by Alex Grecian
He was close enough to recognize the woman as his wife. And she was crying. And he was reasonably certain he knew why.
She was not in West Bromwich or Scotland. She had stayed. There was only one reason for her to do that. And there was only one reason she might now be crying, so many days after she had left him.
They were headed in the opposite direction from the one he’d already decided to go in. They were walking toward the inn. He let the couple get a few yards ahead of him and then he stepped onto the road, its cobblestones buried deep under ice and snow, and followed in their rapidly filling tracks.
46
Day and Hammersmith trudged through the snow, half supporting each other, snowdrifts up past their ankles, swirling under the legs of their trousers, and whipping about their calves. Day was nearly frozen solid, his shredded coat and gloves useless, sopping wet. Hammersmith was sicker than he had let on, barely conscious. Blackhampton had not been kind to its London visitors.
They followed in the general direction in which the village woman had taken the baby’s body, hoping to find shelter wherever they were going. Then the inn loomed up out of the storm, no more than twenty feet in front of them, the enormous ancient tree sheltering it from the wind like a cliff, and Hammersmith closed his eyes and walked blindly toward it, pulling Day along. Someone opened the door when they got there and someone else ushered them to one of the blazing fires and settled them in big comfortable armchairs by the hearth. Their coats and boots were removed and thick blankets wrapped around them and hot mugs of boiled broth shoved in their hands and, when Hammersmith opened his eyes again, Bennett Rose was standing in front of him with a glass of beer. He set the beer on a little table beside the chair and nodded gravely at the sergeant and disappeared in the direction of the dining room.
Hammersmith sipped at his broth. He didn’t care whether it was drugged. Warmth spread through his chest and radiated outward through his arms and into his fingers, down through his groin and legs and toes. He gulped the rest of the broth and set the mug on the little table and took up the beer and drank that, too. For a brief moment, he thought he might vomit it all back up, but it stayed down and he began to feel like a human being again. He glanced over at Day and saw that the same process of transformation had begun to occur in the inspector. He closed his eyes again.
—
He woke to the sound of the inn’s door opening and slamming shut again. He sat upright and looked over the back of the chair and saw Calvin Campbell step across the threshold into the great room. Campbell was escorting, practically carrying, a woman who might have been lovely had her face not been screwed up in a rictus of grief.
Bennett Rose emerged from the back and went to them and took the woman by the hand. He led Campbell and the woman up the stairs.
Hammersmith stood and saw that Day was awake, too. Hammersmith was nearly dry and felt marginally better than he had all day. He left his blanket on the chair and followed Day to the stairs, and the two of them went up. There was a gathering of villagers outside a room down the hall from Day’s, and the crowd parted for Day and Hammersmith to pass through. Calvin Campbell was standing just inside the door. He glanced at the policemen, but said nothing. The woman who had come with him was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at something there.
Hammersmith crossed the room, looked over the woman’s shoulder, and saw Oliver Price’s body. The woman was smoothing the baby’s wispy hair back from his pale forehead, absently repeating the same motion again and again. Hammersmith shuddered and looked away. Day gripped his arm and moved past him, put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and waited until she looked up at him.
“Mrs Price?” Day said. “Hester, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The woman blinked and a single tear escaped, ran down her face, and dropped from her chin onto the back of Day’s hand.
Day stepped away from her and nodded to Campbell before leaving the room. Hammersmith followed him. Bennett Rose stepped out into the hallway after them and shut the door behind him. They went quietly to the stairs and down before Hammersmith finally spoke. “Shouldn’t we question her?” he said.
“When she’s had some time,” Day said. “I have a feeling whatever’s happened here has reached its conclusion, and not in the way Hester Price hoped it would. She doesn’t have anywhere to go now.”
“Do you think she killed her child?”
“No,” Rose said. Hammersmith was surprised to hear him speak. “No woman would end her own child.”
“No,” Day said. “I agree, but not for that reason.” He and Hammersmith had both seen crimes against children. They were aware that mothers were as capable of evil acts as anyone else. “I think the only thing keeping her here was the hope that Oliver was still alive.”
Day crossed to the hearth and took a seat. Hammersmith reluctantly followed. Bennett Rose fetched mugs of beer and sat with them. He seemed to need something to do, and he seemed to want company.
After a time, Rose cleared his throat to get their attention. “I woulda made tea, but I don’t know about the water.”
“Yes,” Day said. “Beer might be safer at the moment.”
“I did somethin’ last night,” Rose said.
“You drugged us last night,” Hammersmith said.
Rose nodded and looked at his feet and mumbled something incoherent.
“I’m sorry?” Day said. “I can’t hear you.”
Rose looked back up at him. “It was the wrong thing to do, but I meant no harm by it. Just wanted to keep you somewheres Rawhead wouldn’t take you.”
“That’s foolishness,” Hammersmith said. “You might have killed us if you’d got the dosage wrong.”
Rose’s expression was pure misery. “I know it.”
“I’m afraid there will be consequences, Mr Rose,” Day said.
“All I’d ask is you remember why I did it. That I was tryin’ to help. A good night’s sleep’s all I wanted for you.”
“We’ll try to keep that in mind.”
Rose nodded again and slumped back in his chair. Hammersmith would have liked to be able to talk freely with Inspector Day, but even if Rose left the room, there was nothing to talk about. Not really. They had discovered two of the three missing Prices. The case was nearly finished and all the little mysteries of Blackhampton were resolving themselves. Sitting and waiting made him feel restless. All they needed to do was find Sutton Price and they could go home.
As if on cue, the inn’s front door opened and a man lurched across the threshold. He was disheveled and wore a week’s worth of beard. His eyes were wide and wild, and they settled on the two policemen before the man had come even three steps into the room.
“Who are you?” the man said.
Day stood up and adjusted his jacket. “More properly,” he said, “who are you, sir?”
“That’s Sutton Price,” Rose said. He jumped to his feet and pointed at the scruffy man, an outlet for the innkeeper’s guilt and nervous energy. “Where were you? Where were you when your son was dying?”
Sutton Price ignored the question. He pointed at the back door next to the bar. “Is my wife through there or upstairs?”
“She’s upstairs,” Day said.
Bennett Rose scowled and turned and walked away from them, disappearing into the dining room. The door swung shut behind him.
“Is she with him?” Sutton Price said.
“Who do you mean?” Day said.
“You know who I mean.” Price dropped his pack on the floor and rooted through it. He came up with a revolver, but he didn’t point it at the policemen. Instead, he moved toward the stairs. Day’s Colt Navy was in his hand instantly, pointed at Price’s center mass.
“Please put your weapon down, Mr Price.”
“I can’t do that.” Price’s voice was even and measured and reasonable.
/>
“What do you have planned, sir?”
“I’m going to kill him and take my family back.”
“I can’t let you kill anyone.”
“I understand,” Price said. In one fluid motion, he swung the revolver up and pulled the trigger. There was a roar of exploding gunpowder and a piece of the mantel splintered away behind Day. Before Day could return fire, there was a corresponding blast from the back of the room and Price’s pack burst open, scattering its contents over the floor of the great room. Bennett Rose strode through the dining room door, a rifle held at his waist, pointed at Price.
“I meant to miss you with that shot, Sutton,” Rose said. “But I won’t miss again, trust me on it.”
Price’s revolver wavered, suddenly presented with three possible targets. Hammersmith used that split second of indecision to launch himself across the room. He rammed into Price, knocking him on his back, the revolver spinning away across the floor. Day walked calmly to Rose and pushed the end of the rifle’s barrel down toward the floor.
“Thank you, Mr Rose,” Day said. “That’s quite enough shooting for one day.”
“I’ve ruined my own floor,” Rose said.
“With good cause.”
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Calvin Campbell appeared on the landing.
“What’s happened?” he said. Then he saw Hammersmith helping Sutton Price to his feet and his face went pale. “Keep him away from her,” he said.
Price roared back at him. “She’s mine!” Hammersmith had to restrain him, pulling his arms up behind his back. It wasn’t easy to do given that the sergeant still felt weak and sick to his stomach.
“You’re a monster!” Campbell said. “You killed your own child!”
The fury went out of Sutton Price, and he sagged against Hammersmith. “He’s really gone, then?”
“You know he is,” Campbell said. “You’ve not only killed your boy, but Hester, too. She’ll never recover from this.”
“I didn’t do it.” Price’s voice was soft now, barely audible in the huge front room of the inn, drowned out by the sound of the crackling fires on both sides. “I’ve spent the week looking for him, hoping he was somehow alive.”
Campbell looked down at his feet. He was still blocking the landing, as if to keep Price from running past and up. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as Price’s, but there was steel in it and everyone clearly heard him. “Then you’re a fool. Even if that’s the truth, you’ve done everything wrong.”
“I want to see him. At least let me see my own son.”
Hammersmith looked over Price’s sagging shoulder at Day, who nodded.
“Keep a hand on him, Sergeant.”
“Is it wise to let him upstairs?”
“We can’t keep a man from his own child.” Day turned to Bennett Rose. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping your rifle near to hand.”
“I’ll keep my eye on Price,” Rose said. He seemed grateful for the chance to do something, to make amends for drugging them.
“Let’s take him upstairs, then. Just for a moment. Let the man have his grief.”
They made a strange parade up the stairs of the inn. Calvin Campbell led the way. Next came Sutton Price, Hammersmith right behind him with a hand gripping his elbow. After them came Bennett Rose, his rifle held casually at his side, but loaded and ready. Day followed behind them all, watching everyone involved, trying to fathom the connections between them.
Campbell entered the small room that held Oliver Price’s body. Hester Price hadn’t moved from the side of the bed. Her fingers still absently traced the contours of her son’s face. Campbell went to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she reached up and laid her hand over the top of his.
Sutton Price entered the room silently and went and stood beside his wife on the other side. There was a long moment, and then an anguished shriek boiled up from somewhere inside him. He threw himself across the tiny body on the bed. Hester finally noticed him, and her reaction was immediate. She lunged at him, beating her fists against his back, screaming at him.
“You did this! You did this to him!”
Price didn’t even seem to notice her. Hammersmith and Day stepped in and took her arms and pried her away from her husband. Calvin Campbell stood useless at the side of the bed, seemingly unable to decide what to do.
The blast of a rifle round into the ceiling ended the drama. The shot echoed back and forth and around the room, and plaster sifted down like snow over everyone. The sound had the effect of calming Hester Price, and she went limp in Day’s and Hammersmith’s arms. Hammersmith looked at Rose and saw that he was once more pointing his rifle at Sutton Price.
Rose looked back at Hammersmith. “She’s right,” he said. “It’s clear now, isn’t it? He must’ve killed his own child.”
“I thought you believed in a monster,” Day said. “Something called Rawhead.”
“But there’s no arguin’ with the evidence.”
“What evidence?” Hammersmith said.
“Just look at him.”
Hammersmith looked at Sutton Price, but saw nothing he hadn’t seen already.
“Not him,” Rose said. “Look at the boy.”
Hammersmith looked past the father at the son’s body. Thick black liquid bubbled up from little Oliver’s mouth and ran down his cheek, soaking into the pillow beneath his head.
There was no doubt that the boy was dead.
And yet he had begun to bleed.
47
You’re not very clever, are you?” Virginia Price said.
Henry Mayhew looked up at her and wiped his forehead. He was staying busy, helping the volunteers at the church in whatever little ways he could, moving heavy pews across the sanctuary and bringing buckets of snow inside to melt by the fire, providing fresh water for the villagers. All of it was hard labor, but he was proud and happy to be of use. Now Henry had found a pew that was stuck tight to the floor beneath it and he was down on his knees, working to free it.
He smiled at Virginia. “What did you say?”
“My name is Virginia. What’s yours?”
“Henry.”
“Hello, Henry. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I said that you’re not very clever.”
“No. I’m not.” He bent and continued to pry at the underside of the pew, but he could still hear the little girl behind him. He stopped again, but didn’t look back at her.
“I’m very clever, Henry,” Virginia said. “My father tells me so.”
“It’s good to be clever.”
“But you wouldn’t know about that.”
“No.”
“Then why does the doctor keep you if you’re so dull?”
“I’m strong. And he’s nice.”
“He doesn’t seem nice to me. He seems grumpy.”
“He’s grumpy and nice.”
“You can’t be both. You must choose one or the other.”
“He’s much more clever than anybody else, so I think he knows how to be different things at the same time.”
Virginia laughed, the tinkle of chimes in an empty space. “You make no sense at all, Henry. I like you.”
“Thank you.” Henry scowled at the floor. The girl had made him self-conscious, and he could feel his face flushing with humiliation. “There are other children here,” he said. “You could play with them if you wanted to.”
“But I don’t want to. They bore me terribly. You’re much more interesting; very like a child, but huge. Huger than a normal adult, I think.”
“I’m big.”
“Do you know any games we might play? You probably don’t, if I have to guess, but I could teach you some.”
“No, thank you.” He got his fingertips under the edge of the pew and yanked upward. It didn’t budge, but the
fingernail of his left index finger tore and he gasped with the pain. He turned his head, but couldn’t see Virginia. He could still feel her presence behind him, though, could hear her breathing. He checked his finger and saw a tiny bubble of blood forming along the side of the torn nail. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked on it. It was salty and metallic. “You should go play with someone else,” he said, talking around the finger in his mouth. “I don’t want to play any games.”
The girl laughed again. “You said that once already, you numpty.”
Henry nodded. She was right. He had repeated himself.
“Do you live in London?” the girl said.
“Yes.”
“Do you live with the doctor? Are you his son? That would explain why he keeps you around.”
“No. I have my own home.”
“You can take care of yourself?”
“Yes. My home is very small. The inspector made it for me out of a lamppost.”
“Oh, he did not. You’re fibbing.”
“I’m not fibbing. He really did.”
In fact, Inspector Day had found Henry Mayhew living on the street and had given him the key to a small jail cell that was hidden within the wall at Trafalgar Square, nestled just under a lamp. Henry had moved into the spartan space, and there was just barely enough room in it for him to lie down. He owned almost nothing. Day had changed Henry’s life forever with that one small act of kindness, and now Henry tried to follow his example by donating his time and wages to help others. There were many people still living on the streets of London, too many to count, people who didn’t have the luxury of a clean dry lamppost home in the square.
“You’re a liar,” Virginia said. “A liar and a half-wit. I really do like you very much.”
Henry shrugged. The pain in his finger had passed. He tugged on the pew again, and this time it came loose with a loud ripping noise. He pulled it loose and tried to stand with it, but his right foot wouldn’t come out from under him and he fell forward, slamming his head against the side of the pew. He lurched sideways and rolled onto the floor, his head throbbing, sudden tears in his eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked at his feet. His bootlaces were tied together. The little girl was doubled over, laughing. Henry sniffed. It seemed to him that the girl’s laughter wasn’t a happy sound. He pressed the palm of his hand against his temple until the throbbing sensation subsided enough to be tolerable, then bent and began untangling his laces.
