The Black Country

by Alex Grecian

  Peter returned to his bed. He arranged the covers and crawled back beneath them. There was still no sign of a spider. He left the candle burning on the table beside him and watched the ceiling until he settled into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  14

  Day pushed through brambles and stepped carefully over fallen logs. He was conscious of the fact that he didn’t know the local animals, had no idea whether there were actually wolves in the woods. But he hadn’t encountered anything dangerous, except the cold and the wet. He marched ahead, cautious but confident. He felt he should be coming to the tree line any time now. Lone snowflakes drifted down past him from above. Twigs crunched underfoot, and he slipped on a pile of wet leaves, but caught himself before he fell. He had no idea how much time had passed. He felt certain that he hadn’t been wandering in the forest for long, but he had read about men who got lost in the woods and were never seen again, men who spent their remaining hours tramping about in circles, wandering ever farther into the wilderness.

  He hoped that the others were looking for him, that this was all a mistake. Hammersmith would come looking, he knew, but if Campbell had purposely left Day behind, then Hammersmith might be in danger too, and Day had no way of warning him.

  He turned and sat heavily on a fallen log. He took his compass out and checked it again, glad to see that he had been walking in a straight line. He put it back in his pocket.

  A furtive noise, a rustle of leaves and a crunch of snow, caused him to glance up, and he saw a flash of burnt orange as a fox raced past him and disappeared in the underbrush. Day smiled despite himself and looked at the break in the trees where the fox had come from.

  Standing in the trees there, nearly invisible back in the gloom, was a man.

  Day scrambled to his feet. The man tipped his hat and faded back into the shadows. Day rushed forward and plunged into the trees. He looked about frantically, but there was no sign of the other man. Had he hallucinated someone else out here in the forest?

  Day crouched and examined the ground where he thought the man must have been standing. There, at the edge of a clump of brown leaves, was the outer rim of a boot print. Someone was out there, someone was watching. Day stood up and looked all around without seeing any sign of another living soul. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

  “Hullo!”

  He held his breath and listened, alert for the slightest sound, but heard only the echo of his own voice.

  “Hullo! I saw you! Help me!”

  Again he listened. He heard something, some slight noise behind him, and he turned and stared into the darkness. Two yellow pinpricks of light stared out at him from under a bush. He stepped toward them and they vanished. An instant later, he saw the blur of the fox’s tail disappearing deeper into the bushes.

  He made his way back into the clearing and sat again on the fallen log. He found his handkerchief in one of the inside pockets of his vest and wiped his face. He was certain the man had been no trick of the light or figment of his imagination. But the man’s appearance had been hideous, and Day was struck by the notion that he had not seen a man at all, but rather some spirit, an apparition conjured by the forest. How else to explain what he had seen?

  The man had been dressed all in grey, from his hat to the hem of his trousers. Even the man’s eyes seemed to be grey, though it was hard to be sure. The most disturbing detail of the man’s appearance was that, through the flesh of his jaw, Day had clearly seen a portion of the man’s skull, his exposed teeth bared in a wicked grin.

  He felt suddenly sure he had seen the local children’s nightmares come to life.

  Rawhead and Bloody Bones.

  15

  Hammersmith followed the broad back of Constable Grimes through the forest. He moved his lantern up and down, watching for branches and roots, ice and slippery leaves. Hammersmith wasn’t comfortable in the trees. He had been raised in coal mines and mountains, and more recently he had spent his time in London and its sprawling suburbs.

  But there was a child missing somewhere in the vicinity of Blackhampton, and so he put aside his discomfort and watched for signs of the boy and his parents. It was difficult because the lantern light didn’t penetrate far into the gloom, but the two men walked slowly and carefully, alert for the slightest anomaly in the underbrush.

  They had traveled this way in silence for perhaps an hour when Hammersmith made up his mind to clear the air.

  “Constable,” he said.

  “Have you seen something?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I may owe you an apology of some sort.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It was brought to my attention that I may be oversensitive on the subject of child labor and the mines.”

  “Oh. Parents putting their children to work, you mean?”

  “Actually, you said that. I implied that the village itself encouraged that sort of thing.”

  “The village itself?”

  “When I was a child—”

  “Ah, you worked the mines yourself? But it was a different time then, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “The entire world’s changed since you and I were children.”

  “Child labor still exists.”

  “That it does, Sergeant, but it’s no longer the prevailing way of things, is it?”

  “I wouldn’t think it is.”

  “Then we agree. Of course, putting children to work in the mines is no longer legal. Some parents do still bring their children with them, but those children have nothing to do with hard labor. They perform menial tasks, such as a woman might.”

  Hammersmith didn’t respond. It was clear that he and Grimes were very different people who happened to wear the same uniform. Still, Hammersmith’s attempt at an apology, no matter how clumsy and unsatisfying, appeared to have worked. Grimes seemed a bit more relaxed. The men from Scotland Yard might have another two days to spend in Blackhampton, and having Grimes on their side would go a long way toward a productive investigation.

  Hammersmith opened his lantern’s shutter wider. A more focused light was useful, but he felt hemmed in by the winter woods. He listened for signs of life, but heard nothing that didn’t sound like a small animal. He assumed a lost little boy would cry out for help at the sight of a lantern bobbing through the trees. He didn’t want to think about the alternative, that the boy was dead.

  He stopped every few feet and shuffled through the leaves at the side of the narrow trail with the toe of his boot. He doubted he would find any footprints so long after the family had disappeared, but he held out hope that he might discover a dropped handkerchief, a paper pastry wrapper, anything at all. Grimes tramped on, though, without looking around, without waiting to let Hammersmith catch up. Hammersmith was conscious of the fact that he might get lost, and by the time the sun rose there would be new search parties out in these woods, looking for the London policeman and diverting time and attention from the missing Price family. He kept the back of the constable’s blue jacket in sight and never stopped moving for long.

  They had been searching for quite some time when Hammersmith spotted an odd shape deeper in the brush.

  “Over here,” Hammersmith said. “What’s that?”

  Grimes turned and came back to where Hammersmith stood on the path. The glow from their lanterns spread out in a wobbly circle across the ground.

  “What’ve you found?”

  “I’m not sure. Does that look strange to you?” Hammersmith pointed into the trees. The ground cover grew thick here, and it was hard to spot anything amongst the dead grey branches and wet black leaves. Grimes held his lantern up and peered into the dark. He stifled a yawn with his free hand.

  “I don’t see nuffin’.”

  “There. Right there. Do you see it?”

  “Right in there?”

  �
��That’s it.”

  “Dead animal, I’d say. Doesn’t look like a person, no ways.”

  “I’m going to take a closer look.”

  Hammersmith handed his lantern to Constable Grimes and crouched down. He pushed aside a handful of thin low-hanging branches and shuffled forward until he had to kneel. The knees of his thin uniform trousers were immediately soaked through. He realized that he hadn’t felt any sensation in his feet for some time. They were numb. Unlike Inspector Day, Hammersmith had not packed any boots but the standard black Wellingtons he was accustomed to wearing. They were excellent for walking a beat, but they weren’t at all suited for tramping about the countryside in snow and ice. He braced himself for the cold and settled forward, putting his weight on his hands. He crawled through the brush, out into the darkness, keeping his head down. The glow from the dual lanterns didn’t penetrate as far as he’d hoped. He was as good as blind.

  “Hoy, Mr Hammersmith, you’ve drifted off to the left a bit there, sir.”

  Hammersmith adjusted course, surprised that Grimes’s voice sounded so close. He really hadn’t gone as far off the path as he’d assumed. His legs already felt frozen from the knees down. It was quite clear to him that a lost little boy might not survive a single night in the wilderness, and Hammersmith found himself hoping once again that Oliver Price was somewhere warm and dry with his parents.

  He raised his head and a sharp branch scraped across his face, from his hairline to his chin. He dropped again and covered his head. Snow plopped down from above as the branch sprang back into position. Hammersmith dabbed at his cheek and felt something wet, but couldn’t tell if he was bleeding or wet with snow.

  “It’s right there, Mr Hammersmith. No, there. Reach out with your right hand.”

  Hammersmith groped about him until his fingers touched something wet and slimy. It was fabric of some sort. He grabbed the nearest edge and backed quickly out of the narrow tunnel he’d made with his body, dragging the cloth.

  “Here you go, man,” Grimes said. “All’s well.”

  Hammersmith felt Grimes’s hands on the back of his jacket, pulling him along, lifting him up. He stood and shook twigs out of his hair, wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. The lanterns were swinging side by side from a nearby tree branch.

  “That’s a lad, that’s a fine lad.” Grimes brushed Hammersmith’s clothing, clumsily patting the leaves and mud off his uniform. Hammersmith grinned and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

  “I’d like to wait for daylight before attempting that again,” he said.

  “No need, sir,” Grimes said. “If there’s to be a next time, I believe it will be my turn. But if you don’t mind, I hope there won’t be a next time.”

  “Don’t blame you a bit.”

  “Nasty scratch you’ve got there, though.”

  “It’s nothing. Let’s see what we have.”

  Grimes took the dripping wad of fabric from Hammersmith, who rubbed his hands together and blew into them, trying to warm his fingers. Grimes held up the cloth and stretched it out between his hands. He moved so that the lantern light shone directly on, and through, the fabric. It was an article of clothing. Hammersmith identified a short sleeve, bordered by torn lace. Amid the dark streaks and blotches that stained the cloth, he picked out traces of a subtle floral pattern. It was impossible to make out colors, but the black marks were clearly not any part of the natural design of the thing.

  “It’s a dress,” Grimes said.

  “A child’s dress.”

  “It’s awfully small.”

  “Does it look familiar to you, Mr Grimes?”

  “Familiar in what way?”

  “Have you seen anyone wearing this?”

  “I’m sure I don’t have any idea who might have worn this. Maybe in better light . . .”

  “Well, it’s certain Mrs Price never wore this.”

  “Not within the past twenty years, I’d say.”

  “What about Oliver?”

  “Oliver’s a boy.”

  “But could it be a baptism gown or nightshirt or somesuch?”

  “Ah, I suppose it might be. But the lace? And the flowers?”

  “Rather feminine.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Those black spots and this.” Hammersmith pointed to a large dark patch near the midsection of the little dress and moved his finger down to the hem where a chunk of lace had been torn out.

  “That’s blood, sir. I’d stake my career on it.”

  “I agree.”

  “And that means we’re looking for someone else entirely.”

  “Mr and Mrs Price, little Oliver, and a girl.”

  “What is happening in my village, Mr Hammersmith?”

  “Something evil. The children here may be in great danger.”

  “Rawhead.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That silly rhyme comes to mind. Nothing, really. Blackhampton’s always been so quiet. One of the things I like about it, really.”

  Hammersmith nodded, but there was nothing more to say. The case had just become even more urgent. Grimes folded the dress, squeezing out the excess water, and they each took a lantern from the branch behind them.

  “Should we keep looking?” Grimes said.

  “I believe we’d better. It’s more important than ever.”

  Grimes closed his eyes and sighed. Hammersmith didn’t wait for him to follow. He plunged back down the path, headed farther into the forest. A moment later, he heard Grimes at his heels.

  They had not gone more than five or six yards into the woods when Hammersmith stopped and held up the lantern.

  “What is it?” Grimes said.

  “Listen.”

  The two men stood quietly, their breathing shallow, and waited. Grimes motioned to get Hammersmith’s attention and pointed off to their left. Hammersmith heard the muffled crack of a twig breaking and then the wet slap of a leafy branch.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  A voice answered from the darkness beside the path, almost at their elbows.

  “It’s me, Campbell. Say something else. Guide me to you.”

  “We’re here, sir. Right here. Do you see the lanterns?”

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Campbell stepped out from under the trees and let out a deep breath. His shaggy grey hair was mussed and full of leaves, and the shoulder of his jacket was torn. A long streak of mud ran from his left hip to his ankle. He shook Hammersmith’s hand.

  “I slipped down an incline of some sort. Didn’t see it in the dark and then got hopelessly turned around. It’s a lucky break for me you hollered out when you did or I’d have been lost in there forever.”

  It was the most Hammersmith had heard the big man say, but he understood. It was easy to lose one’s composure under the dark silent trees.

  “Where’s Inspector Day?”

  Campbell blinked and looked all round them at the path and the trees, as if Day might suddenly swing down and land among them.

  “I’d actually hoped he was with you.”

  “You left him?”

  “I thought I saw something in the woods and circled round to investigate. When I returned to the spot where we were standing, Mr Day was gone. I struck out in pursuit, but got turned around myself.”

  “What did you think you saw?” Grimes said.

  “It was nothing.”

  “It must have been something if you left Inspector Day in the woods,” Hammersmith said. “Let’s find him before he freezes to death out here. And then I’ll want to have a word with you, Mr Campbell.”

  16

  The American stood back in the trees and watched the other men on the path. He knew Cal Campbell. He also knew the policeman from London. He had sat behind him on the train. There was another
man dressed in the uniform of a policeman, and the American guessed that he was the local lawman. He and Campbell seemed to be friendly. The American’s rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he reached up, fingered the trigger, ran his tongue over his teeth and through the hole that separated his jaw from the rest of his face. Its pink tip left a silvery trail in the broken lantern light.

  He pulled the rifle off his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. He lined up each of the men in turn and mimicked pulling the trigger. But there were too many of them and he was too close. He felt confident that he could kill at least two of them quickly, but the third might reach him before he could line up the last shot. He slung the rifle back over his shoulder and moved farther back into the trees.

  There was plenty of time. No need to rush things. He had waited more than twenty years and he could wait another day. He would need to find shelter for the night, though. The woods were too cold and too crowded with policemen. The American had seen a building on the hill that seemed deserted. A perfect place to stay the night.

  17

  Day stopped in midstride and listened. He had heard something nearby, something almost subliminal. The grey man with the hideous face was still out there in the woods, and Day had no idea whether the man was dangerous or a friend. He was being careful.

  The sound came again. A tiny high-pitched whistle. A chirp. He crouched and brought his lantern down close to the forest floor. There, nearly invisible, black and white against the ice and mud and grey thickets, was a round ball of fluff, its beak open to the sky, the pink maw of its throat as big around as Day’s little finger.

  He stood and scanned the closest trees, looking for a nest. He moved the lantern in a circle and turned slowly, careful not to step on the baby bird at his feet. He saw nothing.

  He squatted again and patted his jacket.

  “I know I have . . .” he said. “Aha.”

  He supposed he was talking to the bird, but he knew it didn’t understand. It just sat there in its damp makeshift nest in the mud, its beak trembling at him. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a half-eaten biscuit from the train. It was hard and he broke it apart, letting the crumbs fall to the ground, and fished in his palm for the nuts and raisins that had been baked into it. He found three raisins and one piece of a walnut. He decided the walnut might be too difficult for the bird to deal with and let it fall through his fingers. He scooped a palmful of slush from the top of a log and dropped the raisins into it. The bird chirped again and opened its beak.