The Black Country (19 page)

T
his presents a problem,” Kingsley said. He held the shriveled eyeball up to the light and turned to Henry. “It’s a real eyeball, of that I have no doubt. But I have no way of knowing whether it’s a human eye or not.”

“It should be in someone’s head if it is,” Henry said.

“Yes, that’s where I prefer to keep my own eyes.”

“Me, too.”

Kingsley turned away before Henry could see him smile. The gentle giant had brought a touch of innocence and unaffected humor to the laboratory, something Kingsley hadn’t known he needed or wanted there. It was much appreciated.

“So,” he said, “the eyeball may not be particularly useful as evidence. But the bloodstained dress is another matter entirely.”

He was interrupted by a commotion from the inn’s great room. Kingsley laid the eyeball back in its wooden box and led the way through the wide door out of the dining room. Bennett Rose was standing in the middle of the common room, holding his daughter Hilde in his arms. Her splinted leg stuck straight out like a flagpole.

“Here now,” Kingsley said, “what’s this then?”

“She won’t wake up,” Rose said. “She’s not breathing.”

For all the man’s boorishness, Kingsley felt for Rose. He understood all too well the fear that went hand in hand with being a parent.

“Lay her down there,” Kingsley said.

Rose put Hilde down on the hearth and smoothed her hair.

“How long has she been like this?” Kingsley knelt over the girl’s body and put his ear to her mouth. He sat up and motioned at Henry. “Light my pipe, will you, Henry?”

“Your pipe, sir?”

“Yes, and be quick about it.” He turned to Rose. “Well, man? How long since she last took a breath?”

“I don’t know. She was like this when I found her. In her room.”

“She’s still warm,” Kingsley said. “Pardon me, Mr Rose. This may appear indelicate of me, but I’ll ask you to trust me. Perhaps look the other way, if it bothers you.”

He cracked his knuckles, applied his long thin fingers to Hilde’s abdomen, and began massaging the muscles through the coarse material of her dress, moving his hands in an upward motion toward her throat, then back down to begin again.

“Here now,” Rose said. “What’re you doin’ that for?”

“For only a slim chance, I’m afraid. The girl’s choking.”

Kingsley continued kneading the girl’s belly and chest, while her father stood watching, suspicious and hopeful.

“Henry,” Kingsley said, “have you got my pipe lit?” He sat back on his heels.

“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “But it makes my stomach feel bad.”

“You’re not used to the smoke, is all. Hand it over, please.”

Henry placed the pipe in Kingsley’s outstretched hand and ran out of the room. A moment later, they could hear him retching in the kitchen. Kingsley sniffed and dragged on his pipe, aware that Bennett Rose was fidgeting on the periphery of his vision. The doctor moved into position over Hilde’s smooth, still face. He bent down and blew a mouthful of smoke past her lips, careful not to touch her with his own mouth. He did it again and then stopped, puffing on the pipe and waiting.

“You and your London ways,” Rose said. Kingsley could see that the man was working himself up, preparing to blame the doctor for the death of his daughter. “Givin’ her a smoke when she’s already gone.”

“Perhaps not gone yet,” Kingsley said.

And at that moment, Hilde began to cough, hacking up great glistening dollops of mucus. She sputtered and choked, ratcheting forward with each gulp of air, bringing up gob after gob, all over herself and the hearth. Then she settled back down into a deep sleep, breathing regularly, her chest rising and falling in a comforting and utterly normal way.

“You did it,” Rose said. He spoke quietly and ran his hand over Hilde’s forehead, but he didn’t look directly at the doctor, perhaps ashamed by his premature readiness to blame Kingsley for his daughter’s death.

“A buildup of mucus. We needed to break it up and get her to expel it. Nothing really.”

But Kingsley was secretly relieved. And secretly worried. The odds had been against him, and he had no way of knowing how long the girl had gone without oxygen. If she woke up, she might still be changed forever, a simpleton or worse. He shook his head and stood up, shouted in the direction of the kitchen door. “Henry, would you be so kind as to carry this young lady to a room upstairs?”

“I can do it,” Rose said.

Before Kingsley could answer, the front door opened and three people stumbled in out of the blowing snow. The schoolteacher, Jessica Perkins, was supporting Sergeant Hammersmith, who appeared to be semiconscious. Behind them trailed a young boy Kingsley hadn’t seen before. With a quick backward look at Hilde to make sure she was still breathing, the doctor rushed to them. He took Hammersmith’s other arm and led the three of them to the fire. Jessica and Hammersmith collapsed in separate chairs.

“Sir?” the boy said. “Would you be Dr Kingsley? Or Henry?”

“In a minute, lad,” Kingsley said. The boy nodded and squatted at the hearth. He held out his hands and rubbed them together as close to the fire as he could get. He glanced at the sleeping form of the girl there, but didn’t appear curious. His overcoat was threadbare at the elbows and hadn’t been buttoned. Kingsley was astonished by how poorly the people here took care of themselves. He turned his attention to Jessica. “What’s happened?” he said. He loosened Hammersmith’s collar and shouted over his shoulder to Rose. “Bring water.”

“No,” Jessica said. “You were right. It must somehow be the water. I did what you asked and practically forced well water on the children. The older two wouldn’t drink it and they prevented the little one, Virginia, from drinking.”

“Mr Rose, please ignore my request for water,” Kingsley said. “Perhaps a glass of beer, instead.”

Rose retreated to the kitchen.

“And this child?” Kingsley pointed to the boy on the hearth. “Who is he?”

The boy looked up at him and grinned. “I’m Baggs, sir. Nicky Baggs.”

“My pleasure, young Mr Baggs.”

“We ran into him right outside,” Jessica said. “He was coming in at the same time.”

“Then we’ll get to him in a minute,” Kingsley said. “You won’t mind waiting, lad?”

“No, sir. But not more than a minute, please, sir.”

“Good man,” Kingsley said. He turned to Jessica. “So Mr Hammersmith has been drinking the water here, hasn’t he?”

“I believe so.”

“And the children are drinking something else?”

“Milk and ginger beer.”

“Exclusively?”

“It appears so.”

“And you? Have you been drinking the water?”

“I can’t remember. I have a cistern I draw from at the schoolhouse. I don’t know the last time I drank anything else.”

“But there’s a central well?” Kingsley said. “A source for most of the people in the village?”

“Yes, of course.”

Rose returned and held a glass of clear amber beer out to the doctor. Kingsley took it from him, looked at the unconscious form of Sergeant Hammersmith, and took a swallow of the beer himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the glass down on the hearth near the boy.

“Mr Rose,” Kingsley said. “Do you get the inn’s water from the village well?”

Rose nodded.

“We must get word to everyone not to drink any water from that well until we know more,” Kingsley said. “I may be able to test it. Meantime, we should all be drinking beer and milk.”

“Too late,” Rose said. His voice was barely audible. “Sickness has got ’em already.”

“Got who?”

“All of ’em. Mrs Rose among ’em.”

“Your wife is sick?”

“Everybody’s sick. Little Hilde, too, now. She was the last in my family besides me.”

“It may not be too late. Which room is Mr Hammersmith’s? We’ll need to lay him down.”

“Sir?” the boy said. “Is it all right if I tell you now? It’s only that I’d like to get back to my brother.”

“What is it, lad?”

“The policeman from London says to tell you—if you’re the doctor, that is—he says to tell you that you’re to come to the church right away.”

“Please go back and tell him that I haven’t time. I have sick people here who need my attention.”

“But there’s only two here, sir.”

“Yes, son. Two sick people.”

“It’s only that there’s lots and lots of them at the church, and now they’re without a doctor.”

“Lots of what?”

“The sick, sir. Must be maybe a hundred.”

Kingsley rocked back on his heels and pushed a hand through his wild hair. An instant later, he was shrugging his overcoat on. He hurried through the door to the dining room and began shoving his tools into his satchel. He hollered back in the direction of the great room as he packed. “Henry, can you carry that girl as far as the church? We’ll care for her there. Miss Perkins and I can handle Hammersmith between us.”

He shut the satchel, latched it, and took a quick look around the room. He had everything. He ran back into the great room and found Jessica buttoning the boy’s overcoat for him. Henry stood at the front door, holding Hilde in the crook of one arm.

Hammersmith stood beside him. “I only needed to sit down a moment. I’m feeling quite a bit better now.” He smiled and reached for the doorknob and nearly fell down. “Farther away than I thought it was,” he said.

Henry put his free arm around Hammersmith’s shoulders. “I have him, sir. I’ve got them both. You just lead the way.”

Kingsley smiled. At least there was something he could count on. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do to help these poor people.”

D
o I understand correctly?” Day said. “This was once Blackhampton’s inn?”

“Oh, yes,” Brothwood said. “It only became the parish church many centuries after it was built.”

The inspector and the vicar were standing in the foyer, just inside the door, with the sea of sick villagers spread out before them across the sanctuary. Day positioned himself so that he could see the main doors of the church, his back to the rows of makeshift beds. He hoped to see Dr Kingsley come running in at any moment. But he had Mrs Brothwood’s note in his pocket, the note that indicated her husband was hiding something. Day watched the vicar’s eyes.

“So the inn where I’m staying . . . ?” Day said.

“Is relatively new, yes. Built well within the past century,” Brothwood said.

“Why would one turn an inn into a church?”

“Why, I suppose it had something to do with the beauty of the architecture and, of course, the size of the place. One needs a decent-size building to house a place of worship.”

“Even in a village as small as this?”

“Most particularly in a village this size. Everyone here comes to church on a Sunday, and the place must accommodate them all. We don’t have the luxury of multiple houses of worship.”

“Where did guests sleep? When this was an inn, I mean.”

“Oh, all of this was quite different, as I understand it. Of course, I wasn’t here at the time.”

“Of course.”

“The rooms down here were all torn out and the altar was brought in. The pews were built locally, I believe. A carpenter who lived here at the time.”

“That must have been a lot of work for a local carpenter.”

“Yes, it must have been.”

“And so you live in the back of this place, rather than in a proper vicarage?”

“It’s somewhat unusual, but not unheard of.”

“Wouldn’t the architecture of an inn, particularly an inn built many centuries ago, have features that a proper parish church would not?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Day smiled. “Of course. Merely thinking out loud, Mr Brothwood. Do you mind if I look around the place?”

“Please do. I have sick people I should tend to.”

“I won’t keep you.”

Brothwood hurried away. He stopped halfway down the aisle and looked back, then turned and moved off down a row of bedrolls spread out on the hardwood floor. Day glanced around the foyer and took a last longing look at the front doors before stepping down into the sanctuary. He frowned at the three steps that separated the room from the foyer door and kicked at them. They seemed solid enough.

He followed along in Brothwood’s general direction, but avoided looking at the sick people on the floor. He kept his back to them and his eyes on the floorboards and the timbers in the ceiling. He walked down the center aisle and took a moment to genuflect at the great gold cross over the altar before examining the apse. The altar itself was simple and sturdy, constructed of solid wood, perhaps by the same carpenter who had long ago built the pews. The top of the altar was a flat slab of river rock, polished and shining. There were candles at either end, and Day moved each of them to assure himself that they weren’t secretly levers that would move the altar. When nothing happened, he felt mildly foolish and looked surreptitiously about to see if he was being watched. He imagined Brothwood must be somewhere nearby, paying close attention to him, but he couldn’t see the vicar anywhere.

There was a large hollow ball on a chain hanging beside the altar, and Day sniffed it. The scent of incense was nearly overpowering. Here in the apse, the incense masked the odors of vomit and excrement. Perhaps Brothwood stole odd moments for himself up here away from the stink of illness.

There was an unlatched door on the wall near the south side of the pulpit, and Day used the toe of his boot to push it open, keeping his head back. Nobody came barreling through, and so he moved cautiously into a small room that was dimly lit by candles in the four corners. The walls were bare plaster broken by evenly spaced wide timbers, stained dark. There was a bed against the far side of the room and a compact wardrobe next to it. A fireplace was built into the adjacent wall near the foot of the bed, its embers long since burnt out, the chimney cold. Opposite the fireplace was Mrs Brothwood’s writing desk. Day recognized the stationery stacked to one side, next to a quill pen that still rested in the inkwell. It was a cheerless place, and Day wondered at the fact that there were no feminine touches. It didn’t seem as if Mrs Brothwood had made many contributions to her living quarters.

Day circled the room once, stomping on the floorboards as he went. Mrs Brothwood’s note had said that someone was under the floor, but the floor sounded solid to Day. He was certain he was on the right track, though. He went to the door and closed it, then moved to his right, tapping on each of the regularly spaced timbers set into the plaster and lathing. He put his hands as high over his head as he could and rapped his knuckles against the wood, working his way down, listening for irregularities and feeling for loose boards. He did this again and again, one timber after another, until his knuckles were sore and swollen. He pulled the bed and the wardrobe out from the wall and examined the space behind them, then pushed them back again. When he got to the fireplace, he felt around the outside of it and across the mantel, then began prodding the stones in the surround. Halfway across the top of the fireplace, just under the mantel, a round stone moved. The stone looked like it had been handled more than the rest of the fireplace had been. It was dark with the oils from many hands, and it had been worn smooth. He sucked in his breath and took hold of it. It twisted under his hand, and he wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers to get a better grip.

“Excuse me, Inspector.”

Day jumped and turned quickly away from the fireplace. The vicar was standing in the open door. Day hadn’t heard the door open and he wondered how long Brothwood had been standing there.

How much of Day’s search had the vicar seen?

“Yes, Mr Brothwood.” Day’s voice was breathy and too loud. He could feel his heart beating hard in his throat.

“Dr Kingsley is here, Inspector. He’s asking for you in the sanctuary.”

“Is he, now?”

“Your sergeant is with him.”

“Very good. I’ll, um . . . I’ll go right now and have a word with them.”

Day gestured for Brothwood to lead the way. Day took one last look at the fireplace and followed the vicar out of the little room.

He was now certain there was someone or something concealed under the hearth. He had suspected there was a priest hole here and now he felt he knew where the secret entrance was. He would be very glad to get Hammersmith’s help in uncovering the Brothwoods’ secret hiding place and finally beginning to unravel the many mysteries of the little village.