily and turned away and refused to look at me again for days. I never did discover what happened to his tongue. Does ’ee know, Sergeant?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, he were a sensitive soul, all right. All he wanted was to be left in peace, but in the beginning, Lord Palmer would invite the locals to his estate, so they could look at the hermit. They came from all over the place. Abingdon, Appleford, Culham, even Didcot. All came down to stare at the ‘Wild Man’ as they called him. Lord Palmer would make Brendan get out of the shed every week and walk up to the garden in his robe and staff so the people could see him. They’d gawk at him. And laugh at him. And shout obscenities at him. And sometimes they’d even throw rotting food at him. It were a real freak show. There weren’t nothing holy or dignified about it.”
“Do you think that that is why he attacked Lord Palmer? Because of the humiliation?”
“Oh, that only lasted for the first few weeks. The novelty wore off pretty soon and the people stopped coming. Brendan were left on his own for most of the time after that. Especially as Lord Palmer started spending more time in London. Probably on account of her ladyship being frightened and disgusted by Brendan. Brendan went about his business then. Chopping blocks for the house or collecting tinder for himself. Are we done with this?” He held up the gin bottle. Billings nodded. He then placed the cork back on the bottle and crouched down before the wall to replace it in the hole, when suddenly he stopped. “I don’t suppose there’s much point in hiding this now, is there? He’s not coming back, is he?”
“No, I suppose he isn’t.”
“You got him holed up in a prison cell now, have you?”
“He’s in a holding cell.”
“Waiting to be hanged?”
“If he’s found guilty.”
“Why do you say if? Does ’ee think he’s not?”
“Do you?”
“Well, I don’t know who else could have killed his lordship. It were his axe. ”
“Couldn’t somebody else have taken his axe and attacked Lord Palmer with it?”
“Like who?
“Well... somebody who intended to rob him. I understand there was some money missing. And a ring and a watch.”
“Oh arr. He’d been robbed, alright.”
&
nbsp; “Well, then perhaps somebody else took the axe. You did say you get a lot of poachers around here.”
“Arr, that we do, but we ain’t had any lately.”
“So then, in theory, Lord Palmer could have been killed by someone else.”
“That’s what ’ee said before, Sergeant. But I asked ’ee by who?”
“Who was staying in the house on the day of the murder?”
“Just the lord, the lady and the servants. Oh and Mr Percy had been staying at the house for a couple of days, but he left the night before the killing.”
“Who is Mr Percy?”
“He were some young scholar from Oxford who’d come to study the hermit. He came here often to talk to Lord Palmer. His lordship were very interested in history, as I mentioned, and liked having Mr Percy around.”
“Did you mention Mr Percy to the local police?”
“No reason to. Why? Does ’ee think Mr Percy killed Lord Palmer?”
“Do you?”
“Mr Percy left the night before the killing. I told ’ee that already.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Eleven, twelve, something like that. Lord Palmer were killed at eight in the morning. You don’t think Mr Percy would linger in these woods all that time, does ’ee? Just to kill Lord Palmer for fifteen pounds, a watch and a gold ring?”
Billings frowned. It didn’t sound plausible, but yet, the scholar intrigued him.
“If my calculations are correct,” Billings asked, “Brendan had been living on the estate for eleven months when the murder occurred?”
“Arr, that’s right. He came here in January, left in November.”
“So he was only one month away from claiming his reward, when Lord Palmer died?”
“That’s right.”
“It doesn’t seem reasonable then, does it, that he should kill Lord Palmer for a watch and a ring, if he was only one month away from getting a hundred pounds?”
“No, it don’t, Sergeant. It don’t seem reasonable at all. But then it never is reasonable, is it? When one man murders another? I think ’ee’ll find it’s a lack of reasoning that causes such a thing to happen in the first place.”
*
Billings and Clarkson were back on the train to London. It was only three o’clock, but Billings was already starting to feel unwell. The trembling had started. He had to sit on his hands or keep them in his pocket so as not to expose his condition to Clarkson. Reading Robinson Crusoe was out of the question, as he wouldn’t have been able to hold up his book. All he could do to avoid Clarkson’s incessant chatter was to feign sleep (real sleep was impossible with a pounding heart and recurring nausea). He sat sideways on the bench, leaning against the window with his legs curled up and his hat tipped over his eyes. But this did not deter Clarkson. He was completely oblivious to Billings’s state of mind and chatted continuously. First about his wife’s cooking and the meal that lay waiting for him when he got home; then about how he preferred the dirty, crowded metropolis to the scary open spaces of the countryside; and finally about how he would write his report in pencil when he got back to the office and rewrite it in ink the following morning, as he was more likely to make spelling mistakes when he was tired.
Billings didn’t listen. He spent the whole journey calculating how long it would be before he would feel that warm flush of calmness rush through his veins again. It would take another four hours before they arrived in London. It would take another forty-five minutes to get from the station to Scotland Yard. Then there’d be another two hours of debriefing and writing reports before he’d finally be able to go back home. There was no chance he’d be there before midnight. Oh, how he regretted leaving his morphine at home.
It was seven o’clock when they finally got off the train in London and they made their way to Scotland Yard on foot. Billings made sure to keep a couple of steps behind Clarkson, who still had no notion of the agony he was going through. He clenched his fists tightly inside his coat pocket as they walked in order to disguise his trembling. But the cramps in his stomach were harder to disguise. He had to grind his teeth each time his guts knotted up and he could feel sweat beads trickling down his head. He was lucky the streets were so dark, but what was he to say when they entered the gaslit office and his current state of malaise was revealed? He was desperately trying to think of an excuse. Could he say it was food poisoning and blame the meal they’d had at the Railway Inn? What did Clarkson eat? Did Clarkson have the same as him? Billings had had stew, but what could he say was in that stew that explained his symptoms?
When they entered the building, Billings rushed towards the lavatory as Clarkson started ascending the stairs.
“’Ere, where you going?” Clarkson called. “Jacobs is waiting for a debrief.”
“I need to spend a penny,” Billings responded without looking back. “You start without me.”
He went into the lavatory, splashed some water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His face was pale and there were dark rings under his eyes. He was feeling nauseous again, but not nauseous enough to throw up. He wondered whether he should slip into a cubicle, stick a finger down his throat and get all it over and done with. But no, that wouldn’t do. The noise would give him away. He took a deep breath then wiped the sweat off his forehead, straightened his collar and tucked in his shirt. Two more hours, he kept thinking to himself. Just two more hours.
After he left the lavatory, he approached the telegrapher. “I need you to send a telegram to the Wigtownshire Constabulary,” he said as he fumbled through his satchel for his notebook. Just at that moment the cramps started again, more severe this time, and he almost doubled over with pain.
“Are you all right, Sergeant?” the telegrapher asked, getting up from his stool and signalling to one of the constables for help.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Billings took the notebook out of his satchel and ripped off the page with the name he had jotted on it. “Lorna Lochrane in Whithorn. Tell them to find her and ask her to tell them all about Brendan.”
“What shall I say it’s pertaining to?”
“Tell them it’s to do with the Lord Palmer case. It seems the Wild Man has a wife.” He took another deep breath, wiped his face with his sleeve again, re-tucked his shirt into his trousers and made his way upstairs.
As he climbed the stairs he saw Clarkson and Jacobs sitting at their desks, looking back at him. “It was all for nothing,” Clarkson said.
“What do you mean?” Billings asked as he walked into the office.
“He confessed. Do you believe it? While we were out there in the sticks, the bloomin’ bugger confessed!”
“He confessed?” Billings was surprised. Almost shocked.
“I went to talk to him while you were gone,” Jacobs added. “I asked him if he killed Lord Palmer, and he nodded a clear and undeniable ‘yes’.”
“It can’t be!” Billings had broken out into a sweat again. “It must’ve been a nervous tick.”
“It was a nod, Billings. I asked him twice, and twice he nodded. Are you alright? You don’t look at all well, old man.”
Billings could feel the sweat trickling down his face. Clarkson was also looking at him, concerned. “I’m alright,” he said, wiping the sweat off with his sleeve. “Where is he now? I want to talk to him!”
“He’s been transferred to Newgate Prison. Are you sure you’re all right? You look ill.”
“I’m not ill. I must talk to him, sir. Tomorrow. He is not guilty. There must’ve been a misunderstanding.”
“There was no misunderstanding, Billings. The case is closed.”
“But it can’t be. He’s innocent!”
“How do you know?”
“I have an instinct! He can’t have done it!”
“Then why did he confess?”
“To put an end to it all. Please sir, you must let me speak to him. A grave injustice is about to be done.”
“Do sit down, old man. You’re cl
early not well. Get him some water, will you, Clarkson?”
Billings grabbed a chair, sat down and put his head between his knees. The shaking had become uncontrollable and his heart was pounding in his chest. Jacobs squatted down before him and looked him in the eyes. “What’s the matter, Billings?” he asked.
“It’s nothing, sir. Just something I ate.”
“What on earth did you eat?”
“Fish stew. The fish must’ve gone bad. Please, sir. Lochrane is innocent. He had nothing to gain by killing Lord Palmer. In fact he had everything to lose. He was only one month away from completing his contract and receiving his reward.”
Jacobs stood back up and returned to his desk. “The case is closed, Billings.” There was a tone of irritation in his voice. “There are no other suspects and he confessed. We already have our hands full with the Whitechapel murders. We are already under constant scrutiny from the press and we don’t want that. Which brings me to another point.” He looked at Billings again, sitting on the chair, soaked in sweat and shaking like a jellyfish. “But perhaps that can wait until tomorrow.”
“What is it?” Billings asked.
“There’s an article about you in The Illustrated Police News.”
“About me?”
“A despicable article by a certain Jeremiah Rook. He really seems to have it in for you.”
“Why?”
“Apparently you told him you felt sympathy for Lochrane. He has spun the whole thing to show that the CID is too soft and filled with bleeding heart do-gooders who sympathize with criminals. It’s all tosh, of course, and I shall certainly write a complaint to the editor. These kind of personal attacks on individual members of the police force are reprehensible and completely unacceptable. But in your case he does have a point. You’re a good detective, Billings, but you do have a tendency to take things to heart. Lochrane being a case in point.”
Clarkson re-entered the office with a glass of water and handed it to Billings, looking at him with pity and concern.
“We had better get you a cab to take you back home,” said Jacobs. “Get yourself to bed and take the day off tomorrow. Don’t come back until you’re better.”
The Ornamental Hermit Page 6
