Heep by Judy Mitchell

 

It was many years since I had visited the ancient Pilgrim City. I was in the shadows of the great Cathedral where merchants and street vendors competed for attention with their cacophony of ringing voices and shrill cries.

Shoppers nudged together to reach for vegetables and fruit set out on hawkers’ barrows.  Further on, under the painted sign of a black cow, a butcher stood with his cleaver aloft, a blood-spattered apron tied around his large belly. Next door, a sign above the fishmonger’s, showed a vivid, aquamarine sea and its harvest of orange crabs, silver-scaled fish and oysters: a picture far removed from my memories of the drab, grey, shifting sands and sea of the Kent coastline.

My eyes fell from the sign to the queue at the fish counter and that was when I saw him. A long, thin man, his knees slightly bent as if in the act of supplication. As I stared at him, I saw him stretch out a lank hand with thin, pale fingers that closed around the parcel of wet fish he had purchased. A movement of slow, sinewy, writhing propelled him out of the shop towards where I stood. I could not help but stare at him, for the moment transfixed, not believing my own eyes.

The shape, the undulating movements, they were the same. He drew nearer and I saw the red-tinged, sharp features and eyes devoid of lashes and brows, hooded by heavy lids. Time was out of kilter but this was surely him? I paused and then advanced to confront the man who had been the sexton all those years ago.

‘Is it Mr Heep?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ was the reply, accompanied by a wringing, serpentine motion and a stare from those cold, wicked eyes.

‘You were at St Barnabas, I believe?’

‘You mistake me, sir. It was my father who was at St Barnabas for many years.’

His expression changed to one of fawning pity at my mistake and he began to lift his hat to signal our encounter was at an end. But I was determined to find out about the father. I had done nothing at the time to pursue what I thought I had seen and was not going to fail again.

‘So, you are Uriah Heep’s son? I am Reverend Smythson and was Curate at St Barnabas some years ago.’

‘Oh sir, forgive me. I would not have known you. Yes, my father was at St Barnabas but he died more than fifteen years ago. I am Uriah, his son.’

He held out a pale, white wrist and I felt his cold fingers touch mine like the brush of a slimy sea creature. I felt the need to wipe my fingers to rub off the feeling left by his clammy touch.

‘Do you live hereabouts?’ I asked.

‘Mother and I have been here some years now. We live very ‘umbly. I am now a partner in a legal firm here. You may know it. Wickstead and Heep. Mother and I have moved into the house with the founder and his daughter. There has been a change in my fortunes of which my father would have been so proud, I’m sure.’

There was something about the man that was distasteful. An evil, lying tone in the way he spoke and grovelled in front of me. I wondered if he had been aware of his father’s sideline.

‘I am sorry to hear of your father,’ I lied. ‘Did he finish his days at St Barnabas?’

‘No, sir, we moved nearer to London and he found a job in the same line of work but nearer to the capital. And you sir, if I may ask, are you in these parts?’

I thought he had conveniently changed the subject to move me away from questions about his father. He inclined his head to the side as part of a sliding movement of his shoulders and his upper body. I tried to think how I might seek out information on what the father had been involved in during his final years.

‘Did he carry on the same profession?’

‘Yes, to the end, sir. True to his calling as ever.’

The young Uriah added the comment with a smug look on his cadaverous face. I guessed he knew of his father’s despicable trade but would not add to what he had already said beyond remarking that he and his mother knew their station and were thankful in it. I wondered how he had managed to progress in the field of law from such an upbringing and that thought made me shudder involuntarily.

‘I take the coach at noon. I must take my leave. Goodbye.’

I lifted my hat quickly and moved away as he was saying that he would tell his mother he had renewed my acquaintance and that I had asked after her.

I hadn’t asked after her at all but it served him to remind me of my omission and thereby imply my manners were lacking. I hurried away hoping that our paths would not cross again before the departure of the stage in two hours.

With each step I took to distance myself from that man’s son, I became angry and ashamed at failing to pursue my suspicions. I was tormented by the vivid image that still crept into my thoughts despite the passage of time. A man with hunched shoulders standing by the lychgate on that moonless, dark night. I had been certain it was Heep and I had seen him point two dark figures in the direction of a recently dug grave. Two strangers carrying shovels and a mattock, slipped silently into the graveyard, and then were lost in the dark, cold earth. I felt the shame of not going to challenge the three men and of not telling anyone what I had seen and my suspicions about the sexton. I had been young, at the start of my work. The Cathedral offered me sanctuary and I turned and slipped through its mighty doors to pray for forgiveness.