The Black Country

there. He seems quite anxious to find the boy, but seems dismissive of the parents.”

“He does. I wonder why.”

“He knows more than he’s said.”

“Indeed he does. So does our innkeeper. And I think Mr Campbell was going to tell us about the man I saw in the woods before Mr Rose caused that commotion with the broken cup. There are secrets within secrets here.”

“And yet they asked us to come.”

“I think tomorrow will be interesting.”

“I’m afraid,” Hammersmith said, “that the boy’s parents may be dead, and that everyone here knows it.”

“I’m not sure you’re right, Sergeant, but if you are, I hope we at least find the boy alive.”

“And quickly. It’s cold out there.”

“Well,” Day said. “We shall be of no use to anyone without at least a couple of hours of sleep.”

“You go. I won’t be able to sleep knowing the boy may be out there in the cold and the dark, feeling abandoned and alone.”

“Yes, I’m sure he’ll sense your lack of sleep and be comforted by it.”

“I didn’t-”

“Never mind. Go get whatever sleep you can, and we’ll be back at the search bright and early. I promise.”

Hammersmith moved toward the stairs, but turned back when Day called his name.

“Mr Hammersmith?”

“Sir?”

“It might be a good idea to lock your bedroom door tonight.”

“I always do.”

19

The American circled the schoolhouse in the dark, looking for an easy entrance point. The wind was picking up, and snow obscured his sight lines to the village and, in the other direction, the forest. A deep purple hue was visible low in the sky. Dawn was coming. He had followed the men far enough to be sure they had finished for the night and were headed home. There were no tracks or footprints in the snow leading to the schoolhouse, and he concluded that the building wasn’t in use.

The door and windows were locked, so the American used the stock of his rifle to break out the large picture window in the back wall, facing the woods. He knocked the remaining chunks of glass out of the frame and pushed his pack and rifle through into the cold dark room. He had two squirrels on a string and he slung them around his neck before climbing through the window. He stood for a moment and let his eyes adjust. He sniffed and identified the overlapping odors of chalk dust and soap and age. The little building contained a single large room with an open door leading to a small storage compartment that had been converted to a crude water closet. Perfect for the American’s needs. He didn’t imagine that he’d be in Blackhampton for more than another day, but no matter how long his job took to complete, he now had a good base of operations.

He dragged two student desks in front of the broken window and tipped one on end atop the other to keep out some of the wind and snow. He checked the front door and saw there was no way to open it without a key. He’d have to leave the window uncovered when he left this place, but what did he care if a little snow blew in and wet the floor?

There was a framed chalkboard made of black slate near the front of the room, and the American pulled it free from its stand and laid it flat on the floor. He smashed a chair against the edge of the cabinet and broke pieces off of it, laying them on top of the slate. He found a book about talking ducks and tore it apart, wadded the pages, and layered them among the splintered pieces of chair. He had a small waterproof box of matches in his coat pocket, and he used one of them to start a fire on his makeshift slate platform. He had three matches left and decided he would have to replenish his supply before he left Blackhampton. The broken chair burned slowly, and the American moved the desk back from the broken window far enough to allow the smoke an escape route. It wouldn’t do to suffocate when he was so close to his goal.

He skinned and dressed the squirrels and set them on the slate by the fire, turning them when the fat began to bubble. When he ate, he noticed that some of the squirrel meat was burnt and some was still raw, but he didn’t particularly care as long as he could keep it all down. He had learned long ago to cover his cheek with the palm of his left hand so that food wouldn’t fall out of his mouth. It made eating a time-consuming process. When he had finished, he wiped his greasy hands on his trousers and put out the fire. He shoved the back of a chair against the front door of the schoolhouse, under the knob, and bunked down in the far corner of the room.

The sky in the east began to change color, turning for a few minutes the pale grey color of the American’s eyes, but he didn’t see it. He was asleep.

20

There was no key in the door. The innkeeper had left them vulnerable, with no easy means to lock themselves in. Walter Day checked under his bed and found that the chamber pot with Hammersmith’s vomit and the rest of the stew had been removed. A fresh basin had been left in its place. He set the small straw-filled box containing the baby bird on the vanity next to the washbasin. The ball of fluff was asleep, breathing heavily in and out. He imagined its heart beating under the soft feathers. He hoped that the little boy, Oliver, was sleeping somewhere and had made it through another night.

He was dressing for bed when he heard a small noise in the hall outside, a rustle of movement so faint as to go unnoticed if he hadn’t been on edge, half listening for it. He turned down the lamp, went to his door, and cracked it open. The flow of shadows among shadows at the end of the hall caught his eye and he closed the door again, pressed his cheek against it, and listened.

He could hear movement outside the next room, Hammersmith’s room. There was the faint sound of metal scraping against metal, then soft footsteps approached Day’s door. The inspector pulled back and looked around the room for his revolver. The doorknob jiggled and the lock turned over. Day stepped closer and put his ear back against the door and listened as muffled footsteps retreated down the stairs. He tried the doorknob. It turned a quarter of an inch each way, but wouldn’t budge farther. He had been locked in his room.

Day crossed to his bed and rummaged inside his open suitcase. He produced a flat black leather pouch and flipped it open to reveal an array of heavy-looking brass keys. He chose one and returned to the locked door, where he crouched and went to work. It took him less than a minute to draw back the lock and open the door.

He stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him, then crept quietly to the stairs and down.

21

Day paused in the shadows of the inn’s common room. The twin fires were still blazing, but the lamps had been extinguished and no one was in sight. Bruised early sunlight filtered through the high windows, turning the room purple. From his vantage point on the stairs, Day would have seen anyone leaving the inn by the big front door, which meant that whoever had locked them in their rooms had gone out through the door behind the bar. Day crossed the room silently and poked his head through the door.

He saw a narrow dining room with an oak table and six chairs. A muddy brown tapestry with an