The Black Country tms-2 Page 8

  He stopped every few feet and shuffled through the leaves at the side of the narrow trail with the toe of his boot. He doubted he would find any footprints so long after the family had disappeared, but he held out hope that he might discover a dropped handkerchief, a paper pastry wrapper, anything at all. Grimes tramped on, though, without looking around, without waiting to let Hammersmith catch up. Hammersmith was conscious of the fact that he might get lost, and by the time the sun rose there would be new search parties out in these woods, looking for the London policeman and diverting time and attention from the missing Price family. He kept the back of the constable’s blue jacket in sight and never stopped moving for long.

  They had been searching for quite some time when Hammersmith spotted an odd shape deeper in the brush.

  “Over here,” Hammersmith said. “What’s that?”

  Grimes turned and came back to where Hammersmith stood on the path. The glow from their lanterns spread out in a wobbly circle across the ground.

  “What’ve you found?”

  “I’m not sure. Does that look strange to you?” Hammersmith pointed into the trees. The ground cover grew thick here, and it was hard to spot anything amongst the dead grey branches and wet black leaves. Grimes held his lantern up and peered into the dark. He stifled a yawn with his free hand.

  “I don’t see nuffin’.”

  “There. Right there. Do you see it?”

  “Right in there?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Dead animal, I’d say. Doesn’t look like a person, no ways.”

  “I’m going to take a closer look.”

  Hammersmith handed his lantern to Constable Grimes and crouched down. He pushed aside a handful of thin low-hanging branches and shuffled forward until he had to kneel. The knees of his thin uniform trousers were immediately soaked through. He realized that he hadn’t felt any sensation in his feet for some time. They were numb. Unlike Inspector Day, Hammersmith had not packed any boots but the standard black Wellingtons he was accustomed to wearing. They were excellent for walking a beat, but they weren’t at all suited for tramping about the countryside in snow and ice. He braced himself for the cold and settled forward, putting his weight on his hands. He crawled through the brush, out into the darkness, keeping his head down. The glow from the dual lanterns didn’t penetrate as far as he’d hoped. He was as good as blind.

  “Hoy, Mr Hammersmith, you’ve drifted off to the left a bit there, sir.”

  Hammersmith adjusted course, surprised that Grimes’s voice sounded so close. He really hadn’t gone as far off the path as he’d assumed. His legs already felt frozen from the knees down. It was quite clear to him that a lost little boy might not survive a single night in the wilderness, and Hammersmith found himself hoping once again that Oliver Price was somewhere warm and dry with his parents.

  He raised his head and a sharp branch scraped across his face, from his hairline to his chin. He dropped again and covered his head. Snow plopped down from above as the branch sprang back into position. Hammersmith dabbed at his cheek and felt something wet, but couldn’t tell if he was bleeding or wet with snow.

  “It’s right there, Mr Hammersmith. No, there. Reach out with your right hand.”

  Hammersmith groped about him until his fingers touched something wet and slimy. It was fabric of some sort. He grabbed the nearest edge and backed quickly out of the narrow tunnel he’d made with his body, dragging the cloth.

  “Here you go, man,” Grimes said. “All’s well.”

  Hammersmith felt Grimes’s hands on the back of his jacket, pulling him along, lifting him up. He stood and shook twigs out of his hair, wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. The lanterns were swinging side by side from a nearby tree branch.

  “That’s a lad, that’s a fine lad.” Grimes brushed Hammersmith’s clothing, clumsily patting the leaves and mud off his uniform. Hammersmith grinned and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

  “I’d like to wait for daylight before attempting that again,” he said.

  “No need, sir,” Grimes said. “If there’s to be a next time, I believe it will be my turn. But if you don’t mind, I hope there won’t be a next time.”

  “Don’t blame you a bit.”

  “Nasty scratch you’ve got there, though.”

  “It’s nothing. Let’s see what we have.”

  Grimes took the dripping wad of fabric from Hammersmith, who rubbed his hands together and blew into them, trying to warm his fingers. Grimes held up the cloth and stretched it out between his hands. He moved so that the lantern light shone directly on, and through, the fabric. It was an article of clothing. Hammersmith identified a short sleeve, bordered by torn lace. Amid the dark streaks and blotches that stained the cloth, he picked out traces of a subtle floral pattern. It was impossible to make out colors, but the black marks were clearly not any part of the natural design of the thing.

  “It’s a dress,” Grimes said.

  “A child’s dress.”

  “It’s awfully small.”

  “Does it look familiar to you, Mr Grimes?”

  “Familiar in what way?”

  “Have you seen anyone wearing this?”

  “I’m sure I don’t have any idea who might have worn this. Maybe in better light. .”

  “Well, it’s certain Mrs Price never wore this.”

  “Not within the past twenty years, I’d say.”

  “What about Oliver?”

  “Oliver’s a boy.”

  “But could it be a baptism gown or nightshirt or somesuch?”

  “Ah, I suppose it might be. But the lace? And the flowers?”

  “Rather feminine.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Those black spots and this.” Hammersmith pointed to a large dark patch near the midsection of the little dress and moved his finger down to the hem where a chunk of lace had been torn out.

  “That’s blood, sir. I’d stake my career on it.”

  “I agree.”

  “And that means we’re looking for someone else entirely.”

  “Mr and Mrs Price, little Oliver, and a girl.”

  “What is happening in my village, Mr Hammersmith?”

  “Something evil. The children here may be in great danger.”

  “Rawhead.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That silly rhyme comes to mind. Nothing, really. Blackhampton’s always been so quiet. One of the things I like about it, really.”

  Hammersmith nodded, but there was nothing more to say. The case had just become even more urgent. Grimes folded the dress, squeezing out the excess water, and they each took a lantern from the branch behind them.

  “Should we keep looking?” Grimes said.

  “I believe we’d better. It’s more important than ever.”

  Grimes closed his eyes and sighed. Hammersmith didn’t wait for him to follow. He plunged back down the path, headed farther into the forest. A moment later, he heard Grimes at his heels.

  They had not gone more than five or six yards into the woods when Hammersmith stopped and held up the lantern.

  “What is it?” Grimes said.

  “Listen.”

  The two men stood quietly, their breathing shallow, and waited. Grimes motioned to get Hammersmith’s attention and pointed off to their left. Hammersmith heard the muffled crack of a twig breaking and then the wet slap of a leafy branch.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  A voice answered from the darkness beside the path, almost at their elbows.

  “It’s me, Campbell. Say something else. Guide me to you.”

  “We’re here, sir. Right here. Do you see the lanterns?”

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Campbell stepped out from under the trees and let out a deep breath. His shaggy grey hair was mussed and full of leaves, and the shoulder of his jacket was torn. A long streak of mud ran from his left hip to his ankle. He shook Hammersmith’s hand.

  “I slip
ped down an incline of some sort. Didn’t see it in the dark and then got hopelessly turned around. It’s a lucky break for me you hollered out when you did or I’d have been lost in there forever.”

  It was the most Hammersmith had heard the big man say, but he understood. It was easy to lose one’s composure under the dark silent trees.

  “Where’s Inspector Day?”

  Campbell blinked and looked all round them at the path and the trees, as if Day might suddenly swing down and land among them.

  “I’d actually hoped he was with you.”

  “You left him?”

  “I thought I saw something in the woods and circled round to investigate. When I returned to the spot where we were standing, Mr Day was gone. I struck out in pursuit, but got turned around myself.”

  “What did you think you saw?” Grimes said.

  “It was nothing.”

  “It must have been something if you left Inspector Day in the woods,” Hammersmith said. “Let’s find him before he freezes to death out here. And then I’ll want to have a word with you, Mr Campbell.”

  16

  T he American stood back in the trees and watched the other men on the path. He knew Cal Campbell. He also knew the policeman from London. He had sat behind him on the train. There was another man dressed in the uniform of a policeman, and the American guessed that he was the local lawman. He and Campbell seemed to be friendly. The American’s rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he reached up, fingered the trigger, ran his tongue over his teeth and through the hole that separated his jaw from the rest of his face. Its pink tip left a silvery trail in the broken lantern light.

  He pulled the rifle off his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. He lined up each of the men in turn and mimicked pulling the trigger. But there were too many of them and he was too close. He felt confident that he could kill at least two of them quickly, but the third might reach him before he could line up the last shot. He slung the rifle back over his shoulder and moved farther back into the trees.

  There was plenty of time. No need to rush things. He had waited more than twenty years and he could wait another day. He would need to find shelter for the night, though. The woods were too cold and too crowded with policemen. The American had seen a building on the hill that seemed deserted. A perfect place to stay the night.

  17

  Day stopped in midstride and listened. He had heard something nearby, something almost subliminal. The grey man with the hideous face was still out there in the woods, and Day had no idea whether the man was dangerous or a friend. He was being careful.

  The sound came again. A tiny high-pitched whistle. A chirp. He crouched and brought his lantern down close to the forest floor. There, nearly invisible, black and white against the ice and mud and grey thickets, was a round ball of fluff, its beak open to the sky, the pink maw of its throat as big around as Day’s little finger.

  He stood and scanned the closest trees, looking for a nest. He moved the lantern in a circle and turned slowly, careful not to step on the baby bird at his feet. He saw nothing.

  He squatted again and patted his jacket.

  “I know I have. .” he said. “Aha.”

  He supposed he was talking to the bird, but he knew it didn’t understand. It just sat there in its damp makeshift nest in the mud, its beak trembling at him. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a half-eaten biscuit from the train. It was hard and he broke it apart, letting the crumbs fall to the ground, and fished in his palm for the nuts and raisins that had been baked into it. He found three raisins and one piece of a walnut. He decided the walnut might be too difficult for the bird to deal with and let it fall through his fingers. He scooped a palmful of slush from the top of a log and dropped the raisins into it. The bird chirped again and opened its beak.

  “Patience, little one,” Day said.

  He scanned the woods, alert for the grey man and for the bird’s parents. But he was alone.

  In a few moments, he fished the raisins out of the handful of water and squeezed them gently between his thumb and finger. They still seemed shriveled and dense, but the bird was shaking with hunger or anticipation, and so he poked a raisin into its beak. The raisin immediately disappeared down the bird’s eager throat. Its beak never closed. He gave it another one and waited to see if there would be any problems. He didn’t think magpies probably ate raisins in the wild, in the woods. But this one seemed to have an insatiable appetite for them, and so he poked the last raisin into its beak.

  He sat cross-legged in front of the bird and watched it. The raisins had changed nothing. It sat trembling in the leaves, occasionally chirping, its beak open.

  He found his flask in another pocket and opened it, tipped some of the brandy into his mouth. He held the half-empty flask out and showed it to the bird.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care for a bracer, would you? No, I thought not.”

  He smiled and plugged the top of the flask, put it back in his pocket.

  “What happens to you if I go on my way, little chum?” he said.

  He looked at the trees again, hoping to see a nest or an anxious adult bird, but of course he saw nothing. His visibility extended perhaps four feet into the trees.

  “Will you learn to fly? Will your mother come to feed you?”

  He sighed.

  “We both know something will eat you. Or you’ll simply die here in the snow and then bugs will come when things warm up out here. Bugs are something, too, I suppose. So, yes, you will be eaten. That’s how it works, isn’t it? You’ve left the nest too early and now you’ll be a victim of. . of what? The forest, the world, the natural way of things?”

  He reached down and gathered up the ball of fuzz. It was ridiculously lightweight. He turned it over and noticed that there were no feathers on its belly. The skin was nearly translucent, and he could see its heart beating, see its dark organs arranged within the compact globe of its body. He touched a fingertip, gently, to the smooth grey-pink casing and felt its pulse against his own.

  “Are you supposed to have feathers there?” he said. “Are you sick? Were you kicked out of the nest?”

  The bird closed its beak and kicked out with a twiglike leg. He turned it back over in his hand so that it could sit upright.

  “Well, you’ll freeze to death out here, at any rate. Not a good idea to leave home without your feathers on a night like this. I’d best do something about you.”

  He tucked the bird away into the empty pocket that had held the biscuit and he stood up. He checked to make sure there was room enough for the bird and arranged the flap of his pocket so that it could get air. He bent, carefully, and picked up the lantern by its handle, checked the trees once more for a nest, and continued on his way, listening for the random chirp of his new companion.

  18

  When Hammersmith, Campbell, and Grimes returned to the inn, it was just before dawn and smoke was already pouring upward from the twin chimneys. Grimes left the other two at the door with a promise to return after washing up and getting a bite to eat. Inspector Day had not been found, and the men were anxious to recruit more bodies to aid in the search. Campbell opened the inn’s door and waved Hammersmith through to the common room, where they were surprised to find Inspector Day sitting before one of the two fires, sipping at a steaming mug of cider, still wearing his quilted vest and heavy boots.

  Day stood and greeted them warmly when they entered the room. Hammersmith was speechless, and Campbell seemed happier to see the inspector than either of them would have expected. Bennett Rose, looking sleepless and bleary-eyed, emerged from the door at the back of the room and counted heads, then returned a moment later with two cups of hot tea and a plate of tiny sweet cakes. The men stripped off their wet overcoats and hung them on hooks near the fire. They stacked their boots on the hearth, where they steamed. Hammersmith noticed a small wooden box filled with straw on the stones near the fire. He glanced at Day and saw the inspector watching him with a mischievou
s smile.

  “What happened to your face, Sergeant?”

  Hammersmith touched his cheek and winced. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “But how are you here ahead of us?”

  “I’ve been here for hours,” Day said. “Or perhaps it only seems like it’s been hours.”

  “But I lost you in the woods,” Campbell said.

  “Yes, about that,” Day said. “Why did you leave me?”

  “I apologize. I thought I saw something and wanted a better look. I expected you to stay where you were, but you left me.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the woods. What did you see that caused you to run off?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “There was nothing there, so what does it matter?”

  “Was it a man with a hole in his face? More than a scar, a great gaping maw where his jaw might ordinarily be expected?”

  Behind them, at the kitchen door, Bennett Rose gasped and dropped a cup. It clattered on the stone floor and rolled for an instant before shattering against the wainscoting. Rose dropped to one knee and began mopping up tea. Hammersmith jumped up and went to help, and Day noticed that the sergeant was covered in muck from head to toe.

  “You do look as if you’ve had an adventure,” Day said.

  “We’ve spent half the night looking for you.”

  “I had my compass, my knife, a good pair of boots. You needn’t have worried.”

  “We thought you were lost.”

  “I was. But then I wasn’t. As soon as I heard the whoosh of flames from the furnaces, I knew I was close to the tree line, and I simply followed the noise out.” Day swiveled in his seat as Hammersmith returned to the fire. Bennett Rose was already on his way back to the kitchen, holding the fragments of the broken cup in the palm of one hand and a sopping dishcloth in the other. “Mr Rose,” Day said, “why were you surprised just now?”