“No,” Jessica said. “You were right. It must somehow be the water. I did what you asked and practically forced well water on the children. The older two wouldn’t drink it and they prevented the little one, Virginia, from drinking.”
“Mr Rose, please ignore my request for water,” Kingsley said. “Perhaps a glass of beer, instead.”
Rose retreated to the kitchen.
“And this child?” Kingsley pointed to the boy on the hearth. “Who is he?”
The boy looked up at him and grinned. “I’m Baggs, sir. Nicky Baggs.”
“My pleasure, young Mr Baggs.”
“We ran into him right outside,” Jessica said. “He was coming in at the same time.”
“Then we’ll get to him in a minute,” Kingsley said. “You won’t mind waiting, lad?”
“No, sir. But not more than a minute, please, sir.”
“Good man,” Kingsley said. He turned to Jessica. “So Mr Hammersmith has been drinking the water here, hasn’t he?”
“I believe so.”
“And the children are drinking something else?”
“Milk and ginger beer.”
“Exclusively?”
“It appears so.”
“And you? Have you been drinking the water?”
“I can’t remember. I have a cistern I draw from at the schoolhouse. I don’t know the last time I drank anything else.”
“But there’s a central well?” Kingsley said. “A source for most of the people in the village?”
“Yes, of course.”
Rose returned and held a glass of clear amber beer out to the doctor. Kingsley took it from him, looked at the unconscious form of Sergeant Hammersmith, and took a swallow of the beer himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the glass down on the hearth near the boy.
“Mr Rose,” Kingsley said. “Do you get the inn’s water from the village well?”
Rose nodded.
“We must get word to everyone not to drink any water from that well until we know more,” Kingsley said. “I may be able to test it. Meantime, we should all be drinking beer and milk.”
“Too late,” Rose said. His voice was barely audible. “Sickness has got ’em already.”
“Got who?”
“All of ’em. Mrs Rose among ’em.”
“Your wife is sick?”
“Everybody’s sick. Little Hilde, too, now. She was the last in my family besides me.”
“It may not be too late. Which room is Mr Hammersmith’s? We’ll need to lay him down.”
“Sir?” the boy said. “Is it all right if I tell you now? It’s only that I’d like to get back to my brother.”
“What is it, lad?”
“The policeman from London says to tell you-if you’re the doctor, that is-he says to tell you that you’re to come to the church right away.”
“Please go back and tell him that I haven’t time. I have sick people here who need my attention.”
“But there’s only two here, sir.”
“Yes, son. Two sick people.”
“It’s only that there’s lots and lots of them at the church, and now they’re without a doctor.”
“Lots of what?”
“The sick, sir. Must be maybe a hundred.”
Kingsley rocked back on his heels and pushed a hand through his wild hair. An instant later, he was shrugging his overcoat on. He hurried through the door to the dining room and began shoving his tools into his satchel. He hollered back in the direction of the great room as he packed. “Henry, can you carry that girl as far as the church? We’ll care for her there. Miss Perkins and I can handle Hammersmith between us.”
He shut the satchel, latched it, and took a quick look around the room. He had everything. He ran back into the great room and found Jessica buttoning the boy’s overcoat for him. Henry stood at the front door, holding Hilde in the crook of one arm.
Hammersmith stood beside him. “I only needed to sit down a moment. I’m feeling quite a bit better now.” He smiled and reached for the doorknob and nearly fell down. “Farther away than I thought it was,” he said.
Henry put his free arm around Hammersmith’s shoulders. “I have him, sir. I’ve got them both. You just lead the way.”
Kingsley smiled. At least there was something he could count on. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do to help these poor people.”
37
Do I understand correctly?” Day said. “This was once Blackhampton’s inn?”
“Oh, yes,” Brothwood said. “It only became the parish church many centuries after it was built.”
The inspector and the vicar were standing in the foyer, just inside the door, with the sea of sick villagers spread out before them across the sanctuary. Day positioned himself so that he could see the main doors of the church, his back to the rows of makeshift beds. He hoped to see Dr Kingsley come running in at any moment. But he had Mrs Brothwood’s note in his pocket, the note that indicated her husband was hiding something. Day watched the vicar’s eyes.
“So the inn where I’m staying. .?” Day said.
“Is relatively new, yes. Built well within the past century,” Brothwood said.
“Why would one turn an inn into a church?”
“Why, I suppose it had something to do with the beauty of the architecture and, of course, the size of the place. One needs a decent-size building to house a place of worship.”
“Even in a village as small as this?”
“Most particularly in a village this size. Everyone here comes to church on a Sunday, and the place must accommodate them all. We don’t have the luxury of multiple houses of worship.”
“Where did guests sleep? When this was an inn, I mean.”
“Oh, all of this was quite different, as I understand it. Of course, I wasn’t here at the time.”
“Of course.”
“The rooms down here were all torn out and the altar was brought in. The pews were built locally, I believe. A carpenter who lived here at the time.”
“That must have been a lot of work for a local carpenter.”
“Yes, it must have been.”
“And so you live in the back of this place, rather than in a proper vicarage?”
“It’s somewhat unusual, but not unheard of.”
“Wouldn’t the architecture of an inn, particularly an inn built many centuries ago, have features that a proper parish church would not?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Day smiled. “Of course. Merely thinking out loud, Mr Brothwood. Do you mind if I look around the place?”
“Please do. I have sick people I should tend to.”
“I won’t keep you.”
Brothwood hurried away. He stopped halfway down the aisle and looked back, then turned and moved off down a row of bedrolls spread out on the hardwood floor. Day glanced around the foyer and took a last longing look at the front doors before stepping down into the sanctuary. He frowned at the three steps that separated the room from the foyer door and kicked at them. They seemed solid enough.
He followed along in Brothwood’s general direction, but avoided looking at the sick people on the floor. He kept his back to them and his eyes on the floorboards and the timbers in the ceiling. He walked down the center aisle and took a moment to genuflect at the great gold cross over the altar before examining the apse. The altar itself was simple and sturdy, constructed of solid wood, perhaps by the same carpenter who had long ago built the pews. The top of the altar was a flat slab of river rock, polished and shining. There were candles at either end, and Day moved each of them to assure himself that they weren’t secretly levers that would move the altar. When nothing happened, he felt mildly foolish and looked surreptitiously about to see if he was being watched. He imagined Brothwood must be somewhere nearby, paying close attention to him, but he couldn’t see the vicar anywhere.
There was a large hollow ball on a chain hanging beside the altar, and Day sniffed it. The scent of incense was nearly overpowering. Here in the apse, the incense masked the odors of vomit and excrement. Perhaps Brothwood stole odd moments for himself up here away from the stink of illness.