The Black Country

by Alex Grecian

  “You had threatened her?”

  “Never.”

  “Hurt her?”

  “No, never.” Price looked back at Day, this time with conviction. “I would never raise a hand to her.”

  “And yet she feared you, didn’t she? I believe she was able to persuade the vicar that she was in danger, and so he hid her away from you.”

  Price shook his head back and forth, but said nothing.

  “Why stay in the mines?” Day said. “Why not come out when you didn’t find her?”

  “There are miles of tunnel down there. Miles of them.”

  “Who killed your son, Mr Price?”

  “He did it!” Bennett Rose said. “He did it! You saw that he did it. The body bled.”

  Price bounded from his chair. Day leapt forward, but not quickly enough to get between the two men before they grappled. Rose landed a solid fist on Price’s ear, and the miner bellowed and kicked out, catching the innkeeper’s shin with the steel toe of his boot. Then Day managed to insert himself in the mix and push the men apart. It wasn’t hard to do. The fight went out of them instantly.

  Day heard a door close upstairs, and then Hammersmith was pounding down the steps. He stopped at the landing and grabbed the banister, sought Day out in the cluster of men by the fireplace. His expression was panicked. Jessica crowded onto the landing behind him, and Day could see the three children farther up at the bend in the stairs.

  “Sir,” Hammersmith said. His voice rasped quietly, but could be easily heard over the hard breathing of Price and Rose. “She didn’t answer when we knocked at her door. We gave her a moment, and then Miss Jessica went in. But Hester Price has left. She’s gone out the window.”

  Day went to the front door. He heard Hammersmith come down the stairs behind him.

  “I looked out the window,” Hammersmith said. “She’s nowhere in sight.”

  Day pulled the door open and a swirl of snowflakes entered the room in a mighty rush. Cold air settled along Day’s shoulders and crept down the collar of his waistcoat.

  “I think I know where she’s gone,” Day said. “Watch them. They don’t seem to get along.” He gestured at the room, indicating Sutton Price and Bennett Rose. He didn’t anticipate any trouble from Jessica Perkins and the three children, but the men remained tense and dangerous. Still, there was little they could do, and the storm would keep them inside. If they decided to resume their fight, Hammersmith could handle them. The miner and the innkeeper seemed geared for short bursts of manic energy, but they had no stamina.

  Day pulled on his torn and useless overcoat.

  “I’m going with you,” Price said.

  “No, sir, you stay with your children. They’ve had a difficult time of it and they need you.”

  With that, Day stepped out into the snow and pulled the door shut behind him. By now he could make the trip to the church with his eyes closed. The wind had died down and visibility had improved, but the road was buried under a foot of ice and powder. Day moved as quickly as he could, plodding through drifts. He tried to run and realized he must look ridiculous lifting each foot high and pushing out and down through the thin hard cover that had melted and refrozen into the soft snow beneath, then the next foot, like a duck with a tall hat. One foot, two foot, one foot, two foot. But he kept going. There was no one to see him.

  His nose went numb first, and he found himself wishing his ears would follow suit. They burned and stung. His eyes watered and he wiped the tears away, worried they might freeze on his cheeks.

  He tromped around the bend and saw the outline of the church ahead, still too far. The end of the road. He put his head down and watched his feet, concentrated on the up-and-down motion, ignored his stinging ears and hands and toes, and tried hard not to think about the distance, just move through it, decrease it, step by agonizing step.

  And then he was there. The grey stone façade stretched up and out in front of him, and he tripped over the invisible first step of the wide front stoop. He used the momentum and controlled his fall, pushing through the front doors and arriving abruptly in the foyer. He caught his balance, spun on his heel, and shut the doors.

  Inside, the church was cold, but compared to the frozen landscape just outside, it felt snug and toasty. Day stamped his feet a few times, both to get the snow off his shoes and to circulate his blood. His ears began to ping painfully as they warmed up. He clapped his hands over them to speed the process and left the foyer.

  He entered the sanctuary at a trot and hurried down the center aisle for what was to be his last time, looking neither left nor right. He couldn’t afford to be stopped or slowed, and the sight of Blackhampton’s sick and dying was of no possible help to him. He noticed Henry Mayhew as he passed him, but didn’t acknowledge the friendly giant.

  The vicar Brothwood stepped out in front of Day as he reached the pulpit, but Day walked past, ignoring him completely. He heard Brothwood follow him as he pushed through the door and into the private room at the back of the church.

  Day went straight to the small fireplace and found the smooth round stone in the surround. He tried turning it, but it was too slippery, there was no purchase. Brothwood put a hand on his shoulder and reached past him, pushed the stone hard. It slid back under the mantel, and Brothwood hooked a finger under the edge of the newly recessed area and pushed something else there that Day couldn’t see. The floor of the firebox dropped down at the front, beneath the level of the room’s floor, and a section of the hearth slid suddenly and silently out on what Day imagined was a well-oiled set of casters. There was a narrow staircase, not much more than a ladder built into the rocks, that led down into the dark beneath the fireplace.

  Brothwood smiled and led the way down the stairs. Day reached into his pocket and found his gun. He kept his hand there, ready, and followed the vicar. It occurred to him that he might have been wise to bring Henry Mayhew along.

  Day’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim candlelight under the floor. He ducked his head and stepped off the last rung and onto a solid slab of stone, roughly six by six feet. The ceiling was made of the floorboards of the room above and was only about five feet high. Day had to stoop as he followed Brothwood out into the tiny underground room. He and the vicar stood side by side, bent over, their shoulders braced hard against the ceiling, their necks bent uncomfortably. Day was several inches taller than Brothwood, but the room wasn’t built for either of them.

  It was a priest hole. Exactly what Day had expected to find. Built centuries ago, when the church was an inn and Catholic priests were regularly put to death. Many towns like Blackhampton had built secret chambers in public buildings, sometimes ingeniously hidden, where a priest could hide from questing soldiers. A priest hole only needed to be large enough to conceal one man for a few hours at a time.

  There wasn’t much to see. The room was abandoned, but there were still signs that someone had recently lived in it. There was a candle, just a stub that had burned down to the ground and wouldn’t last more than another hour. A bedroll in one corner, hastily abandoned, a round scorched spot on the stone where countless fires had been built, and a small wooden box. Day hunched himself past Brothwood and looked in the box. It held a few dry biscuits and a tin cup, half full of cider. Day sniffed. The musty odor of sex lingered in the air, and Day was reminded of Campbell’s secret visits to the church. He looked at Brothwood. The vicar’s features danced and melted in the flickering light, but it seemed to Day that his smile was warm and genuine. It was probably a relief to have his secret exposed and finally lifted from his shoulders.

  “How long was Mrs Price hiding here?” Day said.

  “The night she left her husband, she came here.”

  “Why here?”

  “Where else would she go? Her husband certainly never came to church. He knew where he was destined to go. He wouldn’t have thought to look for her her
e.”

  “What do you mean? Where was Sutton Price destined to go?”

  “To hell, sir. For what he did to his first wife.”

  “What did he do to her? What do you know about that?”

  “I know nothing. But I believe what everyone else believes. He murdered Mathilda Price. She never left this village alive.”

  Day made a face. If Sutton Price had murdered his first wife, then their nanny, Hester, the second wife, might have had something to do with it. Blackhampton was a viper’s nest of rumor and innuendo, none of it proven or provable.

  “Why hide her at all?”

  “Because Sutton Price kills his wives. I believe I saved Hester’s life that night.”

  “And what of her children?”

  “Had she brought them, I would have hidden them as well.”

  “But weren’t you worried? You say he kills his wives. Who’s to say he wouldn’t kill his children?”

  “Who would kill a child?”

  Who indeed? Someone had killed Oliver. Maybe it was Sutton Price, maybe it was Hester Price, but neither of those options felt right. There was another solution, something else that nagged at the back of Day’s mind, but it made him uncomfortable and he avoided thinking about it directly. In any case, the vicar Brothwood hadn’t killed anyone. He had, at worst, been guilty of poor judgment.

  “Why not go to Constable Grimes for help?” Day said.

  “What could he have done? He’s a good man, but he’s not competent. He even had to bring you here to help him.”

  “Where is Grimes now? Do you know?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.”

  Day shook his head. “Thank you for your time, sir,” he said.

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but took the rungs back up to the surface two at a time and emerged in the vicar’s room. He wondered again how the man and his wife could both occupy that small space, and wondered, too, about the nights they had spent with Hester Price directly below them, huddled against the bare wall on a thin bedroll. Had Calvin Campbell been down there with her? How much had the vicar overlooked in his zeal to do the right thing?

  Day left the room, didn’t bother to close the door behind him, and drifted down the center aisle of the sanctuary, wondering about his next move. In fact, though he hated to admit it to himself, he was probably avoiding the storm. The longer he lingered in the church, the longer he remained warm.

  Calvin Campbell and Hester Price were out there somewhere, together and probably freezing, away from the warmth and safety of the church and the inn. Day didn’t know where else to look for them.

  “Mr Day.” Henry Mayhew came up the aisle toward him, moving with purpose. “Did you come to help?”

  “Hello, Henry.”

  “Hello.”

  “You’re helping the sick here?”

  “Yes, sir. And a lot of them.”

  “You’re doing good work.”

  “Not really, sir. Nothing much I can do for them.”

  “I’m afraid I feel the same. There’s a murderer in Blackhampton, and I seem to be out of ideas. Nothing feels right to me.”

  “Is the murderer at the church?” Henry looked around with such an exaggerated expression of unease that Day almost laughed aloud. He stifled the impulse, recognizing that it would hurt the gentle giant’s feelings.

  “I don’t think so, Henry. I came looking for Hester Price or Calvin Campbell, but neither is here.”

  “They’ve probably gone to London.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because that’s where I would go. I want to go there now. I don’t like this place at all.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  “They probably already got on the train.”

  “The train’s not running. The storm, you know.”

  “It will sometime, won’t it?”

  “I suppose it will. It had better. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

  “Let’s both leave. We can wait at the depot, and when the snow stops we can get on the train and go away from here.”

  Day rubbed his jaw. He had neglected to shave, and his chin rasped against his dry fingers. “Henry, my good fellow, I think you may be on to something.”

  “We’ll go, then.” Henry ran down the aisle and disappeared among the rows of moaning villagers. He emerged again in a moment with two lanterns and the small wooden box. He ran back to Day and presented the box to him. “I took good care. See?”

  Inside, the baby magpie was moving about in a way that seemed very healthy to Day. The inspector grinned at Henry Mayhew.

  “Henry, he’s better than ever, isn’t he?”

  Henry smiled and looked bashfully away. “I tried my best, sir. Took good care of the baby all day long, just like the doctor and me did these sick folks.”

  “Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Henry held out the box tentatively, with a pensive frown and a furrowed brow. “He’s yours, sir. You can take him back, if you want to.”

  “I think he still needs you, Henry. Better leave him with you until he’s big enough to fly.”

  Henry nodded, quite serious. “I’ll get him big enough.”

  “I’m quite sure you will.”

  “Let’s go, sir.”

  “I suppose the train depot is as good a place to look as any.”

  “Look for what?”

  “For Hester Price and Calvin Campbell.”

  “Oh, was I right? Are they leaving, too?”

  “I think they might be. Given Hester’s frame of mind, I can’t think of anything that would be keeping her here anymore. She said as much, but I thought she might return here for her things.”

  “She had things here?”

  “Not really, no. She was living like a prisoner, waiting for her son to be found. And waiting to leave this place.”

  “And she’s gone now?”

  “On her way.”

  “Then we’ll all go together.”

  Henry led the way up the aisle and through the foyer. He pulled the doors open and took a moment to close the wooden box and stow it away beneath his enormous long overcoat. Day could still hear the bird chirping somewhere deep in the folds, but he imagined that it was warmer than he was and he wished that he was small enough to fit in a wooden box within a giant’s coat, ferried safely through any storm. He wished that he felt the way he had as a child, secure and trusting in the sound judgment of everyone larger than he. He knew that Oliver Price had felt that same thing and that the boy’s faith had been misplaced, and for a brief moment before plunging into the storm behind Henry Mayhew, Day wondered how any children ever made it to adulthood when they so blindly placed their trust in adults.

  The moment his foot broke the thin icy surface of the church’s stoop, the earth beneath him rumbled and shook and he was thrown backward into the foyer.

  He landed hard on his left shoulder and braced himself, both palms flat against the floor, waiting for the church to collapse around him. But the sound died and the shaking stopped and the calm of the snow resumed.

  From somewhere behind him, back in the sanctuary, he heard the frightened cries of sick villagers and he wondered how far the church had sunk into the tunnels below, whether the priest hole was still intact, and what might have happened had he still been down there beneath the vicar’s room when the tremor struck.

  Henry reappeared at the church doors, covered with white powder. He took a step into the foyer and held out his hand, helped Day to his feet, then stuck his hand into his coat and drew out the little wooden box. Day was touched by the anxiety on Henry’s face, the pure worry for his tiny charge. Henry opened the lid and peeked inside, and Day heard the bird chirp once. Henry smiled and closed the lid again and put the box away.

  “Oliver’s all ri
ght,” he said.

  “You named the bird Oliver?” Day said.

  “I did, sir. I heard a lot of people saying that name since we came here, and I like the sound of it.”

  Day smiled, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t impossibly complicated and unnecessary. The smile seemed like enough of a response.

  “I think we’d better hurry, sir,” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Day said. “I’m afraid Blackhampton is collapsing beneath us.” He moved past Henry and jumped into the snow and trudged away as fast as he could, Henry right behind him, sheltering the living bird that had been given a dead boy’s name.

  54

  Hammersmith waited until he was certain the inn had stopped trembling on its foundation before he released his grip on the banister. Across the room, Jessica was sunk deep in the cushions of an armchair before the fire. She had slept through the tremor. And the remaining members of the Price family at the inn had also withstood the tremor with little sign they had noticed it happening. They were, of course, much more used to their sinking village than Hammersmith was.

  Sutton Price was holding his three children in a big loose hug as they spoke to him. Virginia leaned in close to her father, and Hammersmith read her lips as she whispered the words “I know a secret” in Sutton’s ear. The other two children tensed and began trying to distract their father, but Sutton calmed them and smiled indulgently at Virginia, who began to babble at him. Price had spent days separated from his children, but now he seemed utterly attached to them, listening carefully to his daughter. Hammersmith tried to read Virginia’s lips to make out what she was saying. He squinted and leaned forward, but the little girl’s long hair was in the way.

  Peter and Anna Price broke away from their father and Virginia. They scurried over to Hammersmith as if by some prearranged agreement between them, took him by the hands, and began to lead him toward the dining room.

  “I’m hungry,” Anna said. “Let’s find something to eat.”

  Bennett Rose was there at his bar, polishing the surface with a dirty rag. He stopped scowling at Sutton Price long enough to scowl at Hammersmith instead.