by Alex Grecian
“I want to see him. At least let me see my own son.”
Hammersmith looked over Price’s sagging shoulder at Day, who nodded.
“Keep a hand on him, Sergeant.”
“Is it wise to let him upstairs?”
“We can’t keep a man from his own child.” Day turned to Bennett Rose. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping your rifle near to hand.”
“I’ll keep my eye on Price,” Rose said. He seemed grateful for the chance to do something, to make amends for drugging them.
“Let’s take him upstairs, then. Just for a moment. Let the man have his grief.”
They made a strange parade up the stairs of the inn. Calvin Campbell led the way. Next came Sutton Price, Hammersmith right behind him with a hand gripping his elbow. After them came Bennett Rose, his rifle held casually at his side, but loaded and ready. Day followed behind them all, watching everyone involved, trying to fathom the connections between them.
Campbell entered the small room that held Oliver Price’s body. Hester Price hadn’t moved from the side of the bed. Her fingers still absently traced the contours of her son’s face. Campbell went to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she reached up and laid her hand over the top of his.
Sutton Price entered the room silently and went and stood beside his wife on the other side. There was a long moment, and then an anguished shriek boiled up from somewhere inside him. He threw himself across the tiny body on the bed. Hester finally noticed him, and her reaction was immediate. She lunged at him, beating her fists against his back, screaming at him.
“You did this! You did this to him!”
Price didn’t even seem to notice her. Hammersmith and Day stepped in and took her arms and pried her away from her husband. Calvin Campbell stood useless at the side of the bed, seemingly unable to decide what to do.
The blast of a rifle round into the ceiling ended the drama. The shot echoed back and forth and around the room, and plaster sifted down like snow over everyone. The sound had the effect of calming Hester Price, and she went limp in Day’s and Hammersmith’s arms. Hammersmith looked at Rose and saw that he was once more pointing his rifle at Sutton Price.
Rose looked back at Hammersmith. “She’s right,” he said. “It’s clear now, isn’t it? He must’ve killed his own child.”
“I thought you believed in a monster,” Day said. “Something called Rawhead.”
“But there’s no arguin’ with the evidence.”
“What evidence?” Hammersmith said.
“Just look at him.”
Hammersmith looked at Sutton Price, but saw nothing he hadn’t seen already.
“Not him,” Rose said. “Look at the boy.”
Hammersmith looked past the father at the son’s body. Thick black liquid bubbled up from little Oliver’s mouth and ran down his cheek, soaking into the pillow beneath his head.
There was no doubt that the boy was dead.
And yet he had begun to bleed.
47
You’re not very clever, are you?” Virginia Price said.
Henry Mayhew looked up at her and wiped his forehead. He was staying busy, helping the volunteers at the church in whatever little ways he could, moving heavy pews across the sanctuary and bringing buckets of snow inside to melt by the fire, providing fresh water for the villagers. All of it was hard labor, but he was proud and happy to be of use. Now Henry had found a pew that was stuck tight to the floor beneath it and he was down on his knees, working to free it.
He smiled at Virginia. “What did you say?”
“My name is Virginia. What’s yours?”
“Henry.”
“Hello, Henry. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I said that you’re not very clever.”
“No. I’m not.” He bent and continued to pry at the underside of the pew, but he could still hear the little girl behind him. He stopped again, but didn’t look back at her.
“I’m very clever, Henry,” Virginia said. “My father tells me so.”
“It’s good to be clever.”
“But you wouldn’t know about that.”
“No.”
“Then why does the doctor keep you if you’re so dull?”
“I’m strong. And he’s nice.”
“He doesn’t seem nice to me. He seems grumpy.”
“He’s grumpy and nice.”
“You can’t be both. You must choose one or the other.”
“He’s much more clever than anybody else, so I think he knows how to be different things at the same time.”
Virginia laughed, the tinkle of chimes in an empty space. “You make no sense at all, Henry. I like you.”
“Thank you.” Henry scowled at the floor. The girl had made him self-conscious, and he could feel his face flushing with humiliation. “There are other children here,” he said. “You could play with them if you wanted to.”
“But I don’t want to. They bore me terribly. You’re much more interesting; very like a child, but huge. Huger than a normal adult, I think.”
“I’m big.”
“Do you know any games we might play? You probably don’t, if I have to guess, but I could teach you some.”
“No, thank you.” He got his fingertips under the edge of the pew and yanked upward. It didn’t budge, but the fingernail of his left index finger tore and he gasped with the pain. He turned his head, but couldn’t see Virginia. He could still feel her presence behind him, though, could hear her breathing. He checked his finger and saw a tiny bubble of blood forming along the side of the torn nail. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked on it. It was salty and metallic. “You should go play with someone else,” he said, talking around the finger in his mouth. “I don’t want to play any games.”
The girl laughed again. “You said that once already, you numpty.”
Henry nodded. She was right. He had repeated himself.
“Do you live in London?” the girl said.
“Yes.”
“Do you live with the doctor? Are you his son? That would explain why he keeps you around.”
“No. I have my own home.”
“You can take care of yourself?”
“Yes. My home is very small. The inspector made it for me out of a lamppost.”
“Oh, he did not. You’re fibbing.”
“I’m not fibbing. He really did.”
In fact, Inspector Day had found Henry Mayhew living on the street and had given him the key to a small jail cell that was hidden within the wall at Trafalgar Square, nestled just under a lamp. Henry had moved into the spartan space, and there was just barely enough room in it for him to lie down. He owned almost nothing. Day had changed Henry’s life forever with that one small act of kindness, and now Henry tried to follow his example by donating his time and wages to help others. There were many people still living on the streets of London, too many to count, people who didn’t have the luxury of a clean dry lamppost home in the square.
“You’re a liar,” Virginia said. “A liar and a half-wit. I really do like you very much.”
Henry shrugged. The pain in his finger had passed. He tugged on the pew again, and this time it came loose with a loud ripping noise. He pulled it loose and tried to stand with it, but his right foot wouldn’t come out from under him and he fell forward, slamming his head against the side of the pew. He lurched sideways and rolled onto the floor, his head throbbing, sudden tears in his eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked at his feet. His bootlaces were tied together. The little girl was doubled over, laughing. Henry sniffed. It seemed to him that the girl’s laughter wasn’t a happy sound. He pressed the palm of his hand against his temple until the throbbing sensation subsided enough to be tolerable, then bent and began untangling his laces.
“You should have seen yourself,” the girl said when she had caught her breath. “You looked funny.”
“You tied my feet together. That wasn’t nice.”
“Well, of course it wasn’
t. It was a prank. Pranks aren’t meant to be nice.”
“I don’t like pranks.”
“You’re not clever enough to think of any or you would like them.”
“I don’t think I would.”
“Have you ever seen a pig bleed?” the girl said.
Henry ignored her. He left his boots untied and stood.
“I have. Seen a pig bleed, I mean,” Virginia said. “Its eyes get very big when it gets cut. They bulge out. It’s quite funny. That’s what you looked like when you fell down.”
Henry said nothing. He stooped and lifted the pew, turned and moved across the aisle. The girl skipped ahead of him and put out her tiny foot to trip him, but he was ready for more pranks and stepped easily over her leg, moved her gently out of the way with his elbow. The girl backed up and pouted at him.
“You’re no fun at all, you know.”
Henry ignored her. He carried the pew across the sanctuary and set it down. He looked carefully around for the girl and saw her running down the aisle toward two other children. She had lost interest in him. He breathed a big sigh of relief. There were more pews that needed to be moved, but he decided to sit, to rest for a minute and relace his boots.
When he was ready to get back to work, he checked to see where the cruel little girl was. He didn’t want any more pranks.
It seemed to him that it was better to be nice than to be clever.
48
Day didn’t understand how it was possible for a dead body to bleed, and he didn’t stop to ponder it. His Colt Navy had cleared his jacket and was aimed at Bennett Rose before the innkeeper could move his own weapon. Sutton Price stood numb by the bed, staring at his son. There was no immediate danger from that side of the room. First things first.
“Give me your rifle, Mr Rose,” Day said.
“I have to shoot him, Inspector,” Rose said. “I have to. He killed his own boy.”
Calvin Campbell had been standing, dazed, next to Hester Price, but now he took a step toward Sutton, his massive fist raised above the miner’s head. Hammersmith grabbed Campbell’s fist and appeared to be trying to force it to one side, but Campbell didn’t budge. Even so, Day trusted his sergeant to handle that situation for at least the next few seconds. The rifle was still the biggest threat in the room.
“We don’t know that he did anything yet,” Day said.
“We do. The boy’s bleedin’. Show a murderer his victim, bring him near enough to the body, and if it bleeds. . well, then, that’s your man.”
“One of your superstitions?”
“How else would you explain that, Mr Day?” Rose pointed to Oliver. “Is that somethin’ you’ve seen before?”
“No,” Day said. “But I don’t pretend to know what it means.”
“I do know.”
“Be that as it may, give me your rifle. You people called us here, asked us to investigate this. Give us a chance to do that. If you shoot Sutton Price, I’ll have to arrest you for murder. Is that what you want?”
“Do it,” Rose said. “The people here are different. This isn’t London. We follow the old ways.”
“But it’s London you’d be going to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the instant I arrest you, you’ll be on a train to London, where you’ll face proper justice.”
“That ain’t how it works.”
“It works however I say it works.” Day glared down the barrel of his Colt at the innkeeper. He saw the rifle begin to waver as Bennett Rose lost his resolve, but Day was careful to hide the relief he felt. He kept his expression stern and his eyes steely and he tried not to shiver with cold. He hoped he looked the part of the London lawman, despite his ragged clothing and his disheveled hair.
Finally, Bennett Rose nodded and handed over the rifle. “This isn’t the time, is all. I can wait. Justice will be served the Black Country way.” He pointed at Sutton Price and sneered. “You hear me?”
Day didn’t wait to find out whether Sutton Price had heard the innkeeper. With his right hand, he slipped his revolver back into his jacket as he took the rifle from Rose with his left hand. He gripped the rifle by its barrel and shoved it back hard at Bennett Rose’s ample midsection. The innkeeper toppled over backward with a grunt and fell against the wall behind him. He slid down the wall, holding his abdomen.
“Stay there,” Day said. “Stay on the floor.” He swung the rifle around and pointed it at Calvin Campbell. “Drop your arm, sir, and be careful of my sergeant when you do it.”
Campbell sized Day up and gave him a slight smile. “You’re someone to reckon with, aren’t you, Inspector?”
“I’ve had a rough day.”
Campbell lowered his fist and clapped Hammersmith on the shoulder. He pulled Hester Price away from her husband, turned her toward him, and gathered her in his arms. She collapsed against him, her face buried against his broad chest, her arms wrapped around his waist. Day could hear her muffled weeping. Campbell closed his eyes, one hand stroking Hester’s hair.
“Will you take Sutton Price back to London, then?” Campbell said. He kept his eyes closed when he spoke.
Day looked at Oliver’s father. The miner stood like a statue by the bed, still staring at his son’s body. He hadn’t moved when Hester had beat her fists against him or when Rose had shot at the ceiling, hadn’t seemed to notice any of the drama happening around him. He simply stood. Day imagined he might stand there until he died.
There was much about police work that Day didn’t feel he was particularly good at, but understanding people, even criminals, knowing their motives and behavior, that was something he felt confident about. None of the people in the little room with Oliver Price’s body acted like a murderer. They had found the missing people they’d been sent to Blackhampton for, but there was still much that Day didn’t understand about it all.
“Not yet,” he said. “Mr Campbell, I need my doctor and I don’t think I can spare Sergeant Hammersmith. Would you do me the great favor of bringing Dr Kingsley here just as quickly as possible?”
“I would rather not leave Hester right now.”
“I understand, but Hester needs to know what’s happened to her child, and Dr Kingsley is best qualified to tell us.”
“Send Rose.”
“Mr Rose’s behavior is. . unpredictable. He’s already caused a great deal of trouble and I would prefer to keep an eye on him here.”
“Surely I’m a suspect. What’s to keep me from leaving Blackhampton?”
“I don’t think you’ll leave her.”
Campbell looked down at Hester, at the top of her head. “No,” he said. “You’re right about that.”
Hester pulled away from him and looked up at his face. The room was dark, and lamplight from the corner table caused silver hairs among her yellow tresses to sparkle. The corners of her mouth were lined with hard experience and her eyes were rimmed with red. Day looked past the evidence of the years and saw how beautiful she once was. And he looked past the traces of her grief to see how lovely she still was. She reminded him, in some small and indefinite way, of Claire, and he understood Campbell’s devotion. He felt something well up in his own chest, but he swallowed his empathy. He was careful not to look at the little boy lying on the bed.
“Go, Calvin,” Hester said. “Bring the doctor and come back fast.”
Campbell nodded. “You won’t have time to miss me.”
“I’m finished with Blackhampton now,” Hester said. “Do you understand? There’s nothing for me here.”
Campbell nodded again. Without another word, he turned and left the room. Day heard his footsteps on the stairs and then heard the inn’s front door open, heard the wind raging through, and then heard the door close. Suddenly the room was very quiet.
49
T he American had not lost his way (he never lost his way), but the journey from the woods to the train depot, while a straight line, was difficult. He wore a good pair of brogans, but they were ol
d and worn and the seams leaked. His woolen socks were soaked through, and he couldn’t feel his toes. He had known too many soldiers, in the old days, who had lost their feet to frostbite. He didn’t want the same for himself. But there was nowhere to rest. The few outbuildings he saw along the outskirts of the road had lights on in their windows. People were inside, cozy and dry by their fires. He knew from hard experience that if he went to their doors they wouldn’t let him come inside. One look at his face would be enough to ensure that. But he simply didn’t have the heart to kill a family just so he could enjoy the warmth of their home for an hour.
And so when he found the two horses, hitched to a carriage, he counted it as a blessing from above. They were standing in the field, only a few yards to the west of him, as still as some statue built to depict a brave and patriotic journey through the storm.
He veered in their direction, mildly worried that the horses were frozen in their tracks, dead already. He was nearly dead with cold himself. If the horses were dead, he would lie down in the carriage and, he imagined, people would come along someday and find him there and wonder how an American had come to be driving a carriage across the English countryside in the middle of an unseasonable late storm.
But the horses weren’t dead. The younger one-he could tell by her size and energy-stamped her feet at his approach and snorted. The older one stood in her tracks, but followed him with her black eyes. He approached them slowly, and not only because he didn’t want to scare them. He couldn’t have moved quickly if he’d wanted to. He reached out a shivering hand and patted the younger one’s muzzle, stroked her, and whispered nonsense until she calmed. It didn’t take long. She was cold and hungry and tired. The older horse wasn’t a problem. She wasn’t going to last a lot longer, no matter what happened, and she knew it. Horses had small brains, but they were even more conscious of their mortality than humans were.
