“I’m not absolutely sure. There’s no requirement, you know; nobody organizing things. This all came on so quickly.”
“How long ago?”
“Three or four days, perhaps. It’s spread so fast. We weren’t prepared. But, Inspector, this has nothing to do with your search for the boy. You mustn’t let this, all of this illness, distract you from your duty.”
“Everyone seems to be concerned with my duty. If you’re all so worried about the missing family, why haven’t you gone out searching yourselves?”
Brothwood wordlessly gestured at the room full of stinking, writhing bodies, their cries echoing off the high beams of the vaulted ceiling. The implication was clear enough: There weren’t enough people left standing to conduct a search.
“Where is Mrs Brothwood?” Day said. “I’d like to speak to her, if I may.”
The vicar turned and walked away, and Day followed him. Brothwood led him to the far end of the room, where an old woman lay on a straw-filled mattress against the stone wall. Her hair was long and white and tangled with dry sweat. She lay slowly writhing, her gnarled hands clenched in agony, her mouth half-open in a rictus of pain. It took Day a long moment to recognize the vicar’s wife.
“It set in last evening,” Brothwood said. “Soon after we returned from the inn.”
“God,” Day said. “What’s happening here?”
“The Devil, I fear.”
“I don’t-”
“Someone did something dreadful to those people. To the boy, Oliver Price. Rawhead has come to live here, been welcomed by these evil deeds. That’s why we need you. You and your friend Hammersmith. You’re untouched by this. You can make it right.”
“You don’t need policemen, you need doctors.”
Brothwood sucked in a deep breath and pointed in the direction of Denby’s limp body, somewhere on the floor behind them. “Our doctor. And not even a cot left for him.”
Day watched a dust mote dance through a beam of dim blue light. “How fortunate, then, that I’ve brought the best doctor in England for you.” He motioned to a boy who was perhaps ten or twelve years old. The boy wrung a damp cloth out in a shallow bowl of water and laid it on an older boy’s forehead, then stood and approached the inspector. “Go to the inn, boy,” Day said. “Find Dr Kingsley and a man named Henry and bring them here immediately.”
“Sir, my brother. .”
“If there’s any hope for your brother, you’ll find it at the inn. Now, go.”
The boy nodded and, with one quick look back at his unconscious older brother, hurried away, through the foyer and out of sight.
36
This presents a problem,” Kingsley said. He held the shriveled eyeball up to the light and turned to Henry. “It’s a real eyeball, of that I have no doubt. But I have no way of knowing whether it’s a human eye or not.”
“It should be in someone’s head if it is,” Henry said.
“Yes, that’s where I prefer to keep my own eyes.”
“Me, too.”
Kingsley turned away before Henry could see him smile. The gentle giant had brought a touch of innocence and unaffected humor to the laboratory, something Kingsley hadn’t known he needed or wanted there. It was much appreciated.
“So,” he said, “the eyeball may not be particularly useful as evidence. But the bloodstained dress is another matter entirely.”
He was interrupted by a commotion from the inn’s great room. Kingsley laid the eyeball back in its wooden box and led the way through the wide door out of the dining room. Bennett Rose was standing in the middle of the common room, holding his daughter Hilde in his arms. Her splinted leg stuck straight out like a flagpole.
“Here now,” Kingsley said, “what’s this then?”
“She won’t wake up,” Rose said. “She’s not breathing.”
For all the man’s boorishness, Kingsley felt for Rose. He understood all too well the fear that went hand in hand with being a parent.
“Lay her down there,” Kingsley said.
Rose put Hilde down on the hearth and smoothed her hair.
“How long has she been like this?” Kingsley knelt over the girl’s body and put his ear to her mouth. He sat up and motioned at Henry. “Light my pipe, will you, Henry?”
“Your pipe, sir?”
“Yes, and be quick about it.” He turned to Rose. “Well, man? How long since she last took a breath?”
“I don’t know. She was like this when I found her. In her room.”
“She’s still warm,” Kingsley said. “Pardon me, Mr Rose. This may appear indelicate of me, but I’ll ask you to trust me. Perhaps look the other way, if it bothers you.”
He cracked his knuckles, applied his long thin fingers to Hilde’s abdomen, and began massaging the muscles through the coarse material of her dress, moving his hands in an upward motion toward her throat, then back down to begin again.
“Here now,” Rose said. “What’re you doin’ that for?”
“For only a slim chance, I’m afraid. The girl’s choking.”
Kingsley continued kneading the girl’s belly and chest, while her father stood watching, suspicious and hopeful.
“Henry,” Kingsley said, “have you got my pipe lit?” He sat back on his heels.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “But it makes my stomach feel bad.”
“You’re not used to the smoke, is all. Hand it over, please.”
Henry placed the pipe in Kingsley’s outstretched hand and ran out of the room. A moment later, they could hear him retching in the kitchen. Kingsley sniffed and dragged on his pipe, aware that Bennett Rose was fidgeting on the periphery of his vision. The doctor moved into position over Hilde’s smooth, still face. He bent down and blew a mouthful of smoke past her lips, careful not to touch her with his own mouth. He did it again and then stopped, puffing on the pipe and waiting.
“You and your London ways,” Rose said. Kingsley could see that the man was working himself up, preparing to blame the doctor for the death of his daughter. “Givin’ her a smoke when she’s already gone.”
“Perhaps not gone yet,” Kingsley said.
And at that moment, Hilde began to cough, hacking up great glistening dollops of mucus. She sputtered and choked, ratcheting forward with each gulp of air, bringing up gob after gob, all over herself and the hearth. Then she settled back down into a deep sleep, breathing regularly, her chest rising and falling in a comforting and utterly normal way.
“You did it,” Rose said. He spoke quietly and ran his hand over Hilde’s forehead, but he didn’t look directly at the doctor, perhaps ashamed by his premature readiness to blame Kingsley for his daughter’s death.
“A buildup of mucus. We needed to break it up and get her to expel it. Nothing really.”
But Kingsley was secretly relieved. And secretly worried. The odds had been against him, and he had no way of knowing how long the girl had gone without oxygen. If she woke up, she might still be changed forever, a simpleton or worse. He shook his head and stood up, shouted in the direction of the kitchen door. “Henry, would you be so kind as to carry this young lady to a room upstairs?”
“I can do it,” Rose said.
Before Kingsley could answer, the front door opened and three people stumbled in out of the blowing snow. The schoolteacher, Jessica Perkins, was supporting Sergeant Hammersmith, who appeared to be semiconscious. Behind them trailed a young boy Kingsley hadn’t seen before. With a quick backward look at Hilde to make sure she was still breathing, the doctor rushed to them. He took Hammersmith’s other arm and led the three of them to the fire. Jessica and Hammersmith collapsed in separate chairs.
“Sir?” the boy said. “Would you be Dr Kingsley? Or Henry?”
“In a minute, lad,” Kingsley said. The boy nodded and squatted at the hearth. He held out his hands and rubbed them together as close to the fire as he could get. He glanced at the sleeping form of the girl there, but didn’t appear curious. His overcoat was threadbare at the elbows and hadn’t been buttoned. Kingsley was astonished by how poorly the people here took care of themselves. He turned his attention to Jessica. “What’s happened?” he said. He loosened Hammersmith’s collar and shouted over his shoulder to Rose. “Bring water.”