“I want to see him. At least let me see my own son.”
Hammersmith looked over Price’s sagging shoulder at Day, who nodded.
“Keep a hand on him, Sergeant.”
“Is it wise to let him upstairs?”
“We can’t keep a man from his own child.” Day turned to Bennett Rose. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping your rifle near to hand.”
“I’ll keep my eye on Price,” Rose said. He seemed grateful for the chance to do something, to make amends for drugging them.
“Let’s take him upstairs, then. Just for a moment. Let the man have his grief.”
They made a strange parade up the stairs of the inn. Calvin Campbell led the way. Next came Sutton Price, Hammersmith right behind him with a hand gripping his elbow. After them came Bennett Rose, his rifle held casually at his side, but loaded and ready. Day followed behind them all, watching everyone involved, trying to fathom the connections between them.
Campbell entered the small room that held Oliver Price’s body. Hester Price hadn’t moved from the side of the bed. Her fingers still absently traced the contours of her son’s face. Campbell went to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she reached up and laid her hand over the top of his.
Sutton Price entered the room silently and went and stood beside his wife on the other side. There was a long moment, and then an anguished shriek boiled up from somewhere inside him. He threw himself across the tiny body on the bed. Hester finally noticed him, and her reaction was immediate. She lunged at him, beating her fists against his back, screaming at him.
“You did this! You did this to him!”
Price didn’t even seem to notice her. Hammersmith and Day stepped in and took her arms and pried her away from her husband. Calvin Campbell stood useless at the side of the bed, seemingly unable to decide what to do.
The blast of a rifle round into the ceiling ended the drama. The shot echoed back and forth and around the room, and plaster sifted down like snow over everyone. The sound had the effect of calming Hester Price, and she went limp in Day’s and Hammersmith’s arms. Hammersmith looked at Rose and saw that he was once more pointing his rifle at Sutton Price.
Rose looked back at Hammersmith. “She’s right,” he said. “It’s clear now, isn’t it? He must’ve killed his own child.”
“I thought you believed in a monster,” Day said. “Something called Rawhead.”
“But there’s no arguin’ with the evidence.”
“What evidence?” Hammersmith said.
“Just look at him.”
Hammersmith looked at Sutton Price, but saw nothing he hadn’t seen already.
“Not him,” Rose said. “Look at the boy.”
Hammersmith looked past the father at the son’s body. Thick black liquid bubbled up from little Oliver’s mouth and ran down his cheek, soaking into the pillow beneath his head.
There was no doubt that the boy was dead.
And yet he had begun to bleed.
47
You’re not very clever, are you?” Virginia Price said.
Henry Mayhew looked up at her and wiped his forehead. He was staying busy, helping the volunteers at the church in whatever little ways he could, moving heavy pews across the sanctuary and bringing buckets of snow inside to melt by the fire, providing fresh water for the villagers. All of it was hard labor, but he was proud and happy to be of use. Now Henry had found a pew that was stuck tight to the floor beneath it and he was down on his knees, working to free it.
He smiled at Virginia. “What did you say?”
“My name is Virginia. What’s yours?”
“Henry.”
“Hello, Henry. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I said that you’re not very clever.”
“No. I’m not.” He bent and continued to pry at the underside of the pew, but he could still hear the little girl behind him. He stopped again, but didn’t look back at her.
“I’m very clever, Henry,” Virginia said. “My father tells me so.”
“It’s good to be clever.”
“But you wouldn’t know about that.”
“No.”
“Then why does the doctor keep you if you’re so dull?”
“I’m strong. And he’s nice.”
“He doesn’t seem nice to me. He seems grumpy.”
“He’s grumpy and nice.”
“You can’t be both. You must choose one or the other.”
“He’s much more clever than anybody else, so I think he knows how to be different things at the same time.”
Virginia laughed, the tinkle of chimes in an empty space. “You make no sense at all, Henry. I like you.”
“Thank you.” Henry scowled at the floor. The girl had made him self-conscious, and he could feel his face flushing with humiliation. “There are other children here,” he said. “You could play with them if you wanted to.”
“But I don’t want to. They bore me terribly. You’re much more interesting; very like a child, but huge. Huger than a normal adult, I think.”
“I’m big.”
“Do you know any games we might play? You probably don’t, if I have to guess, but I could teach you some.”
“No, thank you.” He got his fingertips under the edge of the pew and yanked upward. It didn’t budge, but the fingernail of his left index finger tore and he gasped with the pain. He turned his head, but couldn’t see Virginia. He could still feel her presence behind him, though, could hear her breathing. He checked his finger and saw a tiny bubble of blood forming along the side of the torn nail. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked on it. It was salty and metallic. “You should go play with someone else,” he said, talking around the finger in his mouth. “I don’t want to play any games.”
The girl laughed again. “You said that once already, you numpty.”
Henry nodded. She was right. He had repeated himself.
“Do you live in London?” the girl said.
“Yes.”
“Do you live with the doctor? Are you his son? That would explain why he keeps you around.”
“No. I have my own home.”
“You can take care of yourself?”
“Yes. My home is very small. The inspector made it for me out of a lamppost.”
“Oh, he did not. You’re fibbing.”
“I’m not fibbing. He really did.”
In fact, Inspector Day had found Henry Mayhew living on the street and had given him the key to a small jail cell that was hidden within the wall at Trafalgar Square, nestled just under a lamp. Henry had moved into the spartan space, and there was just barely enough room in it for him to lie down. He owned almost nothing. Day had changed Henry’s life forever with that one small act of kindness, and now Henry tried to follow his example by donating his time and wages to help others. There were many people still living on the streets of London, too many to count, people who didn’t have the luxury of a clean dry lamppost home in the square.
