over the windowsill and dropped down into the room. Dust swam aimlessly through the solitary beam of sunlight. Hammersmith was sure that Blackleg had rolled up the rug in the corner of the room, planning to cart it away, before he made his lurid discovery.
“Hello?” Hammersmith said.
He raised his voice and hollered again, louder this time.
“Hello? Is anybody home? Police.”
Silence answered him. The brownstone had the feel of a long-abandoned place. No homeowner was within earshot.
Behind him, Hammersmith heard Blackleg drop to the floor. He turned and Blackleg nodded at him. The two men walked to the fireplace, and Hammersmith knelt on the hearth. He reached out toward the shoe that dangled from the chimney and prodded it with his nightstick. There was clearly a foot in it. A body was stuck up inside the chimney.
Hammersmith paused and glanced back again at Blackleg. The other man’s expression mirrored his own. The shoe hanging down below the top edge of the fireplace’s mouth was small enough to fit in the palm of Hammersmith’s hand. They were looking at the foot of a chavy: a dead child.
Hammersmith grabbed the child’s ankle in both hands and pulled.Nothing happened. The body was wedged in tight. He braced himself and pulled again. He felt something shift above him.
“Come here and help.”
Blackleg squatted on the marble slab next to Hammersmith and the two men pulled together. The child’s trouser leg ripped and the shoe thumped into the ashes below. Both men fell backward on their rumps and coughed as a cloud of ash and dust billowed out at them. A rasping sound echoed through the room, and a moment later the entire body dropped from the chimney and tumbled out onto the hearth.
Hammersmith pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose, shielding himself from the swirling ash, and scrambled forward until he was leaning over the body. He wiped soot away from the blackened face and stared heavily down at the face of a boy who could not have been a day over five years old.
INTERLUDE 1
C OLLIER , W ALES, EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER .
N evil Hammersmith was the smallest boy in the village of Collier. With a piece of coal, he had marked his height on the doorpost of the room he shared with his three sisters, and each morning he stood against it. He held his palm flat against the top of his head and moved carefully away to see whether his hand had risen higher than the black smudge on the wood behind him. Each morning his hand was even with the mark. He was almost five years old and he had not grown since his fourth birthday.
His morning ritual of measurement was a hasty thing. His father shookhim quietly awake before dawn, six days a week, and Nevil was expected to stumble into his clothes (generally left in a heap on the floor the previous night) and sneak out of the room without waking his sisters. They had housework and chores to tend to on the small farm, but he let them sleep.
Nevil and his father left by the front door. The back door was for the girls. The pigs were corralled behind the main house, and it was bad luck to see a pig before the day began. Nevil’s father hung an arm over his shoulder as they walked and Nevil felt proud, grown-up. He pushed away thoughts of the day ahead and focused, instead, on the moment, basking in his father’s easy camaraderie.
At the mine, they lit candle stubs and entered the huge main chamber. The overman wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and Nevil was glad for that. The last time he’d seen the overman, it was for a whipping with the yard wand.
Nevil’s father checked in for them both and then left the chamber without looking back, headed for the tunnel he’d been working the day before. When he had gone out of sight, Nevil turned and scampered into his own tunnel.
The tunnel was hard-packed dirt, shored up on both sides by thick wooden beams hammered into the walls at regular intervals. Side tunnels branched out every few yards, and ponies trotted past
“Hello?” Hammersmith said.
He raised his voice and hollered again, louder this time.
“Hello? Is anybody home? Police.”
Silence answered him. The brownstone had the feel of a long-abandoned place. No homeowner was within earshot.
Behind him, Hammersmith heard Blackleg drop to the floor. He turned and Blackleg nodded at him. The two men walked to the fireplace, and Hammersmith knelt on the hearth. He reached out toward the shoe that dangled from the chimney and prodded it with his nightstick. There was clearly a foot in it. A body was stuck up inside the chimney.
Hammersmith paused and glanced back again at Blackleg. The other man’s expression mirrored his own. The shoe hanging down below the top edge of the fireplace’s mouth was small enough to fit in the palm of Hammersmith’s hand. They were looking at the foot of a chavy: a dead child.
Hammersmith grabbed the child’s ankle in both hands and pulled.Nothing happened. The body was wedged in tight. He braced himself and pulled again. He felt something shift above him.
“Come here and help.”
Blackleg squatted on the marble slab next to Hammersmith and the two men pulled together. The child’s trouser leg ripped and the shoe thumped into the ashes below. Both men fell backward on their rumps and coughed as a cloud of ash and dust billowed out at them. A rasping sound echoed through the room, and a moment later the entire body dropped from the chimney and tumbled out onto the hearth.
Hammersmith pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose, shielding himself from the swirling ash, and scrambled forward until he was leaning over the body. He wiped soot away from the blackened face and stared heavily down at the face of a boy who could not have been a day over five years old.
INTERLUDE 1
C OLLIER , W ALES, EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER .
N evil Hammersmith was the smallest boy in the village of Collier. With a piece of coal, he had marked his height on the doorpost of the room he shared with his three sisters, and each morning he stood against it. He held his palm flat against the top of his head and moved carefully away to see whether his hand had risen higher than the black smudge on the wood behind him. Each morning his hand was even with the mark. He was almost five years old and he had not grown since his fourth birthday.
His morning ritual of measurement was a hasty thing. His father shookhim quietly awake before dawn, six days a week, and Nevil was expected to stumble into his clothes (generally left in a heap on the floor the previous night) and sneak out of the room without waking his sisters. They had housework and chores to tend to on the small farm, but he let them sleep.
Nevil and his father left by the front door. The back door was for the girls. The pigs were corralled behind the main house, and it was bad luck to see a pig before the day began. Nevil’s father hung an arm over his shoulder as they walked and Nevil felt proud, grown-up. He pushed away thoughts of the day ahead and focused, instead, on the moment, basking in his father’s easy camaraderie.
At the mine, they lit candle stubs and entered the huge main chamber. The overman wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and Nevil was glad for that. The last time he’d seen the overman, it was for a whipping with the yard wand.
Nevil’s father checked in for them both and then left the chamber without looking back, headed for the tunnel he’d been working the day before. When he had gone out of sight, Nevil turned and scampered into his own tunnel.
The tunnel was hard-packed dirt, shored up on both sides by thick wooden beams hammered into the walls at regular intervals. Side tunnels branched out every few yards, and ponies trotted past
Similar Books
