“But there’s only two here, sir.”
“Yes, son. Two sick people.”
“It’s only that there’s lots and lots of them at the church, and now they’re without a doctor.”
“Lots of what?”
“The sick, sir. Must be maybe a hundred.”
Kingsley rocked back on his heels and pushed a hand through his wild hair. An instant later, he was shrugging his overcoat on. He hurried through the door to the dining room and began shoving his tools into his satchel. He hollered back in the direction of the great room as he packed. “Henry, can you carry that girl as far as the church? We’ll care for her there. Miss Perkins and I can handle Hammersmith between us.”
He shut the satchel, latched it, and took a quick look around the room. He had everything. He ran back into the great room and found Jessica buttoning the boy’s overcoat for him. Henry stood at the front door, holding Hilde in the crook of one arm.
Hammersmith stood beside him. “I only needed to sit down a moment. I’m feeling quite a bit better now.” He smiled and reached for the doorknob and nearly fell down. “Farther away than I thought it was,” he said.
Henry put his free arm around Hammersmith’s shoulders. “I have him, sir. I’ve got them both. You just lead the way.”
Kingsley smiled. At least there was something he could count on. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do to help these poor people.”
37
Do I understand correctly?” Day said. “This was once Blackhampton’s inn?”
“Oh, yes,” Brothwood said. “It only became the parish church many centuries after it was built.”
The inspector and the vicar were standing in the foyer, just inside the door, with the sea of sick villagers spread out before them across the sanctuary. Day positioned himself so that he could see the main doors of the church, his back to the rows of makeshift beds. He hoped to see Dr Kingsley come running in at any moment. But he had Mrs Brothwood’s note in his pocket, the note that indicated her husband was hiding something. Day watched the vicar’s eyes.
“So the inn where I’m staying. .?” Day said.
“Is relatively new, yes. Built well within the past century,” Brothwood said.
“Why would one turn an inn into a church?”
“Why, I suppose it had something to do with the beauty of the architecture and, of course, the size of the place. One needs a decent-size building to house a place of worship.”
“Even in a village as small as this?”
“Most particularly in a village this size. Everyone here comes to church on a Sunday, and the place must accommodate them all. We don’t have the luxury of multiple houses of worship.”
“Where did guests sleep? When this was an inn, I mean.”
“Oh, all of this was quite different, as I understand it. Of course, I wasn’t here at the time.”
“Of course.”
“The rooms down here were all torn out and the altar was brought in. The pews were built locally, I believe. A carpenter who lived here at the time.”
“That must have been a lot of work for a local carpenter.”
“Yes, it must have been.”
“And so you live in the back of this place, rather than in a proper vicarage?”
“It’s somewhat unusual, but not unheard of.”
“Wouldn’t the architecture of an inn, particularly an inn built many centuries ago, have features that a proper parish church would not?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Day smiled. “Of course. Merely thinking out loud, Mr Brothwood. Do you mind if I look around the place?”
“Please do. I have sick people I should tend to.”
“I won’t keep you.”
Brothwood hurried away. He stopped halfway down the aisle and looked back, then turned and moved off down a row of bedrolls spread out on the hardwood floor. Day glanced around the foyer and took a last longing look at the front doors before stepping down into the sanctuary. He frowned at the three steps that separated the room from the foyer door and kicked at them. They seemed solid enough.
He followed along in Brothwood’s general direction, but avoided looking at the sick people on the floor. He kept his back to them and his eyes on the floorboards and the timbers in the ceiling. He walked down the center aisle and took a moment to genuflect at the great gold cross over the altar before examining the apse. The altar itself was simple and sturdy, constructed of solid wood, perhaps by the same carpenter who had long ago built the pews. The top of the altar was a flat slab of river rock, polished and shining. There were candles at either end, and Day moved each of them to assure himself that they weren’t secretly levers that would move the altar. When nothing happened, he felt mildly foolish and looked surreptitiously about to see if he was being watched. He imagined Brothwood must be somewhere nearby, paying close attention to him, but he couldn’t see the vicar anywhere.
There was a large hollow ball on a chain hanging beside the altar, and Day sniffed it. The scent of incense was nearly overpowering. Here in the apse, the incense masked the odors of vomit and excrement. Perhaps Brothwood stole odd moments for himself up here away from the stink of illness.
There was an unlatched door on the wall near the south side of the pulpit, and Day used the toe of his boot to push it open, keeping his head back. Nobody came barreling through, and so he moved cautiously into a small room that was dimly lit by candles in the four corners. The walls were bare plaster broken by evenly spaced wide timbers, stained dark. There was a bed against the far side of the room and a compact wardrobe next to it. A fireplace was built into the adjacent wall near the foot of the bed, its embers long since burnt out, the chimney cold. Opposite the fireplace was Mrs Brothwood’s writing desk. Day recognized the stationery stacked to one side, next to a quill pen that still rested in the inkwell. It was a cheerless place, and Day wondered at the fact that there were no feminine touches. It didn’t seem as if Mrs Brothwood had made many contributions to her living quarters.
Day circled the room once, stomping on the floorboards as he went. Mrs Brothwood’s note had said that someone was under the floor, but the floor sounded solid to Day. He was certain he was on the right track, though. He went to the door and closed it, then moved to his right, tapping on each of the regularly spaced timbers set into the plaster and lathing. He put his hands as high over his head as he could and rapped his knuckles against the wood, working his way down, listening for irregularities and feeling for loose boards. He did this again and again, one timber after another, until his knuckles were sore and swollen. He pulled the bed and the wardrobe out from the wall and examined the space behind them, then pushed them back again. When he got to the fireplace, he felt around the outside of it and across the mantel, then began prodding the stones in the surround. Halfway across the top of the fireplace, just under the mantel, a round stone moved. The stone looked like it had been handled more than the rest of the fireplace had been. It was dark with the oils from many hands, and it had been worn smooth. He sucked in his breath and took hold of it. It twisted under his hand, and he wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers to get a better grip.
“Excuse me, Inspector.”
Day jumped and turned quickly away from the fireplace. The vicar was standing in the open door. Day hadn’t heard the door open and he wondered how long Brothwood had been standing there.
How much of Day’s search had the vicar seen?
“Yes, Mr Brothwood.” Day’s voice was breathy and too loud. He could feel his heart beating hard in his throat.
“Dr Kingsley is here, Inspector. He’s asking for you in the sanctuary.”
“Is he, now?”
