“You won’t do me much good if you collapse in your tracks, you know.”
“Neber happed.”
“Knowing you, it never will.”
Day felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned. Claire had come up behind him. She smiled. “Here,” she said. “This may come in handy.” She put her handkerchief in his hand. It was an old thing from before their wedding, and it had a monogram of her maiden name stitched in one corner:
“It will at least remind you of me,” Claire said.
“I hardly need a reminder. And I’ll be back home tomorrow evening. Missing you.”
Day smiled at her, but he was worried. He worried about his wife and he worried that he’d never get to the bottom of Blackhampton’s mysteries. It seemed an impossible task and not something he could finish by the following day’s train. Hammersmith was right. Day would need his sergeant if he was going to make it home. He needed all the help he could get.
30
The Price house was a boxy two-story dwelling butted up against the back of another row of railroad cars that had been converted into homes. One of the cars had sunken into an abandoned coal pit, half out of sight below ground, the other half sticking straight up into the air as if it had been caught in the act of diving down an unseen tunnel. The Price house was also sinking, but more slowly. The ground floor was partially underground and the front door had been modified to accommodate the steady descent. The doorway had been lengthened as far as it could possibly go, and the upper edge had been recapped. The door itself had been removed and reinstalled two feet higher than it had originally been. A narrow landing had been built just inside the front door, with a series of shallow steps leading down into the small parlor.
When the Prices’ housekeeper answered the bell, Jessica Perkins noticed that the door scraped against the ceiling. There was a shallow groove there in the shape of a crescent moon and a faint black smudge from years of contact with the top of the door. She had been to the house many times, escorting her students home, but now she was trying to see the place through Sergeant Hammersmith’s eyes, trying to imagine what he saw when he looked at Blackhampton.
Raising the doorway had only partially solved the problem of the sinking house. On the inside, the home seemed perfectly normal, but Jessica estimated that the top of the doorjamb was still well short of six feet high. Sergeant Hammersmith had to duck his head to enter the house and he stumbled on the inside landing. Jessica caught his elbow before he fell, and he smiled gratefully at her. She looked away to hide the sudden heat she felt creeping across her cheeks.
The housekeeper let them in and showed them to a set of faded but comfortable chairs, then left them so she could fetch the children. Hammersmith settled into his chair with a visible sigh, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Jessica saw that his hands were shaking, vibrating against the seat cushion.
The parlor was all that Jessica could see of the house. All that she had ever seen of the house. It was modestly furnished, but pleasant. Cheaply framed floral prints adorned the walls, which were painted a cheery yellow. The furniture was solidly constructed and simple. Built, she guessed, by a local carpenter at least a century before.
When the housekeeper returned, she was trailed by the three children. First came Anna, perhaps half a foot shorter than Jessica and ten years younger. She scowled at each of them in turn, her gaze lingering on Hammersmith perhaps a moment too long. Then came Virginia, a little girl wearing a yellow dress that matched the parlor’s walls, a purple ribbon in her hair. She was only five years old, too young for school. Jessica hardly knew her. Following the two girls was Peter. He had straight sand-colored hair and an open intelligent expression. He nodded a greeting at his teacher and leaned against the wall next to the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.
“Is he all right?” The housekeeper pointed at Hammersmith.
“He’s dying,” Anna said. “There was an omen.”
“He’s not dying,” Jessica said. “He’s sick, is all, just like half the village.”
“I’m not dying.” Hammersmith stood, his hands folded in front of him, and smiled at the three children. With a bow, the housekeeper faded into the shadows of the hallway. Jessica could see nothing of her except her starched white collar and the toes of her white shoes.
“Good morning,” Hammersmith said. “Some of you know me already. Hello, Anna. Hello, Peter. And hello, Virginia. We haven’t met yet. My name is Sergeant Hammersmith. You may call me Nevil, if you’d like. I’m visiting you from London and I’d like to talk for a bit, if you wouldn’t mind terribly.”
Jessica could see that he wasn’t comfortable talking to children. From the look that passed between Peter and Anna, they could see it, too. She decided she might have to take over the conversation if it began to turn.
Anna curtseyed, but said nothing. And, like her sister, Virginia curtseyed. She gave Hammersmith a big smile and bobbed her head, her blond curls bouncing against her apple cheeks. “I am very pleased to meet you, sir,” she said. Jessica covered her mouth and stifled a laugh. There was something entirely too studied about the little girl’s mannerisms. Jessica had only met the youngest Price girl a handful of times, but here and now, she seemed like a miniature adult.
Hammersmith inclined his head toward her. “I’m happy to meet you, young lady. I’d like to talk to you about your family.” Clearly exhausted by the effort of standing, he sat back down and closed his eyes. Jessica popped up and felt his forehead. It was a furnace. She imagined his brain was cooking inside his skull.
She put her lips next to his ear and whispered, “Perhaps we should return another time.”
Hammersmith waved a weak hand at her. “This is fine,” he said. “I only need a moment.”
Jessica decided to minimize Hammersmith’s effort. She turned to the little girl. “Virginia, do you know how long your brother’s been missing?”
“Weeks, I think.”
“No, a few days, at most.”
“Oh, well, it seems like weeks, doesn’t it?”
“Did you see your brother on the day that he went missing?”
“But if I don’t know what day he went missing, how do I know whether I saw him?”
Jessica saw Peter shift in the doorway. There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip that gleamed in the low light.
Hammersmith opened his eyes. “What were your parents doing the last time you saw them, Virginia?” he said.
“My father was kissing me on my forehead. He told me ‘Good night, my sweet princess,’ because he always calls me his princess.”
Anna looked away, and Jessica thought she heard a faint snort of derision from the older Price daughter.
“And your mother?” Hammersmith said. “Did your mother kiss you good night as well?”
The light went out of Virginia’s eyes and her expression hardened. The tendons stood out against the thin pale flesh of her throat, and her tiny hands balled up into fists. “My mother went away to the city a long time ago, sir,” she said.
“My apologies. I meant your stepmother, Hester. Did she kiss you good night?”
“Hester does not kiss me.”
“I see.”
“Hester will not be staying with us for very much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father was lonely when my mother went away. Hester is only keeping him company for a short while. He told me so himself.”
“He did?”
“I never lie. Lying is for bad children and scoundrels.”
