Alex Grecian - The Black Country

“Oh, that’s bad,” Anna said.

“That’s awful,” Jessica said.

“It is?” Hammersmith said. “I thought it was rather magnificent.”

Anna regarded him for a long time before responding. “You’re going to die now,” she said. “The owl landed on your chair. That’s a sign that you’re to die.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

Hammersmith glanced around the room, but no one would look at him. Brothwood slunk back to the fire and put an arm around his wife. Grimes positioned himself at the door and watched out through the tiny pane of glass set high in the wood, as if protecting the place from more birds.

Rose looked at Hammersmith, his eyes wide and his forehead creased with concern. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s right.”

“It picked your chair,” Peter said. As if that was all that needed to be said.

“Well, I don’t mean to offend,” Hammersmith said, “but I don’t share your beliefs.”

Rose nodded. “Nothin’ to do about it. Don’t matter whether you believe or not, it’s the way of things.” He moved away down the bar, tore the plank out of its brackets, and stalked through the back door, presumably to contemplate Hammersmith’s impending death alone. Hammersmith blinked and shook his head.

He looked at Day, who was busy with the knot of villagers, the vicar and his wife saying their good-byes. Mrs Brothwood shook Day’s hand and held it for a moment, but Hammersmith couldn’t see that she spoke at all. Then the vicar’s hand was around her shoulders, hurrying her away toward the front door. They passed by Hammersmith without looking at him, nodded to Grimes and left. Day glanced down at his hand, then put something in his pocket. He turned his attention to the big man with the grey hair, Calvin Campbell, but their conversation was held in low tones and Hammersmith couldn’t hear what was being said.

Hammersmith shook his head and sighed. Back to work. He swiveled on his stool and looked at the Price children. They looked back at him. He had never been good with children, never comfortable with them. Even when he was a child himself. He had spent long stretches of time alone in cramped tunnels far underground, listening for sounds that would let him know that the ponies were coming up from the mines, laden with coal. The sounds of the ponies’ hooves and the rats skittering in the darkness were his only company. When he had spent time with other children, he had been quiet, had listened to them jabber and laugh together, joke and complain, and it had all seemed alien and pointless to him.

He lifted his glass and took another swallow of water, then picked his notebook and pencil up off the bar.

“What were we talking about?”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “If you want to waste what little time you have left talking to us, go ahead.”

“Right,” Hammersmith said. “Thank you, I will.” He looked at his notes. “You haven’t supplied me with many facts yet. You think your stepmother’s run away, but you don’t know why. And you think I should be suspicious of Calvin Campbell because you don’t know him. So let’s talk about things you do know.”

“Sergeant,” Jessica said. “Surely the children aren’t suspects.”

“Of course not.”

“Then perhaps you could be friendlier?”

“I apologize. I’m not used to speaking to children.” He smiled at Peter and Anna, and cleared his throat. “I’d like to know about your sister, if you don’t mind. Her name’s Virginia?”

“No,” Peter said. Anna turned and looked at him. “I mean, yes,” he said. “Of course. Virginia is our sister.”

The boy seemed peculiar to Hammersmith, but then everyone in Blackhampton seemed peculiar. “Where is she?” he said.

“Who?”

“Virginia. Your sister.”

“Oh, her.”

“She’s at home with the housekeeper,” Anna said.

“Your brother seems to be more nervous than you are.”

“He’s like that.”

“You seem calm enough.”

“I’m like that.”

“Are you worried about your parents?”

“Hester isn’t my mother. She’s only our stepmother and therefore not really our parent at all.”

“What about your father and your brother?”

“Oliver isn’t my brother. He’s Hester’s child.”

Hammersmith stared at her, waiting for her to say something more. She was deflecting his questions, not answering. But Day had taught him that sometimes all it took to make the other person talk was a moment of silence that needed to be filled.

“Of course we’re worried about them,” Peter said.

Hammersmith wasn’t surprised that Peter was the one to break the silence. He made a note on the blank sheet of paper: Separate the Price children. Talk to Peter alone.

“Why did you leave Virginia with the housekeeper instead of bringing her with you tonight?” he said.

“She was sleepy,” Anna said.

“How old is she?”

“Five.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

Anna shrugged. “Come to the house, then,” she said. “But I don’t think you’ll have time.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re going to die tomorrow. The owl chose you.”

“Right. Then I’ll come to your house first thing in the morning.”

“Why do you even want to talk to her?” Peter said.

“I want to talk to everybody.”

He made another note: Children very protective of Virginia. All the family they have left.

“May we go home now?” Anna said. “We’re tired, too. And we’re sad about you.”

Hammersmith nodded and closed his notebook, slipped it back into his pocket, along with the pencil.

Jessica Perkins went to the door and opened it wide enough that Hammersmith could see past her. The sun had set and light from the distant furnaces sparkled on the crust of snow. Jessica closed the door, rubbed her hands together, and smiled at the sergeant.

“More snow coming,” she said.

“Wonderful,” Hammersmith said. “I was hoping for more snow.”

Jessica shook her head. “I certainly wasn’t. It’s supposed to be spring. All those poor trees just started growing their leaves out.” She snapped her fingers at the children. “Anna, Peter, button your overcoats. It’s getting colder out there.”

“I’ll be fine,” Peter said.

“Button your coat, Peter,” she said.

The boy clicked his tongue, but he did as she’d instructed.

When the children were ready, she waved good-bye to Hammersmith and the others and stepped out into the frigid night again. She gestured for the children, and they hurried out behind her and down the path to the avenue and she closed the front door behind them.

For a moment the room was cold and silent, then Bennett Rose entered the room through the back door carrying two more kerosene lanterns, holding them high, swinging them by their wire handles. He thunked them down on the bar in front of Hammersmith and leaned over so that his face was mere inches from Hammersmith’s.

“I filled ’em so you’ll have enough light out there for a good while,” he said. “The woods ain’t as bad as they could be, ain’t as bad as the mines after dark, but they ain’t safe. You watch where you step and you pay attention.”

He moved back a bit, but then frowned as if remembering something. He motioned Hammersmith close and ducked his head. When he spoke, it was in a low whisper.

“You stick close to your inspector,” Rose said. “Stick close and watch out, each for the other. You’re doomed, of course, but he still has a chance.”

Rose broke off and looked down at the bar as Day approached. It was evident in his expression that the inspector had heard Rose’s warning.