The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

by Hester Fox

  “Aha,” Mr. Whitby said, stroking the sharp line of his chin. He paused, cocking his head ever so slightly at her. “You strike me as a young woman of strong opinions, but not well versed in the ways of the world.”

  Tabby opened her mouth to deny it, but he must have seen the effect his words had on her, because he said, “Just as I thought. Well, Miss Cooke, let me give you a little advice, free of charge. In the business world, everything moves at a snail’s pace until it doesn’t. Young Mr. Bishop may well be innocent, but me storming into the city jail proclaiming that isn’t going to sway the warden, now is it? No, I must go back to my office, compile a list of references of his good standing and character, and speak with the police about their investigation. Then I can go to the judge and present my case and see what can be done about releasing him pending a trial.”

  When he phrased it in such a way, it all seemed rather logical, and Tabby couldn’t help but be annoyed at herself for her lack of understanding in such things. But that didn’t change her dislike of Mr. Whitby and his cool, slippery way of talking. “You might have at least visited him and put his mind at ease.”

  The pale blue eyes narrowed at her in clear disdain. “Indeed. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cooke, you’ll remember I have pressing business. Good day.”

  She did not for one moment believe that Mr. Whitby had Caleb’s best interests at heart. And that meant no justice for Rose.

  As he disappeared into the bustle of traffic, he took up his humming again. A chill washed over Tabby, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. And with a crawling sense of dread, Tabby remembered where’d she heard that song before.

  * * *

  It had been three days and Caleb’s former life beyond the damp walls was rapidly becoming dreamlike and unimaginable. What did warm, fresh bread taste like? What about wine that wasn’t vinegary? Had he ever really slept on a feather bed and not a hard bench with straw ticking? God, he was not cut out for prison.

  “Caleb Bishop, you got a visitor.”

  Caleb sprang up. If it was Tabby again he would throttle her, the impetuous, determined thing. Yet at the same time he couldn’t help the anticipation of seeing her again, found that he was desperate to see the sharp tilt of her chin, the shape of her extraordinary eyes in person. Desperate to feel the peace that seemed to surround her wherever she went. He compulsively smoothed back his greasy hair and straightened his collar.

  “Oh.” Caleb’s face fell as the tall form of Mr. Whitby materialized from the dark corridor. Then he shook off his disappointment as he remembered just how much he needed him.

  “Caleb,” Mr. Whitby said with a short nod. “Don’t look so excited to see me. I’ve only come to see what can be done about this mess.”

  “Of course.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  Was that a knowing glimmer in Mr. Whitby’s eyes? “Of course not,” Caleb said. “I try not to take calls whilst imprisoned.”

  “I’ll keep it quick, then.” Mr. Whitby produced a packet of folded documents. “I’ve secured your release—”

  Caleb grabbed him through the bars, his disappointment instantly evaporating. “You brilliant man! I knew you—”

  With a tight smile, Whitby extracted himself. “If you would be so kind as to allow me to finish. I’ve secured your release until your trial, contingent on me vouching for your recognizance.”

  Caleb’s elation was short-lived. “But surely they don’t mean to bring up charges against me... I’m innocent!”

  Whitby raised a brow, tucking the papers back inside his coat. “Yes, yes, I know, but they must play out the whole thing so that they can say justice has been done.”

  Caleb chewed at his lip. “I suppose. Well, for God’s sake, get me out for now. My mother will be worrying herself half to death over this.” And that was to say nothing of whatever scheme Tabby had gotten into her head.

  * * *

  Tabby slowly made her way back home from her encounter with Mr. Whitby, this time aware that perhaps she was not as inconspicuous as she had always thought. Hugging close to the sides of buildings, she checked that she wasn’t being followed before leaving behind the statehouse and the city’s bustling business district.

  She had promised that she would help Caleb, and despite his orders not to, she had every intention of making sure that his innocence was proven. There could be no true justice for Rose so long as the wrong man sat behind bars. But how was Tabby to prove that Caleb was not the killer? The song that Mr. Whitby had been humming was the same one that Rose had sung, she was sure of it. But was that proof? Tabby didn’t trust Mr. Whitby, but that didn’t mean he was a murderer. What did he have to gain from killing her? If only Rose would speak to her again, help Tabby learn who was truly responsible for her death.

  As she mused these problems, she turned onto Tremont Street and immediately came upon a roiling mob of people outside the Granary Burying Ground where she had stood not even one week before for Rose Hammond’s burial. Large crowds had always unnerved her, but there was a hushed energy to this one, as if gripped by some singular fascination. She was just about to slip by when she noticed a familiar figure with dark hair standing toward the back.

  “What’s all this?” Tabby asked, coming up beside Mary-Ruth and linking arms with her friend.

  “There’s been another snatching,” she whispered.

  Tabby’s heart flew to her throat. “It’s not...it’s not Miss Hammond, is it?” After all the poor young woman and her family had gone through, what a tragic postscript that would be.

  “No,” Mary-Ruth said, shaking her head. “God help the poor thing, but her body was too badly mangled to be of much use to the snatchers probably. It was a Mr. Goodwin, a patient I laid out the other day. He was only just buried.”

  Craning her neck, Tabby could see a police officer at the front of the crowd, pressing people back and trying to keep order. The last time she had seen that officer he had been leading Caleb away.

  A man in a tweed suit and bushy side-whiskers heard them and leaned over. “It’s the Spunkers Club,” he told them in confidential tones. “They’re a secret society, from Harvard. Medical men and professors and the like. They use the bodies for dissection. My brother writes for the Gazette and says that they have been dormant for decades, but they’ve resurfaced again.”

  “The Spunkers?” she repeated. It sounded like a made-up word, childish, not like a club comprised of doctors and professors.

  Another man, overhearing the conversation, shook his head vehemently. “This isn’t the Spunkers. Say what you will about them, at least they had the decency to leave the grave looking as pristine as the day the minister stood over it. I should know, they got my great-granduncle back in ’01,” he said, almost with a note of pride. “’Twas almost six months before we even noticed he was gone.”

  A familiar sense of outrage welled in her breast. Life was cruel enough; who would deny the dead the peace of eternal rest? The dead, who could not defend themselves.

  She turned toward the man with the bushy side-whiskers who was puffing on a cigar. “Did your brother say why they have started up again? Why now?”

  The man tapped his cigar, looking rather pleased to be asked. “Oh, I’m sure he has his theories. You hear rumors, you know.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Well, a gentleman doesn’t like to say.” It was becoming clear that perhaps he didn’t know as much as he let on.

  Mary-Ruth snorted. “Gentleman indeed,” she muttered.

  But the second man was more than happy to speculate. “Don’t you know? It’s because of all these Spiritualists. Now that science is making advances with talking to the dead, they need bodies for their experiments. Have you heard about High Rock Tower in Lynn?”

  Tabby shook her head, not sure she wanted to know.

  The m
an rocked back on his heels. “Some science-minded men are trying to build a new messiah, they say. Building mechanical men and reanimating corpses.” He looked at Tabby expectantly. “Well, where do you think they get the corpses?”

  The abundant sunshine couldn’t stop a chill from running down her spine. She had a thousand more questions for the men, but Mary-Ruth was taking her by the arm.

  “What rubbish. Come on,” she said, pulling Tabby to the front where they could get a better view. They wove through the crowd which was finally starting to disperse once they realized there was nothing to see and there would be no answers.

  When they reached the grave, Tabby caught her breath. As with Mr. Bishop’s robbery, the gravesite before them was a mangle of iron bars and crumbled plaster. The hole in the ground gaped back at them, violated and hopeless. Whoever had done this had not been overly concerned with being discreet. Whoever had done this had wanted a body, and badly.

  11

  IN WHICH THE PRISONER IS FREED.

  THE FIRST MATTER Caleb had seen to upon his release was getting a good strong cup of coffee and a plate of oysters at the public house. Bolstered by this, he’d been able to go home and face the grateful hysterics of his mother. Then it was calling for hot water for a bath and scouring the stink of prison off himself. He was under no illusions as to the permanence of his situation, but as he luxuriated in the hot water, he was grateful for the reprieve. He would have to appear in court, put together some sort of defense, and it still wasn’t clear at all if there were any other suspects for Rose’s murder.

  When he was scrubbed clean as a newborn and dressed in a freshly pressed suit, he slipped downstairs, ready to go out and see what he had missed at the club over the past week. He was hungry for some amusement, for the company of a pretty girl and a game of cards, anything to distract him from how he had failed Rose.

  Passing through the dining room, he grabbed a slice of toast and tiptoed behind his mother, who was absorbed in her lady’s journal as she ate her breakfast. But the woman had the preternatural hearing of a cat, and turned in her chair.

  “Caleb! Goodness, you gave me a fright, sneaking around like that. Come, sit down and have a proper breakfast with me.”

  He could have insisted that he had business to attend to, but the hopefulness and vulnerability in his mother’s eyes was so palpable that he simply nodded, taking a plate from the sideboard and filling it with eggs and sausages before sliding into his seat. He found he had missed the old dear, her comforting chatter and even the gossip about the other ladies in her circle. The club would still be there after breakfast. “Pass me the Gazette, would you?” He could at least see what had been happening in the world while he had been stagnating in prison.

  She obliged, but not without a little humph as he spread it before him. He knew he was not being the doting son she had missed while he was gone, but he hadn’t the energy to cosset her, not when he’d only just begun to feel human again. For now, breakfast would have to be enough.

  Buttermilk twined around his legs, and he absently scratched his head beneath the table. His gaze roamed down the page, skimming headlines about slave rebellions, cotton prices, and oil deposits, and stopping when he came to the small headline tucked in the corner of the page. “Resurrection men strike again: Have we returned to the dark days of dissection?” Quickly folding the page, he slipped it into his pocket while his mother was distracted buttering her toast. Caleb had somehow managed to keep the fate of her husband’s body from her so far, and he would be damned if she found out now. If only the police spent more time investigating the theft of his father’s person, and less time throwing innocent men into jail.

  Pushing back his chair, Caleb downed the rest of his coffee and stood up. “Breakfast has been lovely, but I really must be going.”

  “Where are you off to anyhow this morning? You’ve barely had a chance to rest after...your ordeal.”

  He didn’t tell her that he was starving for the touch of another person, that he craved distraction, and if he happened to run into Miss Cooke on the way to the club and set her straight, well, so much the better. Over the last few days his annoyance with her strange behavior had faded, and all he felt was a deep sense of gratitude that she had cared enough to try to help him. “Whitby wants me at the office to sign some papers.”

  She gave a sigh. “Good, dear Mr. Whitby. What would we do without him?” Her eyes got a hazy faraway look in them that all but declared that her mourning period for his father was already drawing to a close. She was still a handsome woman despite her years, with a lively demeanor and spades of affection left to give; why shouldn’t she turn her eye to the future and the possibility of happiness and stability? After decades with the monster who had been his father, could he really blame her?

  But there was something off-putting about Whitby, and he couldn’t help but feel her affection would be better placed somewhere else.

  * * *

  Caleb was over halfway to the club when guilt overtook him. Not just that he’d lied to his mother about where he was going, but that he could even think of playing cards or enjoying the company of a woman when Rose was barely cold in her grave. An uncomfortable but familiar sense of self-loathing bubbled up within him. Didn’t vain men like him usually learn some sort of profound lesson after finding themselves on the wrong side of a set of iron bars? He might still be the same vain man he always was, but he could at least try to play the dutiful son. Giving a deep sigh, he doubled back and headed toward Whitby’s office.

  He had just crossed the square when he stopped short at the sight of a young woman with red hair peering at Whitby’s office from behind a tree. Well, let no one claim that he hadn’t tried to avoid her; she was the one who had crossed his path. He came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

  Spinning around, Tabby Cooke looked as if she’d seen a ghost. “Oh, it’s you! You’re out of prison!”

  Unable to help himself, he grinned at her guileless enthusiasm. “It is me, in the flesh. Now that we’ve established that, perhaps I might ask what you’re doing hiding behind a tree?”

  Pink touched her cheeks, and he could tell she was trying very hard to look dignified despite the compromising position in which he’d found her. Not meeting his eye, she mumbled something he couldn’t quite catch.

  “You’ll have to speak up.”

  She gave him a peeved look. “I—I’m here to see Mr. Whitby. I’m just a little early, is all.”

  He coughed until he nearly choked. Regaining himself, he was only able to murmur, “Is that so?”

  She nodded, still not meeting his eye. Goodness, when had she become acquainted with Mr. Whitby? She’d claimed to have known his father as well as Rose, and now it seemed she was acquainted with his family’s solicitor. She really was the most peculiar creature. His question must have shown on his face, because she said, “He called while I was with your mother.”

  Of course the little love had gone to visit his distraught mother. He could have swept her up in his arms and kissed her. He could have done a lot more than that too, but he remembered what had happened the last time he’d given in to his baser desires with her. Clearing his throat and trying not to look as intrigued as he felt, he asked, “And you’re here to see him because?”

  “Because I don’t trust him,” she said simply.

  “Why don’t you trust him?”

  She gave a little shrug. “I couldn’t say exactly. It’s just a feeling I get.”

  Caleb tilted his head, considering her. He might have dismissed her intuition out of hand, but the truth was, he got the same feeling from the cool and faultlessly polite Whitby. The man had been a fixture in their household since Caleb was a boy, a sharp, calculating man who quietly but firmly steered the business from behind the senior Mr. Bishop. Caleb had been just as surprised as Whitby when his father left him, Caleb, the business instead of
to his trusted partner.

  When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to elaborate on what had brought her here, he gave a sigh. “Look, I have business with Mr. Whitby and—No, don’t say it,” he stopped her as soon as she made a face. “Like him or not, he’s the best man to handle my situation. I may be a while, but please wait for me. We need to talk.”

  * * *

  “Well?”

  Tabby hadn’t liked watching him disappear into the imposing brick building. She didn’t trust Mr. Whitby not to clamp the irons around Caleb’s wrists himself and drag him back to that filthy cell. But despite all her fears, he had emerged back into the sunshine with his usual devil-may-care swagger, winking at her as he caught her eye. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and chastised herself for so easily falling under his charming sway.

  “Well what?”

  She gave him an impatient look as he laced her arm through the crook of his elbow and led her away from the square. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, nothing of great import.”

  His easy manner made strolling with him comfortable, familiar, and despite her natural instinct to pull away, she allowed her arm to stay snugly in his. He may have been acting like his usual self, but she didn’t for one moment believe that whatever had transpired between the two men could have been of no “great import,” not when she could feel him stiffen at her question.

  “Here we are.” Caleb held the door open, and Tabby stepped inside. She had never been in a coffeehouse before, and the smell of roasting coffee beans and sweets wrapped around her, warm and comforting. Tables spread with white cloths dotted the cozy interior, the low hum of conversations and delicate clinking of china cups filling the space. Tabby discreetly folded her frayed sleeve cuffs under themselves.

  As they made their way to an empty table near the window, Tabby noticed that all the other patrons had one thing in common. Leaning toward Caleb, she asked in a whisper, “Is this a ladies-only establishment?”