Alex Grecian - The Black Country

“Well, we’re here to find them,” Day said. “Don’t you worry.”

He immediately regretted saying it. His words would be taken as merely polite by the adults gathered there, but the children would accept it as a promise.

The boy, Peter, nodded, but his sister Anna didn’t move or change her expression. She locked her gaze on Day and stared until he had to look away.

“Why don’t you two go and see if Mr Rose has a ginger beer for you?” Jessica said. She put a hand on each child’s shoulder and pushed them toward the bar. They went without complaint and without looking back.

“We’ll need to talk to them,” Day said.

“Of course,” Jessica said.

“Perhaps you would help my sergeant with that?”

Jessica looked briefly at Hammersmith and then back at Day. “If you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you. They might be more comfortable with you there. Sergeant, check if they’ve seen anything, would you?”

Hammersmith shot Day a puzzled look, but followed the schoolteacher to the bar, where the children were already pulling themselves up onto stools. Day wanted to question the villagers as quickly as possible. The teacher seemed likely to want to impress Hammersmith and she might encourage the children to talk to him. Day doubted they would learn much from the small welcoming party here, but there was always the possibility that someone knew something useful. He took his own little notebook from the pocket of his waistcoat and found the stub of a pencil. The notebook was a match for Hammersmith’s, but had never been used. He opened it to the first page and creased the cardboard cover back on itself.

“Let’s start with you, Mr Campbell,” he said. The giant had settled back into his armchair and had leveled his gaze at Day. “We have the village vicar, the schoolteacher, the doctor, and you. What function do you serve in Blackhampton?”

“I’m only a visitor here,” Campbell said. “Like you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Vicar Brothwood said. “I thought I’d mentioned that.”

“Perhaps you did,” Day said. “Why Blackhampton, though? Why visit this place in particular?”

“Why not Blackhampton?”

“I’m having some trouble placing your accent, sir. Where are you from?”

“I’ve traveled.”

“Yes, I’d wager it’s been some time since you’ve seen Scotland.”

“A long time.”

“You’ve been to America?”

“Spent time there.”

“Liverpool?”

“Spent time there, too.”

“And now the Midlands.”

“I’m passing through. Staying here, same as you.”

“What’s kept you here? What’s your interest? Why do you care about the missing family?”

“We all care. Everyone here does.” Campbell turned his attention to the fire. He slid out of the chair and squatted on the hearth. Day watched as Campbell grabbed the poker from the rack beneath the mantel and poked at the logs. Orange sparks leapt out, burning tiny holes in Campbell’s trousers. Campbell didn’t react, didn’t move back, kept turning the logs, and talked into the fire. “I’ve lost people I cared about. It’s a hard thing, and I hate to see it happen to anyone.”

“Do you know the family?” Day said.

“Only by reputation.”

Day frowned at the Scotsman’s broad back. Campbell wasn’t telling him everything, but his posture and the tension in his shoulders told the inspector that he had finished talking for the moment. Day decided not to press him. He could come back to him later. Right now he wanted a broad overview, as much information as possible before he began ordering things and narrowing down the possibilities. He turned to the others. “What can you tell me about the Prices?”

“Sutton Price is the night watchman on the main seam,” Vicar Brothwood said. “He wasn’t at his post three days ago when the morning shift came on.”

“An alarm was raised?”

“Not right away. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary and there was work to be done.”

“When was the alarm raised, then?”

“That evening, when he didn’t arrive for his shift.”

“Someone. .”

“Yes, someone was sent to his house to inquire after him.”

“And what was discovered?”

“Three of the Price children and their housekeeper were at their evening meal. Mr Price was nowhere to be found and had not been seen since the previous evening.”

“And Mrs Price was also missing?”

“Yes. Along with her boy.”

“Her boy?”

“The oldest boy, Peter, is not properly her own. Nor are the girls. Oliver is her only child.”

“Ah, yes. As I understand it, the missing woman was the second Mrs Price.”

“Exactly so.”

“Whatever became of the first Mrs Price?”

“She simply disappeared one day a few years ago,” Brothwood said. “When was that, dear?”

He looked at his wife, who muttered something unintelligible and turned her attention to her feet. She was still worrying at the small piece of paper in her right hand. Her face looked grey.

“Just so,” her husband said. He turned back to Day. “We’re not sure when that was. Not with any certainty. Some years ago. I might say perhaps three or four, but don’t hold me to it.”

“And she has not been seen since?”

“Never.”

“Was there a proper interval between the marriages?”

“I wouldn’t say so. In fact, I refused to grant him the second marriage. They traveled to Wolverhampton to get it done.”

“You didn’t approve.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a matter of approval. It was simply too soon. Mathilda might well have turned up-Mathilda was the first Mrs Price-and then where should we be? Two Mrs Prices at once, and us with a village scandal. I was simply being prudent, nothing more.”

“She’s a lovely lady,” Mrs Brothwood said. Day was surprised. It was the first thing out of her mouth that he’d been able to understand and it was spoken with force.

“The first Mrs Price, you mean?” Day said. “Or the second?”

“I apologize. I spoke out of turn.”

“No, please. Which lady did you mean to indicate?”

“Hester.”

“The second Mrs Price, then.”

“Of course. Mathilda Price was a monstrous woman. Everyone knew it. I don’t know why we pretend to be surprised that she ran off. She was unfit to be a wife or mother to anyone, let alone those darling children. How they turned out so well, I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Now, dear,” Mr Brothwood said.

“Of course,” his wife said. “I apologize again.” She turned her head so that Day couldn’t see her face, only the firelight that flickered through a few stray wisps of hair that had come free of the pale bun atop her head.

“We’re all quite upset, of course,” Mr Brothwood said.

“Of course,” Day said. “What about you, Mr Campbell? Did you know either of the Price wives?”

Campbell didn’t look up at him, continued stirring the logs. “I told you I know the family by reputation only,” he said.

“How long have you been in the village?”

“Two weeks, perhaps.”

“That’s right,” Brothwood said. “I’d say he’s been here two weeks.”

“What brought you here? What’s your business in this place?”

“Am I your suspect, then?” Campbell’s voice was tired and harsh from the smoke. There was no anger in it that Day could detect.

“I have no suspects at the moment, Mr Campbell. I don’t even know that a crime has been committed. The more information I have, the better able I am to do the job here. I never know what might be useful.”

“I’m an ornithologist.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A bird-watcher.”

“He studies birds,” Brothwood said. “We have several splendid specimens near Blackhampton.”