Alex Grecian - The Black Country

“And why would he do that, Mr. .?”

“Brothwood. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Of course. The vicar.”

“Indeed.”

“And why would Mr Rose try to run us off?”

“Please, Mr Scotland Yard,” the vicar said, “come and meet the others. I promise we’ll do our best to explain everything that we can.”

Brothwood gestured toward the farthest of the two fireplaces, where the handful of villagers watched them. Day nodded. “Lead the way, Mr Brothwood.”

Day and Hammersmith followed Brothwood to the small gathering near the fireplace. Grimes went with them, but hung back, quiet, apparently content to observe. Aside from the vicar, Day counted six other people there. An old woman bobbed her head at him. She wore a simple dress with a subdued floral pattern. Her hair was white, but she had it carefully done up at the top of her head. From the pattern of lines across her face, it seemed to Day that she must have smiled a lot in the ordinary course of things, but as they came near, the old woman’s eyes darted around the common room and she took an involuntary step back, away from the policemen. Day suppressed an urge to reach out and pull her away from the fire, which threatened to lick the hem of her dress. Another woman, much younger and slimmer, stood next to the old woman. Her long hair was copper-colored and shimmered in the firelight. Her eyes twinkled (although that, too, might have been a trick of the light), and she allowed the faintest smile to pass over her lips by way of greeting. Two children stood behind her, close to the fire. The boy was perhaps twelve years old, the girl a bit younger, but just as tall. They were both slightly built, with rounded shoulders, fair hair, and clothing that was a bit too small for them. Neither of them looked directly at the policemen, but the boy took a step in front of the girl, as if to protect her. A young man who stood warming his hands at the fire smiled at them. The man was short and thin, with long floppy brown hair and wire-framed spectacles. He wore a waistcoat but no jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows.

Apart from the others, filling a large armchair at the periphery of the fire’s light, another man sat regarding Day carefully. He had long shaggy hair streaked with grey. Ropes of muscle bunched and rippled under his clothing as if he were constantly tensing up and then reminding himself to relax. The man’s green eyes sparkled with secret knowledge, and he gave Day a nearly imperceptible nod after sizing him up.

The man stood, pushing himself up out of the armchair, and offered his hand to Day. He was enormous, much taller than the men from Scotland Yard, and he clearly outweighed them by at least fifty pounds. His hand, when Day shook it, was hard and calloused, and Day felt the man holding back, as if he might accidentally crush Day’s fingers like a handful of dry twigs. Day got a sudden sense that the giant had killed men with those outsize hands.

“Good of you to come,” the man said. “We can use the help.”

“I’m Inspector Day. And this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”

The man let go of Day’s hand and nodded. “My name is Campbell,” he said. “Calvin Campbell.” There was the trace of a Scottish brogue in his voice, but it was faint and mixed with something else. He gestured toward the group of people on the hearth. “We, all of us, want to help find that boy. Anything we can do to help, that’s why we’re here.”

“And the parents?” Hammersmith said. “I assume you want to find them, too.”

“Yes, of course. All of them.”

Now that introductions had been initiated by Calvin Campbell, the big man faded back to the outskirts of the group and the vicar took over, accustomed to politicking. The others moved forward and surrounded the police. All except the two children, who hung back, close to the fire.

“Mr Campbell is a visitor here,” Vicar Brothwood said. “A guest of the inn, like you. And this is my wife, Margaret.”

The vicar held his hand out, palm up, toward the old lady. Margaret Brothwood smiled and nodded at them, but the smile was strained and didn’t touch her eyes. She had a small folded piece of paper in her left hand and she worried at it, pressing it and rubbing the paper with her thumb.

“I wish we had a bigger turnout to greet you,” Brothwood said. “So many are ill at the moment. Dr Denby is being kept busy.”

The bespectacled young man smiled ruefully and nodded. His floppy hair bounced over his eyes. “I wanted to meet you anyway,” he said.

“You’re the doctor here?” Day said.

“I am indeed. I’m afraid half the village is sick in bed, but if there’s anything I can do to help, I’m at your. .” Denby paused and held his hand up, palm out. His shoulders quaked with a sudden silent coughing fit. Day waited. Finally, the doctor stood up straight and smiled. “Forgive me. I am, of course, at your disposal.”

Day frowned. “You’re quite all right, I hope.”

“Perfectly.”

“When you say half the village has fallen ill-”

“Not precisely half, but a great many of them.”

“What are they sick from?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s all I can do to treat their symptoms. Blackhampton simply isn’t equipped for a plague.”

“A plague!”

“I don’t know what it is. Plague may be too strong a word, but what else would you call it when a hundred people fall ill at once?”

“Is it possible, Doctor, that the missing family are among the ill?” Day said. “That they’ve holed up somewhere to convalesce?”

“I suppose it is possible. But I think I would have been notified. I haven’t visited the Price home in a great long time.”

“I see.”

“I do hate to be rude, but I must be off. Many homes to pop in at before bed.”

“Will you tell us when you’ve reached a conclusion about the nature of the illness?”

“I will. Although I can’t see how it could possibly help you to know.”

“It may not help. But I’d like to know anyway. And I understand how busy you are, but we may need your assistance when we find the Prices.”

Dr Denby smiled and nodded and walked away across the room. Day noticed that the doctor moved carefully, as if each step pained him. He grabbed a hat and overcoat from the rack by the door and exited in a flurry of snowflakes. Day turned back to Vicar Brothwood, who touched the young red-haired woman on the elbow by way of introduction.

“This is our schoolteacher, Miss Perkins,” he said.

“Please call me Jessica, Inspector Day,” the young woman said. She put a gloved hand in Day’s, then turned her attention to Hammersmith. “It’s lovely to meet you, too, Mr Hammersmith. Though one might wish for better circumstances.”

Day thought her gaze lingered on Hammersmith a second longer than was necessary, and he looked down at his feet so that neither of them would see him smile. He had noticed that women often looked at Hammersmith a bit too long to be merely cordial, but in his experience the sergeant was unaware of their attention. Hammersmith was almost fanatically focused on his work. Day gestured past the schoolteacher at the children behind her.

“And who might these young people be?” Day said.

“This is Peter,” Jessica Perkins said, tearing her attention away from Hammersmith, who was busy taking notes in the tiny cardboard-covered tablet he carried with him everywhere. “And this is Anna Price. It’s their parents who have. .” Jessica paused, obviously trying to think of the best way to finish her sentence without upsetting the children.

“They’ve gone missing, sir,” Anna Price said.

Her brother nodded.