The Black Country tms-2

by Alex Grecian

  “You’d be Hilde Rose?” he said.

  “Yes, sir. You’re the detectives from London?”

  “We are,” Hammersmith said. “Very good to meet you, young lady.” He stood and offered Hilde his chair.

  “Likewise, I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve been awfully anxious, waiting in my room. Papa said for me not to come down when you arrived, and I was going to wait, but I know that if I do I shall never sleep a wink tonight.”

  “Should you be walking about on that?” Day said.

  Hilde looked down at her bandaged leg. “It’s not so bad,” she said. “I was quite lucky that it was a clean break. Dr Denby was able to set it, and both legs are the same length again. Otherwise he might have amputated, and I shouldn’t want that.”

  Day shuddered. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Please sit. You’ve got something to show us?”

  Using Hammersmith’s arm to balance, Hilde maneuvered herself onto his chair. She held out the box, and Day took it.

  “You won’t keep it from me forever, will you?” she said. “It’s ever so odd, and I’m the one who found it.”

  Day smiled. “May I?” he said. He cracked the lid and swung it back on its delicate brass hinges. Hammersmith stepped closer and peered over Day’s shoulder. Inside the box was a small shriveled eyeball, a thread of dried optic nerve curled around one side of it.

  “It’s blue,” Hammersmith said. “Did any of the missing people have blue eyes? Is this the little boy’s eye?”

  “I don’t know,” Hilde said. “I don’t remember their eyes. But it can’t belong to anyone else, can it? I mean, nobody else round here’s missing an eyeball or I think I would have noticed.”

  “How big was it?” Day said. “Before it withered, I mean?”

  “It was the size of an eyeball, I suppose. I thought it was a tiny egg.”

  “But was it the size of an adult’s eye or a child’s?”

  “I’ve never seen an eyeball that wasn’t in a person’s head before.”

  “Yes, of course. I don’t suppose you have.”

  “It’s not much of a clue,” Hammersmith said.

  “The good doctor might be able to tell us more about it tomorrow.”

  “Dr Denby would help you,” Hilde said.

  “Yes,” Day said. “But we’re talking about our doctor friend from London.”

  “Oh, please don’t let him take it to London,” Hilde said. “I’ll never get it back.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Day said. “He’ll join us here soon enough. In the meantime, is there anything you can tell us about the missing boy, Oliver? Was he your playmate?”

  “He’s only a baby.”

  “Then you didn’t know him?”

  “Of course I know him. I said I don’t play with Oliver. He always follows Peter about, and it’s quite annoying.”

  “Peter?”

  “His older brother.”

  Hammersmith cleared his throat and reached for his notebook and pencil.

  “What can you tell us about the Price family?” Day said.

  “Well, there’s Oliver, of course. Virginia is next youngest. She’s five. Then Anna and Peter. But they’re not all properly brothers and sisters. Peter and Anna and Virginia all had the same mother. But Oliver is different and not properly a part of the family, except that they have the same father, which is nearly good enough, but Virginia doesn’t think so at all.”

  “And you play with the elder siblings.”

  “Peter and Anna are far too old to play with me. Anna is very nice to me, though. Peter and I will be married when I’m old enough, only he doesn’t know that yet.”

  “I see. Then Sutton Price is father to all four children and has two missing wives, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the most recent missing wife would be Hester Price.”

  “Yes.”

  “She is mother to Oliver, also missing, but not to the other three.”

  “No, sir. Their mother’s dead and gone. Or gone, anyway. Oliver’s mother was nanny to the others before she married Mr Price. Now she’s their stepmother.”

  “They do seem particular on that point,” Hammersmith said.

  “Her name was Mathilda, is that right? The first Mrs Price, I mean.”

  “I think her name was also Mrs Price before the new Mrs Price come along, sir.”

  Day looked at Hammersmith, who shrugged and nodded.

  “That does make sense,” he said.

  “Indeed. Very well, Hilde. Thank you for your help. Would you mind if we keep your souvenir for a day or two if I promise to return it before we leave Blackhampton?”

  “You really will give it back?”

  “I really will.”

  “Okay. I had better get to my room before Father returns and scolds me.”

  “How is your mother? We heard she’s feeling a bit ill.”

  “She’s sleeping. Dr Denby says he’ll come first thing to look after her again.”

  Hilde rose from the chair with some difficulty and tottered on her good leg before getting the cane under her and limping to the staircase. She looked back at them, a shadow of doubt flitting across her face. She bit her lower lip.

  “You won’t lose it now? The eye, I mean.”

  “We won’t lose it.”

  She smiled and moved slowly up the stairs. Hammersmith waited until she had passed from sight and sighed. “Well,” he said, “we do seem to have evidence of a murder, but I don’t see that it helps us a bit.”

  “Nor I. Perhaps the doctor will be able to work some miracle of chemistry on this eyeball.”

  “You don’t think Hilde Rose had anything to do with the crime?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a child.” Day snapped the box shut and set it on the table.

  9

  Jessica let the siblings run ahead, not too far, but they had been cooped up inside all day and needed to release some energy. They could easily be mistaken for twins. Peter was twelve years old, and if his father had been anyone but Sutton Price he might already be working the mines. He was a bright lad, quiet and independent, but quick to find solutions. He rarely completed his schoolwork, but he performed brilliantly at quizzes. His sister Anna was more decisive and studious. She was only eleven, but she was as tall as Peter was and she mirrored her older brother in nearly every way. If he was the creative light of the Price family, Anna was the practical rock that grounded him.

  “That’s far enough, children,” Jessica said. Peter in his black overcoat had disappeared in the darkness.

  When she caught up to them, she found that they were hunkered over the top of an old pit. Peter was leaning forward on a slag pile while Anna hung back a bit, urging her brother on.

  “Say it,” Anna said.

  “I will,” Peter said.

  “Then say it.”

  “I’m working up to it.”

  “You’re not going to say anything.”

  “Am, too.”

  “Then say it.”

  “Peter, come away from there,” Jessica said.

  Anna looked up at her as she drew near them and smiled as if to convey that she was uninvolved in any wrongdoing. Peter glanced in her direction and then leaned farther over the edge of the pit, clearly in a hurry now to carry out his sister’s challenge.

  “Rawhead and Bloody Bones,” he said.

  Jessica rushed forward and slipped on a patch of ice as Peter continued chanting down into the pit, his voice louder now that he was committed to the dare: “Steals naughty children from their homes!”

  Jessica landed on her bottom on the hard ground and stifled a scream. She was wearing a corset, a petticoat, a dress, and a heavy woolen overcoat, so the fall didn’t hurt her in the slightest, but her face flushed with humiliation. Anna rushed over to help her teacher up, but Jessica waved her hand at Peter, who was still at the lip of the pit, still staring down into the dark.

  “Peter, stop that right
now!”

  Peter didn’t even glance in her direction. “Takes them to his dirty den,” he said. His voice was strained now, and the words were nearly choked off by the time he mouthed dirty den.

  Jessica struggled to her feet as Anna scurried about, picking up the books Jessica had dropped. Jessica let the girl tend to the books. She marched forward, more careful now about the ice underfoot, and grabbed Peter by the back of his collar. He came easily away from the pit, but Jessica almost lost her footing anyway and rocked forward as she recovered her balance. For a moment, she was staring down into the maw of the pit. Compared to the utter blackness down there, the night sky seemed blue and full of life, stars and moon and white frozen breath. But it seemed to Jessica that she could see the slightest orange glow somewhere down there in the tunnel, as if a small fire had been lit in response to Peter’s call. The thought that something might be coming through the mines toward them made Jessica shudder. She drew back from the pit and pressed a knuckle to her teeth.

  She whirled Peter around and gripped him by his shoulders. The boy was so thin as to be nearly weightless, all elbows and knees. She saw now that he was crying, quietly, tears dragging down his cheeks, sluggish in the cold. She pressed his face against her coat and stroked his hair. He needed a haircut, she noticed. She wondered, not for the first time, how well the children were faring without their parents, how well the housekeeper was caring for them. If Mr and Mrs Price weren’t found soon, a decision would have to be made about where to put Peter, Anna, and Virginia. It was likely they’d be split up and raised in different households. Jessica felt her throat closing and forced herself onto a different train of thought. It would do Peter no good if she started crying herself.

  “Here you are,” Anna said. She had brought the books and was holding them out to her teacher.

  “Thank you, Anna,” Jessica said. She let Peter go and stepped back, taking the bundle of books from the girl. Peter turned away from her and wiped his eyes. Jessica pretended she hadn’t seen him crying, busied herself with ordering the books in their small stack. Anna brushed the back of Jessica’s long coat where she had fallen.

  “Come, children,” Jessica said. “Let’s have no more of this nonsense.”

  She led them away from the mouth of the pit, listening to make sure they followed. Beneath the footsteps of Peter and Anna, Jessica thought she heard something else, and she almost turned back, but forced herself to keep moving. She spoke into the night, without looking at either child, hoping her words would cover that strange soft sound before the children heard it, too.

  “I know what the other students are saying,” she said. “But there is no such thing as Rawhead and Bloody Bones. It’s a silly thing that was made up to scare children. Children much smaller than the two of you, anyway, and I’m surprised you would put any stock in the notion.”

  She waited for them to catch up to her and walked on between them toward the Price house on the hill. She felt the darkness of the pit behind her and increased her pace.

  “I promise you, you’ll see your mother and father again. And little Oliver as well.”

  She glanced down to either side and saw Anna nod. Peter was ramrod straight, marching forward with no sign that he heard her at all.

  “You’ll see them soon,” Jessica said.

  But she could hear the lack of conviction in her own voice. It was nothing, she thought. But however hard she tried to push it out of her mind, she knew what she had heard. Something had moved down in the tunnel, something had responded to Peter’s voice, had shuffled toward them from somewhere below and had dislodged a rock from the tunnel wall. She had heard the rock clatter and echo, however faint or far away.

  She set her jaw and led the children onward through the scatter of snowflakes and ash in the night air, and she did her level best to put thoughts of childhood monsters out of her head.

  Rawhead, indeed, she thought. Nonsense.

  She shivered again and hurried the children away down the path.

  10

  The bowls Bennett Rose brought his guests were full of something thick and brown and hot, with thumb-size chunks of beef floating amidst cubes of onions and leeks. It was exactly what was called for on a dark snowy evening in a strange place. Sharing the tray with the two bowls was a half a loaf of good bread and a pair of beer steins filled with dark ale. Rose instructed them to leave the tray in the hall when they were finished, where it would be picked up by the scullery girl in the wee hours.

  “You can always wait and tackle them woods in the morning,” Rose said. “I expect you’ll sleep hard tonight.”

  “There’s no time to waste,” Day said. “We’ll eat and freshen up a bit and be right down.”

  “I’ll tell the others you’ll be ready to go in a bit,” Rose said. He smiled and bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Hammersmith took a bowl and sat in the room’s single straight-backed chair.

  “You eat,” Day said. “I’m more thirsty than I am hungry and I want to unpack now while I have the energy. By the time we get back tonight, I suspect I’ll want nothing more than sleep.”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “No, eat.”

  Hammersmith shrugged and sniffed the bowl. He levered a spoonful into his mouth and frowned.

  “Where’s your suitcase?” Day said.

  “In my room.”

  “I never saw you go to your room.”

  “I was there long enough to set my suitcase down. I’ll worry about unpacking it later.”

  “Your clothing will be wrinkled.”

  Hammersmith smiled, and a moment later, Day laughed. Hammersmith’s clothes were always wrinkled, whether they came from a suitcase or a closet.

  “Well, try not to spill any of that on your shirt.”

  “I make no promises. Pudding stains go quite well with tea stains.”

  “It’s a pudding?”

  “Rose said it was groaty dick,” Hammersmith said.

  “Groats?” Day said. “That’s bird feed.”

  Hammersmith shrugged. He tore off a hunk of his bread and used it to soak up some of the stock. He popped the soggy bread into his mouth. Broth dribbled down his chin and narrowly missed the front of his shirt. He leaned forward so that it would drip into the bowl and then wiped his chin on his sleeve, realizing too late that he’d only altered the location of the stain rather than avoiding it. He sighed and set the bowl aside. “I was watching,” he said. “Looking your way when the vicar’s wife gave you something.”

  Day held up a finger and went to the door. He opened it slightly and looked both ways down the hall, then shut the door again. He reached for his stein. He took a deep swallow of beer and licked the foam from his upper lip. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, creased and wadded and still damp from Mrs Brothwood’s sweaty hand. He pushed aside the washbasin and laid the paper on the vanity. He carefully unfolded it, teasing the edges so that the soft paper wouldn’t tear. There was scratchy handwriting on one side, ten words, broken up into three short lines, hurriedly written in violet ink. Day took the scrap of paper by one corner and flipped it over. The back side was blank. He turned it back over and both men leaned in close to read:

  She is under the floor.

  He means no harm.

  Please.

  They both read it silently, and then Day read it out loud. His voice was hushed but clear in the small room.

  “She is under the floor. He means no harm. Please.”

  He backed up to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

  “What does it mean?” Hammersmith said.

  “Should we assume it’s the missing Mrs Price?”

  “I think if it were all of them, the whole Price family, she would have worded this differently, wouldn’t she?”

  “But under the floor? What floor?”

  They both looked down at the smooth wooden planks beneath their feet. Day shook his head.
/>   “We were in the common room, near the hearth,” he said.

  “Mrs Price is under the hearth?” Hammersmith said. “That makes no sense.”

  “No, you’re right. I don’t think that’s what the note means,” Day said. “That’s where we were when she gave this to me, but she can’t have written it there, can she?”

  “Why not? Before we arrived.”

  “Her husband would have seen. And so would Calvin Campbell, and the schoolteacher, the children, Bennett Rose. There were a lot of people in that room. They all would have seen her write it.”

  “Maybe they did see her.”

  “I don’t think so,” Day said. “She was nervous. She handed this to me carefully, as she took my hand to say good-bye. She didn’t want anyone else to see. If she wrote it in front of them all, why keep it a secret afterward?”

  “So she meant this for you.”

  “For us.”

  “She wrote it somewhere else and brought it with her.”

  “She may not have even made up her mind about whether to give it to us. She might have waited to decide until she met us.”

  “Then the floor she mentions could be anywhere. Why not be more specific? It’s not much of a clue, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I think she would have given us more information if it had occurred to her. It must have seemed quite obvious to her as she wrote it. She was in a hurry to write this before being discovered doing so and she was thinking about a place so familiar that it didn’t enter her mind that we wouldn’t know it, too.”

  “But we’re not from here.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We don’t know this village.”

  “So she didn’t just mean a place in the village, she meant the place where she was when she wrote this, the place where she’s most comfortable and at home, a place that needs no explanation for her.”

  “Her home.”

  “The rectory.”

  “Mrs Price is hidden under the floor in the rectory.”

  “It’s as good a theory as we’ve got.”

  “Unless the note means nothing. It could be the ravings of a madwoman.”