“You said you know what’s happened to the missing family. What was it, then?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“We can take care of our own, and we can bury ’em, too.”
“Then you think they’re dead?”
The innkeeper blinked. “Hilde found an eye. Said so yerself.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re all dead.”
“Just ain’t found the bodies yet.”
“Where have you looked for them?”
“Dunno. Ain’t looked very hard since everybody knows what we’ll find when we find them.”
“Pretend we don’t live in this godforsaken hellhole and give us a fact we can use,” Hammersmith said. Day looked at him, eyes wide, but there was a small smile on his lips.
“It’s a good village we got here, mister.”
“I’m sure it is,” Day said.
Rose nodded. His shoulders slumped and the hostility drained from his face. “Oliver, the missing boy, he was a fine boy, too. This whole village is in mournin’. You’ve got no part of that. And this place is dangerous for you.”
“Why is it dangerous?”
“There’s somethin’ at work out there. It’s not here for you, it’s for us. But all the same, don’t be wanderin’ about by yerselves.”
“You have Scotland Yard here to deal with anything you think you have,” Day said. “So let us help you.”
“Why did Grimes bring us here if you don’t need us?” Hammersmith said.
“That’d be a question for Grimes hisself,” Rose said.
“What’s all this?” Constable Grimes said. His cheeks were bright red from the cold outside and he’d left a trail of slush behind him, but the two detectives hadn’t heard him reenter the inn. “You’ve a question for me?”
“How many able-bodied men can you muster for a search tonight?” Day said.
“There’s not much daylight left,” Grimes said.
“Will you not listen to me?” Rose said. “I’ve told you there’s danger. Nobody should be goin’ out there tonight.”
Hammersmith turned on him. “It’s time you listened to us. Right now there are people who need us in London. But we’re here and we’ll be here for the next two days. We’re not leaving until we’ve found that little boy and his parents. If you won’t help us do that, then you’ll at least stay out of our way.”
Rose sniffed. “You think I don’t want the boy found?”
“You’ve made it clear that you don’t.”
“Then I’ve made the wrong thing clear. What I’m tryin’ to tell you is that the boy’s dead as sure as we’re standing here. There’s nothing you can do for him, except find his tiny body out there. But if you’re not careful, you’ll end up dead, too.”
“Is that a threat? Because if it is-”
“Oh, stop this, the lot of you.”
Day turned at the sound of a reedy voice behind his left shoulder. A painfully thin older gentleman stood there, dressed all in black except for a thick woolen oatmeal-colored sweater that had bunched up under his ribs. He extended a hand, and Day shook it. “Mr Rose means well,” the old man said, “but I’m afraid he’s liable to run you off if he can.”
“And why would he do that, Mr. .?”
“Brothwood. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Of course. The vicar.”
“Indeed.”
“And why would Mr Rose try to run us off?”
“Please, Mr Scotland Yard,” the vicar said, “come and meet the others. I promise we’ll do our best to explain everything that we can.”
Brothwood gestured toward the farthest of the two fireplaces, where the handful of villagers watched them. Day nodded. “Lead the way, Mr Brothwood.”
6
Day and Hammersmith followed Brothwood to the small gathering near the fireplace. Grimes went with them, but hung back, quiet, apparently content to observe. Aside from the vicar, Day counted six other people there. An old woman bobbed her head at him. She wore a simple dress with a subdued floral pattern. Her hair was white, but she had it carefully done up at the top of her head. From the pattern of lines across her face, it seemed to Day that she must have smiled a lot in the ordinary course of things, but as they came near, the old woman’s eyes darted around the common room and she took an involuntary step back, away from the policemen. Day suppressed an urge to reach out and pull her away from the fire, which threatened to lick the hem of her dress. Another woman, much younger and slimmer, stood next to the old woman. Her long hair was copper- colored and shimmered in the firelight. Her eyes twinkled (although that, too, might have been a trick of the light), and she allowed the faintest smile to pass over her lips by way of greeting. Two children stood behind her, close to the fire. The boy was perhaps twelve years old, the girl a bit younger, but just as tall. They were both slightly built, with rounded shoulders, fair hair, and clothing that was a bit too small for them. Neither of them looked directly at the policemen, but the boy took a step in front of the girl, as if to protect her. A young man who stood warming his hands at the fire smiled at them. The man was short and thin, with long floppy brown hair and wire- framed spectacles. He wore a waistcoat but no jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows.
Apart from the others, filling a large armchair at the periphery of the fire’s light, another man sat regarding Day carefully. He had long shaggy hair streaked with grey. Ropes of muscle bunched and rippled under his clothing as if he were constantly tensing up and then reminding himself to relax. The man’s green eyes sparkled with secret knowledge, and he gave Day a nearly imperceptible nod after sizing him up.
The man stood, pushing himself up out of the armchair, and offered his hand to Day. He was enormous, much taller than the men from Scotland Yard, and he clearly outweighed them by at least fifty pounds. His hand, when Day shook it, was hard and calloused, and Day felt the man holding back, as if he might accidentally crush Day’s fingers like a handful of dry twigs. Day got a sudden sense that the giant had killed men with those outsize hands.
“Good of you to come,” the man said. “We can use the help.”
“I’m Inspector Day. And this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”
The man let go of Day’s hand and nodded. “My name is Campbell,” he said. “Calvin Campbell.” There was the trace of a Scottish brogue in his voice, but it was faint and mixed with something else. He gestured toward the group of people on the hearth. “We, all of us, want to help find that boy. Anything we can do to help, that’s why we’re here.”
“And the parents?” Hammersmith said. “I assume you want to find them, too.”
“Yes, of course. All of them.”
Now that introductions had been initiated by Calvin Campbell, the big man faded back to the outskirts of the group and the vicar took over, accustomed to politicking. The others moved forward and surrounded the police. All except the two children, who hung back, close to the fire.
“Mr Campbell is a visitor here,” Vicar Brothwood said. “A guest of the inn, like you. And this is my wife, Margaret.”
The vicar held his hand out, palm up, toward the old lady. Margaret Brothwood smiled and nodded at them, but the smile was strained and didn’t touch her eyes. She had a small folded piece of paper in her left hand and she worried at it, pressing it and rubbing the paper with her thumb.
“I wish we had a bigger turnout to greet you,” Brothwood said. “So many are ill at the moment. Dr Denby is
