The Black Country

by Alex Grecian

  “Patience, little one,” Day said.

  He scanned the woods, alert for the grey man and for the bird’s parents. But he was alone.

  In a few moments, he fished the raisins out of the handful of water and squeezed them gently between his thumb and finger. They still seemed shriveled and dense, but the bird was shaking with hunger or anticipation, and so he poked a raisin into its beak. The raisin immediately disappeared down the bird’s eager throat. Its beak never closed. He gave it another one and waited to see if there would be any problems. He didn’t think magpies probably ate raisins in the wild, in the woods. But this one seemed to have an insatiable appetite for them, and so he poked the last raisin into its beak.

  He sat cross-legged in front of the bird and watched it. The raisins had changed nothing. It sat trembling in the leaves, occasionally chirping, its beak open.

  He found his flask in another pocket and opened it, tipped some of the brandy into his mouth. He held the half-empty flask out and showed it to the bird.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care for a bracer, would you? No, I thought not.”

  He smiled and plugged the top of the flask, put it back in his pocket.

  “What happens to you if I go on my way, little chum?” he said.

  He looked at the trees again, hoping to see a nest or an anxious adult bird, but of course he saw nothing. His visibility extended perhaps four feet into the trees.

  “Will you learn to fly? Will your mother come to feed you?”

  He sighed.

  “We both know something will eat you. Or you’ll simply die here in the snow and then bugs will come when things warm up out here. Bugs are something, too, I suppose. So, yes, you will be eaten. That’s how it works, isn’t it? You’ve left the nest too early and now you’ll be a victim of . . . of what? The forest, the world, the natural way of things?”

  He reached down and gathered up the ball of fuzz. It was ridiculously lightweight. He turned it over and noticed that there were no feathers on its belly. The skin was nearly translucent, and he could see its heart beating, see its dark organs arranged within the compact globe of its body. He touched a fingertip, gently, to the smooth grey-pink casing and felt its pulse against his own.

  “Are you supposed to have feathers there?” he said. “Are you sick? Were you kicked out of the nest?”

  The bird closed its beak and kicked out with a twiglike leg. He turned it back over in his hand so that it could sit upright.

  “Well, you’ll freeze to death out here, at any rate. Not a good idea to leave home without your feathers on a night like this. I’d best do something about you.”

  He tucked the bird away into the empty pocket that had held the biscuit and he stood up. He checked to make sure there was room enough for the bird and arranged the flap of his pocket so that it could get air. He bent, carefully, and picked up the lantern by its handle, checked the trees once more for a nest, and continued on his way, listening for the random chirp of his new companion.

  18

  When Hammersmith, Campbell, and Grimes returned to the inn, it was just before dawn and smoke was already pouring upward from the twin chimneys. Grimes left the other two at the door with a promise to return after washing up and getting a bite to eat. Inspector Day had not been found, and the men were anxious to recruit more bodies to aid in the search. Campbell opened the inn’s door and waved Hammersmith through to the common room, where they were surprised to find Inspector Day sitting before one of the two fires, sipping at a steaming mug of cider, still wearing his quilted vest and heavy boots.

  Day stood and greeted them warmly when they entered the room. Hammersmith was speechless, and Campbell seemed happier to see the inspector than either of them would have expected. Bennett Rose, looking sleepless and bleary-eyed, emerged from the door at the back of the room and counted heads, then returned a moment later with two cups of hot tea and a plate of tiny sweet cakes. The men stripped off their wet overcoats and hung them on hooks near the fire. They stacked their boots on the hearth, where they steamed. Hammersmith noticed a small wooden box filled with straw on the stones near the fire. He glanced at Day and saw the inspector watching him with a mischievous smile.

  “What happened to your face, Sergeant?”

  Hammersmith touched his cheek and winced. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “But how are you here ahead of us?”

  “I’ve been here for hours,” Day said. “Or perhaps it only seems like it’s been hours.”

  “But I lost you in the woods,” Campbell said.

  “Yes, about that,” Day said. “Why did you leave me?”

  “I apologize. I thought I saw something and wanted a better look. I expected you to stay where you were, but you left me.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the woods. What did you see that caused you to run off?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “There was nothing there, so what does it matter?”

  “Was it a man with a hole in his face? More than a scar, a great gaping maw where his jaw might ordinarily be expected?”

  Behind them, at the kitchen door, Bennett Rose gasped and dropped a cup. It clattered on the stone floor and rolled for an instant before shattering against the wainscoting. Rose dropped to one knee and began mopping up tea. Hammersmith jumped up and went to help, and Day noticed that the sergeant was covered in muck from head to toe.

  “You do look as if you’ve had an adventure,” Day said.

  “We’ve spent half the night looking for you.”

  “I had my compass, my knife, a good pair of boots. You needn’t have worried.”

  “We thought you were lost.”

  “I was. But then I wasn’t. As soon as I heard the whoosh of flames from the furnaces, I knew I was close to the tree line, and I simply followed the noise out.” Day swiveled in his seat as Hammersmith returned to the fire. Bennett Rose was already on his way back to the kitchen, holding the fragments of the broken cup in the palm of one hand and a sopping dishcloth in the other. “Mr Rose,” Day said, “why were you surprised just now?”

  “No time for talk, sir. I should take care of this mess.”

  “Was it because you recognized my description of the man in the woods?”

  “Man in the woods, sir?”

  “Mr Rose, you surprise me. For an innkeeper, you’re a terrible liar.”

  Rose shook his head and hurried away through the kitchen door. Hammersmith turned to Day and raised an eyebrow.

  “Shall I follow?” he said. “I may be able to make him talk.”

  “No,” Day said. “Let him be. He wants to tell us what’s troubling him, but he hasn’t quite got his courage up yet. Let him sleep on it and he may tell us about it in the morning.”

  Hammersmith glanced back at the kitchen door. “It’s morning now, isn’t it? In the technical sense, I mean.” But he walked reluctantly to where Day and Campbell sat by the fire. He took a brocade-covered chair across from the inspector.

  “I believe you’ve just now ruined Mr Rose’s chair, Sergeant,” Day said. “He may decide not to talk to us, after all.”

  Hammersmith held his arms out in front of him and looked down at himself. “I’m dry. The mud should brush out of the upholstery without difficulty.”

  “Ah, of course. You think of everything.”

  “You seem a bit tetchy.”

  “Not at all. But you did leave me in the woods, after all.”

  “Actually, I believe you left us in the woods.”

  “Quite so.”

  “I only came back to refill the oil in our lanterns.”

  “You were going back out tonight?”

  “Couldn’t leave you there.”

  “I’m touched.”
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  Hammersmith pointed to the little wooden box by the fire. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Have a look,” Day said. “But be quiet. He’s only just settled down.”

  Hammersmith stood and walked to the hearth. He looked down into the top of the box and then crouched to get a closer look. “It’s a bird,” he said. “Did you bring back a souvenir from the woods, Mr Day?”

  “I’m thinking of promoting the little fellow to sergeant already.”

  “Looks more like an inspector to me.”

  “Well, we’ll see how he does. He’ll have to work his way through the ranks, same as anyone else. I rescued him. Rose gave me that box for him.”

  Hammersmith stood and shook his head. “Kind of him.”

  “Actually,” Day said, “Mr Campbell might be able to help us with our new ward.”

  “How is that?” Campbell said.

  “You’re the resident expert on birds. What should we do for him?”

  “What have you done for him so far?”

  “I gave him raisins from a biscuit in my pocket. And I like to think I saved him from being eaten by a fox.”

  “I’m amazed he didn’t choke on raisins. They must have been awfully firm.”

  “They were.”

  “Baby birds generally have their food chewed for them.”

  “He’s remarkably hardy, I think. I’m quite proud of him.”

  “You should be. But you might moisten anything you give to him in the future.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Fascinating as your bird may be,” Hammersmith said, “we found something, too, Grimes and me.” He reached into his jacket and frowned. He opened the front of the jacket wider and checked the other side. “There it is. Forgot where the pocket was. Look at this.”

  He pulled out a small cloth bundle and unwrapped it. The stains had been folded on the inside surface to help preserve them. He found the seams at the tops of the shoulders and held the child’s dress up for Day to see. Day sat forward and peered at it, moving his head to take advantage of the light from the fireplace. He didn’t touch the dress. Campbell stood and looked over Day’s shoulder.

  “Is that blood?” he said.

  “I think it might be,” Hammersmith said.

  “The missing child is a boy,” Day said, “and I presume the missing woman is too big to wear this.”

  “A nightshirt perhaps?” Campbell said.

  “I thought of that,” Hammersmith said.

  “But a flower pattern around the hem here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Curious.”

  “The doctor will be here soon,” Hammersmith said.

  “Good thing, too,” Day said. “And good of you to find something for him to do, Sergeant.”

  Hammersmith smiled grimly and folded the dress, putting it back in his pocket. “I rather think it’s him who will put us to work,” he said.

  “Who is this doctor?” Campbell said.

  “Dr Kingsley,” Day said. “A colleague of ours.”

  “To help if we find the boy alive?”

  “Well, that, yes. But the doctor is, in his way, another detective of the Yard. He often finds clues in the evidence we bring him.”

  Campbell stood and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “I’ll turn in. If you chaps are going back out there in the daylight, whatever time, I’ll go with you, if you’ll have me. The boy’s not dead. We’ll find him, and your doctor will help him.”

  Campbell nodded at each of them in turn, and they nodded back and watched him cross the room and mount the stairs. He turned at the landing and disappeared from view.

  “Mr Hammersmith,” Day said. “What do we know about Mr Campbell?”

  “Very little. I’m not sure he’s much of an expert on birds. I might have given the same advice about our baby there. He seems quite anxious to find the boy, but seems dismissive of the parents.”

  “He does. I wonder why.”

  “He knows more than he’s said.”

  “Indeed he does. So does our innkeeper. And I think Mr Campbell was going to tell us about the man I saw in the woods before Mr Rose caused that commotion with the broken cup. There are secrets within secrets here.”

  “And yet they asked us to come.”

  “I think tomorrow will be interesting.”

  “I’m afraid,” Hammersmith said, “that the boy’s parents may be dead, and that everyone here knows it.”

  “I’m not sure you’re right, Sergeant, but if you are, I hope we at least find the boy alive.”

  “And quickly. It’s cold out there.”

  “Well,” Day said. “We shall be of no use to anyone without at least a couple of hours of sleep.”

  “You go. I won’t be able to sleep knowing the boy may be out there in the cold and the dark, feeling abandoned and alone.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’ll sense your lack of sleep and be comforted by it.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Never mind. Go get whatever sleep you can, and we’ll be back at the search bright and early. I promise.”

  Hammersmith moved toward the stairs, but turned back when Day called his name.

  “Mr Hammersmith?”

  “Sir?”

  “It might be a good idea to lock your bedroom door tonight.”

  “I always do.”

  19

  The American circled the schoolhouse in the dark, looking for an easy entrance point. The wind was picking up, and snow obscured his sight lines to the village and, in the other direction, the forest. A deep purple hue was visible low in the sky. Dawn was coming. He had followed the men far enough to be sure they had finished for the night and were headed home. There were no tracks or footprints in the snow leading to the schoolhouse, and he concluded that the building wasn’t in use.

  The door and windows were locked, so the American used the stock of his rifle to break out the large picture window in the back wall, facing the woods. He knocked the remaining chunks of glass out of the frame and pushed his pack and rifle through into the cold dark room. He had two squirrels on a string and he slung them around his neck before climbing through the window. He stood for a moment and let his eyes adjust. He sniffed and identified the overlapping odors of chalk dust and soap and age. The little building contained a single large room with an open door leading to a small storage compartment that had been converted to a crude water closet. Perfect for the American’s needs. He didn’t imagine that he’d be in Blackhampton for more than another day, but no matter how long his job took to complete, he now had a good base of operations.

  He dragged two student desks in front of the broken window and tipped one on end atop the other to keep out some of the wind and snow. He checked the front door and saw there was no way to open it without a key. He’d have to leave the window uncovered when he left this place, but what did he care if a little snow blew in and wet the floor?

  There was a framed chalkboard made of black slate near the front of the room, and the American pulled it free from its stand and laid it flat on the floor. He smashed a chair against the edge of the cabinet and broke pieces off of it, laying them on top of the slate. He found a book about talking ducks and tore it apart, wadded the pages, and layered them among the splintered pieces of chair. He had a small waterproof box of matches in his coat pocket, and he used one of them to start a fire on his makeshift slate platform. He had three matches left and decided he would have to replenish his supply before he left Blackhampton. The broken chair burned slowly, and the American moved the desk back from the broken window far enough to allow the smoke an escape route. It wouldn’t do to suffocate when he was so close to his goal.

  He skinned and dressed the squirrels and set them on the slate by the fire, turning them when the fat began to bubbl
e. When he ate, he noticed that some of the squirrel meat was burnt and some was still raw, but he didn’t particularly care as long as he could keep it all down. He had learned long ago to cover his cheek with the palm of his left hand so that food wouldn’t fall out of his mouth. It made eating a time-consuming process. When he had finished, he wiped his greasy hands on his trousers and put out the fire. He shoved the back of a chair against the front door of the schoolhouse, under the knob, and bunked down in the far corner of the room.

  The sky in the east began to change color, turning for a few minutes the pale grey color of the American’s eyes, but he didn’t see it. He was asleep.

  20

  There was no key in the door. The innkeeper had left them vulnerable, with no easy means to lock themselves in. Walter Day checked under his bed and found that the chamber pot with Hammersmith’s vomit and the rest of the stew had been removed. A fresh basin had been left in its place. He set the small straw-filled box containing the baby bird on the vanity next to the washbasin. The ball of fluff was asleep, breathing heavily in and out. He imagined its heart beating under the soft feathers. He hoped that the little boy, Oliver, was sleeping somewhere and had made it through another night.

  He was dressing for bed when he heard a small noise in the hall outside, a rustle of movement so faint as to go unnoticed if he hadn’t been on edge, half listening for it. He turned down the lamp, went to his door, and cracked it open. The flow of shadows among shadows at the end of the hall caught his eye and he closed the door again, pressed his cheek against it, and listened.