‘You going to Epsom to dig up a grave.’ He laughed and stood staring at the floor with a hand on top of his head. Then he looked up at me sharply to make sure I wasn’t lying. ‘Where’s your shovel?’
Good question. ‘I will get one at Epsom.’
Sitting opposite me he regarded me with pity. ‘Aye. So you will ask for a shovel there, and worry not that your face will be the first they think of once they find a grave has been disturbed. And you planning to dig in the daylight?’
‘I had hoped to be at Epsom before dawn. I did not count upon the turnpike being there.’
‘Don’t think you counted on much.’ He continued to stare at me like I was a strange animal. ‘Din’t count on the turnpike, din’t count on finding a shovel, din’t count on the fact it takes half a day to dig a grave. You know where in the graveyard is the grave?’
‘The plot of Lord Keeling.’
‘You know where it is?’
‘No.’
Sitting back, he lit a pipe then turned away from me and gazed into the oven. We sat in silence a while, just the sound of birds singing. Then he moved, with purpose. Turning his pipe upside down, he emptied the bowl onto the floor of the hut.
‘You can stay here until nightfall. I’ll get you a shovel, not from Epsom. I’ll get you clothes too, clothes you can dig in, and I’ll go with you tonight to watch out for you, make sure you isn’t disturbed. And I’ll find out where in the graveyard this body is buried. You has to pay for that though, pay a lot, ’cos I don’t like yer.’
I had pissed a quarter of my entire wealth into the gutter in just the last few days. A small fortune had gone on coaches and horses and gratuities and none was likely to be repaid. I watched the little man lick his bowl clean. ‘I haven’t any money with me.’
‘Twenty pounds,’ he said. ‘A promise is fine.’
I looked at the bottom of my bowl and reckoned I ought lick it clean too. This was becoming absurd. ‘A promissory note, you mean?’
‘No, I mean a promise. You promise to give me twenty pounds and I’ll save your neck from the noose.’
‘That’s very trusting of you.’
‘No it’s not. You make me that promise and don’t show up inside a day with my money then I’ll come and find you and take you for fifty, leave you a little souvenir for nothin’ too.’
‘Very well.’
‘Very well, indeed. Then I must be gone. Stay here. We leave an hour after nightfall.’ He marched off into the forest and out of sight without looking back.
Left by myself, I reflected. It was possible that he had gone to do what he said he would do. Far more likely he had gone to fetch soldiers and collect the prize that was no doubt on offer for my head. But there was something about this little man with his big knife that I trusted. Were he to betray me and stare at me with his cold eyes, tell me I was simple, then I would not have been surprised. Yet I didn’t think that would happen and I resolved to trust my instinct. So I waited.
Simon with the big knife was true to his word. That is what he called himself — Simon with the big knife of Little Millpond. Little Millpond was a very small village between his hut and Epsom, which we passed through on our way to the town as the sun went down. A vain and self-important little fellow, he was never shy of relating a story that cast him in a heroic light. He was a poor fellow that took pride in being without riches, would rather have been cast into the pits of Hell than live the life of a wealthy nobleman. The tales he told were tedious and vainglorious, yet I was careful not to betray my disrespect, for he was also very strong and clearly both brave and efficient. I needed him.
Though I had done little that day other than sit in a forest, still I was tired and bleary-headed by the evening. I had never dug up a grave before, nor had I fully imagined the task that I had committed to. The hole would have to be dug deep and the earth would be hard, set solid after so many years. Far worse, though, was the thought of what I would do once I got to the bottom of that hole. Would the wood be solid still, or would it be rotten and broken? How would I open the box? Would I seek to lift it — no, for it would take several men to achieve that, so I would have to break it open with my shovel. And what would I find inside the box? In what state would I find the corpse? I had imagined a pile of bones, neatly set, either with or without a miniature set within. But what if the body was still fleshy and clothed? How would I establish that that I sought to establish? These were the thoughts that haunted me all that day.
It was a relief when the poacher returned early, for it gave me someone to share my doubts with, or so I thought, but he quickly dispelled that notion. Holding up his palm he bid me save my problems for myself. His task was clear, and that was all he cared to consider. No sooner had he arrived than he announced that he was going to rest. Entering his hut he closed the door firmly behind him, leaving at the door a pile. Sorting through it I found an old shovel (robust), old clothes (clean and voluminous), a pickaxe and an oil lamp.
Setting off at last, shortly after the sun’s rays had deserted the little clearing, we both rode on my horse, since he seemed to have none. I rode and he sat squat behind me with his thick, stubby arms wrapped about my waist, his head pushed hard against my back, his grip uncomfortable. He had not ridden much before — that was clear. We navigated by grunts, he grunting at me when he wanted me to turn left or right, instructions upon which I was dependent, for the evening was darkly gloomy and I had no sense at all of where we were headed.
I don’t know if it was a long journey or not, for I have never returned to the hut of Simon with the big knife, but it seemed to take no time at all. Soon we were sat together on the horse, peering into the darkness over the wall of the church into the graveyard.
‘No time for pretty thoughts nor womanly misgivings. It would take me half the night to dig that grave — I fancy it will take you half a week.’
The dwarf poacher slid off the horse sideways, freed the shovel, pick and oil lamp from their bindings, then stood waiting for me to tie the horse. I led it off the main thoroughfare and tied it to a tree that was enveloped in black shadow. The poacher marched off into the graveyard assuming that I would trail him. We walked deep amongst the stones, the night sky cloudless and blue, and a light wind the only noise. I recognised nothing from my previous visit.
‘This one,’ my partner whispered, pointing with a crooked finger after he threw the shovel and pick to the ground. ‘I will make sure you that none disturb you, but you had better dig quickly, for your arms are thick as twigs. The day will come sooner than you think. I will get this lit.’
He disappeared into the night with the lamp, leaving me alone. Soon all I could hear was the gentle dancing of the wind, the sound of leaves rustling. It was mild and calm, not a night to be digging up corpses. I ran my fingers through the grooves of the stone letters of the gravestone. The luxury of a minute or two of tranquillity. When the poacher returned with the oil lamp lit, he stood with a hand on one hip with a look of disgust evident, though I could see only one side of his face in the lamplight. Taking off my coat I laid it on the stone, picked up the shovel and started to cut the turf into large squares for peeling off the soil beneath. He made no move to help, just stood watching for a few minutes before grunting in apparent satisfaction and disappearing once more into the night.
The soil was soft, the autumn having been wet and mild. This gave me enormous encouragement and I dug with great gusto, forgetting for a while what I would do when I struck wood. That was until again I was struck by self-doubt. What if the poacher still planned to betray me, had decided that to deliver me in the act of gravedigging would be more rewarding? What would happen to me if I was caught here, now? They would hang me by the neck — Keeling would see to it. I dug even faster, out of fear now, reflecting on the stupidity and foolhardiness of my even being there. I contemplated throwing the shovel to one side and running as fast as I could. I stopped digging for a moment, listened to the silence, waited for my body to recover, the pounding in my ears to slow. Was the poacher still out there? Picking up the oil lamp I stepped out tentatively into the darkness.