by Alex Grecian
“Perhaps you did,” Day said. “Why Blackhampton, though? Why visit this place in particular?”
“Why not Blackhampton?”
“I’m having some trouble placing your accent, sir. Where are you from?”
“I’ve traveled.”
“Yes, I’d wager it’s been some time since you’ve seen Scotland.”
“A long time.”
“You’ve been to America?”
“Spent time there.”
“Liverpool?”
“Spent time there, too.”
“And now the Midlands.”
“I’m passing through. Staying here, same as you.”
“What’s kept you here? What’s your interest? Why do you care about the missing family?”
“We all care. Everyone here does.” Campbell turned his attention to the fire. He slid out of the chair and squatted on the hearth. Day watched as Campbell grabbed the poker from the rack beneath the mantel and poked at the logs. Orange sparks leapt out, burning tiny holes in Campbell’s trousers. Campbell didn’t react, didn’t move back, kept turning the logs, and talked into the fire. “I’ve lost people I cared about. It’s a hard thing, and I hate to see it happen to anyone.”
“Do you know the family?” Day said.
“Only by reputation.”
Day frowned at the Scotsman’s broad back. Campbell wasn’t telling him everything, but his posture and the tension in his shoulders told the inspector that he had finished talking for the moment. Day decided not to press him. He could come back to him later. Right now he wanted a broad overview, as much information as possible before he began ordering things and narrowing down the possibilities. He turned to the others. “What can you tell me about the Prices?”
“Sutton Price is the night watchman on the main seam,” Vicar Brothwood said. “He wasn’t at his post three days ago when the morning shift came on.”
“An alarm was raised?”
“Not right away. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary and there was work to be done.”
“When was the alarm raised, then?”
“That evening, when he didn’t arrive for his shift.”
“Someone . . .”
“Yes, someone was sent to his house to inquire after him.”
“And what was discovered?”
“Three of the Price children and their housekeeper were at their evening meal. Mr Price was nowhere to be found and had not been seen since the previous evening.”
“And Mrs Price was also missing?”
“Yes. Along with her boy.”
“Her boy?”
“The oldest boy, Peter, is not properly her own. Nor are the girls. Oliver is her only child.”
“Ah, yes. As I understand it, the missing woman was the second Mrs Price.”
“Exactly so.”
“Whatever became of the first Mrs Price?”
“She simply disappeared one day a few years ago,” Brothwood said. “When was that, dear?”
He looked at his wife, who muttered something unintelligible and turned her attention to her feet. She was still worrying at the small piece of paper in her right hand. Her face looked grey.
“Just so,” her husband said. He turned back to Day. “We’re not sure when that was. Not with any certainty. Some years ago. I might say perhaps three or four, but don’t hold me to it.”
“And she has not been seen since?”
“Never.”
“Was there a proper interval between the marriages?”
“I wouldn’t say so. In fact, I refused to grant him the second marriage. They traveled to Wolverhampton to get it done.”
“You didn’t approve.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a matter of approval. It was simply too soon. Mathilda might well have turned up—Mathilda was the first Mrs Price—and then where should we be? Two Mrs Prices at once, and us with a village scandal. I was simply being prudent, nothing more.”
“She’s a lovely lady,” Mrs Brothwood said. Day was surprised. It was the first thing out of her mouth that he’d been able to understand and it was spoken with force.
“The first Mrs Price, you mean?” Day said. “Or the second?”
“I apologize. I spoke out of turn.”
“No, please. Which lady did you mean to indicate?”
“Hester.”
“The second Mrs Price, then.”
“Of course. Mathilda Price was a monstrous woman. Everyone knew it. I don’t know why we pretend to be surprised that she ran off. She was unfit to be a wife or mother to anyone, let alone those darling children. How they turned out so well, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Now, dear,” Mr Brothwood said.
“Of course,” his wife said. “I apologize again.” She turned her head so that Day couldn’t see her face, only the firelight that flickered through a few stray wisps of hair that had come free of the pale bun atop her head.
“We’re all quite upset, of course,” Mr Brothwood said.
“Of course,” Day said. “What about you, Mr Campbell? Did you know either of the Price wives?”
Campbell didn’t look up at him, continued stirring the logs. “I told you I know the family by reputation only,” he said.
“How long have you been in the village?”
“Two weeks, perhaps.”
“That’s right,” Brothwood said. “I’d say he’s been here two weeks.”
“What brought you here? What’s your business in this place?”
“Am I your suspect, then?” Campbell’s voice was tired and harsh from the smoke. There was no anger in it that Day could detect.
“I have no suspects at the moment, Mr Campbell. I don’t even know that a crime has been committed. The more information I have, the better able I am to do the job here. I never know what might be useful.”
“I’m an ornithologist.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A bird-watcher.”
“He studies birds,” Brothwood said. “We have several splendid specimens near Blackhampton.”
“You study birds?”
“I do,” Campbell said. “I sketch them. Would you like to see my notebooks?”
“Not necessarily. You’ve been out there in the woods, watching birds?”
“I have.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me out there.”
“We can go now.”
“The sergeant and I should eat something. And we’ll need supplies.”
“I checked the woods,” Grimes said. Day was startled to hear him speak. The constable had been so quiet that Day had nearly forgotten about him. “I checked the woods, the tunnels, the riverbed. I’ve checked everywhere.”
“By yourself?” Day said.
“After the eyeball was found, I spent the entire day out in those woods.”
“We should check again. I’ve no doubt you did as thorough a job as possible, Constable, but you have more people at your disposal now.”
“It’s growing dark out there.”
“No time to waste.”
“Then I’ll ask Mr Rose to get together some lanterns for us,” Grimes said.
He left the knot of people by the fire and crossed to the bar. Day watched him go and lean over the bar next to Hammersmith and the Price children. He murmured something low and emphatic to Rose. Rose nodded, wiped his hands on his apron, and left through the door to the back rooms. Day caught Hammersmith’s eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. The sergeant shrugged and shook his head. He hadn’t learned anything useful yet.
“I’m afraid we ought to get back,” Mr Brothwood said. “My wife and I wouldn’t be of much use to you, tramping through the woods in the dark of night. But we remain at your disposal should you need anything else.”
The vicar’s wife fidgeted, her eyes flicking here and there about the room, never settling anywhere for more than a fraction of a second.
Day had no illusions about his abilities as a detective. He knew that he wasn’t the most intimidating man in any room; he had no steely resolve or grim determination. He wasn’t tireless in his pursuit of justice (that would be Sergeant Hammersmith’s strong suit). But he was very good at listening to people. He paid attention when they talked. And when they didn’t talk. He understood what their bodies and their eyes told him and he understood what people wanted to tell him, despite what they actually said. Mrs Brothwood clearly had something she desperately needed to say, but her husband’s presence prevented her from speaking. Day would have to find a way to get her alone for a few moments.
“Mrs Brothwood, would you—”
He was interrupted by the sound of the front door crashing open and the late winter wind swirling into and through the big room. There was a rustling of wings, and a huge dark shape filled the doorway.
7
Something flew over their heads, circled the room, and perched on the rail of the gallery above them. Bennett Rose emerged from the back room with a lantern in his hand and ran to the front door, slamming it shut against the wind. He turned and scowled up at the gallery and the feathered shape there.
“Oh, this is not good,” he said. “Not a bit. I’ll need some help.”
He went to the counter, where he set the lantern down, then found a long stout plank somewhere behind the bar. He took it to the back door and slotted the plank into brackets on either side of it, barricading the way into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Grimes and the vicar Brothwood walked slowly to the front door. They seemed to jockey with each other for position until Grimes conceded to his elder. Brothwood stood behind the door and gripped the knob. He fixed his gaze on the bird in the gallery. Mr Rose returned to the counter, rummaged about, and pulled out a handful of rags, sizing them against one another. Hammersmith froze on his stool, unsure what to do. He didn’t understand what the fuss was about. He glanced at Day, who raised his eyebrows, but neither man moved. The customs here were alien, and it was hard to know what was proper.
“Mr Rose,” Hammersmith said. “Isn’t that an owl?”
“You mean that creature up there?” As if they might be talking about some other bird in the room.
From the tone of Rose’s voice, they might have been talking about an ancient nightmare that had invaded the inn with great tentacled limbs, intent on dragging them all down to hell. The bird swiveled its head so that it was looking at Hammersmith, its yellow eyes shining out from the shadows above the landing, and hooted. Who who who whooooo. Hammersmith nodded to himself. Yes, it was an owl.
“It doesn’t look likely to hurt anyone,” he said.
“Not worried about it hurting anyone,” Rose said. “Only worried about what it means and getting it to leave.”
He set four glasses on the bar in front of Hammersmith, the schoolteacher, and the two Price children, and filled them from a wooden pitcher of water on the sideboard behind the bar. The pitcher was old and beaded with droplets, the glasses dull and chipped, their edges worn smooth by countless drinkers.
“Perhaps if we got behind it, we could scare it back outside,” Hammersmith said.
“That’d be disrespectful,” Rose said. “We’ll be ready when it decides to move.”
Hammersmith shrugged. He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips.
“Wouldn’t drink that,” Peter Price said.
His sister nudged him and grimaced at Hammersmith. “My brother prefers ginger beer,” she said. She pushed her own glass away from her. It left a glossy trail on the bar. “So do I.”
“I like water,” Hammersmith said. He took a long swallow. Water dribbled down his chin from the many chips in the rim, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt before taking another drink.
Peter shuddered and looked away. Hammersmith made a mental note that the boy seemed to have an aversion to water. He recalled a disease of some sort that made people avoid water. It might be something to mention to the doctor when he saw him. He set the glass down and wiped his chin again.
“What about the owl?” he said.
“It’s a bad sign,” Rose said. He seemed irritated at being kept there, at having to talk to Hammersmith. He wiped the streak of water off the bar, moving his whole arm, putting his weight into the minor effort, then turned and used the rag to cover one of the panels of colored glass above him.
“It’s just a bird, isn’t it?”
“It means death. We’ve got to make it leave, but it’s best if we all act calm and give it a way out.”
“An owl in the house is bad luck,” Jessica said. “Any bird is. And if it lands near you, you’re meant to die within a day.”
Hammersmith watched as Rose moved smoothly about the room, quietly covering the rest of the windows with his rags. “You believe that?” he said.
“It’s happened before,” Jessica said. “We have our ways.”
“I didn’t mean to make light. But, really, it’s just a bird.”
As if it took offense, the owl left its perch on the rail of the gallery and took flight. It sailed down over the great room, hovering over each of the villagers gathered there. Everyone ducked and covered their heads, making themselves small. Day, alone among them, stood up and watched the bird glide past him. He uncorked his flask and raised it to Hammersmith. Hammersmith slid off his stool and held his ground as the owl approached him. It was brown underneath with fingers of white feathers that reached up and over its head. It flapped its wings and put out its talons and gripped the back of the stool, settling there for a long moment, regarding him with its broad flat face, its yellow eyes wide and intelligent.
Who?
The vicar Brothwood swung the front door open, and the owl turned its head to an impossible degree, saw the night sky outside, and took off again. Like a dream, it flapped slowly toward the vicar and then banked sideways and passed through the door and out. Brothwood slammed the door shut and leaned against it.
“Oh, that’s bad,” Anna said.
“That’s awful,” Jessica said.
“It is?” Hammersmith said. “I thought it was rather magnificent.”
Anna regarded him for a long time before responding. “You’re going to die now,” she said. “The owl landed on your chair. That’s a sign that you’re to die.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
Hammersmith glanced around the room, but no one would look at him. Brothwood slunk back to the fire and put an arm around his wife. Grimes positioned himself at the door and watched out through the tiny pane of glass set high in the wood, as if protecting the place from more birds.
Rose looked at Hammersmith, his eyes wide and his forehead creased with concern. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s right.”
“It picked your chair,” Peter said. As if that was all that needed to be said.
“Well, I don’t mean to offend,” Hammersmith said, “but I don’t share your beliefs.”
Rose nodded. “Nothin’ to do about it. Don’t matter whether you believe or not, it’s the way of things.” He moved away down the bar, tore the plank out of its brackets, and stalked through the back door, presumably to contemplate Hammersmith’s impending death alone. Hammersmith blinked and shook his head.
He looked at Day, who was busy with the knot of villagers, the vicar and his wife saying their good-byes. Mrs Brothwood shook Day’s hand and held it for a moment, but Hammersmith couldn’t see that she spoke at all. Then the vicar’s hand was around her shoulders, hurrying her away toward the front door. They passed by Hammersmith without looking at him, nodded to Grimes and left. Day glanced down at his hand, then put something in his pocket. He turned his attention to the big man with the grey hair, Calvin Campbell, but their conver
sation was held in low tones and Hammersmith couldn’t hear what was being said.
Hammersmith shook his head and sighed. Back to work. He swiveled on his stool and looked at the Price children. They looked back at him. He had never been good with children, never comfortable with them. Even when he was a child himself. He had spent long stretches of time alone in cramped tunnels far underground, listening for sounds that would let him know that the ponies were coming up from the mines, laden with coal. The sounds of the ponies’ hooves and the rats skittering in the darkness were his only company. When he had spent time with other children, he had been quiet, had listened to them jabber and laugh together, joke and complain, and it had all seemed alien and pointless to him.
He lifted his glass and took another swallow of water, then picked his notebook and pencil up off the bar.
“What were we talking about?”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “If you want to waste what little time you have left talking to us, go ahead.”
“Right,” Hammersmith said. “Thank you, I will.” He looked at his notes. “You haven’t supplied me with many facts yet. You think your stepmother’s run away, but you don’t know why. And you think I should be suspicious of Calvin Campbell because you don’t know him. So let’s talk about things you do know.”
“Sergeant,” Jessica said. “Surely the children aren’t suspects.”
“Of course not.”
“Then perhaps you could be friendlier?”
“I apologize. I’m not used to speaking to children.” He smiled at Peter and Anna, and cleared his throat. “I’d like to know about your sister, if you don’t mind. Her name’s Virginia?”
“No,” Peter said. Anna turned and looked at him. “I mean, yes,” he said. “Of course. Virginia is our sister.”
The boy seemed peculiar to Hammersmith, but then everyone in Blackhampton seemed peculiar. “Where is she?” he said.
“Who?”
“Virginia. Your sister.”
“Oh, her.”
“She’s at home with the housekeeper,” Anna said.
“Your brother seems to be more nervous than you are.”
