The Black Country tms-2

by Alex Grecian

  “I don’t think so, Henry. I came looking for Hester Price or Calvin Campbell, but neither is here.”

  “They’ve probably gone to London.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because that’s where I would go. I want to go there now. I don’t like this place at all.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  “They probably already got on the train.”

  “The train’s not running. The storm, you know.”

  “It will sometime, won’t it?”

  “I suppose it will. It had better. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

  “Let’s both leave. We can wait at the depot, and when the snow stops we can get on the train and go away from here.”

  Day rubbed his jaw. He had neglected to shave, and his chin rasped against his dry fingers. “Henry, my good fellow, I think you may be on to something.”

  “We’ll go, then.” Henry ran down the aisle and disappeared among the rows of moaning villagers. He emerged again in a moment with two lanterns and the small wooden box. He ran back to Day and presented the box to him. “I took good care. See?”

  Inside, the baby magpie was moving about in a way that seemed very healthy to Day. The inspector grinned at Henry Mayhew.

  “Henry, he’s better than ever, isn’t he?”

  Henry smiled and looked bashfully away. “I tried my best, sir. Took good care of the baby all day long, just like the doctor and me did these sick folks.”

  “Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Henry held out the box tentatively, with a pensive frown and a furrowed brow. “He’s yours, sir. You can take him back, if you want to.”

  “I think he still needs you, Henry. Better leave him with you until he’s big enough to fly.”

  Henry nodded, quite serious. “I’ll get him big enough.”

  “I’m quite sure you will.”

  “Let’s go, sir.”

  “I suppose the train depot is as good a place to look as any.”

  “Look for what?”

  “For Hester Price and Calvin Campbell.”

  “Oh, was I right? Are they leaving, too?”

  “I think they might be. Given Hester’s frame of mind, I can’t think of anything that would be keeping her here anymore. She said as much, but I thought she might return here for her things.”

  “She had things here?”

  “Not really, no. She was living like a prisoner, waiting for her son to be found. And waiting to leave this place.”

  “And she’s gone now?”

  “On her way.”

  “Then we’ll all go together.”

  Henry led the way up the aisle and through the foyer. He pulled the doors open and took a moment to close the wooden box and stow it away beneath his enormous long overcoat. Day could still hear the bird chirping somewhere deep in the folds, but he imagined that it was warmer than he was and he wished that he was small enough to fit in a wooden box within a giant’s coat, ferried safely through any storm. He wished that he felt the way he had as a child, secure and trusting in the sound judgment of everyone larger than he. He knew that Oliver Price had felt that same thing and that the boy’s faith had been misplaced, and for a brief moment before plunging into the storm behind Henry Mayhew, Day wondered how any children ever made it to adulthood when they so blindly placed their trust in adults.

  The moment his foot broke the thin icy surface of the church’s stoop, the earth beneath him rumbled and shook and he was thrown backward into the foyer.

  He landed hard on his left shoulder and braced himself, both palms flat against the floor, waiting for the church to collapse around him. But the sound died and the shaking stopped and the calm of the snow resumed.

  From somewhere behind him, back in the sanctuary, he heard the frightened cries of sick villagers and he wondered how far the church had sunk into the tunnels below, whether the priest hole was still intact, and what might have happened had he still been down there beneath the vicar’s room when the tremor struck.

  Henry reappeared at the church doors, covered with white powder. He took a step into the foyer and held out his hand, helped Day to his feet, then stuck his hand into his coat and drew out the little wooden box. Day was touched by the anxiety on Henry’s face, the pure worry for his tiny charge. Henry opened the lid and peeked inside, and Day heard the bird chirp once. Henry smiled and closed the lid again and put the box away.

  “Oliver’s all right,” he said.

  “You named the bird Oliver?” Day said.

  “I did, sir. I heard a lot of people saying that name since we came here, and I like the sound of it.”

  Day smiled, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t impossibly complicated and unnecessary. The smile seemed like enough of a response.

  “I think we’d better hurry, sir,” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Day said. “I’m afraid Blackhampton is collapsing beneath us.” He moved past Henry and jumped into the snow and trudged away as fast as he could, Henry right behind him, sheltering the living bird that had been given a dead boy’s name.

  54

  Hammersmith waited until he was certain the inn had stopped trembling on its foundation before he released his grip on the banister. Across the room, Jessica was sunk deep in the cushions of an armchair before the fire. She had slept through the tremor. And the remaining members of the Price family at the inn had also withstood the tremor with little sign they had noticed it happening. They were, of course, much more used to their sinking village than Hammersmith was.

  Sutton Price was holding his three children in a big loose hug as they spoke to him. Virginia leaned in close to her father, and Hammersmith read her lips as she whispered the words “I know a secret” in Sutton’s ear. The other two children tensed and began trying to distract their father, but Sutton calmed them and smiled indulgently at Virginia, who began to babble at him. Price had spent days separated from his children, but now he seemed utterly attached to them, listening carefully to his daughter. Hammersmith tried to read Virginia’s lips to make out what she was saying. He squinted and leaned forward, but the little girl’s long hair was in the way.

  Peter and Anna Price broke away from their father and Virginia. They scurried over to Hammersmith as if by some prearranged agreement between them, took him by the hands, and began to lead him toward the dining room.

  “I’m hungry,” Anna said. “Let’s find something to eat.”

  Bennett Rose was there at his bar, polishing the surface with a dirty rag. He stopped scowling at Sutton Price long enough to scowl at Hammersmith instead.

  “There’s your man,” Hammersmith said. “Why don’t you ask Mr Rose for a bite of something?”

  “We want you to come,” Peter said.

  “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “We like you,” Anna said. “We’d like to spend more time with you.”

  Hammersmith pulled away from them and stopped in front of Rose. “The children are hungry,” he said.

  Rose nodded and left his rag where it was, wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers, and sulked through the door, headed toward the kitchen. Anna shook her head. “You come, too,” she said.

  “I’d rather stay near your father.”

  “It’s no good if you don’t come,” Peter said.

  “I’ll be here when you’ve finished. Go with Mr Rose.”

  “I’m not hungry, after all,” Anna said. “Let’s have a chat.”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “Let’s have a chat.”

  “I’m sorry, children. I’m a bit run-down at the moment. Perhaps we can talk later.” Hammersmith walked rapidly away from Peter and Anna, but he could hear them scurrying after him. They seemed terribly nervous.

  As he drew near Sutton Price, he stopped, surprised by the expression on the miner’s face. Or rather, by the expressions, because Sutton’s features reflected a kaleidoscope of horror, shock, grief, pain, and anger. He picked up his youngest daughter b
y her shoulders and shook her. Her feet flopped back and forth almost comically, dancing in air. Hammersmith rushed forward, ignoring the two other children behind him.

  At that moment, the floor shook again as another tremor hit the inn. Hammersmith was running, his head and shoulders too far out over his feet. There was no possibility of regaining his balance. He saw a flash of light as his jaw smacked hard into the planks of the floor.

  He blinked hard and, just as his vision began to return, he saw Sutton Price, weirdly distorted, tall and out of perspective, stride confidently toward him, perfectly adapted by decades of experience with tremors, able to walk without a trace of difficulty. Price had Virginia by one arm, dragging her along after him. Hammersmith raised himself up as Price approached and opened his mouth to speak just as Price pulled back one steel-toed boot and kicked Hammersmith squarely in the forehead.

  There was another flash of light, brighter than the first, and then there was darkness and, strangely, a sharp whiff of sulfur as the world shuddered away from him.

  From far away, he heard Peter Price yell, “Father, no!” And then there was nothing.

  55

  Jessica woke with a start, and it took her a minute to get her bearings. She had heard Peter shouting, but associated his voice with a dream she had been having in which children were climbing up the walls and across the ceiling of the schoolroom, calling out to one another as they jockeyed to get into position above her head, planning to drop down on her like spiders. There had been a dark figure watching from the corner of the schoolroom, an evil man with a hideous face from a children’s rhyme. Despite the crackling fire in front of her, she was still shivering. She rubbed her goose-bumped arms and yawned.

  She craned her neck to see over the chair back behind her and saw Sutton Price, his daughter Virginia tucked up tight under one arm, march out into the snow, leaving the inn’s door wide open behind him. Peter and Anna followed their father as far as the threshold, but stopped there, reluctant to brave the storm again. Sergeant Hammersmith lay facedown on the floor, unmoving.

  Jessica jumped out of the chair and ran to Hammersmith. He was bleeding heavily from a scalp wound, but he was breathing. She strained to roll him over and shouted over her shoulder at the children.

  “Close the door!”

  Peter jumped as if he’d been burned, and then hurried to obey. The wind didn’t seem to be blowing as fiercely now, and the door shut with a bang. Bennett Rose came running from somewhere at the back of the inn. He was holding a small ceramic pot of groaty dick, with a pewter spoon sticking out of the top of it. He set it on the bar top and scuttled over to Jessica’s side, where he easily flipped Hammersmith over. He untied his apron, rolled it up in a ball, and stuck it under the sergeant’s head as a makeshift pillow. He used a corner of it to dab at Hammersmith’s wound, but that was clearly ineffective.

  “Anna,” he said, “go bring me a rag. And be quick about it, girl.”

  Anna opened her mouth as if to object, but changed her mind and ran to the counter where the fragrant groaty pudding steamed. She reached underneath and rummaged about a bit before producing a handful of rags. Jessica wondered whether they were clean, but decided it wasn’t the right time to be choosy. Anna brought the wad of threadbare fabric back to Rose, who pressed it tight to Hammersmith’s head.

  “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that,” Rose said. “Heads bleed horrible bad, and I’ve seen my share of ’em every time something goes bad at the mines.”

  Jessica nodded. Of course she’d seen her share of head injuries, too, many of them fatal, but she appreciated the innkeeper’s optimism.

  “Too bad Dr Denby’s not here,” Jessica said. “He might. .” She broke off and smacked herself in the forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’m not especially clever today, am I? Anna, run upstairs and fetch Dr Kingsley. He’ll know what to do.”

  Anna bobbed her head and ran to the staircase. She turned back when Hammersmith moaned and she stood on the bottom step, watching as he sat up and grabbed his head. Blood soaked through the wad of rags and trickled out between his fingers. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Where?” he said.

  “Price?” Rose said. “Did he hit you?”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He left,” Jessica said. “He took Virginia. I don’t understand.”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Hammersmith said. He wrestled himself up off the floor and stood, swaying slightly. “I’m afraid Mr Rose was righter than we knew.”

  “Come to the fire,” Jessica said. “Sit.” She glanced at Anna, who still stood watching. “Anna, what are you doing? Go. Get the doctor.”

  Anna scampered up the steps, turned the corner at the landing, and hurried out of sight. They could hear her footsteps on the floor above.

  Hammersmith lurched toward the door. He grabbed for the knob, missed it, and fell against the jamb. Jessica pulled at his arm gently, physically suggesting that he listen to her, but he shrugged her off, found the knob, and wrenched the door open. An icy wind rushed into the room, and the fire wavered, flickered, protested.

  “Get word to Inspector Day, if you can,” Hammersmith said. “Tell him. . Tell him I’ve gone to the seam.”

  “Why the seam?” Jessica said. “Sutton won’t go back there now.”

  “Where else would he go?”

  Hammersmith waited for a second, as if hoping she might have an actual answer, then he grabbed the side of the door with his free hand and propelled himself out into the storm. Jessica watched as he was swallowed by the snow and disappeared from sight, then she shut the door and leaned heavily against it as another tremor hit the inn and the air filled with a groaning sound, echoing down through the chimneys, shaking the air, and sending a shower of sparks into the room.

  Jessica heard something thump hard against the floor above her.

  56

  Dr Bernard Kingsley stood back up and looked down at the body of the little boy. Three tremors in the last few minutes had knocked him down, but he had spent long minutes staring at the boy, and he couldn’t blame the trembling earth for his hesitation.

  The boy’s mouth was a delicate pink bow, pursed as if about to smile, and his fine pale hair swept gently across his high forehead. His eyes had been dulled by the water, but Kingsley could imagine them in life, wide and flashing with curiosity as Oliver tottered about, learning to walk and to talk. But, of course, he would not learn anything more, would not grow up to take his proper place in society. He would be a child forever.

  It was Kingsley’s job to deal with corpses, and yet he was still shocked and dismayed every time a little one came across his table. (The most exacting portion of his mind offered up a correction: The boy was lying on an unmade bed, not a proper sterile table.) He thought of his own children, his two daughters.

  There was a soft rap at the door and he turned, pulled a sheet up over the boy’s body before speaking. “Yes?”

  The door swung open slowly, an inch, two, three. Finally a little girl’s head poked through the narrow opening. “Are you the doctor?”

  Kingsley stepped away from the bed and pulled the door open the rest of the way. He did his best to compose his expression, erase the sadness he felt must show there, and smiled down at the girl. “I am. My name is Dr Kingsley.” He held out his hand.

  The girl brushed her fingers delicately against his palm, barely touching him, in lieu of a handshake. “I’m Anna. Your policeman was kicked in the head by my father.”

  “I see.” But Kingsley didn’t see. Had no idea what she meant.

  “It’s bled quite a lot, but he can talk and move about like anything. I believe he may have gone.”

  “Does someone need my help, child?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Kingsley frowned. He looked around the room and located his satchel, checked it to be sure he had the basic necessities if someone had been injured. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but there seemed
to be a possibility that either Hammersmith or Day had been kicked in the head, and a head injury was never a thing to take lightly. He smiled at Anna again and went to the door, but the girl stepped farther into the room, her gaze fixed on the shape covered by the sheet.

  “Is that Oliver?” she said.

  Kingsley nodded. “Did you know Oliver?”

  “He was my brother.”

  Kingsley moved back into the room and took a tentative step toward her. Hammersmith or Day, whichever had been injured, could probably wait a moment. The girl hadn’t imparted any real sense of urgency. He set his satchel down on the miniature round table by the door, but didn’t know what to do with his hands. Living, grieving people were much more complicated to deal with than the dead. He assumed the girl needed to be comforted, but wasn’t sure how to go about that tricky process. His wife had tended to their daughters’ emotional lives. He had always concentrated on the relatively simpler tasks of teaching.

  “I shouldn’t say that,” Anna said. She spoke to the dark corner of the room above the boy’s body, and Kingsley couldn’t see her face. “He wasn’t really my brother. Not properly. He only came along after my mother left. What did that make him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kingsley said. “Did he live with you as a brother?”

  The girl nodded. Her hair bobbed and swung, heavy and clean and still slightly damp from melted snow.

  “What’s your name again, child?”

  “Anna. Anna Price.”

  “The boy shared a name with you.”

  “Yes.”

  Kingsley waited, looked nervously at the black bag on the table, aware that time was passing and that someone might be bleeding downstairs. But he was loath to interrupt whatever Anna was experiencing and equally uncomfortable about leaving her alone in the room with the body of her brother.

  “He could talk a little bit,” Anna said. “Only some words. And he could walk a bit, too, but he fell down a lot. He said my name. But he was sick. He coughed and he cried too much. He said my name when he was crying, but I didn’t help him.”