He was interrupted by a commotion from the inn’s great room. Kingsley laid the eyeball back in its wooden box and led the way through the wide door out of the dining room. Bennett Rose was standing in the middle of the common room, holding his daughter Hilde in his arms. Her splinted leg stuck straight out like a flagpole.
“Here now,” Kingsley said, “what’s this then?”
“She won’t wake up,” Rose said. “She’s not breathing.”
For all the man’s boorishness, Kingsley felt for Rose. He understood all too well the fear that went hand in hand with being a parent.
“Lay her down there,” Kingsley said.
Rose put Hilde down on the hearth and smoothed her hair.
“How long has she been like this?” Kingsley knelt over the girl’s body and put his ear to her mouth. He sat up and motioned at Henry. “Light my pipe, will you, Henry?”
“Your pipe, sir?”
“Yes, and be quick about it.” He turned to Rose. “Well, man? How long since she last took a breath?”
“I don’t know. She was like this when I found her. In her room.”
“She’s still warm,” Kingsley said. “Pardon me, Mr Rose. This may appear indelicate of me, but I’ll ask you to trust me. Perhaps look the other way, if it bothers you.”
He cracked his knuckles, applied his long thin fingers to Hilde’s abdomen, and began massaging the muscles through the coarse material of her dress, moving his hands in an upward motion toward her throat, then back down to begin again.
“Here now,” Rose said. “What’re you doin’ that for?”
“For only a slim chance, I’m afraid. The girl’s choking.”
Kingsley continued kneading the girl’s belly and chest, while her father stood watching, suspicious and hopeful.
“Henry,” Kingsley said, “have you got my pipe lit?” He sat back on his heels.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “But it makes my stomach feel bad.”
“You’re not used to the smoke, is all. Hand it over, please.”
Henry placed the pipe in Kingsley’s outstretched hand and ran out of the room. A moment later, they could hear him retching in the kitchen. Kingsley sniffed and dragged on his pipe, aware that Bennett Rose was fidgeting on the periphery of his vision. The doctor moved into position over Hilde’s smooth, still face. He bent down and blew a mouthful of smoke past her lips, careful not to touch her with his own mouth. He did it again and then stopped, puffing on the pipe and waiting.
“You and your London ways,” Rose said. Kingsley could see that the man was working himself up, preparing to blame the doctor for the death of his daughter. “Givin’ her a smoke when she’s already gone.”
“Perhaps not gone yet,” Kingsley said.
And at that moment, Hilde began to cough, hacking up great glistening dollops of mucus. She sputtered and choked, ratcheting forward with each gulp of air, bringing up gob after gob, all over herself and the hearth. Then she settled back down into a deep sleep, breathing regularly, her chest rising and falling in a comforting and utterly normal way.
“You did it,” Rose said. He spoke quietly and ran his hand over Hilde’s forehead, but he didn’t look directly at the doctor, perhaps ashamed by his premature readiness to blame Kingsley for his daughter’s death.
“A buildup of mucus. We needed to break it up and get her to expel it. Nothing really.”
But Kingsley was secretly relieved. And secretly worried. The odds had been against him, and he had no way of knowing how long the girl had gone without oxygen. If she woke up, she might still be changed forever, a simpleton or worse. He shook his head and stood up, shouted in the direction of the kitchen door. “Henry, would you be so kind as to carry this young lady to a room upstairs?”
“I can do it,” Rose said.
Before Kingsley could answer, the front door opened and three people stumbled in out of the blowing snow. The schoolteacher, Jessica Perkins, was supporting Sergeant Hammersmith, who appeared to be semiconscious. Behind them trailed a young boy Kingsley hadn’t seen before. With a quick backward look at Hilde to make sure she was still breathing, the doctor rushed to them. He took Hammersmith’s other arm and led the three of them to the fire. Jessica and Hammersmith collapsed in separate chairs.
“Sir?” the boy said. “Would you be Dr Kingsley? Or Henry?”
“In a minute, lad,” Kingsley said. The boy nodded and squatted at the hearth. He held out his hands and rubbed them together as close to the fire as he could get. He glanced at the sleeping form of the girl there, but didn’t appear curious. His overcoat was threadbare at the elbows and hadn’t been buttoned. Kingsley was astonished by how poorly the people here took care of themselves. He turned his attention to Jessica. “What’s happened?” he said. He loosened Hammersmith’s collar and shouted over his shoulder to Rose. “Bring water.”
“No,” Jessica said. “You were right. It must somehow be the water. I did what you asked and practically forced well water on the children. The older two wouldn’t drink it and they prevented the little one, Virginia, from drinking.”
“Mr Rose, please ignore my request for water,” Kingsley said. “Perhaps a glass of beer, instead.”
Rose retreated to the kitchen.
“And this child?” Kingsley pointed to the boy on the hearth. “Who is he?”
The boy looked up at him and grinned. “I’m Baggs, sir. Nicky Baggs.”
“My pleasure, young Mr Baggs.”
“We ran into him right outside,” Jessica said. “He was coming in at the same time.”
“Then we’ll get to him in a minute,” Kingsley said. “You won’t mind waiting, lad?”
“No, sir. But not more than a minute, please, sir.”
“Good man,” Kingsley said. He turned to Jessica. “So Mr Hammersmith has been drinking the water here, hasn’t he?”
“I believe so.”
“And the children are drinking something else?”
“Milk and ginger beer.”
“Exclusively?”
“It appears so.”
“And you? Have you been drinking the water?”
“I can’t remember. I have a cistern I draw from at the schoolhouse. I don’t know the last time I drank anything else.”
“But there’s a central well?” Kingsley said. “A source for most of the people in the village?”
“Yes, of course.”
Rose returned and held a glass of clear amber beer out to the doctor. Kingsley took it from him, looked at the unconscious form of Sergeant Hammersmith, and took a swallow of the beer himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the glass down on the hearth near the boy.
“Mr Rose,” Kingsley said. “Do you get the inn’s water from the village well?”
Rose nodded.
“We must get word to everyone not to drink any water from that well until we know more,” Kingsley said. “I may be able to test it. Meantime, we should all be drinking beer and milk.”
“Too late,” Rose said. His voice was barely audible. “Sickness has got ’em already.”
“Got who?”
“All of ’em. Mrs Rose among ’em.”
“Your wife is sick?”
“Everybody’s sick. Little Hilde, too, now. She was the last in my family besides me.”
“It may not be too late. Which room is Mr Hammersmith’s? We’ll need to lay him down.”
“Sir?” the boy said. “Is it all right if I tell you now? It’s only that I’d like to get back to my brother.”
“What is it, lad?”
“The policeman from London says to tell you-if you’re the doctor, that is-he says to tell you that you’re to come to the church right away.”
“Please go back and tell him that I haven’t time. I have sick people here who need my attention.”
