“I believe I was.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It probably is. There’s a body down there, I’m sure of it. Maybe three bodies.”
“They’ll keep.”
“The baby might be down there.”
“Little Oliver.”
“Yes, little Oliver.”
“Still, let the storm pass.”
“And there’s a church full of sick people. We need to find out what they’ve got so Kingsley can go about curing them.”
Hammersmith nodded. “I’ll do it, then.” He peeled off his coat and let it drop in the snow.
“Don’t be a fool, Sergeant. You’re so weak, you can barely stand.”
“I told you. I just needed a rest, and now I’ve had it.”
“After running through that storm? Look at you. You’re weaving where you stand. You can barely stay upright in this wind.”
“You’re not ramrod straight yourself, sir. It’s a strong wind.”
“And you don’t like tunnels, Nevil. Enclosed spaces.”
“Nobody likes tunnels.”
“Someone must. A village full of miners.”
“Where are they when we need them?”
“Sick.”
“Where’s Constable Grimes? This is his village. He should do this.”
“I haven’t seen him yet today and I don’t want to wait.” Day said. “I’m going in, and I’ll brook no more argument. Besides, I need you up here to make sure I get back.”
Hammersmith stared at him for a long moment without speaking.
“It’s an order,” Day said. “You’re staying here. Now put your coat back on.”
There was another silence, and then Hammersmith reached for his overcoat. “You’ll stay in constant contact with me as you go,” he said. “You’ll shout out to me the entire time.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
Hammersmith shrugged his coat on and buttoned it. He stepped closer, and they both stood at the lip of the well, their knees touching the stone wall. Day was on guard, mildly worried that Hammersmith might try to jump in. His sergeant was often too impulsive for his own good. But much of Hammersmith’s energy seemed to have drained from him, blown away by the bitter wind. They peered down into the well, but there was nothing to see. Nothing but inky blackness.
“How deep do you think it is?” Day said.
“Deep,” Hammersmith said. “Judging by the water levels round here, I’d say maybe two hundred feet. Maybe more.”
“That’s deep enough.”
“There may be nothing down there to find, sir.”
“I pray that there isn’t. But we have to find out.” Day said. He sighed. “Here, hold my flask for me, Nevil. I’d better get going before I lose my nerve.”
40
Freddy Higgins sat slumped in his seat, unconscious, rocked to and fro by the sway of his carriage as the horses raced down the only real road in Blackhampton. They chuffed and clopped through the snow, their steamy breath trailing behind them, streamers in the dim gaslight that lit the silver-grey afternoon.
The horses knew the village. One of them was four years old and had grown up here, been raised by Freddy from birth. The other had come from Wolverhampton, sold to the blacksmith in return for services rendered, and had been on loan to Freddy for more than a year. The younger of the two tended to pull ahead and then adjust for the gait of the older horse. They made the turn in the road easily, even though neither of them could see it buried in the snow, and pulled up short at the church, nowhere else to go. The younger one whinnied and bucked, and the carriage shook on its axles.
A moment later, the vicar Brothwood appeared at the double doors, hugging himself against the cold. He took one look at the motionless boy in the driver’s seat of the carriage and turned around, disappeared into the darkness of the foyer. Long seconds ticked past, and then Dr Kingsley emerged, summoned by the vicar. Behind him, Henry Mayhew lumbered into view. Kingsley hopped down the wide snowy steps of the church and checked Freddy’s pulse. He turned and pointed, and Henry came to him, taking the steps all at once. The giant lifted the sick boy from the carriage and turned and carried him into the church.
Kingsley lingered. He frowned at the carriage and at the horses, unsure about what to do with them. But his concern was for the human beings moaning inside, and he could hear them even through the blowing wind, and so he left the horses there stamping in the cold and went back inside to tend to young Freddy.
41
The well’s roof protected a simple pulley system with a thick rope that extended down into the dark. Hammersmith reached out and grabbed the rope. He bent a loop in its length and tied a bowline knot, then yanked it up snugly against the pulley assembly. He stepped back and cupped his hands, blew on them, and rubbed them together.
“That should hold,” he said.
“Do you want my gloves?” Day said.
“You’ll need them.”
Day looked at the rough length of rope and nodded. “I suppose I will,” he said.
He brushed snow from the stone ledge and sat down, gathered the ends of his overcoat around his legs, and swung around so that he was looking into the well. There was nothing to see. The curved irregular wall extended down a few feet and then faded to black. It was impossible to gauge how deep it was.
“Give me a stone.”
Hammersmith looked around him. The landscape was smooth and white. He shuffled away to where he imagined the side of the road to be and reached his bare fingers under the thick blanket of snow. Watching him, Day winced in sympathy. Why didn’t the sergeant own a pair of gloves?
It took Hammersmith a bit of searching, but he finally fished a small stone from under the snow cover and brought it to Day at the well. Hammersmith’s fingers were bright pink and dripping wet. He handed over the rock and then jammed his hands into his pockets to warm them.
Day dropped the rock into the well. It fell out of sight, and they both listened. They heard it clatter once, twice, a third time, stone on stone. Then a soft distant sound that might have been a splash.
“Well,” Day said, “I suppose that tells us this thing isn’t deceptively shallow.”
“I had hopes,” Hammersmith said.
Day smiled. “No point in waiting longer, I suppose.” He looped the rope around his right hand and tested his weight, then pushed off from the lip of the well and swung out so that his feet rested against the far side. The well was wide enough to accommodate him easily, but still felt constricting. The back of Day’s overcoat scraped against the far side as he lowered himself. He kept his knees bent and walked himself down, the rope held tight in his left hand. He let out a bit of slack at a time, running it up through the loop in his other hand. He worked his way downward, inch by inch, the rope burning the palms of his hands through his gloves and squeezing his fingers tight together. The light faded so gradually that he didn’t notice when the darkness closed around him completely. He simply worked at lowering himself into the ground and put all thoughts of the miles and miles of earth around him
