by Alex Grecian
Anna peered down at her invisible brother and the inspector. “Did it make a cushion down there?”
“It did!” Peter said. “Good job! It must be a yard high at least, but I don’t think we can climb up it! Too soft!”
“Soft is good!” Anna said. She took the cold lantern and clicked her tongue at it. “I’m afraid we may lose some of the oil.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t talking to you!”
“What are you doing?”
“Stand back and let me just do it!”
She lay on her stomach and crawled out as far as she dared, then dangled the lantern over the edge and let go of it. It landed like a whisper somewhere below. A moment later Peter’s voice drifted up to her. “Got it! Brilliant!”
“Did it leak?”
“I don’t think so! Not very much!”
“We need to get matches for you now!”
“I’ve got matches!” Day said.
She listened to a rustling sound in the dark, and then there was a small flash of light and the sound of metal on metal as the lantern opened and was lit. And all at once she could see her brother and Inspector Day, standing in the snow and looking up at her. Their faces were yellow in the lamplight, and their bodies faded out into nothingness below their chests. They looked almost close enough to touch.
“Henry might be able to reach you,” Kingsley said. There seemed to be no need to shout anymore, now that they could all see one another.
“I don’t think so,” Day said. “It’s farther than it looks.”
Henry reached out anyway, reached his long right arm far down into the ground, his fingertips still far above Day and the boy.
“It’s okay,” Peter said. “I can lead us out. I know the way. I think I do.” He seemed eager to please, and Anna understood why. Both of them had a lot to make up for.
“We’ll be okay,” Day said. “It really is warmer down here than up there. You lot must be freezing. You look wet.”
And, suddenly, they were freezing. The initial rush of adrenaline had faded and they weren’t moving, just kneeling in the snow. Henry reached into his overcoat and found his little wooden box. He opened the lid a crack and squinted inside it, then closed it again and held it over the chasm.
They all heard a piercing peep.
“Henry!”
“Catch,” Henry said.
“Henry, no!” Day said.
“He can help you, little Oliver can.”
“How is that?”
“Like a canary. It’s a coal mine you’re in. They take canaries into coal mines to protect them, don’t they?”
“That they do,” Day said. He doubted whether Henry understood why miners carried canaries, that the birds’ deaths were meant to warn men of gas leaks and pockets of poison in the underground air. “Thank you, but I doubt it’s necessary. You need to keep Oliver safe with you.”
Henry frowned, but tucked the bird back into his coat.
“Right,” Kingsley said. “We’ll head on to the depot and see about warming up. You get out of there and make your way to the depot, too.”
“Or somewhere,” Day said. “If we can find a safe place, we’ll wait for daylight. I’ll find Sergeant Hammersmith. Or Constable Grimes.”
“The train will come once the storm lets up.”
“We hope.”
“We do indeed.”
“I want to send the sergeant home as soon as we can.”
“We will.”
“Peter,” Anna said, “take care.”
He nodded up at her, the lamplight catching highlights in his hair and a glint in his eyes. She knew he understood her. She didn’t want to spell it out. She needed him now. She had a horrible feeling that they had no one else left.
65
Well,” Day said, “lead the way, young man.”
Peter bit his upper lip and preceded the inspector down the long black tunnel. Day held the lantern high, and shadows bounded ahead of them over the craggy walls and the beaten-down floor, the ceiling with its rough timbers meant to keep the village from crashing through and failing miserably at that task.
“How is your arm? Does it hurt much?”
“No,” Peter said. “Perhaps it’s the cold, but I can’t feel it at all now.”
The boy trotted along barefoot, his arm in a sling made from a torn shirt, his hair plastered to his head. He and his sisters had spent days on their own, wild children, their father stalking these same tunnels and their mother hiding in a tiny hole under a church. Peter Price had been attended by a housekeeper and a schoolteacher, but he had gone without a parent, had most likely taken the role of parent for his sisters’ sake, and there was something new awakening in Day as his wife grew larger, as their baby grew larger inside her. He was a father, or would be very soon, and he was astonished by the depth of feeling that this simple fact inspired in him. He wanted to be an example for his child, whether that child finally presented itself as a boy or a girl. And, like generations of men before him, he also wanted to take a train in the other direction and never set his eyes on that child. Granted, this latter emotion was a false one, gnarled and stunted, a poisoned apple offered up by a part of himself he had never listened to, but it shamed him and he aimed that shame at Sutton Price, who had actually left his children to fend for themselves while he hared off after a woman who didn’t want him, and who didn’t want to be a mother to Peter and Anna and Virginia.
“You won’t be left alone again,” Day said to the boy’s filthy back as they hurried along. “I won’t leave until you’re safe.”
The boy didn’t react, but his back stiffened and he jogged faster, his bare feet slapping against the dirt. They both moved along silently after that. Day felt mildly uncomfortable, as if he’d said something wrong, but he was glad he’d said it anyway.
At last, Peter stopped and bent his head and peered forward. “Do you see that?”
Day looked down the length of the tunnel. He squinted. “Is the wall yellow there?”
The boy nodded. “I think so.”
“Is it gold? Did we find a gold mine?”
“I think it’s a light, sir.”
“Yes,” Day said. “It looks like lantern light to me.”
“Should we go on?”
“Let’s,” Day said. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll take the lead.”
He passed the boy and quietly reached into his coat. He drew out his Colt Navy and, comforted by the weight of it, crept forward and around a slight curve in the narrow abandoned tunnel.
He stopped again when he ran into the back of a horse.
66
As it happened, the train depot was only a few yards from where Day had fallen into the chasm. It was over a rise that had been piled high with snow, and as soon as the four of them—Dr Kingsley, Jessica, Anna, and Henry Mayhew—topped the ridge they saw it, half digested by the landscape, listing to one side deep in a chasm of its own. They ran to it, lifting their feet high and bounding forward as if they still had energy, even though the place was dark and empty-looking. Even tipped up on end, it was better than the limitless tracts of nothing they’d been wandering through.
Henry wrenched the front door up and open and lifted little Anna through, lowered her down. They all heard her gasp, but Henry lost his grip and was unable to pull her back up. So he jumped in after her, careful not to land where he thought Anna must be. He slipped and slid down the inclined floor, but caught himself with a paw on the broken windowsill. Kingsley lowered their remaining lantern down to him and Henry raised it up, peered into the gloom.
There were no furnishings. Just three benches tilted at an odd angle, bolted to the floor. In the lowest corner of the room, Calvin Campbell looked up and glared at the sudden light. He was hunched over something that resembled an old blanket, discarded there
where nobody would think to look. When Henry brought the lantern closer, he saw that the blanket-thing was a woman and that the woman was missing the top of her head. The wall behind Campbell was painted with a black swath of liquid that ran and dripped and spattered, all of it pointed directly at the big Scotsman and the dead woman.
“Henry,” Dr Kingsley said.
Henry looked up at the rectangle of black sky behind Kingsley’s head. Kingsley was half in the room already, straining with worry. Behind him was the silhouette of Jessica’s upper body, leaning forward over the doctor.
“Henry, is the girl all right?”
“She’s dead, Doctor.”
“Oh, no!” Jessica shoved Kingsley out of the way and tripped forward through the door, falling into Henry’s arms. He held on to the lantern by its wire, and its swaying bulk swung crazy shadows around the room, into every corner. Anna sat on a bench, perched on the arm of it, her hand on Campbell’s arm. When she saw Jessica with Henry, she pulled herself up the bench toward them. Jessica pushed herself out of Henry’s arms and met the girl halfway as Kingsley dropped down next to Henry.
“You said she was dead,” Kingsley said.
“I meant the other girl,” Henry said. “The big one. I’m sorry.”
Kingsley patted the giant’s shoulder and moved forward, past Jessica and Anna, who were crying, holding each other, neither of them looking at the grisly tableau against the tilted baseboards. Campbell looked up again as Kingsley came near and he let go of Hester’s body. He stood, balancing with one foot against the wall.
“It’s too late,” Campbell said.
Kingsley nodded, his shadow self trembling across the walls, its head stretched out across the ceiling that wasn’t properly a ceiling anymore. “I see that.”
“My fault,” Campbell said. “It’s my fault.”
“You killed her?”
“I brought all of this here. All the death, all the evil. It’s all mine.”
“That’s something for the police to determine, Mr Campbell.”
“I’ll go quietly. There’s nothing here anymore.”
“There’s whoever did that,” Kingsley said. He pointed at the body of Hester Price. “This place doesn’t seem particularly safe, but we should guard against that person’s return.” He waved to Henry. “Check outside, would you?”
“He has grey eyes. The one who killed her. He takes the people I love.”
Anna broke away from Jessica and went to Campbell, put her hand on his back. Campbell looked down at the girl, his expression unreadable.
“You knew her,” he said.
“I didn’t know her well enough,” Anna said. “I’m sorry.”
“She was good. Too good for me. But she waited all those years.”
“Who’s the grey-eyed man?” Kingsley said. “Who did this?”
“An American,” Campbell said. “I never knew his name. He’s stalked me for years.”
“But where is he now?”
67
The American listened as they struggled to get past the carriage that was stuck in the tunnel. The horse whinnied and bucked, and when they got around it they still had to climb over the carriage. They weren’t quiet about it. It sounded like there were two of them. He had plenty of time to prepare for them, but he didn’t see much that he could do beyond loading the Whitworth. He was sitting with his back against the opposite wall from the tunnel mouth where they were making all the noise. His foot was twisted in a way that made him sick to his stomach when he looked at it. He had peeled back his stocking and had seen bone. He set the rifle across his knees and waited.
The man entered the chamber first, his arm held out, keeping the boy safe behind his own body. The American recognized the man. He had been on the train from London and had followed Campbell around the woods. This was the plainclothesman. The American’s eyes flicked over to the other London policeman, the one in uniform in the middle of the chamber, then back to the detective. Both he and the boy looked as if they’d had a rough time of it recently. The detective’s clothes were in tatters and the boy was barefoot, smudged with ash. They both peered around the chamber, taking in the scene. The boy gasped when he saw the American’s face, and he gasped again when he saw the dead man hanging from the ceiling. “Father!” He ran forward, but the detective caught him and held him back, eyeing the rifle, the American holding it loosely but with his finger ready on the trigger.
At the boy’s voice, the uniformed policeman stirred. He was on his feet, but had slumped against the hanged man, held upright by that swaying weight and an apparently boundless reserve of stubbornness.
“I’d like to check on my sergeant,” the detective said.
The American nodded and swung the Whitworth up, pointed it at the detective. “Go ahead. He was here when I got here. Both of ’em like that.”
The detective pushed the boy back in the shadows of the tunnel and whispered something. It sounded like the boy wanted to argue, but the detective stood his ground. He left the boy there, out of the American’s sight, and walked cautiously to the middle of the chamber floor. His eyes flicked here and there, taking in the two shallow graves, one old and one fresh, the signs of a campsite.
“My name is Day,” the detective said. “Inspector Day of the Yard.”
The American shrugged. It didn’t matter to him.
“And this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”
Day reached out and felt for a pulse in Hammersmith’s throat. He gently pulled the sergeant away from the dead man, and Hammersmith’s knees buckled. He fell against the detective and came awake. “No!” He scrambled back and tried to lift the dangling body up, but it was too much for him. He gazed upward at the swollen face of the dead man, ignoring the American and his rifle. “I thought I could . . .” He turned on the detective. “What took you so long?”
“I didn’t know,” Day said. “How could I have known?”
“You couldn’t have saved him,” the American said. “Not on your own.”
Both policemen seemed startled by the realization that the American was still there. He smiled his too-wide smile, amused that they had forgotten him.
“I saw you in the woods last night,” Day said.
“That you did.”
“I’d feel better if you’d point that rifle somewhere else, sir.”
“Bet you would.” But the American kept the rifle aimed at Day’s midsection. He weighed his options. The Whitworth held a single shot. The smart move would be to kill the detective right away. Then he could use his knife to finish off the boy and the other policeman. Sergeant Hammersmith didn’t look like he could do much at the moment. The man was barely able to stay on his feet, leaning heavily against Day.
But the American thought of that bone sticking out of his ankle. He couldn’t maneuver well and wouldn’t be able to chase down anyone who ran.
And he didn’t have any grudge against these police. They’d only met Campbell the day before, and their behavior toward him, although viewed at a distance through a rifle scope, had seemed cool. They had no way of knowing about anything that the American had done over the course of the day and a half he’d spent on the outskirts of Blackhampton. And they might be able to help him find his way out of the tunnels.
He could always kill them later.
He stood carefully on his good foot and set the Whitworth upright against the wall, within easy reach. He extended his hand. “I apologize, mister. Used to being alone. Makes a man rude.”
Day shook his hand, clearly suspicious, but polite down to his bones. Trying not to stare at the American’s face. He loved the English and their good manners.
“Hope my cheek don’t bother you.”
“Not at all. Are you quite all right?”
“Old wound. Healed up, just ugly’s all.”
“I meant your foot. It looks
painful.”
“I’ve suffered worse.”
“We need to cut him down,” Hammersmith said. He was still looking at the hanged man, still ignoring the American.
“Of course,” Day said. He looked around the chamber. “I have a knife, but I don’t think it’s up to the task.”
“Got a good one here,” the American said. He pulled his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and held it out. For just a second, he considered plunging it into Day’s throat, using the element of surprise, and then taking his time with Hammersmith, but instead he flipped it around and offered the handle to Day. The detective’s eyes were narrowed, suspicious. As if he had somehow seen the American’s murderous impulse.
The American grinned at him, trusting his mutilated face to throw Day off, and it did. Day averted his gaze and took the knife.
“Help me lift him, would you?” Day said. “I mean, can you? Your ankle . . .”
The American didn’t answer. He hopped forward and grabbed the dead man by the legs, hoisted him up until the rope went slack above. He heard the slap slap slap of bare feet on the packed soil behind him and let go of the hanged man, swiveled on his good foot in time to see the boy lift the Whitworth in one hand, balancing it by jamming it against his shoulder, his other arm useless in a sling.
“Rawhead and Bloody Bones!” The boy took aim and fired before the American could move. The chamber filled with a piercing whistle, and his chest blossomed red and pink and grey. He tried to take a breath, but nothing happened. He grinned at the boy, showed him it wasn’t so bad. Showed him all those teeth arrayed behind his butchered flesh, and then toppled facedown at the detective’s feet.
“He killed my father,” the boy said. “And he killed Oliver.”
The American tasted dirt and felt rough hands turning him over, saw the detective’s stricken expression, and wondered who the hell Oliver was.
