The Black Country tms-2

by Alex Grecian

  “Who was it, sir? Who was the bleeder?”

  “I don’t even know that it was a person, Henry. It might have been livestock.”

  “A horse, sir?”

  “Perhaps. But if so, not a terribly large horse. Not even a pony. Look at this.”

  “Please no, sir.”

  “I mean to say, looking at this, the blood exited some body and landed in a sort of a wave upon this one. It tapers in a specific way. The heart was pumping full force here.” Kingsley pointed at a spot high on the front of the dress.

  Henry continued looking away.

  “But then here,” Kingsley said, “it has become weak and isn’t pumping so hard anymore.” He pointed to a different spot, lower on the dress. “If we are to assume that the person wearing this dress was present as the wounds happened upon the other body, then we can see that the heart pumping this initial spurt was not so large as all that, was it?”

  Henry shook his head. He looked a bit green, and Kingsley set down his lens. He patted Henry on the back in a reassuring way.

  “So,” Kingsley said, “a smallish creature of some sort was repeatedly injured. Blood exited its body and landed on this dress through, I would imagine, more than three apertures in the flesh of the injured body. There are droplets here, and here, indicating that either this dress or the injured body was moved as it bled out. Perhaps turned as the extent of injuries was fully realized by the person inflicting them. Or possibly to get a better angle, if someone was working to bleed out a lamb or small pig.”

  “I like bacon.”

  “Of course you do. So do I.”

  “I don’t like it when people’s hurt, though.”

  “People or pigs, we all hurt.”

  “But we don’t eat people, sir.”

  “Well.” Kingsley frowned at the dress. “Most of us don’t.”

  35

  Day and Campbell spent a few frenzied minutes plucking leeches from Dr Denby’s torso and throwing them at the icy dirt. When they had finished, the doctor’s pale flesh was dotted everywhere with angry red rings. Day buttoned Denby’s shirt while Campbell rose and began grinding the squirming leeches under his heels. Blood oozed out into the patches of snow, white laced with pink, the forest floor like marble.

  Denby stirred and his eyes half opened. “Brothwood,” he said. “Needs me.” He struggled to rise, but sank back against Day. “More will die, Inspector.”

  “What do you mean, more?” Day said. “Is the Price family dead?”

  But Denby had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Day looked up at Campbell, who towered above him, staring off in the direction of the village.

  “Who’s dead?” Day said. “Do you know?”

  Campbell shook his head. “He’s a doctor, not a murderer. He’s talking about the sickness, I’m sure. It’s spreading through the village more quickly every day.”

  “Has he smothered everyone in these blasted creatures, then?” Day gestured at the leeches all round him. Campbell had destroyed most of them, but those that remained had stopped moving, frozen or hibernating.

  “I don’t know,” Campbell said.

  “It’s entirely possible our missing family is in someone’s house, isn’t it? They could have gone visiting and collapsed.”

  “No.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I’ve checked every house.”

  “You’ve visited everyone?”

  “I’m a bird-watcher, remember? I can travel about the village with field glasses and nobody thinks anything of it.”

  “You’ve been peering through windows?”

  “I have.”

  “For the sport of it?”

  “For the boy.”

  “Why do you want so badly to find that boy?”

  “Why do you?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Is that all? It’s only your job?”

  “Of course not. But I know why I’m here. I don’t know why you are. I don’t even know who you are. Not really.”

  “I thought you did know that. You have a telegram, don’t you?”

  Day laid Denby’s head gently on the ground and stood so that he could face Campbell. “I know that you spent time in prison for killing a man in West Bromwich,” he said.

  “I did, yes.”

  “And now you are here in Blackhampton, and I want to know why.”

  “I have to be somewhere.”

  “You were released?”

  “I was a prisoner for ten years. I’ve paid the price for my crime and I’m a free man.”

  “What’s your connection to the missing boy?”

  “We should get back to the village.”

  “You’re not telling me anything, and I’ve let you go on keeping secrets long enough. You’ve been out in these woods, you found this pig or you killed it yourself, you know things about these people, and yet you’re a stranger here.”

  Campbell drew in a sharp breath, and his gaze focused on Day. He hesitated for a long moment, as if weighing the words he wanted to use. Finally, he spoke. “I have no secrets,” he said. “But it would be easier for me to show you than to tell you.”

  “Show me what? You’ve shown me your dead pig. Is there more?”

  “I think there is. It’s hard for me to know.”

  “Then show me.”

  Campbell nodded. He stooped and lifted Dr Denby as if he weighed nothing and led the way back to the path out of the woods. Neither of them spoke as they walked under the trees and through the brush. To Day, the path seemed shorter going back than it had been on the way to see the dead pig. The densest part of the woods fell behind them quickly, and the brush thinned out as the high grey walls of the church came into view. They had never gone very far from the village. Day was a reasonably fit man, but he struggled to keep up with Campbell, who was far older. Before long, the trees gave way to a narrow dirt path that widened out and led directly to the back of the church. Campbell led the way around the side of the massive building and up the wide stone steps to the entrance. He stopped there and turned, the limp Dr Denby draped over his forearms like an old bathrobe.

  “Whatever you see,” Campbell said, “whatever you think, you must continue the search for Oliver Price. That must remain your only goal here.”

  “What do you mean?” Day said. He was slightly out of breath and he could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold wind.

  “You’ll know in a minute,” Campbell said, “but first promise me that you’ll keep looking for the boy.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Good.” Campbell turned and shouldered the tall oak doors open and was swallowed by the solid shadows of the parish church. His voice came again from somewhere nearby, but completely disconnected from the world of white snow and bright grey daylight: “Come.”

  Day found his flask and took a long swallow, then put it away in his pocket and followed the bird-watcher into the darkness. His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom of the foyer, but he could hear voices from deeper in the building, a burbling river of human noise, moaning and singing and occasional cries of pain. Campbell waited for Day to acclimate before pushing through the inner doors and leading the way into the sanctuary.

  Directly ahead was an aisle that ran down the center of the sanctuary to a raised altar. There were three steps down from the foyer to the sanctuary, and Campbell pointed them out to Day, cautioning him against tripping. To Day’s right, pews filled half the room, row upon row of them, far more seating than the small village needed. But the pews were stacked too closely together for anyone to sit, almost on top of one another. Day realized that the pews had been removed from the left side of the room and piled between the remaining pews on the right. The empty half of the sanctuary had then been filled with makeshift beds. Dozens of people lay in cots or on blankets on the floor. Most were unconscious, sweating and moaning in their sleep. Some lay awake but delirious, calling out to absent loved ones or crying for help. Older ch
ildren from the village, those who weren’t already ill, moved between the rows, pressing wet cloths to the foreheads of their friends and relatives, spooning room-temperature broth into their mouths, and whisking away chamber pots, filled to the brim with vomit and worse. The enormous room was thick with the mingled odors of human bodies and excrement and incense.

  “What’s happening here?” Day said.

  “This began before you arrived. People fell ill and didn’t recover.”

  “Here in the church?”

  “Dr Denby was unable to visit everyone in their homes. There were too many. The vicar was kind enough to offer up the space, and some of the men helped move the pews.”

  “And now Denby’s sick, too.”

  “It does seem that way.”

  Brothwood chose that moment to approach them. He had been out of sight, somewhere among the sea of bodies. He had a small rug rolled up under his arm. Behind him, a pretty woman stared at Day with something like panic in her eyes. She was not young, and her face was lined with sorrow and pain, but her beauty was unmistakable, even in that place. She looked at Campbell, then away, and put a hand up as if to shield herself from their gaze. She dropped the damp rag she was holding and then walked quickly away, toward the altar. Day tried to watch where she went, but the vicar distracted him. Brothwood smiled a greeting at Day, but there was sadness and guilt in his manner. He touched Dr Denby on the arm, then led Calvin Campbell to a section of floor that was not yet occupied by the sick and unrolled the rug he was carrying. Campbell laid the doctor down on it and stepped back.

  “Mr Brothwood,” Day said, “why didn’t you mention this to me last night?”

  “What bearing does it have on your mission here?”

  “The missing family might be in a house somewhere here, sick and in need of help. Not out in the woods or down in the tunnels. Our thinking may have run in entirely the wrong directions.”

  “I told you,” Campbell said. “I’ve looked in every house in this village.”

  “And Dr Denby and I have been inside nearly all of them ourselves,” Brothwood said. “Virtually no house is untouched by this plague.” He shook his head at the ground and made a small motion for Day to follow him. Campbell nodded and then walked away from them in the direction of the altar, the direction the woman had gone.

  Brothwood took Day by the elbow and turned him the other way, toward the foyer, but Day pulled away and pointed at the altar. Campbell was already gone. “What’s back there?” Day said.

  “Beyond the pulpit?”

  “Yes.”

  “My rooms. Mine and Mrs Brothwood’s, of course.”

  “Why would Mr Campbell go to your rooms?”

  “Did he?”

  “And who was that woman helping you when we came in?”

  “Woman?”

  “There was someone helping you minister to the sick. A woman. Where did she go?”

  “I’m not sure who you’re talking about. Many of the village women have volunteered to help, taking shifts here.”

  “Who is helping today? Right now?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure. There’s no requirement, you know; nobody organizing things. This all came on so quickly.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Three or four days, perhaps. It’s spread so fast. We weren’t prepared. But, Inspector, this has nothing to do with your search for the boy. You mustn’t let this, all of this illness, distract you from your duty.”

  “Everyone seems to be concerned with my duty. If you’re all so worried about the missing family, why haven’t you gone out searching yourselves?”

  Brothwood wordlessly gestured at the room full of stinking, writhing bodies, their cries echoing off the high beams of the vaulted ceiling. The implication was clear enough: There weren’t enough people left standing to conduct a search.

  “Where is Mrs Brothwood?” Day said. “I’d like to speak to her, if I may.”

  The vicar turned and walked away, and Day followed him. Brothwood led him to the far end of the room, where an old woman lay on a straw-filled mattress against the stone wall. Her hair was long and white and tangled with dry sweat. She lay slowly writhing, her gnarled hands clenched in agony, her mouth half-open in a rictus of pain. It took Day a long moment to recognize the vicar’s wife.

  “It set in last evening,” Brothwood said. “Soon after we returned from the inn.”

  “God,” Day said. “What’s happening here?”

  “The Devil, I fear.”

  “I don’t-”

  “Someone did something dreadful to those people. To the boy, Oliver Price. Rawhead has come to live here, been welcomed by these evil deeds. That’s why we need you. You and your friend Hammersmith. You’re untouched by this. You can make it right.”

  “You don’t need policemen, you need doctors.”

  Brothwood sucked in a deep breath and pointed in the direction of Denby’s limp body, somewhere on the floor behind them. “Our doctor. And not even a cot left for him.”

  Day watched a dust mote dance through a beam of dim blue light. “How fortunate, then, that I’ve brought the best doctor in England for you.” He motioned to a boy who was perhaps ten or twelve years old. The boy wrung a damp cloth out in a shallow bowl of water and laid it on an older boy’s forehead, then stood and approached the inspector. “Go to the inn, boy,” Day said. “Find Dr Kingsley and a man named Henry and bring them here immediately.”

  “Sir, my brother. .”

  “If there’s any hope for your brother, you’ll find it at the inn. Now, go.”

  The boy nodded and, with one quick look back at his unconscious older brother, hurried away, through the foyer and out of sight.

  36

  This 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.r />
  “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?”