The Black Country

by Alex Grecian

  Campbell broke a low branch off a nearby tree. It was thick with new green leaves. He used it as a brush, swiping at the pig’s corpse, scraping off the layer of crunchy white maggots until more of the pig’s skin was visible. He used his free hand to wave the doctor over. “What do you think?” he said.

  Denby leaned over the body and then squatted to get a closer look. “Dead a week, at least,” he said.

  “I thought maybe we could heal it,” Campbell said. His sarcasm was lost on the doctor. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  Denby looked stricken. “What exactly would you like to know?”

  “I’d like to know what killed it,” Campbell said. “Is that something you can tell from looking at it?”

  “A knife. It was killed with a knife or some other small sharp object. A miner’s wedge, perhaps?”

  “A lot of wounds there.”

  “Someone timid did this. None of those wounds is deep. A lot of shallow work done.”

  “Why would the pig sit still for that?” Day said.

  “Bound by the feet. Ligature marks, front and back. The two front feet tied together and the same with the two back feet.”

  “Trussed up?” Campbell said.

  “No, not pulled up on a trestle or a branch, the way it might be if someone were hunting.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just tied.”

  “Pig won’t sit still for a thing like that.”

  “Well, a wild hog wouldn’t. But pigs are smart. If this one belonged to someone, it might wait, might trust its owner until it was too late to fight back.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know what you . . .” Dr Denby doubled over with no warning and began to vomit, each spasm taking an apparent toll on his frail body. Pale brown liquid splashed into the snow. After a minute or two, he fell over on his side and, before either Day or Campbell could get to him, he hit his head on a log. He lay there, bleeding heavily from a scalp wound that looked, to Day’s untrained eye, to be fairly minor. Day looked about for something to staunch the wound, grabbed up an end of the muffler Claire had made him, and thought better of it. He didn’t want blood on it. Instead, he found Claire’s handkerchief in his breast pocket and squatted over the doctor, pressing the clean cloth against his head and staunching the flow of blood. Denby’s breathing was wet and labored, but steady. Day leaned against the log and looked up at Campbell. The inspector and the bird-watcher watched each other for a long moment. Tension crackled through the clearing.

  “What are you doing in Blackhampton?” Day said.

  “Helping you find Oliver Price.”

  “I told you. I’ve read about you.”

  “You don’t know me. You don’t know my life.”

  “I didn’t say I did. I said I’ve read about you. I received a telegram from Scotland Yard this morning. I know you killed a man.”

  “I’ve killed a lot of men.”

  “You killed someone in London ten years ago. Over a woman.”

  “I did my time.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Someone I loved. And still love.”

  “So you killed for her?”

  “I don’t allow anyone to threaten the people I care about.”

  “Did she wait for you, at least? The woman you went to prison for?”

  Campbell was silent.

  “I’ll ask again,” Day said. “Why are you in Blackhampton? Are you running from something? Hiding from something?”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. Unless you’re going to arrest me—”

  “I’d prefer it if you just talked to me.”

  “I could talk. But I think we ought to do something about this.” Campbell gestured at the heap of Denby lying next to the dead log in the forest clearing. “That’s a lot of blood.”

  Day agreed. He peeled Claire’s handkerchief back and looked at the wound. It had stopped bleeding. Denby’s skin was pale, and there was a trickle of blood running from a corner of his mouth. Day tossed the handkerchief into the brush (another excuse to buy her something with the proper monogram) and opened Denby’s jacket. He undid the top few buttons of the doctor’s shirt to make his breathing easier. As the shirt came open, Day gasped. He looked up at Campbell and saw that his eyes had grown large, his lips pressed tightly together. Day unbuttoned the rest of Denby’s shirt and stood up. He stepped back, side by side with Campbell. He heard the bird-watcher draw in his breath.

  Denby’s entire torso, everything that had been covered by his shirt, was a writhing mass of dark wet shapes. Leeches writhed over the doctor’s flesh, their fat bodies pulsing and bloated, filled with blood.

  34

  Kingsley had commandeered the inn’s dining room over the strenuous objections of Bennett Rose, who had stalked off into the common room and had not been seen since. Kingsley covered the oak tabletop with a fresh linen bedsheet, and his assistant, Henry Mayhew, fetched in his microscope, slides, and a small crate full of tools and chemicals. A portion of the sheet was pulled away from one corner of the table, and a small burner was filled and set on a plate. Henry lit the burner and adjusted its tiny flame.

  Kingsley spread the tiny floral dress across the opposite corner of the table and examined it under his lens, checking each of the dark stains for telltale signs of dirt clumps or paint buildup.

  “First,” Kingsley said, “shall we see if this is blood?”

  “It looks like blood to me, sir,” Henry said.

  “And to me. But let’s be certain.”

  He dabbed at the middle of the largest stain with a dampened cotton swab and rolled the swab across a glass slide. He rummaged in his satchel until he found a small vial of clear liquid, labeled Acetic Acid Chloride. He unstoppered the vial and the air above it began to smoke. Quickly, Kingsley filled a dropper and restoppered the acetyl chloride, then added a single drop of the liquid to the slide. Holding the slide in a pair of tongs, he carefully heated the mixture, then moved the slide over to his microscope. He set it on the platen and clamped it down, then angled the small mirror underneath to catch the room’s lamplight and deflect it up through the slide. He bent over the lens and drew in a sharp breath. He stood and beckoned to his assistant.

  “Look, Henry. Right in there.”

  Henry hunched down and looked through the leather eyepiece. He stood and shook his head, showed Kingsley a puzzled expression. “I don’t see anything. I’m sorry.”

  “Crystals, Henry. Crystals are already forming on that slide. Take another look.”

  Henry sighed and looked again. He straightened and took a step back and smiled at the doctor, but said nothing.

  “You still don’t see them?” Kingsley said.

  “I don’t know what a crystal looks like, sir.”

  “That’s okay, Henry. I suppose you can take my word for it. The presence of crystals means that we have found blood.”

  “Where?”

  “On the slide. There’s blood on the slide.”

  Henry’s eyes grew wide and he gasped. “It must’ve come from that dress.”

  Kingsley chuckled. “I think you’re right. Shall we see what else we can determine by looking at the dress?”

  “I can’t see anything except a mess, sir.”

  “Hmm. I see a mess, too. But there may be more to that mess than we at first suppose.” Kingsley walked the six feet to the other end of the table and gestured at the dress. “You aren’t familiar with Lacassagne’s patterns of blood.”

  “Sir?” Henry said.

  “There are shapes here.”

  “I don’t wanna see no more blood, sir, crystals or no.”

  Kingsley smiled at the simple giant. “You don’t have to look, Henry. I’m used to talking to myself in the laboratory. Or to Fiona, if she’s around. I know we haven’t quite got used
to each other, but if you’ll only let me talk aloud, you don’t really have to listen to what I say.”

  “I will listen, sir. Only I still won’t look, if it’s all right.”

  “As I said. No looking. If I catch you looking . . .” Kingsley wagged a finger at Henry, who grinned.

  “No looking, sir. Won’t do it.”

  “Good man.” Kingsley picked up his lens and peered at the dress. “So, what I see here are splashes and what I would call spurts.”

  “Spurts?”

  “Just listen, Henry. If these stains are blood, then this dress was not worn by the victim. Whomever, or whatever, this blood belonged to was facing the person who was wearing the dress. Blood left a body, some body, and moved outward along what appear to have been several different trajectories, each of them making a mark on this dress.”

  “Who was it, sir? Who was the bleeder?”

  “I don’t even know that it was a person, Henry. It might have been livestock.”

  “A horse, sir?”

  “Perhaps. But if so, not a terribly large horse. Not even a pony. Look at this.”

  “Please no, sir.”

  “I mean to say, looking at this, the blood exited some body and landed in a sort of a wave upon this one. It tapers in a specific way. The heart was pumping full force here.” Kingsley pointed at a spot high on the front of the dress.

  Henry continued looking away.

  “But then here,” Kingsley said, “it has become weak and isn’t pumping so hard anymore.” He pointed to a different spot, lower on the dress. “If we are to assume that the person wearing this dress was present as the wounds happened upon the other body, then we can see that the heart pumping this initial spurt was not so large as all that, was it?”

  Henry shook his head. He looked a bit green, and Kingsley set down his lens. He patted Henry on the back in a reassuring way.

  “So,” Kingsley said, “a smallish creature of some sort was repeatedly injured. Blood exited its body and landed on this dress through, I would imagine, more than three apertures in the flesh of the injured body. There are droplets here, and here, indicating that either this dress or the injured body was moved as it bled out. Perhaps turned as the extent of injuries was fully realized by the person inflicting them. Or possibly to get a better angle, if someone was working to bleed out a lamb or small pig.”

  “I like bacon.”

  “Of course you do. So do I.”

  “I don’t like it when people’s hurt, though.”

  “People or pigs, we all hurt.”

  “But we don’t eat people, sir.”

  “Well.” Kingsley frowned at the dress. “Most of us don’t.”

  35

  Day and Campbell spent a few frenzied minutes plucking leeches from Dr Denby’s torso and throwing them at the icy dirt. When they had finished, the doctor’s pale flesh was dotted everywhere with angry red rings. Day buttoned Denby’s shirt while Campbell rose and began grinding the squirming leeches under his heels. Blood oozed out into the patches of snow, white laced with pink, the forest floor like marble.

  Denby stirred and his eyes half opened. “Brothwood,” he said. “Needs me.” He struggled to rise, but sank back against Day. “More will die, Inspector.”

  “What do you mean, more?” Day said. “Is the Price family dead?”

  But Denby had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Day looked up at Campbell, who towered above him, staring off in the direction of the village.

  “Who’s dead?” Day said. “Do you know?”

  Campbell shook his head. “He’s a doctor, not a murderer. He’s talking about the sickness, I’m sure. It’s spreading through the village more quickly every day.”

  “Has he smothered everyone in these blasted creatures, then?” Day gestured at the leeches all round him. Campbell had destroyed most of them, but those that remained had stopped moving, frozen or hibernating.

  “I don’t know,” Campbell said.

  “It’s entirely possible our missing family is in someone’s house, isn’t it? They could have gone visiting and collapsed.”

  “No.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I’ve checked every house.”

  “You’ve visited everyone?”

  “I’m a bird-watcher, remember? I can travel about the village with field glasses and nobody thinks anything of it.”

  “You’ve been peering through windows?”

  “I have.”

  “For the sport of it?”

  “For the boy.”

  “Why do you want so badly to find that boy?”

  “Why do you?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Is that all? It’s only your job?”

  “Of course not. But I know why I’m here. I don’t know why you are. I don’t even know who you are. Not really.”

  “I thought you did know that. You have a telegram, don’t you?”

  Day laid Denby’s head gently on the ground and stood so that he could face Campbell. “I know that you spent time in prison for killing a man in West Bromwich,” he said.

  “I did, yes.”

  “And now you are here in Blackhampton, and I want to know why.”

  “I have to be somewhere.”

  “You were released?”

  “I was a prisoner for ten years. I’ve paid the price for my crime and I’m a free man.”

  “What’s your connection to the missing boy?”

  “We should get back to the village.”

  “You’re not telling me anything, and I’ve let you go on keeping secrets long enough. You’ve been out in these woods, you found this pig or you killed it yourself, you know things about these people, and yet you’re a stranger here.”

  Campbell drew in a sharp breath, and his gaze focused on Day. He hesitated for a long moment, as if weighing the words he wanted to use. Finally, he spoke. “I have no secrets,” he said. “But it would be easier for me to show you than to tell you.”

  “Show me what? You’ve shown me your dead pig. Is there more?”

  “I think there is. It’s hard for me to know.”

  “Then show me.”

  Campbell nodded. He stooped and lifted Dr Denby as if he weighed nothing and led the way back to the path out of the woods. Neither of them spoke as they walked under the trees and through the brush. To Day, the path seemed shorter going back than it had been on the way to see the dead pig. The densest part of the woods fell behind them quickly, and the brush thinned out as the high grey walls of the church came into view. They had never gone very far from the village. Day was a reasonably fit man, but he struggled to keep up with Campbell, who was far older. Before long, the trees gave way to a narrow dirt path that widened out and led directly to the back of the church. Campbell led the way around the side of the massive building and up the wide stone steps to the entrance. He stopped there and turned, the limp Dr Denby draped over his forearms like an old bathrobe.

  “Whatever you see,” Campbell said, “whatever you think, you must continue the search for Oliver Price. That must remain your only goal here.”

  “What do you mean?” Day said. He was slightly out of breath and he could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold wind.

  “You’ll know in a minute,” Campbell said, “but first promise me that you’ll keep looking for the boy.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Good.” Campbell turned and shouldered the tall oak doors open and was swallowed by the solid shadows of the parish church. His voice came again from somewhere nearby, but completely disconnected from the world of white snow and bright grey daylight: “Come.”

  Day found his flask and took a long swallow, then put it away in his pocket and followed the bird-watcher into the darkness. His eyes gradually adjusted to the
gloom of the foyer, but he could hear voices from deeper in the building, a burbling river of human noise, moaning and singing and occasional cries of pain. Campbell waited for Day to acclimate before pushing through the inner doors and leading the way into the sanctuary.

  Directly ahead was an aisle that ran down the center of the sanctuary to a raised altar. There were three steps down from the foyer to the sanctuary, and Campbell pointed them out to Day, cautioning him against tripping. To Day’s right, pews filled half the room, row upon row of them, far more seating than the small village needed. But the pews were stacked too closely together for anyone to sit, almost on top of one another. Day realized that the pews had been removed from the left side of the room and piled between the remaining pews on the right. The empty half of the sanctuary had then been filled with makeshift beds. Dozens of people lay in cots or on blankets on the floor. Most were unconscious, sweating and moaning in their sleep. Some lay awake but delirious, calling out to absent loved ones or crying for help. Older children from the village, those who weren’t already ill, moved between the rows, pressing wet cloths to the foreheads of their friends and relatives, spooning room-temperature broth into their mouths, and whisking away chamber pots, filled to the brim with vomit and worse. The enormous room was thick with the mingled odors of human bodies and excrement and incense.

  “What’s happening here?” Day said.

  “This began before you arrived. People fell ill and didn’t recover.”

  “Here in the church?”

  “Dr Denby was unable to visit everyone in their homes. There were too many. The vicar was kind enough to offer up the space, and some of the men helped move the pews.”

  “And now Denby’s sick, too.”

  “It does seem that way.”

  Brothwood chose that moment to approach them. He had been out of sight, somewhere among the sea of bodies. He had a small rug rolled up under his arm. Behind him, a pretty woman stared at Day with something like panic in her eyes. She was not young, and her face was lined with sorrow and pain, but her beauty was unmistakable, even in that place. She looked at Campbell, then away, and put a hand up as if to shield herself from their gaze. She dropped the damp rag she was holding and then walked quickly away, toward the altar. Day tried to watch where she went, but the vicar distracted him. Brothwood smiled a greeting at Day, but there was sadness and guilt in his manner. He touched Dr Denby on the arm, then led Calvin Campbell to a section of floor that was not yet occupied by the sick and unrolled the rug he was carrying. Campbell laid the doctor down on it and stepped back.