The Black Country (4 page)

D
ay and Hammersmith followed Brothwood to the small gathering near the fireplace. Grimes went with them, but hung back, quiet, apparently content to observe. Aside from the vicar, Day counted six other people there. An old woman bobbed her head at him. She wore a simple dress with a subdued floral pattern. Her hair was white, but she had it carefully done up at the top of her head. From the pattern of lines across her face, it seemed to Day that she must have smiled a lot in the ordinary course of things, but as they came near, the old woman’s eyes darted around the common room and she took an involuntary step back, away from the policemen. Day suppressed an urge to reach out and pull her away from the fire, which threatened to lick the hem of her dress. Another woman, much younger and slimmer, stood next to the old woman. Her long hair was copper-colored and shimmered in the firelight. Her eyes twinkled (although that, too, might have been a trick of the light), and she allowed the faintest smile to pass over her lips by way of greeting. Two children stood behind her, close to the fire. The boy was perhaps twelve years old, the girl a bit younger, but just as tall. They were both slightly built, with rounded shoulders, fair hair, and clothing that was a bit too small for them. Neither of them looked directly at the policemen, but the boy took a step in front of the girl, as if to protect her. A young man who stood warming his hands at the fire smiled at them. The man was short and thin, with long floppy brown hair and wire-framed spectacles. He wore a waistcoat but no jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows.

Apart from the others, filling a large armchair at the periphery of the fire’s light, another man sat regarding Day carefully. He had long shaggy hair streaked with grey. Ropes of muscle bunched and rippled under his clothing as if he were constantly tensing up and then reminding himself to relax. The man’s green eyes sparkled with secret knowledge, and he gave Day a nearly imperceptible nod after sizing him up.

The man stood, pushing himself up out of the armchair, and offered his hand to Day. He was enormous, much taller than the men from Scotland Yard, and he clearly outweighed them by at least fifty pounds. His hand, when Day shook it, was hard and calloused, and Day felt the man holding back, as if he might accidentally crush Day’s fingers like a handful of dry twigs. Day got a sudden sense that the giant had killed men with those outsize hands.

“Good of you to come,” the man said. “We can use the help.”

“I’m Inspector Day. And this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”

The man let go of Day’s hand and nodded. “My name is Campbell,” he said. “Calvin Campbell.” There was the trace of a Scottish brogue in his voice, but it was faint and mixed with something else. He gestured toward the group of people on the hearth. “We, all of us, want to help find that boy. Anything we can do to help, that’s why we’re here.”

“And the parents?” Hammersmith said. “I assume you want to find them, too.”

“Yes, of course. All of them.”

Now that introductions had been initiated by Calvin Campbell, the big man faded back to the outskirts of the group and the vicar took over, accustomed to politicking. The others moved forward and surrounded the police. All except the two children, who hung back, close to the fire.

“Mr Campbell is a visitor here,” Vicar Brothwood said. “A guest of the inn, like you. And this is my wife, Margaret.”

The vicar held his hand out, palm up, toward the old lady. Margaret Brothwood smiled and nodded at them, but the smile was strained and didn’t touch her eyes. She had a small folded piece of paper in her left hand and she worried at it, pressing it and rubbing the paper with her thumb.

“I wish we had a bigger turnout to greet you,” Brothwood said. “So many are ill at the moment. Dr Denby is being kept busy.”

The bespectacled young man smiled ruefully and nodded. His floppy hair bounced over his eyes. “I wanted to meet you anyway,” he said.

“You’re the doctor here?” Day said.

“I am indeed. I’m afraid half the village is sick in bed, but if there’s anything I can do to help, I’m at your . . .” Denby paused and held his hand up, palm out. His shoulders quaked with a sudden silent coughing fit. Day waited. Finally, the doctor stood up straight and smiled. “Forgive me. I am, of course, at your disposal.”

Day frowned. “You’re quite all right, I hope.”

“Perfectly.”

“When you say half the village has fallen ill—”

“Not precisely half, but a great many of them.”

“What are they sick from?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s all I can do to treat their symptoms. Blackhampton simply isn’t equipped for a plague.”

“A plague!”

“I don’t know what it is.
Plague
may be too strong a word, but what else would you call it when a hundred people fall ill at once?”

“Is it possible, Doctor, that the missing family are among the ill?” Day said. “That they’ve holed up somewhere to convalesce?”

“I suppose it is possible. But I think I would have been notified. I haven’t visited the Price home in a great long time.”

“I see.”

“I do hate to be rude, but I must be off. Many homes to pop in at before bed.”

“Will you tell us when you’ve reached a conclusion about the nature of the illness?”

“I will. Although I can’t see how it could possibly help you to know.”

“It may not help. But I’d like to know anyway. And I understand how busy you are, but we may need your assistance when we find the Prices.”

Dr Denby smiled and nodded and walked away across the room. Day noticed that the doctor moved carefully, as if each step pained him. He grabbed a hat and overcoat from the rack by the door and exited in a flurry of snowflakes. Day turned back to Vicar Brothwood, who touched the young red-haired woman on the elbow by way of introduction.

“This is our schoolteacher, Miss Perkins,” he said.

“Please call me Jessica, Inspector Day,” the young woman said. She put a gloved hand in Day’s, then turned her attention to Hammersmith. “It’s lovely to meet you, too, Mr Hammersmith. Though one might wish for better circumstances.”

Day thought her gaze lingered on Hammersmith a second longer than was necessary, and he looked down at his feet so that neither of them would see him smile. He had noticed that women often looked at Hammersmith a bit too long to be merely cordial, but in his experience the sergeant was unaware of their attention. Hammersmith was almost fanatically focused on his work. Day gestured past the schoolteacher at the children behind her.

“And who might these young people be?” Day said.

“This is Peter,” Jessica Perkins said, tearing her attention away from Hammersmith, who was busy taking notes in the tiny cardboard-covered tablet he carried with him everywhere. “And this is Anna Price. It’s their parents who have . . .” Jessica paused, obviously trying to think of the best way to finish her sentence without upsetting the children.

“They’ve gone missing, sir,” Anna Price said.

Her brother nodded.

“Well, we’re here to find them,” Day said. “Don’t you worry.”

He immediately regretted saying it. His words would be taken as merely polite by the adults gathered there, but the children would accept it as a promise.

The boy, Peter, nodded, but his sister Anna didn’t move or change her expression. She locked her gaze on Day and stared until he had to look away.

“Why don’t you two go and see if Mr Rose has a ginger beer for you?” Jessica said. She put a hand on each child’s shoulder and pushed them toward the bar. They went without complaint and without looking back.

“We’ll need to talk to them,” Day said.

“Of course,” Jessica said.

“Perhaps you would help my sergeant with that?”

Jessica looked briefly at Hammersmith and then back at Day. “If you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you. They might be more comfortable with you there. Sergeant, check if they’ve seen anything, would you?”

Hammersmith shot Day a puzzled look, but followed the schoolteacher to the bar, where the children were already pulling themselves up onto stools. Day wanted to question the villagers as quickly as possible. The teacher seemed likely to want to impress Hammersmith and she might encourage the children to talk to him. Day doubted they would learn much from the small welcoming party here, but there was always the possibility that someone knew something useful. He took his own little notebook from the pocket of his waistcoat and found the stub of a pencil. The notebook was a match for Hammersmith’s, but had never been used. He opened it to the first page and creased the cardboard cover back on itself.

“Let’s start with you, Mr Campbell,” he said. The giant had settled back into his armchair and had leveled his gaze at Day. “We have the village vicar, the schoolteacher, the doctor, and you. What function do you serve in Blackhampton?”

“I’m only a visitor here,” Campbell said. “Like you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Vicar Brothwood said. “I thought I’d mentioned that.”

“Perhaps you did,” Day said. “Why Blackhampton, though? Why visit this place in particular?”

“Why not Blackhampton?”

“I’m having some trouble placing your accent, sir. Where are you from?”

“I’ve traveled.”

“Yes, I’d wager it’s been some time since you’ve seen Scotland.”

“A long time.”

“You’ve been to America?”

“Spent time there.”

“Liverpool?”

“Spent time there, too.”

“And now the Midlands.”

“I’m passing through. Staying here, same as you.”

“What’s kept you here? What’s your interest? Why do you care about the missing family?”

“We all care. Everyone here does.” Campbell turned his attention to the fire. He slid out of the chair and squatted on the hearth. Day watched as Campbell grabbed the poker from the rack beneath the mantel and poked at the logs. Orange sparks leapt out, burning tiny holes in Campbell’s trousers. Campbell didn’t react, didn’t move back, kept turning the logs, and talked into the fire. “I’ve lost people I cared about. It’s a hard thing, and I hate to see it happen to anyone.”

“Do you know the family?” Day said.

“Only by reputation.”

Day frowned at the Scotsman’s broad back. Campbell wasn’t telling him everything, but his posture and the tension in his shoulders told the inspector that he had finished talking for the moment. Day decided not to press him. He could come back to him later. Right now he wanted a broad overview, as much information as possible before he began ordering things and narrowing down the possibilities. He turned to the others. “What can you tell me about the Prices?”

“Sutton Price is the night watchman on the main seam,” Vicar Brothwood said. “He wasn’t at his post three days ago when the morning shift came on.”

“An alarm was raised?”

“Not right away. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary and there was work to be done.”

“When was the alarm raised, then?”

“That evening, when he didn’t arrive for his shift.”

“Someone . . .”

“Yes, someone was sent to his house to inquire after him.”

“And what was discovered?”

“Three of the Price children and their housekeeper were at their evening meal. Mr Price was nowhere to be found and had not been seen since the previous evening.”

“And Mrs Price was also missing?”

“Yes. Along with her boy.”

“Her boy?”

“The oldest boy, Peter, is not properly her own. Nor are the girls. Oliver is her only child.”

“Ah, yes. As I understand it, the missing woman was the second Mrs Price.”

“Exactly so.”

“Whatever became of the first Mrs Price?”

“She simply disappeared one day a few years ago,” Brothwood said. “When was that, dear?”

He looked at his wife, who muttered something unintelligible and turned her attention to her feet. She was still worrying at the small piece of paper in her right hand. Her face looked grey.

“Just so,” her husband said. He turned back to Day. “We’re not sure when that was. Not with any certainty. Some years ago. I might say perhaps three or four, but don’t hold me to it.”

“And she has not been seen since?”

“Never.”

“Was there a proper interval between the marriages?”

“I wouldn’t say so. In fact, I refused to grant him the second marriage. They traveled to Wolverhampton to get it done.”

“You didn’t approve.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a matter of approval. It was simply too soon. Mathilda might well have turned up—Mathilda was the first Mrs Price—and then where should we be? Two Mrs Prices at once, and us with a village scandal. I was simply being prudent, nothing more.”

“She’s a lovely lady,” Mrs Brothwood said. Day was surprised. It was the first thing out of her mouth that he’d been able to understand and it was spoken with force.

“The first Mrs Price, you mean?” Day said. “Or the second?”

“I apologize. I spoke out of turn.”

“No, please. Which lady did you mean to indicate?”

“Hester.”

“The second Mrs Price, then.”

“Of course. Mathilda Price was a monstrous woman. Everyone knew it. I don’t know why we pretend to be surprised that she ran off. She was unfit to be a wife or mother to anyone, let alone those darling children. How they turned out so well, I’m sure I don’t know.”