“I wonder,” Jessica said. “Would it be possible to get a glass of water?”
The housekeeper stepped out of the shadows. Jessica was reminded that Hester, the second Mrs Price, had once been a member of this same household staff. “Of course. I should have offered right away,” the housekeeper said. “It’s just that things have been a frightful mess.”
“Were you here the night the Prices went away?” Hammersmith said.
“Oh, no, sir. I’d gone ahead home. I ain’t a stay-in housekeeper. I’ve got a place up the road.”
“Did we pass it on the way in? Which is yours?”
“It’s one of the old rail cars, sir. The green one.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Jessica said. “That one’s quite pretty, I think.”
The housekeeper almost smiled and looked down at her toes. “Thank you much, ma’am. Green’s always been my favorite color.”
“Mine, too.”
“Thank you. I’ll be gettin’ your water now. One for the mister, too?”
“Yes, please. And for the children, too, would you?” Jessica said. “I imagine they’re thirsty.”
She watched the two older children, Peter and Anna. Both of them suddenly snapped to attention. They had been sulking, bored, while she and the housekeeper had talked about the green railroad car. Now they were bristling with nervous energy.
“No,” Peter said. “I mean, thank you, but we’re not thirsty.”
“Not at all,” Anna said.
“I’m a little bit thirsty,” Virginia said.
“Then have some milk,” Anna said.
“Okay,” Virginia said. “I will have some milk. Thank you, Sister.”
“I’ll be right back,” the housekeeper said.
“I’ll help you,” Jessica said. “You have a lot to carry and you appear to be alone here.”
The housekeeper led the way down a narrow back hall. She turned and gave Jessica a grateful smile. “Thank you, ma’am. There was never much of a staff to begin, but now none of ’em come round no more ’cept me. Their aunt’s supposed to be comin’ next week to take the children, but she couldn’t get away before and there’s no one else to watch after ’em. They got nobody left, ma’am, and I couldn’t leave ’em all alone up here, could I?”
“You’re a good person.”
The housekeeper beamed and hurried away down the hall. Eventually it opened into a small anteroom filled with pots and pans on hooks above a sideboard. Through another door was the kitchen, slightly bigger. On a long butcher block against the far wall, a pitcher of milk and a pitcher of water sat side by side. The housekeeper found three chipped glasses in a cupboard under the butcher block and poured water into two of the glasses. She filled the third glass with milk and reached for a silver tray in the same cupboard.
“Oh, I don’t think we need that, do we?” Jessica said. “We each have two hands.”
The housekeeper smiled again and nodded. Jessica quickly picked up the two water glasses, leaving the milk glass for the housekeeper, and led the way back through the two doorways and down the dark hall. She quickened her pace, trying to get well ahead of the housekeeper, and managed to make it back to the parlor first. She handed one of the water glasses to Virginia Price.
“Here you are,” she said. “A fresh glass of water.”
Virginia had just opened her mouth to speak when Peter rushed forward and grabbed the glass from her. “No,” he said. His voice was loud and shrill. “I mean, she asked for milk, not water, didn’t she?”
“Of course she did,” Jessica said. “My mistake.”
She took the water glass from him and stepped aside while the housekeeper handed the little girl her milk. Jessica turned and started to walk toward Hammersmith, who held his hand out for a glass. She put her left foot in front of her right and let it drag, tripping herself. She went down in a heap. Miraculously, one of the glasses landed on its bottom on the floor. Water splashed up and out, but the glass remained half-full. The other glass spun away and rested on its side against the baseboard across the room, a trail of water curled behind it in decreasing arcs. Jessica had planned her fall and tried to land gently, but there was a loud popping sound from somewhere in the vicinity of her hip and a flash of yellow behind her eyes. She found herself rolling about on the floor, sopping up the spilled water with her favorite dress. There was no graceful way to recover, and she was mortified when she discovered that she was being lifted up, firm hands beneath her arms, and she turned to see Hammersmith.
“Are you quite all right?” he said.
Jessica shook her head, unable to talk just yet. She had done the right thing, she was sure of it, but she had done it in the wrong manner and injured herself. She tested her weight on her right leg and it held her. It seemed she hadn’t done any permanent damage.
She snuck another peek at Hammersmith and saw that he was concerned. He was standing just on the other side of her, uncomfortable and useless. It embarrassed her to see how pale, sweating, and disheveled he was, and yet he was the one worried about her.
She took a deep shuddering breath and was surprised to find that the entire world seemed to shudder with her. She glanced at the upright water glass at her feet and saw that the liquid inside was vibrating. There was a screeching, rending noise that came from everywhere at once and echoed in her ears. The housekeeper grabbed little Virginia around the waist and pulled her to the side of the room, pinning her against the wall. The two older Price children moved to the wall nearest them and braced themselves. Jessica reached out toward Hammersmith, who seemed confused. They stood in the middle of the room as the house bucked and shook and seemed ready to come to pieces around them.
31
Inspector Day stopped at the telegraph office. He inquired within and found that there was a message waiting for him. The message was surprisingly long, and it took him some time to read it all. He read it again, folded the paper and slipped it into his breast pocket, then continued on his way.
He suddenly had a lot to think about and so he took his time. The sky was still a uniform grey, no sun, and snow was falling faster, decreasing visibility to just a few feet ahead of him. But the cold breeze had died down and he left his overcoat open, enjoying the fresh air. The path wound along slightly uphill around slag heaps and old covered coal pits. His feet slipped from under him and he caught himself before falling. He slid forward, one foot, then another, making slow but steady progress. The town revealed itself to him a bit at a time through the snow. It looked much different in the grey daylight than it had in the predawn night, remote and ominous and unnaturally empty.
He came around the familiar bend in the path and was struck anew by the beauty of the church. It was an immense building, constructed entirely of river rock and giant rough-hewn timber. There was no pretension on display; everything about it seemed functional, but a great deal of thought had gone into its structure and its preservation. Small iron-rimmed stained-glass windows ringed the high walls, and the shingled roof gave way to a clerestory that, in turn, gave way to a tall bell tower with a spire atop. The rock walls were stained with ash, and the building had obviously settled and sunk over time, its foundation cracked and repaired, but it had been kept up marvelously, the windows sparkling, the metalwork gleaming. The snow and fog wrapped it like a blanket, and the isolation he had felt walking through the rest of the village was different here, cozy and welcoming.
There was a wide porch that swept across the entire width of the front wall, simple stone steps and a rock-capped rail. On the topmost stair, the giant bird-watcher Calvin Campbell sat waiting. He rose and took a step down toward Day.
“How odd,” Day said. “I was only just reading about you.”
“Were you?” Campbell said.
“There’s much you haven’t seen fit to share with us.”
“I’m not the sort to share.”
“I think you ought to try anyway.”
