Alex Grecian - The Black Country

“You study birds?”

“I do,” Campbell said. “I sketch them. Would you like to see my notebooks?”

“Not necessarily. You’ve been out there in the woods, watching birds?”

“I have.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me out there.”

“We can go now.”

“The sergeant and I should eat something. And we’ll need supplies.”

“I checked the woods,” Grimes said. Day was startled to hear him speak. The constable had been so quiet that Day had nearly forgotten about him. “I checked the woods, the tunnels, the riverbed. I’ve checked everywhere.”

“By yourself?” Day said.

“After the eyeball was found, I spent the entire day out in those woods.”

“We should check again. I’ve no doubt you did as thorough a job as possible, Constable, but you have more people at your disposal now.”

“It’s growing dark out there.”

“No time to waste.”

“Then I’ll ask Mr Rose to get together some lanterns for us,” Grimes said.

He left the knot of people by the fire and crossed to the bar. Day watched him go and lean over the bar next to Hammersmith and the Price children. He murmured something low and emphatic to Rose. Rose nodded, wiped his hands on his apron, and left through the door to the back rooms. Day caught Hammersmith’s eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. The sergeant shrugged and shook his head. He hadn’t learned anything useful yet.

“I’m afraid we ought to get back,” Mr Brothwood said. “My wife and I wouldn’t be of much use to you, tramping through the woods in the dark of night. But we remain at your disposal should you need anything else.”

The vicar’s wife fidgeted, her eyes flicking here and there about the room, never settling anywhere for more than a fraction of a second.

Day had no illusions about his abilities as a detective. He knew that he wasn’t the most intimidating man in any room; he had no steely resolve or grim determination. He wasn’t tireless in his pursuit of justice (that would be Sergeant Hammersmith’s strong suit). But he was very good at listening to people. He paid attention when they talked. And when they didn’t talk. He understood what their bodies and their eyes told him and he understood what people wanted to tell him, despite what they actually said. Mrs Brothwood clearly had something she desperately needed to say, but her husband’s presence prevented her from speaking. Day would have to find a way to get her alone for a few moments.

“Mrs Brothwood, would you-”

He was interrupted by the sound of the front door crashing open and the late winter wind swirling into and through the big room. There was a rustling of wings, and a huge dark shape filled the doorway.

Something flew over their heads, circled the room, and perched on the rail of the gallery above them. Bennett Rose emerged from the back room with a lantern in his hand and ran to the front door, slamming it shut against the wind. He turned and scowled up at the gallery and the feathered shape there.

“Oh, this is not good,” he said. “Not a bit. I’ll need some help.”

He went to the counter, where he set the lantern down, then found a long stout plank somewhere behind the bar. He took it to the back door and slotted the plank into brackets on either side of it, barricading the way into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Grimes and the vicar Brothwood walked slowly to the front door. They seemed to jockey with each other for position until Grimes conceded to his elder. Brothwood stood behind the door and gripped the knob. He fixed his gaze on the bird in the gallery. Mr Rose returned to the counter, rummaged about, and pulled out a handful of rags, sizing them against one another. Hammersmith froze on his stool, unsure what to do. He didn’t understand what the fuss was about. He glanced at Day, who raised his eyebrows, but neither man moved. The customs here were alien, and it was hard to know what was proper.

“Mr Rose,” Hammersmith said. “Isn’t that an owl?”

“You mean that creature up there?” As if they might be talking about some other bird in the room.

From the tone of Rose’s voice, they might have been talking about an ancient nightmare that had invaded the inn with great tentacled limbs, intent on dragging them all down to hell. The bird swiveled its head so that it was looking at Hammersmith, its yellow eyes shining out from the shadows above the landing, and hooted. Who who who whooooo. Hammersmith nodded to himself. Yes, it was an owl.

“It doesn’t look likely to hurt anyone,” he said.

“Not worried about it hurting anyone,” Rose said. “Only worried about what it means and getting it to leave.”

He set four glasses on the bar in front of Hammersmith, the schoolteacher, and the two Price children, and filled them from a wooden pitcher of water on the sideboard behind the bar. The pitcher was old and beaded with droplets, the glasses dull and chipped, their edges worn smooth by countless drinkers.

“Perhaps if we got behind it, we could scare it back outside,” Hammersmith said.

“That’d be disrespectful,” Rose said. “We’ll be ready when it decides to move.”

Hammersmith shrugged. He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips.

“Wouldn’t drink that,” Peter Price said.

His sister nudged him and grimaced at Hammersmith. “My brother prefers ginger beer,” she said. She pushed her own glass away from her. It left a glossy trail on the bar. “So do I.”

“I like water,” Hammersmith said. He took a long swallow. Water dribbled down his chin from the many chips in the rim, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt before taking another drink.

Peter shuddered and looked away. Hammersmith made a mental note that the boy seemed to have an aversion to water. He recalled a disease of some sort that made people avoid water. It might be something to mention to the doctor when he saw him. He set the glass down and wiped his chin again.

“What about the owl?” he said.

“It’s a bad sign,” Rose said. He seemed irritated at being kept there, at having to talk to Hammersmith. He wiped the streak of water off the bar, moving his whole arm, putting his weight into the minor effort, then turned and used the rag to cover one of the panels of colored glass above him.

“It’s just a bird, isn’t it?”

“It means death. We’ve got to make it leave, but it’s best if we all act calm and give it a way out.”

“An owl in the house is bad luck,” Jessica said. “Any bird is. And if it lands near you, you’re meant to die within a day.”

Hammersmith watched as Rose moved smoothly about the room, quietly covering the rest of the windows with his rags. “You believe that?” he said.

“It’s happened before,” Jessica said. “We have our ways.”

“I didn’t mean to make light. But, really, it’s just a bird.”

As if it took offense, the owl left its perch on the rail of the gallery and took flight. It sailed down over the great room, hovering over each of the villagers gathered there. Everyone ducked and covered their heads, making themselves small. Day, alone among them, stood up and watched the bird glide past him. He uncorked his flask and raised it to Hammersmith. Hammersmith slid off his stool and held his ground as the owl approached him. It was brown underneath with fingers of white feathers that reached up and over its head. It flapped its wings and put out its talons and gripped the back of the stool, settling there for a long moment, regarding him with its broad flat face, its yellow eyes wide and intelligent.

Who?

The vicar Brothwood swung the front door open, and the owl turned its head to an impossible degree, saw the night sky outside, and took off again. Like a dream, it flapped slowly toward the vicar and then banked sideways and passed through the door and out. Brothwood slammed the door shut and leaned against it.