by Alex Grecian
Hammersmith struggled to keep his feet under him, balancing the hanged man above him. He felt weak and suddenly very tired of everything and everyone. “What is it? What do you want to say?”
“Don’t blame her. Virginia.”
“Where is she?”
“She was lost.”
“I don’t know how long I can hold you up. Tell me where your daughter is. Which tunnel?” He was panting, spitting out short sentences like a mockery of Sutton Price.
“Mathilda. I hit her. Ended her. Buried her here.”
“Your first wife?”
“There.”
Hammersmith looked at the far wall of the chamber, at the two mounds, one packed down and settled, the other fresh and high. “You buried her here.”
“Played out.”
Hammersmith understood. “This tunnel. The seam’s played out here. You brought her here and no one ever found her.”
“She was good. A good person.”
“But you wanted the nanny.”
“Hester. So beautiful.” The words forced out of Price as if by a bellows. “But she loved another. Another man. I knew she did. But I did it all anyway. I did everything.”
“The other grave?”
“It was in her.”
“Who?”
“My wickedness. All my fault. Don’t blame her.”
“Who, man? Tell me before I fall and let you dangle.”
“She killed Oliver. My responsibility. Done now.”
Hammersmith realized who was buried under the mound of earth, had realized it as soon as he saw the two piles of dirt, but had refused to acknowledge it. His stomach flopped over and he cried out. Price kicked at Hammersmith and the sergeant lost his footing for a second, but regained it, used the swaying man to right himself. He planted his feet again and pushed up, but he could already feel his arms starting to give out.
“Put me next to them,” Price said.
“My inspector will come,” Hammersmith said. “He’ll help me. We’ll get you. Get you down. And you’ll pay for your crimes properly.”
“Am paying.”
“This isn’t the way.”
“My way.”
“No. By order of Her Majesty, I’m placing you under arrest. For the murder. For the murder of Mathilda Price. And for the murder of Virginia Price, too. Damn you.”
Sutton Price chuckled. The deep harsh sound of sand shaking through an hourglass.
“I can wait. Policeman. If you can.”
Hammersmith closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He wrapped his arms tighter around Sutton Price’s dangling legs and steeled himself, prepared for a long wait. Price began to talk again, but his voice was gone, nothing but rasping, and Hammersmith didn’t try to listen. He held on and concentrated on breathing, on staying awake, on rooting himself to the ground. He held on and he waited for help.
64
I’m all right!” Day said.
The others couldn’t see him.
“Stand back,” Henry said. He cupped his massive palms around his mouth and hollered into the chasm made by generations of miners. “I’m coming down!”
“No!” Day said. “Don’t! We’d both be trapped!”
Kingsley put a hand on Henry’s chest and shook his head. “We’ll find rope,” he said.
“Where?” Henry said. He looked back and forth through the snow, pantomiming a search.
“I’m in a tunnel! I can feel air moving! It must lead outside!”
Kingsley knelt at the edge of the hole. “You could wander forever down there!”
“There must be a way out!”
Peter Price squatted down next to Kingsley and peered into the darkness. “I’ve been in the tunnels! I can help you!”
“Yes!” Day’s voice didn’t sound like he was very far down there, even if the others couldn’t see him. “Any advice would be good! I think I should go. . I can’t tell one direction from another!”
“Look up!” Peter Price said. He jumped into the hole before Kingsley, or anyone else, could stop him. A half a second later there was a loud whoof as Peter landed on Day.
“Oh, my God!” Jessica said.
“I’m all right!” Day said. Again.
“So am I!” Peter said. “It’s warmer down here! You should come down!”
“No!” Day said. “Please don’t!”
“I hurt him!”
“He didn’t hurt me! But please, don’t anyone else jump on me!”
“Can you see anything down there?” Kingsley said.
“It’s very dark!” Day said.
“Take one of the lanterns!”
“Don’t throw it!”
“No!” Kingsley said. He stood and looked around. “No, that wouldn’t do, would it?”
“I have an idea,” Anna said. She squatted like Peter had at the lip of the chasm. Kingsley and Jessica both reached out and grabbed her shoulders. “I’m not going to jump in there. I’m the smart one. Peter’s the impulsive one.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted down at Day and Peter. “Stand well back! I’m going to try something!”
She stood and walked back from the fissure and squatted again, putting her arms out in front of her, bent at the elbows so that her forearms were straight across her face. She moved forward, pushing the snow ahead of her, using her arms as a plow. By the time she reached the hole in the ground, she was sweeping a high pile of snow. It went over the edge and fell into the dark with a soft plush.
Kingsley grasped what she was up to and grinned. “Come, Henry. Let’s help her.” He blew out the fire in his lantern and set it next to the hole to cool, then he and Henry moved out into the drifts of snow. They mimicked Anna, who was already pushing another heap of snow toward the chasm. Jessica followed them, knelt in the snow, and plowed it ahead of her just as the others were doing. After a few minutes, they stood and brushed themselves off, blew warm air into their cupped palms, and returned to the hole.
Anna peered down at her invisible brother and the inspector. “Did it make a cushion down there?”
“It did!” Peter said. “Good job! It must be a yard high at least, but I don’t think we can climb up it! Too soft!”
“Soft is good!” Anna said. She took the cold lantern and clicked her tongue at it. “I’m afraid we may lose some of the oil.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t talking to you!”
“What are you doing?”
“Stand back and let me just do it!”
She lay on her stomach and crawled out as far as she dared, then dangled the lantern over the edge and let go of it. It landed like a whisper somewhere below. A moment later Peter’s voice drifted up to her. “Got it! Brilliant!”
“Did it leak?”
“I don’t think so! Not very much!”
“We need to get matches for you now!”
“I’ve got matches!” Day said.
She listened to a rustling sound in the dark, and then there was a small flash of light and the sound of metal on metal as the lantern opened and was lit. And all at once she could see her brother and Inspector Day, standing in the snow and looking up at her. Their faces were yellow in the lamplight, and their bodies faded out into nothingness below their chests. They looked almost close enough to touch.
“Henry might be able to reach you,” Kingsley said. There seemed to be no need to shout anymore, now that they could all see one another.
“I don’t think so,” Day said. “It’s farther than it looks.”
Henry reached out anyway, reached his long right arm far down into the ground, his fingertips still far above Day and the boy.
“It’s okay,” Peter said. “I can lead us out. I know the way. I think I do.” He seemed eager to please, and Anna understood why. Both of them had a lot to make up for.
“We’ll be okay,” Day said. “It really is warmer down here than up there. You lot must be freezing. You look wet.”
And, suddenly, they were freezing. The ini
tial rush of adrenaline had faded and they weren’t moving, just kneeling in the snow. Henry reached into his overcoat and found his little wooden box. He opened the lid a crack and squinted inside it, then closed it again and held it over the chasm.
They all heard a piercing peep.
“Henry!”
“Catch,” Henry said.
“Henry, no!” Day said.
“He can help you, little Oliver can.”
“How is that?”
“Like a canary. It’s a coal mine you’re in. They take canaries into coal mines to protect them, don’t they?”
“That they do,” Day said. He doubted whether Henry understood why miners carried canaries, that the birds’ deaths were meant to warn men of gas leaks and pockets of poison in the underground air. “Thank you, but I doubt it’s necessary. You need to keep Oliver safe with you.”
Henry frowned, but tucked the bird back into his coat.
“Right,” Kingsley said. “We’ll head on to the depot and see about warming up. You get out of there and make your way to the depot, too.”
“Or somewhere,” Day said. “If we can find a safe place, we’ll wait for daylight. I’ll find Sergeant Hammersmith. Or Constable Grimes.”
“The train will come once the storm lets up.”
“We hope.”
“We do indeed.”
“I want to send the sergeant home as soon as we can.”
“We will.”
“Peter,” Anna said, “take care.”
He nodded up at her, the lamplight catching highlights in his hair and a glint in his eyes. She knew he understood her. She didn’t want to spell it out. She needed him now. She had a horrible feeling that they had no one else left.
65
Well,” Day said, “lead the way, young man.”
Peter bit his upper lip and preceded the inspector down the long black tunnel. Day held the lantern high, and shadows bounded ahead of them over the craggy walls and the beaten-down floor, the ceiling with its rough timbers meant to keep the village from crashing through and failing miserably at that task.
“How is your arm? Does it hurt much?”
“No,” Peter said. “Perhaps it’s the cold, but I can’t feel it at all now.”
The boy trotted along barefoot, his arm in a sling made from a torn shirt, his hair plastered to his head. He and his sisters had spent days on their own, wild children, their father stalking these same tunnels and their mother hiding in a tiny hole under a church. Peter Price had been attended by a housekeeper and a schoolteacher, but he had gone without a parent, had most likely taken the role of parent for his sisters’ sake, and there was something new awakening in Day as his wife grew larger, as their baby grew larger inside her. He was a father, or would be very soon, and he was astonished by the depth of feeling that this simple fact inspired in him. He wanted to be an example for his child, whether that child finally presented itself as a boy or a girl. And, like generations of men before him, he also wanted to take a train in the other direction and never set his eyes on that child. Granted, this latter emotion was a false one, gnarled and stunted, a poisoned apple offered up by a part of himself he had never listened to, but it shamed him and he aimed that shame at Sutton Price, who had actually left his children to fend for themselves while he hared off after a woman who didn’t want him, and who didn’t want to be a mother to Peter and Anna and Virginia.
“You won’t be left alone again,” Day said to the boy’s filthy back as they hurried along. “I won’t leave until you’re safe.”
The boy didn’t react, but his back stiffened and he jogged faster, his bare feet slapping against the dirt. They both moved along silently after that. Day felt mildly uncomfortable, as if he’d said something wrong, but he was glad he’d said it anyway.
At last, Peter stopped and bent his head and peered forward. “Do you see that?”
Day looked down the length of the tunnel. He squinted. “Is the wall yellow there?”
The boy nodded. “I think so.”
“Is it gold? Did we find a gold mine?”
“I think it’s a light, sir.”
“Yes,” Day said. “It looks like lantern light to me.”
“Should we go on?”
“Let’s,” Day said. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll take the lead.”
He passed the boy and quietly reached into his coat. He drew out his Colt Navy and, comforted by the weight of it, crept forward and around a slight curve in the narrow abandoned tunnel.
He stopped again when he ran into the back of a horse.
66
As it happened, the train depot was only a few yards from where Day had fallen into the chasm. It was over a rise that had been piled high with snow, and as soon as the four of them-Dr Kingsley, Jessica, Anna, and Henry Mayhew-topped the ridge they saw it, half digested by the landscape, listing to one side deep in a chasm of its own. They ran to it, lifting their feet high and bounding forward as if they still had energy, even though the place was dark and empty-looking. Even tipped up on end, it was better than the limitless tracts of nothing they’d been wandering through.
Henry wrenched the front door up and open and lifted little Anna through, lowered her down. They all heard her gasp, but Henry lost his grip and was unable to pull her back up. So he jumped in after her, careful not to land where he thought Anna must be. He slipped and slid down the inclined floor, but caught himself with a paw on the broken windowsill. Kingsley lowered their remaining lantern down to him and Henry raised it up, peered into the gloom.
There were no furnishings. Just three benches tilted at an odd angle, bolted to the floor. In the lowest corner of the room, Calvin Campbell looked up and glared at the sudden light. He was hunched over something that resembled an old blanket, discarded there where nobody would think to look. When Henry brought the lantern closer, he saw that the blanket-thing was a woman and that the woman was missing the top of her head. The wall behind Campbell was painted with a black swath of liquid that ran and dripped and spattered, all of it pointed directly at the big Scotsman and the dead woman.
“Henry,” Dr Kingsley said.
Henry looked up at the rectangle of black sky behind Kingsley’s head. Kingsley was half in the room already, straining with worry. Behind him was the silhouette of Jessica’s upper body, leaning forward over the doctor.
“Henry, is the girl all right?”
“She’s dead, Doctor.”
“Oh, no!” Jessica shoved Kingsley out of the way and tripped forward through the door, falling into Henry’s arms. He held on to the lantern by its wire, and its swaying bulk swung crazy shadows around the room, into every corner. Anna sat on a bench, perched on the arm of it, her hand on Campbell’s arm. When she saw Jessica with Henry, she pulled herself up the bench toward them. Jessica pushed herself out of Henry’s arms and met the girl halfway as Kingsley dropped down next to Henry.
“You said she was dead,” Kingsley said.
“I meant the other girl,” Henry said. “The big one. I’m sorry.”
Kingsley patted the giant’s shoulder and moved forward, past Jessica and Anna, who were crying, holding each other, neither of them looking at the grisly tableau against the tilted baseboards. Campbell looked up again as Kingsley came near and he let go of Hester’s body. He stood, balancing with one foot against the wall.
“It’s too late,” Campbell said.
Kingsley nodded, his shadow self trembling across the walls, its head stretched out across the ceiling that wasn’t properly a ceiling anymore. “I see that.”
“My fault,” Campbell said. “It’s my fault.”
“You killed her?”
“I brought all of this here. All the death, all the evil. It’s all mine.”
“That’s something for the police to determine, Mr Campbell.”
“I’ll go quietly. There’s nothing here anymore.”
“There’s whoever did that,” Kingsley said. He pointed at the body of Hester Pri
ce. “This place doesn’t seem particularly safe, but we should guard against that person’s return.” He waved to Henry. “Check outside, would you?”
“He has grey eyes. The one who killed her. He takes the people I love.”
Anna broke away from Jessica and went to Campbell, put her hand on his back. Campbell looked down at the girl, his expression unreadable.
“You knew her,” he said.
“I didn’t know her well enough,” Anna said. “I’m sorry.”
“She was good. Too good for me. But she waited all those years.”
“Who’s the grey-eyed man?” Kingsley said. “Who did this?”
“An American,” Campbell said. “I never knew his name. He’s stalked me for years.”
“But where is he now?”
67
T he American listened as they struggled to get past the carriage that was stuck in the tunnel. The horse whinnied and bucked, and when they got around it they still had to climb over the carriage. They weren’t quiet about it. It sounded like there were two of them. He had plenty of time to prepare for them, but he didn’t see much that he could do beyond loading the Whitworth. He was sitting with his back against the opposite wall from the tunnel mouth where they were making all the noise. His foot was twisted in a way that made him sick to his stomach when he looked at it. He had peeled back his stocking and had seen bone. He set the rifle across his knees and waited.
The man entered the chamber first, his arm held out, keeping the boy safe behind his own body. The American recognized the man. He had been on the train from London and had followed Campbell around the woods. This was the plainclothesman. The American’s eyes flicked over to the other London policeman, the one in uniform in the middle of the chamber, then back to the detective. Both he and the boy looked as if they’d had a rough time of it recently. The detective’s clothes were in tatters and the boy was barefoot, smudged with ash. They both peered around the chamber, taking in the scene. The boy gasped when he saw the American’s face, and he gasped again when he saw the dead man hanging from the ceiling. “Father!” He ran forward, but the detective caught him and held him back, eyeing the rifle, the American holding it loosely but with his finger ready on the trigger.
