The Black Country (31 page)

T
he 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.”

T
he 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.

And then he died.

T
hey took the carriage apart.

Day used the shovel to break the axles, took off the uprights, and reduced the bed of the thing to about half its previous size by smashing through the planks all along its length. Hammersmith helped, as much as he could, but had to stop frequently to rest.

After Day took the rifle away from Peter (he gave it up without protest), the boy gentled the horse who had been frightened by the gunshot, while Day lashed the wide litter, all that remained of the carriage, to its harness.

Day left the boy and the horse to care for each other and he cut Sutton Price down from the ceiling. He had trouble loosening the rope, which had buried itself deep in Price’s flesh and had dislocated his skull, but he managed to cut it away with minimal additional damage to the corpse. He covered Price with the remnants of Day’s own ragged overcoat.

He and Hammersmith dug up the two graves.

The dirt that covered the fresh grave was easier to dig through, and they found little Virginia’s body quickly. Her lips were blue and her head lolled on its broken spine. Her hair and dress were streaked with dirt, and they both recognized a kinship between the tiny ruined gown she wore and the blood-spattered dress Hammersmith had found in the woods, but neither of them spoke as they carried her to the modified bed of the carriage and laid her there next to her father. Day did his best to distract Peter from the sight of his sister, but the boy saw her body and didn’t react. He looked away and turned his attention back to the horse, petting its muzzle. His lack of reaction bothered Day, but he had no idea what to do about it. Perhaps, given enough time, Peter would grieve and heal.

Gravity had worked its magic on the soil of the second grave and it was harder going. Hammersmith’s legs finally gave out—Day marveled at the fact that the sergeant had stayed on his feet as long as he had—and he sat down to rest. Day removed his jacket and dug, slow and steady, and eventually began finding bones, scattered through the dirt three or four feet down. There was a dress, well-preserved and nearly intact, and a cloud of light brown hair. Day used pieces of the carriage’s bench and leftover nails from its bed and fashioned a crude box that he used to collect the pieces of Mathilda Price, Sutton’s first wife. All the pieces he could find.

He lashed the three bodies—Virginia, Sutton, and the unnamed American—and the box of Mathilda’s bones to the homemade litter and hitched the horse to it. He put Peter on the horse, made him lay forward and hug its neck so that he wouldn’t scrape the low ceiling of the tunnel, and he led them away from that dark chamber. Hammersmith trudged behind, and they made slow progress.

After a long while, they came to the mouth of the mine.

Peter finally began to cry when they left the horse and the bodies behind and climbed up into the evening light. Day held the boy tight against him, half carried him through the high drifts.

The snow had stopped falling and the wind had stopped blowing. A sliver of pale moon showed through a seam in the colorless sky.

Day uncorked his flask and took a long draught from it. Far in the distance he heard the low whistle of the train from London.

T
he train was warm and largely devoid of passengers, and so Inspector Day had commandeered it. The tracks didn’t appear to have been affected by the tremors of the previous night, but the engineer was taking his time examining them and the train sat quiet and ready. Dr Kingsley announced his preference for a sleeping car for the children and for Sergeant Hammersmith, but there wasn’t one, so he made do, temporarily curling Peter and Anna up across from each other on the long seats of one compartment, where they fell instantly asleep. Extra cushions were brought and another compartment was made up like a sultan’s seraglio, pads and pillows covering the floor and the seats. Hammersmith was swallowed up by the space, but once he settled in, he looked almost comically comfortable, and Day realized he had never seen Hammersmith at ease.

Day ushered everyone out of the sergeant’s opulent train compartment, enduring Dr Kingsley’s scowl of disapproval and his admonishment: “He needs rest.” Day cleared off a small portion of the edge of one seat and perched there. He uncorked his flask and swirled the amber liquid in the bottom of it, frowning. He took a sip. Hammersmith blinked up at him from his well-lined nest.

“The doctor’s given me something,” Hammersmith said. “I’m having trouble staying awake.”

“Drugged, yet again,” Day said.

“I do seem to have a knack for it.”

“You’ve earned some rest, Nevil. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I am?”

“Well, that owl did land on your chair.” Day smiled and winked.

“Nobody died. At least, nobody who was in that room when the owl flew in. That disproves the superstition, doesn’t it?”

“Bennett Rose died. He was there. And it’s true you were sitting on that chair, but it belonged to him. The owl actually landed on Rose’s chair.”

“I say we should call that a coincidence. Anyway, there’s still work to do. The bodies we left in the tunnel. That poor horse.”

“They’ve been tended to.”

“When?”

“You weren’t entirely conscious, I’m afraid. The village men pulled together. Watching them bring up that horse was something to see.”

“Was Constable Grimes there? I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Funny,” Day said. “I thought he was with you. I suppose he’ll turn up.”

“What will we do with the children?”

“I’ve spoken with Jessica Perkins. She’s going to assume responsibility for Peter and Anna when they finally wake up. We’ll find a way to make it official. By the way, Jessica asked me to tell you good-bye. She seems rather smitten with you.”

“She is? I hadn’t noticed.”

Day shook his head. “You’re blind, Nevil.”

“But shouldn’t we arrest them? The children, I mean.”

“Neither of them killed anyone.”

“But they helped hide Oliver’s body in the well, didn’t they?”

Day sighed. “Peter has had a hard time of it. Both the children have. He finally broke down and told it all. Virginia Price led Oliver to the woods and stabbed him to death after first practicing on a pig. I can’t imagine anything more horrible than that. I have no idea what seeing such a thing would do to the fragile mind of a child. Peter and Anna were protecting their only remaining sibling, and I don’t think I’d feel awfully good about myself if I consigned them to prison or to a London orphanage.”

“I suppose not,” Hammersmith said. “You know, while he was hanging there, Sutton Price told me that he was responsible.”

“Did he say . . . Do you think it’s possible that Virginia saw him kill his first wife, Mathilda? That she learned her behavior from her father?”

“Place the ultimate responsibility on him, after all?”

“He did claim it,” Day said.

“If only Hester Price had cared for her stepchildren. So much might have been avoided.”

“I believe the only person she cared for was Calvin Campbell.”

“And little Oliver, of course,” Hammersmith said. “She stayed in Blackhampton, waiting for Campbell to find her baby. Do you suppose they really thought they could run away together? As a family?”

“That’s what Campbell says. True love, he says.”

“Will he stay now? The village will have to be rebuilt.”

Day shook his head. “He’s already gone. He disappeared from the depot after we brought Hester’s body out. Took the horse, so I suppose I ought to arrest him for that if we ever see him again. When poor Freddy recovers, he’ll miss that horse.” He stared out the window as if he might be able to see the row of bodies—Hester Price and her husband, and Virginia Price, and the mysterious American—laid out in the snow by the ruined outbuilding, but they were on the other side of the train.

Bennett Rose and the tiny body of Oliver Price had been destroyed in the fire at the inn. Day supposed their remains might eventually be found once the site cooled off enough that the village could rake the ashes.

Hammersmith began to softly snore. Day drank the last of the brandy in his flask, corked it, and put it away. He covered his sergeant with a blanket. He left the compartment as quietly as he could and slid the door shut along its well-oiled track. Kingsley was waiting for him in the hall. Day held a finger to his lips and led the doctor a few feet away.

“He’s sound asleep,” Day said.

“He ought to be,” Kingsley said. “I gave him a little something to help with that. The man fights against sleep.”

“He does prefer to get things done.”

“Yes. You should get this train moving, get him back to his own flat and let him rest for the next few days.”

“You make it sound as if you won’t be going with us.”

“I won’t be. They need me here. Half the village is sick, and the other half is underground. There are injuries to tend to.”

“But what of Claire?” Day was alarmed. “She’s due to give birth soon.”

Kingsley chuckled. “She’ll have that baby whether I’m there or not, but don’t worry. She’s got plenty of time yet, and I’ll be back in London by early next week. I might even get there before she returns from her sister’s.”

Day took a deep breath and shook his head. “I do wish you’d reconsider.”

“I’ll leave Blackhampton as soon as their doctor is back on his feet. I want to show him a few things about proper medicine. He’s still using leeches. Probably boils potions in a cauldron. He needs a bit of training.”

Day smiled, despite his worry. Kingsley laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Kingsley said.

“Of course. I never drank the water here.”

“I meant . . . Whoever that deformed American fellow was, you’ll have to live with the fact that you killed him. That’s not always an easy thing.”

“I had no choice.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

Day looked away from Kingsley’s probing gaze. He wasn’t comfortable with deception, but now that he had committed to the lie, he intended to stick to it. He wouldn’t be blamed for the killing, and Peter Price had been through enough in a week. The boy didn’t need to be labeled a murderer on top of everything else. Day wanted him to have a chance at a good life.

He changed the subject. “What about Henry?” he said.

“He’s decided to stay on with me here for a bit.”

“But he seemed so anxious to get back home.”

“Well,” Kingsley said, “it’s entirely your fault for giving him that little magpie.”

“How is that?”

“Henry says the city is no place to raise a baby.”