The Black Country tms-2 Page 9

  “No time for talk, sir. I should take care of this mess.”

  “Was it because you recognized my description of the man in the woods?”

  “Man in the woods, sir?”

  “Mr Rose, you surprise me. For an innkeeper, you’re a terrible liar.”

  Rose shook his head and hurried away through the kitchen door. Hammersmith turned to Day and raised an eyebrow.

  “Shall I follow?” he said. “I may be able to make him talk.”

  “No,” Day said. “Let him be. He wants to tell us what’s troubling him, but he hasn’t quite got his courage up yet. Let him sleep on it and he may tell us about it in the morning.”

  Hammersmith glanced back at the kitchen door. “It’s morning now, isn’t it? In the technical sense, I mean.” But he walked reluctantly to where Day and Campbell sat by the fire. He took a brocade-covered chair across from the inspector.

  “I believe you’ve just now ruined Mr Rose’s chair, Sergeant,” Day said. “He may decide not to talk to us, after all.”

  Hammersmith held his arms out in front of him and looked down at himself. “I’m dry. The mud should brush out of the upholstery without difficulty.”

  “Ah, of course. You think of everything.”

  “You seem a bit tetchy.”

  “Not at all. But you did leave me in the woods, after all.”

  “Actually, I believe you left us in the woods.”

  “Quite so.”

  “I only came back to refill the oil in our lanterns.”

  “You were going back out tonight?”

  “Couldn’t leave you there.”

  “I’m touched.”

  Hammersmith pointed to the little wooden box by the fire. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Have a look,” Day said. “But be quiet. He’s only just settled down.”

  Hammersmith stood and walked to the hearth. He looked down into the top of the box and then crouched to get a closer look. “It’s a bird,” he said. “Did you bring back a souvenir from the woods, Mr Day?”

  “I’m thinking of promoting the little fellow to sergeant already.”

  “Looks more like an inspector to me.”

  “Well, we’ll see how he does. He’ll have to work his way through the ranks, same as anyone else. I rescued him. Rose gave me that box for him.”

  Hammersmith stood and shook his head. “Kind of him.”

  “Actually,” Day said, “Mr Campbell might be able to help us with our new ward.”

  “How is that?” Campbell said.

  “You’re the resident expert on birds. What should we do for him?”

  “What have you done for him so far?”

  “I gave him raisins from a biscuit in my pocket. And I like to think I saved him from being eaten by a fox.”

  “I’m amazed he didn’t choke on raisins. They must have been awfully firm.”

  “They were.”

  “Baby birds generally have their food chewed for them.”

  “He’s remarkably hardy, I think. I’m quite proud of him.”

  “You should be. But you might moisten anything you give to him in the future.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Fascinating as your bird may be,” Hammersmith said, “we found something, too, Grimes and me.” He reached into his jacket and frowned. He opened the front of the jacket wider and checked the other side. “There it is. Forgot where the pocket was. Look at this.”

  He pulled out a small cloth bundle and unwrapped it. The stains had been folded on the inside surface to help preserve them. He found the seams at the tops of the shoulders and held the child’s dress up for Day to see. Day sat forward and peered at it, moving his head to take advantage of the light from the fireplace. He didn’t touch the dress. Campbell stood and looked over Day’s shoulder.

  “Is that blood?” he said.

  “I think it might be,” Hammersmith said.

  “The missing child is a boy,” Day said, “and I presume the missing woman is too big to wear this.”

  “A nightshirt perhaps?” Campbell said.

  “I thought of that,” Hammersmith said.

  “But a flower pattern around the hem here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Curious.”

  “The doctor will be here soon,” Hammersmith said.

  “Good thing, too,” Day said. “And good of you to find something for him to do, Sergeant.”

  Hammersmith smiled grimly and folded the dress, putting it back in his pocket. “I rather think it’s him who will put us to work,” he said.

  “Who is this doctor?” Campbell said.

  “Dr Kingsley,” Day said. “A colleague of ours.”

  “To help if we find the boy alive?”

  “Well, that, yes. But the doctor is, in his way, another detective of the Yard. He often finds clues in the evidence we bring him.”

  Campbell stood and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “I’ll turn in. If you chaps are going back out there in the daylight, whatever time, I’ll go with you, if you’ll have me. The boy’s not dead. We’ll find him, and your doctor will help him.”

  Campbell nodded at each of them in turn, and they nodded back and watched him cross the room and mount the stairs. He turned at the landing and disappeared from view.

  “Mr Hammersmith,” Day said. “What do we know about Mr Campbell?”

  “Very little. I’m not sure he’s much of an expert on birds. I might have given the same advice about our baby there. He seems quite anxious to find the boy, but seems dismissive of the parents.”

  “He does. I wonder why.”

  “He knows more than he’s said.”

  “Indeed he does. So does our innkeeper. And I think Mr Campbell was going to tell us about the man I saw in the woods before Mr Rose caused that commotion with the broken cup. There are secrets within secrets here.”

  “And yet they asked us to come.”

  “I think tomorrow will be interesting.”

  “I’m afraid,” Hammersmith said, “that the boy’s parents may be dead, and that everyone here knows it.”

  “I’m not sure you’re right, Sergeant, but if you are, I hope we at least find the boy alive.”

  “And quickly. It’s cold out there.”

  “Well,” Day said. “We shall be of no use to anyone without at least a couple of hours of sleep.”

  “You go. I won’t be able to sleep knowing the boy may be out there in the cold and the dark, feeling abandoned and alone.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’ll sense your lack of sleep and be comforted by it.”

  “I didn’t-”

  “Never mind. Go get whatever sleep you can, and we’ll be back at the search bright and early. I promise.”

  Hammersmith moved toward the stairs, but turned back when Day called his name.

  “Mr Hammersmith?”

  “Sir?”

  “It might be a good idea to lock your bedroom door tonight.”

  “I always do.”

  19

  T he American circled the schoolhouse in the dark, looking for an easy entrance point. The wind was picking up, and snow obscured his sight lines to the village and, in the other direction, the forest. A deep purple hue was visible low in the sky. Dawn was coming. He had followed the men far enough to be sure they had finished for the night and were headed home. There were no tracks or footprints in the snow leading to the schoolhouse, and he concluded that the building wasn’t in use.

  The door and windows were locked, so the American used the stock of his rifle to break out the large picture window in the back wall, facing the woods. He knocked the remaining chunks of glass out of the frame and pushed his pack and rifle through into the cold dark room. He had two squirrels on a string and he slung them around his neck before climbing through the window. He stood for a moment and let his eyes adjust. He sniffed and identified the overlapping odors of chalk dust and soap and age. The little building contained a si
ngle large room with an open door leading to a small storage compartment that had been converted to a crude water closet. Perfect for the American’s needs. He didn’t imagine that he’d be in Blackhampton for more than another day, but no matter how long his job took to complete, he now had a good base of operations.

  He dragged two student desks in front of the broken window and tipped one on end atop the other to keep out some of the wind and snow. He checked the front door and saw there was no way to open it without a key. He’d have to leave the window uncovered when he left this place, but what did he care if a little snow blew in and wet the floor?

  There was a framed chalkboard made of black slate near the front of the room, and the American pulled it free from its stand and laid it flat on the floor. He smashed a chair against the edge of the cabinet and broke pieces off of it, laying them on top of the slate. He found a book about talking ducks and tore it apart, wadded the pages, and layered them among the splintered pieces of chair. He had a small waterproof box of matches in his coat pocket, and he used one of them to start a fire on his makeshift slate platform. He had three matches left and decided he would have to replenish his supply before he left Blackhampton. The broken chair burned slowly, and the American moved the desk back from the broken window far enough to allow the smoke an escape route. It wouldn’t do to suffocate when he was so close to his goal.

  He skinned and dressed the squirrels and set them on the slate by the fire, turning them when the fat began to bubble. When he ate, he noticed that some of the squirrel meat was burnt and some was still raw, but he didn’t particularly care as long as he could keep it all down. He had learned long ago to cover his cheek with the palm of his left hand so that food wouldn’t fall out of his mouth. It made eating a time-consuming process. When he had finished, he wiped his greasy hands on his trousers and put out the fire. He shoved the back of a chair against the front door of the schoolhouse, under the knob, and bunked down in the far corner of the room.

  The sky in the east began to change color, turning for a few minutes the pale grey color of the American’s eyes, but he didn’t see it. He was asleep.

  20

  There was no key in the door. The innkeeper had left them vulnerable, with no easy means to lock themselves in. Walter Day checked under his bed and found that the chamber pot with Hammersmith’s vomit and the rest of the stew had been removed. A fresh basin had been left in its place. He set the small straw-filled box containing the baby bird on the vanity next to the washbasin. The ball of fluff was asleep, breathing heavily in and out. He imagined its heart beating under the soft feathers. He hoped that the little boy, Oliver, was sleeping somewhere and had made it through another night.

  He was dressing for bed when he heard a small noise in the hall outside, a rustle of movement so faint as to go unnoticed if he hadn’t been on edge, half listening for it. He turned down the lamp, went to his door, and cracked it open. The flow of shadows among shadows at the end of the hall caught his eye and he closed the door again, pressed his cheek against it, and listened.

  He could hear movement outside the next room, Hammersmith’s room. There was the faint sound of metal scraping against metal, then soft footsteps approached Day’s door. The inspector pulled back and looked around the room for his revolver. The doorknob jiggled and the lock turned over. Day stepped closer and put his ear back against the door and listened as muffled footsteps retreated down the stairs. He tried the doorknob. It turned a quarter of an inch each way, but wouldn’t budge farther. He had been locked in his room.

  Day crossed to his bed and rummaged inside his open suitcase. He produced a flat black leather pouch and flipped it open to reveal an array of heavy-looking brass keys. He chose one and returned to the locked door, where he crouched and went to work. It took him less than a minute to draw back the lock and open the door.

  He stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him, then crept quietly to the stairs and down.

  21

  Day paused in the shadows of the inn’s common room. The twin fires were still blazing, but the lamps had been extinguished and no one was in sight. Bruised early sunlight filtered through the high windows, turning the room purple. From his vantage point on the stairs, Day would have seen anyone leaving the inn by the big front door, which meant that whoever had locked them in their rooms had gone out through the door behind the bar. Day crossed the room silently and poked his head through the door.

  He saw a narrow dining room with an oak table and six chairs. A muddy brown tapestry with an embroidered family crest was hung behind the table, which was already set for breakfast. Day crossed to another door on the far side of the room and pushed it open with the tips of his fingers.

  The kitchen was small and tidy. A medium-size range dominated most of the far wall, framed by a pair of wooden chairs with straw seats. A faded blue rug had been rolled out on the floor. The oven door was open, and Day could see a roasting pan inside, today’s breakfast slowly cooking. Turning his head, Day could see through a narrow doorway into the larder, which was hung with raw meats: rabbits, a suckling pig, and one quarter of a deer. There were no dishes in evidence, and Day assumed that, if the kitchen was here on the ground floor, the scullery must be in the basement. He moved quietly through the room and past the swinging animal carcasses to another open door. A cold breeze wafted through the larder, cooling the meat and leaving a thin coat of snow on the stone floor. He halted again, his back against the outside wall next to the door, and crouched down before looking out.

  Outside, a low fence, designed to protect the larder from hungry animals, shielded the inn from the landscape. Day edged forward and gripped the top of the fence, then raised his head to look over it. Calvin Campbell was three feet away from him, looking in the opposite direction. He was squatting by the town well, hidden from the other side of the road by the big stone structure. Day ducked his head back down behind the fence. He was sure it was no coincidence that Campbell was out and about. It was the bird-watcher who had locked the other guests’ rooms before going out into the night.

  A moment later, he heard footsteps and risked another peek over the fence. A loose formation of village men marched past, bleary-eyed and stooped, miners on their way to the new seam. There seemed to be fewer of them than Day had seen from the carriage the previous evening. Their clothing had been laundered and patched many times, but would never come close to being clean, and some of them wore soft caps pulled down low on their brows. One of them coughed and stumbled and fell to his knees beside the road. Two of the others hurried to him, lifted him under his armpits and, supporting their spasming friend between them, returned to the group. The men walked past the well and the inn’s short fence without noticing the inspector or the bird-watcher, both poorly hidden scant feet away from them. They followed the road around a high slag pile and an abandoned pit and then out of sight around the corner of a far building.

  As soon as the miners were gone, Calvin Campbell jumped up from his spot behind the old well and hurried down the road in the direction the miners had come from. Day stood and followed from a discreet distance, trusting the light snowfall to keep him partially hidden.

  The cobblestones of the town’s main road gleamed in the gaslight from streetlamps set every few yards, ice sparkling in the mud between the stones. The buildings along the main road through the center of town were tall and proud and architecturally similar, unlike everything that radiated out from them. Someone had once put thought and effort into planning and building this village, before haphazard growth had laid waste to their good intentions. Beyond the first few yards along the main street, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason remaining. Tudor-style dwellings nestled alongside split-rail cabins and ancient mud-daubed huts. It looked to him as though the place had come together in fits and starts, with no plan, and nothing had ever been torn down to make way for anything better. Next to the blacksmith was the telegraph office, closed and silent at this early hour. Day watched h
is shadow flow and change and grow as he crossed the road. He was alone and in a strange place and he missed his wife. He missed her terrible cooking. He missed the smell of her hair and the sound of her bare feet in the hall as she approached his bedroom door in the middle of the night. He wondered what she might make of the strange village, like some island far from London, populated by natives who refused to abandon their sinking homes. Or, perhaps, couldn’t leave if they wanted to.

  But for all that it was doomed, he could still see the appeal of Blackhampton. It was small, but open, the houses and shops and community buildings spread out in a way that London was not. Day had come from Devon, where there was room to move about, and had lived the better part of the past year in London, where there was not. Blackhampton had a bit of the feel of Devon for him. He liked being able to walk without checking for horseshit at every step.

  But the air here wasn’t filled with the river scent of Devon or the body odors of London. It was burnt and, even filtered through the heavy white snowflakes swirling around his face, it stung his nostrils. The great furnaces filled the sky with smoke, and there was nothing else to breathe. One would, he presumed, eventually become used to it, but after a single night in Blackhampton his throat was as raw as if he’d smoked a pipe the wrong way round. He felt he was choking on ashes. He cleared his throat quietly, aware that any noise would echo through the empty street and alert Calvin Campbell to his presence.

  The road curved to the west ahead of them, and Campbell took a furtive look back before following the bend and disappearing from sight. Day stood calmly in the dark doorway of an apothecary and made sure Campbell wasn’t doubling back. A spider emerged from a crack in the stones beside Day and he marveled that it was awake and moving about in the bitter cold. Surely it should be hibernating, or whatever it was that spiders did in the winter. The early spring had clearly played havoc with the natural way of things. Day moved away from the wall, reluctant to frighten such a brave soul. From nowhere, a dunnock, grey and brown, flew at the wall and gobbled up the spider, then flew off, past Day, and disappeared against the late winter sky.