by Alex Grecian
Day nodded, and Hammersmith produced a box of matches. He withdrew a long wooden match and lit each of the men’s lanterns. Day looked around at the faces of the three other men. Hammersmith wore his customary expression of determination. Campbell’s face was partially hidden in shadow, and the light from his lantern cast yellow highlights under his cheekbones that made him seem cadaverous and deadly. Day looked at Grimes. The constable’s eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. He had the appearance of a high-strung horse ready to bolt.
Hammersmith plunged into the forest, his lantern held high ahead of him. Campbell followed close behind. Day grabbed Grimes’s elbow and held him back.
“What is it?” he said. “What’s got you so frightened? What’s got the innkeeper poisoning the police? There’s something you’re all tiptoeing around out here.”
“It’s nothing,” Grimes said. “Let’s go.”
“Tell me what Rose has told you.”
“Let go of me!” Grimes pulled away, and his lantern swung in a wide arc. Day staggered, but caught his balance. The constable shook his head and stared down at the footprints they had made in the snow. “I apologize,” he said. “Disrespectful of me.”
“Tell me,” Day said.
“Rawhead and Bloody Bones,” Grimes said.
“Rawhead and . . . What does that mean?”
“Rawhead and Bloody Bones. He what waits in the mines and takes people. That’s who has the boy and his parents. What Rose and the others think, anyway.”
“Who is Rawhead?”
“It’s a children’s rhyme. A monster. Nonsense, really.”
“But Rose, the other villagers here, they think the monster’s real?”
Grimes nodded his head and said nothing. Day opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could speak, Grimes hurried past him and disappeared into the dark forest.
“Rawhead and Bloody Bones,” Day said. He sighed and thrust his lantern into the shadows, and allowed himself to be swallowed by the trees.
12
Claire Day had thought ahead and packed a pair of sturdy boots for her husband, along with a short-brimmed hat and a quilted vest. Wearing them now, Walter Day looked out ahead at the dark tangle of low briars and the patches of snow and ice that had gathered despite the canopy of branches above and he counted himself lucky.
As he did every day.
He allowed Constable Grimes to lead the way into the dark, wild country. He followed Grimes closely, but kept careful track of Sergeant Hammersmith and Calvin Campbell, who were spread out ahead of him. There was always the possibility that the villagers might lead Day and Hammersmith into the woods and lose them or, worse, do them harm. Of course Grimes had sent for Scotland Yard in the first place. It was a good indication that he wanted to find the missing family. But there was something about Campbell that Day didn’t trust. He was the only stranger in the village, and yet he seemed more concerned than almost anyone else about the Prices. And, most especially, about finding little Oliver Price. Day felt certain the birder knew something that he wasn’t sharing.
Grimes crunched his way through brambles and around trees, and Day kept up as well as he could. His vest had several pockets, and he had filled them with matches, a compass, a good folding knife, his flask, and his Colt Navy. He was a trusting person, but he wasn’t foolish.
Snow-covered branches swept low across the path and reached out for him, knocking his hat off and sending a rivulet of freezing water down his collar. A deer rushed across the path in front of him and he stood still, listening to it as it crashed away through the underbrush.
A hand on his shoulder startled him and he jumped, then felt a moment of embarrassment. He turned, and the giant Campbell leaned toward him.
“The path will end soon,” Campbell said.
“Doesn’t it go far?”
“No.”
“Did you see the deer?”
“Something must have spooked it.”
“What could have spooked it?”
“A wolf.”
“There are wolves here?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
“If Oliver and his parents are out here . . .”
“If they’re out here, they’re dead.”
Day nodded and sighed. “Still, we’ll find them.”
He turned and saw Grimes tromping toward them, leaves crunching under his heavy boots. Hammersmith followed close behind the constable.
“The path splits here,” he said. “It might be best if we separated to cover more ground.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to divide our manpower,” Day said. “More of us might be lost.” He meant himself, of course, but he didn’t want to say so and risk looking vulnerable.
“Two groups of two, then?”
“I’ll stay with Mr Campbell,” Day said. If Campbell had a secret, he might be dangerous. Best to keep an eye on him.
“Yes,” Grimes said. “It might be better for Mr Campbell and myself each to stay with one of you Londoners. I’ll go with the sergeant. But we’ll stay close to each other, both groups. Shout out if anyone finds anything.”
“We’re off this way,” Campbell said. He walked away to the left before the others could say anything.
Day gave Hammersmith a pointed look, hoping that he had communicated the need for caution, then turned and plunged into the woods after Campbell. When he looked back again a moment later, the other men were gone, swallowed up by the dense skeletal winter wood.
Campbell’s broad back filled the view ahead of Day. He looked down and saw that they were leaving footprints in the snow, black on grey, and was comforted by the notion that Campbell would not be able to turn him around and lose him in the trees. If that was his goal, Day would be able to trace his own steps back to the tree line.
They veered to their right so as to keep the other search party nearby, Campbell leading the way. Finally, Campbell stopped and turned and glared at Day.
“What do you know?” Campbell said.
Day stopped walking and took a step backward. He felt the comforting weight of the Colt Navy at his side. He was confident that he’d be able to draw it before Campbell could reach him.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know me?”
“I know the name you’ve given me.”
“Nothing else?”
“What should I know about you?”
“Nothing. Nothing that has any bearing on the disappearance of Oliver Price.”
“Do you know where he is? Where the family is?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Mr Campbell, I’m here to find a missing family. To rescue them if possible, to avenge them if they’re already dead. Your behavior makes me more suspicious with every moment that passes. If you’ve killed those people or hidden them away, I’ll find out. And I’m not alone. If you plan to kill me here and leave my body in these woods, you’ll have to kill Mr Hammersmith, too. He won’t be easy to kill. And neither will I.”
“I have no wish to kill you.”
“Good. I have no wish to be killed.”
“Please believe me when I say that I mean no harm to anyone, that I only want to find Oliver alive and well.”
Campbell bit his lower lip and looked off to the side. He raised his head and opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes rested on something over Day’s shoulder and a look of alarm suddenly appeared on his face.
Day whirled around and scanned the woods. He saw nothing but dark trees and thickets. He turned back in time to see Campbell disappear. The big man faded back into the trees and was gone without a sound or any trace.
“Campbell,” Day said. “Campbell!”
There was no response. Day drew his Colt Navy. He stood in place and turned in a circle. There were trees behind him, in front
of him, on every side, and they all looked the same. Grey and brown and black and, occasionally, a bit of the starry night sky high above. There was no indication of which direction to go. He realized that the comforting trail of footprints in the snow had been false. Here there was only damp underbrush; no snow had made it down through the canopy to the ground. It had all been caught by the branches above and melted away.
What had frightened Campbell? Was there something in the forest or had it been an act meant only to distract Day long enough for the big man to leave him? Had he abandoned Day or was he setting the inspector up for an ambush? Could Day count on Grimes to find him? Or was Grimes cooperating with Campbell? Had Hammersmith been abandoned, too?
There were too many questions. Anything was possible, and Day decided that conjecture was useless. The best he could do was be cautious and be brave. He thought of Claire and his unborn baby.
He drew his compass from a pocket in his vest and opened it, waited until the needle pointed north. When he had got his bearings, he started walking.
13
As he lay half asleep in his bed, Peter Price caught sight of movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head. A spider lowered itself from the ceiling above his chest on a glistening thread. It was the size of Peter’s fist, and he could see each of the wiry hairs on each of its writhing legs. For a moment he lay unmoving, simply watching the thing draw closer, and it seemed to him that its gestures were deliberate, as if it were communicating something lovely and terrible to him.
Then he sprang from the bed and lit a candle. In its unsteady glow, he searched the air above the bed. He pulled the covers from the mattress and threw them on the floor, picked them back up and shook them out. Nothing. There was no spider. Just to be sure, he patted himself down and ran his fingers through his hair.
The sound at the door was soft, and had he been asleep, it would not have awakened him. He padded carefully across the room, carrying the candle and watching for spiders the whole way. He opened the door a crack. His sister Anna stood in the hall, small and shapeless in her nightgown. Her bare feet stuck out below the hem of the gown, and Peter noticed, for the first time, that her toes had the same squared-off appearance as his own. He wondered whether little Oliver’s toes had looked like that.
“Did I wake you?” Anna said.
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“May I come in?”
Peter nodded and moved out of the way, and his sister stepped inside, closed the door behind her. She hurried across the room and sat on the edge of Peter’s bed, drawing his rumpled blanket over her lap. She stared at the window over the foot of the bed, but Peter was sure there was nothing to see. Candlelight reflected against the darkness there, swaying and jumping across the rippled glass.
“Is Virginia asleep?” Peter said.
Anna nodded. “Asleep and snoring,” she said.
“Why does all of this bother us so much more than it does her?”
“She seems to have put it entirely out of her mind.”
Peter shook his head and leaned against the wall. He set his candle on the low table by the door. He glanced at the floor, looking for spiders, but saw only bare polished wood. He didn’t look up at his sister when he spoke.
“How can we do that?”
“Forget, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“She’s very young. She’s only a child.”
“Aren’t we children, as well?”
“We’re practically adults.”
“And yet we still shout at Rawhead in the pits.”
“Everyone does.”
“Everyone who’s a child.”
“I didn’t say we were adults yet, only that we’re practically grown. We’re still allowed to do childish things.”
“Except forget about Oliver.”
“Or what was done.”
“Have the policemen found anything? Have you heard?”
“Where would I hear? I’ve been in all the same places as you today.”
“Sometimes you find out about things.”
Anna nodded solemnly. “I do pay more attention than you. But nothing’s been said. I imagine they’re out in the woods or perhaps down in the mines, looking for everybody.”
“Maybe they’ll find Father.”
“Maybe they’ll find Mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Mother’s long gone. At most they’ll find Hester, and nobody wants her back.”
“I’m sure Father does.”
“Do you think they left together?”
“Left us?”
Peter shrugged, unable to repeat the possibility that they’d been left behind.
“No,” Anna said. “Hester might leave us. I hope she did. But Father would never.”
Peter let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“If they’re in the woods . . .” he said. “The policemen, I mean, they might find something.”
“So what if they do? I don’t think they will. It was well-hidden.”
“It was hardly hidden at all.”
“Well, anyway, if they do find it, they still won’t know anything.”
“They might deduce things.”
“There’s no use crying about it.”
“I never cried. I’m perfectly relaxed.”
“I didn’t say you were crying. I said there’s no use in it.”
“Well, I wasn’t crying anyway.”
“If they find it in the woods . . . If they find anything out there, it will lead them nowhere, and we oughtn’t get worked up about it. There’s nothing we can do, unless you want to go tramping back through the woods in the dark.”
“No,” Peter said. He was the oldest and he wasn’t supposed to believe in Rawhead and Bloody Bones, but that didn’t mean he wanted to explore the forest at night.
“Then I suppose we should sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“Virginia can. We should, too.”
“Anna?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you think there’s something wrong with Virginia?”
“You shouldn’t say that. She’s your sister.”
“You’re my sister, too, and I don’t think anything’s too terribly wrong with you. Except when you get up to something stupid.”
“Virginia will be fine once this is all over and the policemen have left and Father has come home and it all goes back to normal.”
“Do you think it will? Go back to normal, I mean?”
“It has to, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s just one little boy. Everything can’t change because of one little boy, can it?”
“I suppose not. He was very little.”
“Very little. Hardly a speck.”
“Yes. What about what Hilde found?”
“The eye?”
“She showed it to me,” Peter said.
“She fancies you.”
“She does not.” But the idea that Hilde Rose fancied him was new to Peter, and he wondered if it was true.
“She does. She never showed it to me.”
“It was blue.” He hoped that Anna would allow him to change the subject away from Hilde and her romantic inclinations.
“Oliver’s eyes weren’t blue, were they?”
“I think they were green.”
“I think so, too.”
“And Hester?”
“No, her eyes weren’t blue. I would have noticed. Father’s weren’t, either. But I think Mother’s eyes might have been blue.”
Peter was quiet for a time, watching the candlelight reflected in the window. When he spoke, he wasn’t sure Anna would hear him across the room, but she looked up at him.
“Do you remember her?” Peter said.
“Mother? Yes, of course
I do.”
“Virginia’s forgotten her, I think.”
“Well, she was a baby when Mother . . . Well, anyway, she mustn’t be blamed for being young.”
“Oh, I wasn’t blaming her.”
“You shouldn’t let it bother you. We can remember her for them. For Virginia and Oliver, I mean.”
“She wasn’t Oliver’s mother.”
“Hester hardly counts as a mother. I say we should share our mother with him. The memory of her, I mean.”
“Anna . . .”
Anna swallowed and her eyes went wide. Peter looked down at his bare feet, confused and embarrassed. She had spoken about Oliver as if none of the ugliness of the past several days had happened. Peter felt alone in that instant, but if Anna wanted to put it out of her head, he would let her. He looked up when Anna cleared her throat. Her face was red.
“Of course I don’t know what I meant by that. Not at all.”
“It’s all right. Really, it is.”
“Anyway, I don’t think Mother did have blue eyes, now that I think about it.”
Peter smiled. The feeling of isolation lifted a bit. “So whose eye did Hilde find?” he said.
Anna shrugged. “Perhaps it belonged to someone else. Perhaps the eye doesn’t matter in the slightest.”
“Wouldn’t that be odd,” Peter said. It wasn’t a question, and Anna didn’t answer.
She stood and crossed the room to where Peter still leaned against the doorjamb. She brushed a lock of hair from her face and smiled at him.
“Don’t worry, Peter dear. Soon this will end. The policemen will return to London and Father will come home. He’ll know what to do about Virginia.”
Peter nodded and attempted a smile, but he knew Anna wasn’t fooled by it. He was the worrier and Anna was the logical one. Between them, they had to take care of their little family, what was left of it. Even if Father did return, that wouldn’t change.
Anna opened the door and looked both ways down the hall before scooting out and closing the door behind her. Peter listened for her footsteps, but couldn’t hear whether she returned to her room or went the other way to the stairs. He knew that she sometimes slept on the rug by the fireplace when she had nightmares.