The Black Country

his children to fend for themselves while he hared off after a woman who didn’t want him, and who didn’t want to be a mother to Peter and Anna and Virginia.

“You won’t be left alone again,” Day said to the boy’s filthy back as they hurried along. “I won’t leave until you’re safe.”

The boy didn’t react, but his back stiffened and he jogged faster, his bare feet slapping against the dirt. They both moved along silently after that. Day felt mildly uncomfortable, as if he’d said something wrong, but he was glad he’d said it anyway.

At last, Peter stopped and bent his head and peered forward. “Do you see that?”

Day looked down the length of the tunnel. He squinted. “Is the wall yellow there?”

The boy nodded. “I think so.”

“Is it gold? Did we find a gold mine?”

“I think it’s a light, sir.”

“Yes,” Day said. “It looks like lantern light to me.”

“Should we go on?”

“Let’s,” Day said. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll take the lead.”

He passed the boy and quietly reached into his coat. He drew out his Colt Navy and, comforted by the weight of it, crept forward and around a slight curve in the narrow abandoned tunnel.

He stopped again when he ran into the back of a horse.

66

As it happened, the train depot was only a few yards from where Day had fallen into the chasm. It was over a rise that had been piled high with snow, and as soon as the four of them-Dr Kingsley, Jessica, Anna, and Henry Mayhew-topped the ridge they saw it, half digested by the landscape, listing to one side deep in a chasm of its own. They ran to it, lifting their feet high and bounding forward as if they still had energy, even though the place was dark and empty-looking. Even tipped up on end, it was better than the limitless tracts of nothing they’d been wandering through.

Henry wrenched the front door up and open and lifted little Anna through, lowered her down. They all heard her gasp, but Henry lost his grip and was unable to pull her back up. So he jumped in after her, careful not to land where he thought Anna must be. He slipped and slid down the inclined floor, but caught himself with a paw on the broken windowsill. Kingsley lowered their remaining lantern down to him and Henry raised it up, peered into the gloom.

There were no furnishings. Just three benches tilted at an odd angle, bolted to the floor. In the lowest corner of the room, Calvin Campbell looked up and glared at the sudden light. He was hunched over something that resembled an old blanket, discarded there where nobody would think to look. When Henry brought the lantern closer, he saw that the blanket-thing was a woman and that the woman was missing the top of her head. The wall behind Campbell was painted with a black swath of liquid that ran and dripped and spattered, all of it pointed directly at the big Scotsman and the dead woman.

“Henry,” Dr Kingsley said.

Henry looked up at the rectangle of black sky behind Kingsley’s head. Kingsley was half in the room already, straining with worry. Behind him was the silhouette of Jessica’s upper body, leaning forward over the doctor.

“Henry, is the girl all right?”

“She’s dead, Doctor.”

“Oh, no!” Jessica shoved Kingsley out of the way and tripped forward through the door, falling into Henry’s arms. He held on to the lantern by its wire, and its swaying bulk swung crazy shadows around the room, into every corner. Anna sat on a bench, perched on the arm of it, her hand on Campbell’s arm. When she saw Jessica with Henry, she pulled herself up the bench toward them. Jessica pushed herself out of Henry’s arms and met the girl halfway as Kingsley dropped down next to Henry.

“You said she was dead,” Kingsley said.

“I meant the other girl,” Henry said. “The big one. I’m sorry.”

Kingsley patted the giant’s shoulder and moved forward, past Jessica and Anna, who were crying, holding each other, neither of them looking at the grisly tableau against the tilted baseboards. Campbell looked up again as Kingsley came near and he let go of Hester’s body. He stood, balancing with one foot against the wall.

“It’s too late,” Campbell said.

Kingsley nodded, his shadow self trembling across the walls, its head stretched out across the ceiling that wasn’t properly a ceiling anymore. “I see that.”

“My fault,” Campbell said. “It’s my fault.”

“You killed her?”

“I brought all of this here. All the death, all the evil. It’s all mine.”

“That’s something for the police to determine, Mr Campbell.”

“I’ll go quietly. There’s nothing here anymore.”

“There’s whoever did that,” Kingsley said. He pointed at the body of Hester Price. “This place doesn’t seem particularly safe, but we should guard against that person’s return.” He waved to Henry. “Check outside, would you?”

“He has grey eyes. The one who killed her. He takes the people I love.”

Anna broke away from Jessica and went to Campbell, put her hand on his back. Campbell looked down at the girl, his expression unreadable.

“You knew her,” he said.

“I didn’t know her well enough,” Anna said. “I’m sorry.”

“She was good. Too good for me. But she waited all those years.”

“Who’s the grey-eyed man?” Kingsley said. “Who did this?”

“An American,” Campbell said. “I never knew his name. He’s stalked me for years.”

“But where is he now?”

67

The American listened as they struggled to get past the carriage that was stuck in the tunnel. The horse whinnied and bucked, and when they got around it they still had to climb over the carriage. They weren’t quiet about it. It sounded like there were two of them. He had plenty of time to prepare for them, but he didn’t see much that he could do beyond loading the Whitworth. He was sitting with his back against the opposite wall from the tunnel mouth where they were making all the noise. His foot was twisted in a way that made him sick to his stomach when he looked at it. He had peeled back his stocking and had seen bone. He set the rifle across his knees and waited.

The man entered the chamber first, his arm held out, keeping the boy safe behind his own body. The American recognized the man. He had been on the train from London and had followed Campbell around the woods. This was the plainclothesman. The American’s eyes flicked over to the other London policeman, the one in uniform in the middle of the chamber, then back to the detective. Both he and the boy looked as if they’d had a rough time of it recently. The detective’s clothes were in tatters and the boy was barefoot, smudged with ash. They both peered around the chamber, taking in the scene. The boy gasped when he saw the American’s face, and he gasped again when he saw the dead man hanging from the ceiling. “Father!” He ran forward, but the detective caught him and held him back, eyeing the rifle, the American holding it loosely but with his finger ready on the trigger.

At the boy’s voice, the uniformed policeman stirred. He was on his feet, but had slumped against the hanged man, held upright by that swaying weight and an apparently boundless reserve of stubbornness.