two foot, one foot, two foot. But he kept going. There was no one to see him.
His nose went numb first, and he found himself wishing his ears would follow suit. They burned and stung. His eyes watered and he wiped the tears away, worried they might freeze on his cheeks.
He tromped around the bend and saw the outline of the church ahead, still too far. The end of the road. He put his head down and watched his feet, concentrated on the up-and-down motion, ignored his stinging ears and hands and toes, and tried hard not to think about the distance, just move through it, decrease it, step by agonizing step.
And then he was there. The grey stone façade stretched up and out in front of him, and he tripped over the invisible first step of the wide front stoop. He used the momentum and controlled his fall, pushing through the front doors and arriving abruptly in the foyer. He caught his balance, spun on his heel, and shut the doors.
Inside, the church was cold, but compared to the frozen landscape just outside, it felt snug and toasty. Day stamped his feet a few times, both to get the snow off his shoes and to circulate his blood. His ears began to ping painfully as they warmed up. He clapped his hands over them to speed the process and left the foyer.
He entered the sanctuary at a trot and hurried down the center aisle for what was to be his last time, looking neither left nor right. He couldn’t afford to be stopped or slowed, and the sight of Blackhampton’s sick and dying was of no possible help to him. He noticed Henry Mayhew as he passed him, but didn’t acknowledge the friendly giant.
The vicar Brothwood stepped out in front of Day as he reached the pulpit, but Day walked past, ignoring him completely. He heard Brothwood follow him as he pushed through the door and into the private room at the back of the church.
Day went straight to the small fireplace and found the smooth round stone in the surround. He tried turning it, but it was too slippery, there was no purchase. Brothwood put a hand on his shoulder and reached past him, pushed the stone hard. It slid back under the mantel, and Brothwood hooked a finger under the edge of the newly recessed area and pushed something else there that Day couldn’t see. The floor of the firebox dropped down at the front, beneath the level of the room’s floor, and a section of the hearth slid suddenly and silently out on what Day imagined was a well-oiled set of casters. There was a narrow staircase, not much more than a ladder built into the rocks, that led down into the dark beneath the fireplace.
Brothwood smiled and led the way down the stairs. Day reached into his pocket and found his gun. He kept his hand there, ready, and followed the vicar. It occurred to him that he might have been wise to bring Henry Mayhew along.
Day’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim candlelight under the floor. He ducked his head and stepped off the last rung and onto a solid slab of stone, roughly six by six feet. The ceiling was made of the floorboards of the room above and was only about five feet high. Day had to stoop as he followed Brothwood out into the tiny underground room. He and the vicar stood side by side, bent over, their shoulders braced hard against the ceiling, their necks bent uncomfortably. Day was several inches taller than Brothwood, but the room wasn’t built for either of them.
It was a priest hole. Exactly what Day had expected to find. Built centuries ago, when the church was an inn and Catholic priests were regularly put to death. Many towns like Blackhampton had built secret chambers in public buildings, sometimes ingeniously hidden, where a priest could hide from questing soldiers. A priest hole only needed to be large enough to conceal one man for a few hours at a time.
There wasn’t much to see. The room was abandoned, but there were still signs that someone had recently lived in it. There was a candle, just a stub that had burned down to the ground and wouldn’t last more than another hour. A bedroll in one corner, hastily abandoned, a round scorched spot on the stone where countless fires had been built, and a small wooden box. Day hunched himself past Brothwood and looked in the box. It held a few dry biscuits and a tin cup, half full of cider. Day sniffed. The musty odor of sex lingered in the air, and Day was reminded of Campbell’s secret visits to the church. He looked at Brothwood. The vicar’s features danced and melted in the flickering light, but it seemed to Day that his smile was warm and genuine. It was probably a relief to have his secret exposed and finally lifted from his shoulders.
“How long was Mrs Price hiding here?” Day said.
“The night she left her husband, she came here.”
“Why here?”
“Where else would she go? Her husband certainly never came to church. He knew where he was destined to go. He wouldn’t have thought to look for her here.”
“What do you mean? Where was Sutton Price destined to go?”
“To hell, sir. For what he did to his first wife.”
“What did he do to her? What do you know about that?”
“I know nothing. But I believe what everyone else believes. He murdered Mathilda Price. She never left this village alive.”
Day made a face. If Sutton Price had murdered his first wife, then their nanny, Hester, the second wife, might have had something to do with it. Blackhampton was a viper’s nest of rumor and innuendo, none of it proven or provable.
“Why hide her at all?”
“Because Sutton Price kills his wives. I believe I saved Hester’s life that night.”
“And what of her children?”
“Had she brought them, I would have hidden them as well.”
“But weren’t you worried? You say he kills his wives. Who’s to say he wouldn’t kill his children?”
“Who would kill a child?”
Who indeed? Someone had killed Oliver. Maybe it was Sutton Price, maybe it was Hester Price, but neither of those options felt right. There was another solution, something else that nagged at the back of Day’s mind, but it made him uncomfortable and he avoided thinking about it directly. In any case, the vicar Brothwood hadn’t killed anyone. He had, at worst, been guilty of poor judgment.
“Why not go to Constable Grimes for help?” Day said.
“What could he have done? He’s a good man, but he’s not competent. He even had to bring you here to help him.”
“Where is Grimes now? Do you know?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.”
Day shook his head. “Thank you for your time, sir,” he said.
He didn’t wait for a reply, but took the rungs back up to the surface two at a time and emerged in the vicar’s room. He wondered again how the man and his wife could both occupy that small space, and wondered, too, about the nights they had spent with Hester Price directly below them, huddled against the bare wall on a thin bedroll. Had Calvin Campbell been down there with her? How much had the vicar overlooked in his zeal to do the right thing?
Day left the room, didn’t bother to close the door behind him, and drifted down the center aisle of the sanctuary, wondering about his next move. In fact, though he hated to admit it to himself, he was probably avoiding the storm. The longer he lingered in the church, the longer he remained warm.
Calvin Campbell and Hester Price were out there somewhere, together and probably freezing, away from the warmth and safety of the church and the inn. Day didn’t know where else to look for them.
“Mr Day.” Henry Mayhew came up the aisle toward him, moving with purpose. “Did you come to help?”
“Hello, Henry.”
“Hello.”
“You’re helping the sick here?”
“Yes, sir. And a lot of them.”
“You’re doing good work.”
“Not really, sir. Nothing much I can do for them.”
“I’m afraid I feel the same. There’s a murderer in Blackhampton, and I seem to be out of ideas. Nothing feels right to me.”
“Is the murderer at the church?” Henry looked around with such an exaggerated expression of unease that Day almost laughed aloud. He stifled the impulse, recognizing that it would hurt the gentle giant’s feelings.
