“I’m thinking of promoting the little fellow to sergeant already.”
“Looks more like an inspector to me.”
“Well, we’ll see how he does. He’ll have to work his way through the ranks, same as anyone else. I rescued him. Rose gave me that box for him.”
Hammersmith stood and shook his head. “Kind of him.”
“Actually,” Day said, “Mr Campbell might be able to help us with our new ward.”
“How is that?” Campbell said.
“You’re the resident expert on birds. What should we do for him?”
“What have you done for him so far?”
“I gave him raisins from a biscuit in my pocket. And I like to think I saved him from being eaten by a fox.”
“I’m amazed he didn’t choke on raisins. They must have been awfully firm.”
“They were.”
“Baby birds generally have their food chewed for them.”
“He’s remarkably hardy, I think. I’m quite proud of him.”
“You should be. But you might moisten anything you give to him in the future.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Fascinating as your bird may be,” Hammersmith said, “we found something, too, Grimes and me.” He reached into his jacket and frowned. He opened the front of the jacket wider and checked the other side. “There it is. Forgot where the pocket was. Look at this.”
He pulled out a small cloth bundle and unwrapped it. The stains had been folded on the inside surface to help preserve them. He found the seams at the tops of the shoulders and held the child’s dress up for Day to see. Day sat forward and peered at it, moving his head to take advantage of the light from the fireplace. He didn’t touch the dress. Campbell stood and looked over Day’s shoulder.
“Is that blood?” he said.
“I think it might be,” Hammersmith said.
“The missing child is a boy,” Day said, “and I presume the missing woman is too big to wear this.”
“A nightshirt perhaps?” Campbell said.
“I thought of that,” Hammersmith said.
“But a flower pattern around the hem here.”
“Yes.”
“Curious.”
“The doctor will be here soon,” Hammersmith said.
“Good thing, too,” Day said. “And good of you to find something for him to do, Sergeant.”
Hammersmith smiled grimly and folded the dress, putting it back in his pocket. “I rather think it’s him who will put us to work,” he said.
“Who is this doctor?” Campbell said.
“Dr Kingsley,” Day said. “A colleague of ours.”
“To help if we find the boy alive?”
“Well, that, yes. But the doctor is, in his way, another detective of the Yard. He often finds clues in the evidence we bring him.”
Campbell stood and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I’ll turn in. If you chaps are going back out there in the daylight, whatever time, I’ll go with you, if you’ll have me. The boy’s not dead. We’ll find him, and your doctor will help him.”
Campbell nodded at each of them in turn, and they nodded back and watched him cross the room and mount the stairs. He turned at the landing and disappeared from view.
“Mr Hammersmith,” Day said. “What do we know about Mr Campbell?”
“Very little. I’m not sure he’s much of an expert on birds. I might have given the same advice about our baby there. He seems quite anxious to find the boy, but seems dismissive of the parents.”
“He does. I wonder why.”
“He knows more than he’s said.”
“Indeed he does. So does our innkeeper. And I think Mr Campbell was going to tell us about the man I saw in the woods before Mr Rose caused that commotion with the broken cup. There are secrets within secrets here.”
“And yet they asked us to come.”
“I think tomorrow will be interesting.”
“I’m afraid,” Hammersmith said, “that the boy’s parents may be dead, and that everyone here knows it.”
“I’m not sure you’re right, Sergeant, but if you are, I hope we at least find the boy alive.”
“And quickly. It’s cold out there.”
“Well,” Day said. “We shall be of no use to anyone without at least a couple of hours of sleep.”
“You go. I won’t be able to sleep knowing the boy may be out there in the cold and the dark, feeling abandoned and alone.”
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll sense your lack of sleep and be comforted by it.”
“I didn’t-”
“Never mind. Go get whatever sleep you can, and we’ll be back at the search bright and early. I promise.”
Hammersmith moved toward the stairs, but turned back when Day called his name.
“Mr Hammersmith?”
“Sir?”
“It might be a good idea to lock your bedroom door tonight.”
“I always do.”
19
The American circled the schoolhouse in the dark, looking for an easy entrance point. The wind was picking up, and snow obscured his sight lines to the village and, in the other direction, the forest. A deep purple hue was visible low in the sky. Dawn was coming. He had followed the men far enough to be sure they had finished for the night and were headed home. There were no tracks or footprints in the snow leading to the schoolhouse, and he concluded that the building wasn’t in use.
The door and windows were locked, so the American used the stock of his rifle to break out the large picture window in the back wall, facing the woods. He knocked the remaining chunks of glass out of the frame and pushed his pack and rifle through into the cold dark room. He had two squirrels on a string and he slung them around his neck before climbing through the window. He stood for a moment and let his eyes adjust. He sniffed and identified the overlapping odors of chalk dust and soap and age. The little building contained a single large room with an open door leading to a small storage compartment that had been converted to a crude water closet. Perfect for the American’s needs. He didn’t imagine that he’d be in Blackhampton for more than another day, but no matter how long his job took to complete, he now had a good base of operations.
He dragged two student desks in front of the broken window and tipped one on end atop the other to keep out some of the wind and snow. He checked the front door and saw there was no way to open it without a key. He’d have to leave the window uncovered when he left this place, but what did he care if a little snow blew in and wet the floor?
There was a framed chalkboard made of black slate near the front of the room, and the American pulled it free from its stand and laid it flat on the floor. He smashed a chair against the edge of the cabinet and broke pieces off of it, laying them on top of the slate. He found a book about talking ducks and tore it apart, wadded the pages, and layered them among the splintered pieces of chair. He had a small waterproof box of matches in his coat pocket, and he used one of them to start a fire on his makeshift slate platform. He had three matches left and decided he would have to replenish his supply before he left Blackhampton. The broken chair burned slowly, and the American moved the desk back from the broken window far enough to allow the smoke an escape route. It wouldn’t do to suffocate when he was so close to his goal.
He skinned and dressed the squirrels and set them on the slate by the fire, turning them when the fat began to bubble. When he ate, he noticed that some of the squirrel meat was burnt and some was still raw, but he didn’t particularly care as long as he could keep it all down. He had learned long ago to cover his cheek with the palm of his left hand so that food wouldn’t fall out of his mouth. It made eating a time-consuming process. When he had finished, he wiped his greasy hands on his trousers and put out the fire. He shoved the back of a chair against the front door of the schoolhouse, under the knob, and bunked down in the far corner of the room.