“I don’t know,” Campbell said.
“It’s entirely possible our missing family is in someone’s house, isn’t it? They could have gone visiting and collapsed.”
“No.”
“It’s possible.”
“I’ve checked every house.”
“You’ve visited everyone?”
“I’m a bird-watcher, remember? I can travel about the village with field glasses and nobody thinks anything of it.”
“You’ve been peering through windows?”
“I have.”
“For the sport of it?”
“For the boy.”
“Why do you want so badly to find that boy?”
“Why do you?”
“It’s my job.”
“Is that all? It’s only your job?”
“Of course not. But I know why I’m here. I don’t know why you are. I don’t even know who you are. Not really.”
“I thought you did know that. You have a telegram, don’t you?”
Day laid Denby’s head gently on the ground and stood so that he could face Campbell. “I know that you spent time in prison for killing a man in West Bromwich,” he said.
“I did, yes.”
“And now you are here in Blackhampton, and I want to know why.”
“I have to be somewhere.”
“You were released?”
“I was a prisoner for ten years. I’ve paid the price for my crime and I’m a free man.”
“What’s your connection to the missing boy?”
“We should get back to the village.”
“You’re not telling me anything, and I’ve let you go on keeping secrets long enough. You’ve been out in these woods, you found this pig or you killed it yourself, you know things about these people, and yet you’re a stranger here.”
Campbell drew in a sharp breath, and his gaze focused on Day. He hesitated for a long moment, as if weighing the words he wanted to use. Finally, he spoke. “I have no secrets,” he said. “But it would be easier for me to show you than to tell you.”
“Show me what? You’ve shown me your dead pig. Is there more?”
“I think there is. It’s hard for me to know.”
“Then show me.”
Campbell nodded. He stooped and lifted Dr Denby as if he weighed nothing and led the way back to the path out of the woods. Neither of them spoke as they walked under the trees and through the brush. To Day, the path seemed shorter going back than it had been on the way to see the dead pig. The densest part of the woods fell behind them quickly, and the brush thinned out as the high grey walls of the church came into view. They had never gone very far from the village. Day was a reasonably fit man, but he struggled to keep up with Campbell, who was far older. Before long, the trees gave way to a narrow dirt path that widened out and led directly to the back of the church. Campbell led the way around the side of the massive building and up the wide stone steps to the entrance. He stopped there and turned, the limp Dr Denby draped over his forearms like an old bathrobe.
“Whatever you see,” Campbell said, “whatever you think, you must continue the search for Oliver Price. That must remain your only goal here.”
“What do you mean?” Day said. He was slightly out of breath and he could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold wind.
“You’ll know in a minute,” Campbell said, “but first promise me that you’ll keep looking for the boy.”
“Of course I will.”
“Good.” Campbell turned and shouldered the tall oak doors open and was swallowed by the solid shadows of the parish church. His voice came again from somewhere nearby, but completely disconnected from the world of white snow and bright grey daylight: “Come.”
Day found his flask and took a long swallow, then put it away in his pocket and followed the bird-watcher into the darkness. His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom of the foyer, but he could hear voices from deeper in the building, a burbling river of human noise, moaning and singing and occasional cries of pain. Campbell waited for Day to acclimate before pushing through the inner doors and leading the way into the sanctuary.
Directly ahead was an aisle that ran down the center of the sanctuary to a raised altar. There were three steps down from the foyer to the sanctuary, and Campbell pointed them out to Day, cautioning him against tripping. To Day’s right, pews filled half the room, row upon row of them, far more seating than the small village needed. But the pews were stacked too closely together for anyone to sit, almost on top of one another. Day realized that the pews had been removed from the left side of the room and piled between the remaining pews on the right. The empty half of the sanctuary had then been filled with makeshift beds. Dozens of people lay in cots or on blankets on the floor. Most were unconscious, sweating and moaning in their sleep. Some lay awake but delirious, calling out to absent loved ones or crying for help. Older children from the village, those who weren’t already ill, moved between the rows, pressing wet cloths to the foreheads of their friends and relatives, spooning room-temperature broth into their mouths, and whisking away chamber pots, filled to the brim with vomit and worse. The enormous room was thick with the mingled odors of human bodies and excrement and incense.
“What’s happening here?” Day said.
“This began before you arrived. People fell ill and didn’t recover.”
“Here in the church?”
“Dr Denby was unable to visit everyone in their homes. There were too many. The vicar was kind enough to offer up the space, and some of the men helped move the pews.”
“And now Denby’s sick, too.”
“It does seem that way.”
Brothwood chose that moment to approach them. He had been out of sight, somewhere among the sea of bodies. He had a small rug rolled up under his arm. Behind him, a pretty woman stared at Day with something like panic in her eyes. She was not young, and her face was lined with sorrow and pain, but her beauty was unmistakable, even in that place. She looked at Campbell, then away, and put a hand up as if to shield herself from their gaze. She dropped the damp rag she was holding and then walked quickly away, toward the altar. Day tried to watch where she went, but the vicar distracted him. Brothwood smiled a greeting at Day, but there was sadness and guilt in his manner. He touched Dr Denby on the arm, then led Calvin Campbell to a section of floor that was not yet occupied by the sick and unrolled the rug he was carrying. Campbell laid the doctor down on it and stepped back.
“Mr Brothwood,” Day said, “why didn’t you mention this to me last night?”
“What bearing does it have on your mission here?”
“The missing family might be in a house somewhere here, sick and in need of help. Not out in the woods or down in the tunnels. Our thinking may have run in entirely the wrong directions.”
“I told you,” Campbell said. “I’ve looked in every house in this village.”
“And Dr Denby and I have been inside nearly all of them ourselves,” Brothwood said. “Virtually no house is untouched by this plague.” He shook his head at the ground and made a small motion for Day to follow him. Campbell nodded and then walked away from them in the direction of the altar, the direction the woman had gone.
Brothwood took Day by the elbow and turned him the other way, toward the foyer, but Day pulled away and pointed at the altar. Campbell was already gone. “What’s back there?” Day said.
“Beyond the pulpit?”
“Yes.”
“My rooms. Mine and Mrs Brothwood’s, of course.”
“Why would Mr Campbell go to your rooms?”
“Did he?”
“And who was that woman helping you when we came in?”
“Woman?”
“There was someone helping you minister to the sick. A woman. Where did she go?”
“I’m not sure who you’re talking about. Many of the village women have volunteered to help, taking shifts here.”
“Who is helping today? Right now?”