by Alex Grecian
There was a large hollow ball on a chain hanging beside the altar, and Day sniffed it. The scent of incense was nearly overpowering. Here in the apse, the incense masked the odors of vomit and excrement. Perhaps Brothwood stole odd moments for himself up here away from the stink of illness.
There was an unlatched door on the wall near the south side of the pulpit, and Day used the toe of his boot to push it open, keeping his head back. Nobody came barreling through, and so he moved cautiously into a small room that was dimly lit by candles in the four corners. The walls were bare plaster broken by evenly spaced wide timbers, stained dark. There was a bed against the far side of the room and a compact wardrobe next to it. A fireplace was built into the adjacent wall near the foot of the bed, its embers long since burnt out, the chimney cold. Opposite the fireplace was Mrs Brothwood’s writing desk. Day recognized the stationery stacked to one side, next to a quill pen that still rested in the inkwell. It was a cheerless place, and Day wondered at the fact that there were no feminine touches. It didn’t seem as if Mrs Brothwood had made many contributions to her living quarters.
Day circled the room once, stomping on the floorboards as he went. Mrs Brothwood’s note had said that someone was under the floor, but the floor sounded solid to Day. He was certain he was on the right track, though. He went to the door and closed it, then moved to his right, tapping on each of the regularly spaced timbers set into the plaster and lathing. He put his hands as high over his head as he could and rapped his knuckles against the wood, working his way down, listening for irregularities and feeling for loose boards. He did this again and again, one timber after another, until his knuckles were sore and swollen. He pulled the bed and the wardrobe out from the wall and examined the space behind them, then pushed them back again. When he got to the fireplace, he felt around the outside of it and across the mantel, then began prodding the stones in the surround. Halfway across the top of the fireplace, just under the mantel, a round stone moved. The stone looked like it had been handled more than the rest of the fireplace had been. It was dark with the oils from many hands, and it had been worn smooth. He sucked in his breath and took hold of it. It twisted under his hand, and he wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers to get a better grip.
“Excuse me, Inspector.”
Day jumped and turned quickly away from the fireplace. The vicar was standing in the open door. Day hadn’t heard the door open and he wondered how long Brothwood had been standing there.
How much of Day’s search had the vicar seen?
“Yes, Mr Brothwood.” Day’s voice was breathy and too loud. He could feel his heart beating hard in his throat.
“Dr Kingsley is here, Inspector. He’s asking for you in the sanctuary.”
“Is he, now?”
“Your sergeant is with him.”
“Very good. I’ll, um . . . I’ll go right now and have a word with them.”
Day gestured for Brothwood to lead the way. Day took one last look at the fireplace and followed the vicar out of the little room.
He was now certain there was someone or something concealed under the hearth. He had suspected there was a priest hole here and now he felt he knew where the secret entrance was. He would be very glad to get Hammersmith’s help in uncovering the Brothwoods’ secret hiding place and finally beginning to unravel the many mysteries of the little village.
38
You don’t look any better, Nevil,” Day said. “Sorry to say.”
“I’ve had a bit of a rest,” Hammersmith said.
“You might call it that,” Jessica said. “He’s been dead to the world.”
“He’s very ill,” Kingsley said.
“Bring him over here,” Day said. He led the way to the abandoned side of the sanctuary, where the pews were stacked nearly on top of one another. Hammersmith sidled between two of them and sat heavily. He gave Day a wan smile. “Just for a moment,” he said. “I’m a little dizzy, is all.”
“How sick is he?” Day said.
“He’s been drinking the water here,” Kingsley said. “Have you?”
“I’d have to think,” Day said. “But I’m not fond of water. I believe I’ve stuck with beer since we arrived.”
“Sensible of you.”
“So whatever he’s got . . .”
“I believe it may be typhoid. Or something very like typhoid.”
All thoughts of secret hiding places in the village church left Day’s mind. He frowned, suddenly worried about his sergeant. Hammersmith was capable of withstanding a great many things, but this was alarming. “Typhoid?” he said. “Is that fatal?”
“Not necessarily. He needs rest. He’s got a fever.”
“And he got typhoid from the water here?”
“I believe so,” Kingsley said. He nodded at Jessica. “Miss Perkins here was kind enough to undertake a little experiment on the Price children for me.”
Day took a step back. “You experimented on children?”
“Quite harmless,” Kingsley said.
“What did you do to them?”
“I wouldn’t harm my students, Inspector,” Jessica said. “I merely offered them a glass of water.”
“But you said there’s typhoid in the water,” Day said.
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “That’s my working hypothesis.”
“What if they’d drunk it?” Day said.
“They didn’t drink it,” Kingsley said. “That’s why I think there’s typhoid in the water.”
“But how would they know that it was in the water?”
“That’s a very good question.”
“How does typhoid get into water?”
“Another good question. Much like cholera, it depends on tainted sewage entering the water supply. Dr Snow proved that beyond question some thirty years ago.”
Day turned to Jessica. “How might the water supply here become tainted?”
“It can’t be,” Jessica said. “Everybody knows to keep our waste far from the water we drink. We’re not savages here, Inspector.”
“And yet . . .” Day waved his hand in the direction of the moaning hordes at the other end of the sanctuary.
“I tell you it can’t have happened,” Jessica said.
“Is there another way? Can typhoid work some other way than that, Doctor?”
“Well,” Kingsley said, “I suppose it needn’t be waste itself. If, for instance, an infected person had lost consciousness, perhaps fallen into the well . . . It’s possible, but surely someone would have noticed a thing like that.”
“I think someone did,” Day said. “Constable Grimes sent to Scotland Yard because there are three missing people in this village. Three missing people and any one of them might have been sick, any one of them might have taken a tumble into that well.”
He stood there for a brief moment, staring at Kingsley as the implications sank in. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and ran from the sanctuary, took all three steps into the foyer at once, and banged through the heavy front doors. He was gone before anyone else could react.
39
Day hit the road running. He took the main street away from the church and the deep woods behind it and raced headlong toward the center of the village. The wind was blowing much stronger than when he’d entered the church, and the snow drove straight at him, a billowing white curtain. He was still wearing his overcoat, but he’d left his hat behind, and his ears were numb within seconds. His feet slipped on the icy cobblestones and he adjusted his pace, twisting his boots slightly with each hurried step to gain better traction. His feet sank deep in the snow and his boots filled, soaking his socks, freezing his ankles.
He misjudged the bend in the road and stopped short, his nose inches from the front of the apothecary. He turned and fished his gloves out of his pocket, decided from memory where the road curved, and set ou
t again, going more slowly now, pulling on his gloves as he went.
It was much like swimming, he thought. Swimming in some arctic current.
It took him nearly half an hour to reach the well at the center of town. He couldn’t see the inn, but he knew it was only a few yards away from him. The same journey, going the other way, from the inn to the church, had taken him perhaps ten or fifteen minutes earlier that morning, before the sun had risen and brought the storm with it.
He stood at the mouth of the well, close enough to tumble into it. It was made of the same grey stone as the older buildings in Blackhampton, stacked and mortared into place. Day judged the surrounding wall to be roughly three feet high, a sloped cover over the top that allowed most of the current snowfall to slide off and pile at the base of the well in an ever-widening wedge.
He took a deep breath and uncorked his flask.
“You’re not going down there, sir.”
Day turned, his mouth full, brandy fumes stinging his throat and nostrils. He swallowed and caught his breath before he spoke. “How on earth did you keep up with me, Nevil? You’re ill.”
“Not so ill as all that, sir,” Hammersmith said.
“I thought I was moving awfully fast.”
“I did think I’d lost you for a bit there, but then you materialized out of the snow before me. Your dark overcoat was easy enough to follow.”
“Ah, you must have caught up at the bend in the road. You’ve got a better sense of direction than I have.”
“You can’t have thought I’d let you go out alone in this.”
“I didn’t think at all. Just wanted to get here.”
“You weren’t planning to go down that well, were you?”
“I believe I was.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It probably is. There’s a body down there, I’m sure of it. Maybe three bodies.”
“They’ll keep.”
“The baby might be down there.”
“Little Oliver.”
“Yes, little Oliver.”
“Still, let the storm pass.”
“And there’s a church full of sick people. We need to find out what they’ve got so Kingsley can go about curing them.”
Hammersmith nodded. “I’ll do it, then.” He peeled off his coat and let it drop in the snow.
“Don’t be a fool, Sergeant. You’re so weak, you can barely stand.”
“I told you. I just needed a rest, and now I’ve had it.”
“After running through that storm? Look at you. You’re weaving where you stand. You can barely stay upright in this wind.”
“You’re not ramrod straight yourself, sir. It’s a strong wind.”
“And you don’t like tunnels, Nevil. Enclosed spaces.”
“Nobody likes tunnels.”
“Someone must. A village full of miners.”
“Where are they when we need them?”
“Sick.”
“Where’s Constable Grimes? This is his village. He should do this.”
“I haven’t seen him yet today and I don’t want to wait.” Day said. “I’m going in, and I’ll brook no more argument. Besides, I need you up here to make sure I get back.”
Hammersmith stared at him for a long moment without speaking.
“It’s an order,” Day said. “You’re staying here. Now put your coat back on.”
There was another silence, and then Hammersmith reached for his overcoat. “You’ll stay in constant contact with me as you go,” he said. “You’ll shout out to me the entire time.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
Hammersmith shrugged his coat on and buttoned it. He stepped closer, and they both stood at the lip of the well, their knees touching the stone wall. Day was on guard, mildly worried that Hammersmith might try to jump in. His sergeant was often too impulsive for his own good. But much of Hammersmith’s energy seemed to have drained from him, blown away by the bitter wind. They peered down into the well, but there was nothing to see. Nothing but inky blackness.
“How deep do you think it is?” Day said.
“Deep,” Hammersmith said. “Judging by the water levels round here, I’d say maybe two hundred feet. Maybe more.”
“That’s deep enough.”
“There may be nothing down there to find, sir.”
“I pray that there isn’t. But we have to find out.” Day said. He sighed. “Here, hold my flask for me, Nevil. I’d better get going before I lose my nerve.”
40
Freddy Higgins sat slumped in his seat, unconscious, rocked to and fro by the sway of his carriage as the horses raced down the only real road in Blackhampton. They chuffed and clopped through the snow, their steamy breath trailing behind them, streamers in the dim gaslight that lit the silver-grey afternoon.
The horses knew the village. One of them was four years old and had grown up here, been raised by Freddy from birth. The other had come from Wolverhampton, sold to the blacksmith in return for services rendered, and had been on loan to Freddy for more than a year. The younger of the two tended to pull ahead and then adjust for the gait of the older horse. They made the turn in the road easily, even though neither of them could see it buried in the snow, and pulled up short at the church, nowhere else to go. The younger one whinnied and bucked, and the carriage shook on its axles.
A moment later, the vicar Brothwood appeared at the double doors, hugging himself against the cold. He took one look at the motionless boy in the driver’s seat of the carriage and turned around, disappeared into the darkness of the foyer. Long seconds ticked past, and then Dr Kingsley emerged, summoned by the vicar. Behind him, Henry Mayhew lumbered into view. Kingsley hopped down the wide snowy steps of the church and checked Freddy’s pulse. He turned and pointed, and Henry came to him, taking the steps all at once. The giant lifted the sick boy from the carriage and turned and carried him into the church.
Kingsley lingered. He frowned at the carriage and at the horses, unsure about what to do with them. But his concern was for the human beings moaning inside, and he could hear them even through the blowing wind, and so he left the horses there stamping in the cold and went back inside to tend to young Freddy.
41
The well’s roof protected a simple pulley system with a thick rope that extended down into the dark. Hammersmith reached out and grabbed the rope. He bent a loop in its length and tied a bowline knot, then yanked it up snugly against the pulley assembly. He stepped back and cupped his hands, blew on them, and rubbed them together.
“That should hold,” he said.
“Do you want my gloves?” Day said.
“You’ll need them.”
Day looked at the rough length of rope and nodded. “I suppose I will,” he said.
He brushed snow from the stone ledge and sat down, gathered the ends of his overcoat around his legs, and swung around so that he was looking into the well. There was nothing to see. The curved irregular wall extended down a few feet and then faded to black. It was impossible to gauge how deep it was.
“Give me a stone.”
Hammersmith looked around him. The landscape was smooth and white. He shuffled away to where he imagined the side of the road to be and reached his bare fingers under the thick blanket of snow. Watching him, Day winced in sympathy. Why didn’t the sergeant own a pair of gloves?
It took Hammersmith a bit of searching, but he finally fished a small stone from under the snow cover and brought it to Day at the well. Hammersmith’s fingers were bright pink and dripping wet. He handed over the rock and then jammed his hands into his pockets to warm them.
Day dropped the rock into the well. It fell out of sight, and they both listened. They heard it clatter once, twice, a third time, stone on stone. Then a soft distant sound that might have been a splash.
“Well,”
Day said, “I suppose that tells us this thing isn’t deceptively shallow.”
“I had hopes,” Hammersmith said.
Day smiled. “No point in waiting longer, I suppose.” He looped the rope around his right hand and tested his weight, then pushed off from the lip of the well and swung out so that his feet rested against the far side. The well was wide enough to accommodate him easily, but still felt constricting. The back of Day’s overcoat scraped against the far side as he lowered himself. He kept his knees bent and walked himself down, the rope held tight in his left hand. He let out a bit of slack at a time, running it up through the loop in his other hand. He worked his way downward, inch by inch, the rope burning the palms of his hands through his gloves and squeezing his fingers tight together. The light faded so gradually that he didn’t notice when the darkness closed around him completely. He simply worked at lowering himself into the ground and put all thoughts of the miles and miles of earth around him out of his head. The stone walls inside the well were jagged. River rocks had been fitted together around the shaft centuries earlier, but there had been no care taken to keep them smooth or regular. The wall wasn’t meant to be seen or touched, only to keep the well from falling in on itself. Day found ledges and niches for his boots, which made the journey easier, but he took care not to get his toes caught.
He didn’t want to end his career in a Black Country well.
He stopped after what seemed an eternity and braced his back against the wall behind him, his legs locked and his feet flat against the stones across from him. He didn’t release his grip on the rope, but he let it go slack. His arms ached and his legs were sore. He could no longer see anything of himself; his own body was invisible to him in the darkness. He looked up and held his left hand above him, and the silhouette of the tip of his thumb completely blocked the pale grey circle that was the opening of the well. He still had no way of knowing how deep the well was or how much farther he had to go to reach the bottom of it. He looked down and around and up again, but there was nothing to see except that circle of light far away.
