The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

by Hester Fox

  Alice had expected the theater to be bright and clean, but when they had entered, they were met instead with dimmed lamps throwing dramatic shadows on the dark walls. It felt more like a performance than a medical experiment.

  It had all happened so fast; first she and Mary-Ruth were on one side of the door, holding their breath, and then they were pushing through, an eruption of male voices greeting them. She’d known that their presence in a medical theater would have raised a few brows at least, but she had not been prepared for utter chaos that two women could cause simply with their entrance.

  “Out!” The man in the white apron was propping up an unconscious Tabby with one arm, and gesturing wildly at them with the other. The feeling of pure hot anger came flooding back to her, the way she used to feel when she shielded Tabby from one of their aunt’s stinging blows.

  Mary-Ruth had broken free of the doctor and was tugging her arm. “We don’t leave under any circumstances,” she hissed. “This may be our only chance.”

  She didn’t need to convince Alice; there was no way that she would let Tabby out of her sight now that she’d found her again.

  The other man, the one who had been watching from the side, turned toward her. He had cold blue eyes and an angular face that radiated arrogance and contempt. It could only be Mr. Whitby.

  As soon as those eyes locked on her, he went pale, as if he had seen a ghost. Then he was striding toward them, up through the wooden balcony seats. “No! They do not leave.” He motioned to a man, and before she knew what was happening, the door was being closed behind them.

  Alice threw a look at Mary-Ruth, panicked. But in the short time of their acquaintance, she should have learned that Mary-Ruth was tougher than her tall, slender figure and delicate features belied.

  “I am sure these esteemed gentlemen do not want to be party to kidnapping,” Mary-Ruth said.

  Mr. Whitby smiled, a surprisingly charming and genuine smile. “These esteemed gentlemen understand that scientific advancement sometimes demands extreme measures.”

  The men in question seemed intrigued and a little nonplussed, but hardly shocked or outraged. Did they not understand just what they were witnessing? “Mr. Whitby and this—” she gestured at the man in the white apron “—this doctor are holding my sister against her will, using her for grotesque experiments!”

  She waited for the men in the audience to object, to spring into action, but if they were concerned with the ethical ramifications of what was happening, no one said anything. Mr. Whitby threw a look at the doctor, some silent signal passing between them.

  A moment later the man in the white apron was taking Alice by the arm, and tugging her toward the auditorium floor. She dug in her heels, but it was no use. From behind her she could hear Mary-Ruth’s vain protests.

  All those years ago Alice had left her little sister cold and alone, sitting on the steps of a church in an unfamiliar city. She’d done it because she’d thought it was the only way to keep her safe, to protect her. But now, as she gazed helpless at Tabby’s limp form, she knew with a heart-wrenching certainty that she had been wrong. They should have stayed together, no matter what.

  “Remove her,” Mr. Whitby ordered with a nod toward Mary-Ruth. “Somewhere she can’t cause any trouble. And send for the police—Sergeant Hodsdon will take care of this. He’s one of ours.”

  Alice watched helplessly as Mary-Ruth was roughly escorted from the auditorium. She wanted to go after her, but Mary-Ruth would be all right. It was Tabby who needed her now the most.

  The men took their seats again. Normalcy returned, as if they were simply attending the most mundane of lectures, and two women hadn’t just barged in, another drugged before their eyes.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” Mr. Whitby was saying. “Unfortunately, as our subject had to be subdued with the use of drugs, we will not be able to continue with her.”

  An older man with full white side-whiskers and a long, austere face stood up with the help of a cane. “How long will you continue to delay? It’s been nearly fifteen years, and I expect to see some return on my investment before I find myself on the slab.”

  A few other men murmured and nodded their agreement.

  So the audience was more concerned with money than the well-being of a young woman. Alice’s heart sank even further; no one here would help them.

  Mr. Whitby held up a hand to silence them. He may have been an evil man, but he had a commanding presence and knew just the right words to say to calm his wary investors. “Gentlemen, I understand your frustration, and I share in it. But as is the nature of this kind of work, we are beholden to the whims of nature and womankind. Fortunately, we may yet see a demonstration today.”

  It took Alice a moment to realize just what he meant as all gazes shifted to her.

  “Miss Bellefonte, perhaps you do not remember me,” he said as he forcibly guided her to a seat on the auditorium floor. “But I remember you.”

  Alice stilled, taken off guard. She did remember him. He had worn a beard then, and in her child’s eye he had appeared almost larger than life. But she would have recognized that slippery-smooth voice anywhere. It had been the voice that had ordered her out of the carriage after she had been snatched from the Boston street. It was the voice that had demanded that she speak to the dead, and then had berated her in disgust when she could not. That voice had haunted her for years, and now here he was, in the flesh.

  If Tabby had not been sitting mere feet away, prostrate and vulnerable, and the door not sealed, Alice would have given him a sharp kick where it hurt the most, and bolted. But she would not leave without her sister, so she allowed herself to be roughly handled and seated.

  “I also remember that you do not possess the same gift as your sister,” he continued. “Pity.” He leaned against the marble slab where the corpse still lay, and crossed his arms. “I did always wonder if perhaps you simply needed some motivation in finding your powers.”

  Alice had never been able to harness her second sight, not the way Tabby had been able to harness her clairvoyance, but then again, she had never really tried. She’d allowed the future to come to her in flashes, dreams, and that had been enough. But Mr. Whitby didn’t know about her second sight, and probably didn’t care. He wanted her to speak with the dead, as Tabby did.

  When Mr. Whitby turned around, he was brandishing a menacing silver instrument. “We all of us contain a great reserve of power, yet most of us will go through life without ever trying to mine that reserve. Perhaps we all have something of your sister’s gift, but have just not yet learned how to access it. Perhaps we are all of us conduits to the great beyond.” He paused, clearly moved by his own words. “Miss Bellefonte, this is my gift to you—the motivation to find within yourself the extraordinary gift that you have heretofore taken for granted.”

  Alice spat, hitting Mr. Whitby neatly on his polished brown shoes. It was satisfying in the extreme, but the only acknowledgment he gave was a slightly raised brow. “You’re only making this more difficult for yourself. You only have to open your mind, accept the message that this spirit wishes to impart.”

  The corpse beside her was still, but she had caught a glimpse of it jerking around when she had first come in, as if it would sit up and get off the table. Dr. Jameson caught her gaze. “The simplest thing in the world, Miss Bellefonte,” he said, not unkindly. “Relax your mind and your body, let yourself become an open receptacle.”

  “Relax my body, should I?” she said, jutting her chin at the silver tool Mr. Whitby still clutched in his hand.

  The doctor frowned. “Richard, perhaps we could forgo the forceps?”

  When Mr. Whitby had placed the instrument back on the table, Alice made her decision. She would mine her reserve, as Mr. Whitby had instructed. She would relax her mind and invite her intuition to take over. She would do everything they said, just not for the r
esults they were hoping for.

  With a curt nod, Alice closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding, her worry for Tabby nearly debilitating. She just needed time. They might think that Sergeant Hodsdon was one of their own, but she prayed that his revelation of conscience was strong enough. She just needed time until he got there.

  “Good, good, Miss Bellefonte. I am so glad to see that you are willing to cooperate in this most noble venture. I thank you, and the scientific community thanks you. Now, please tell me the name of the woman beside you.”

  Alice had no idea what the woman’s name was, and she certainly had no idea how to find out. But she would give the men here a show that they would not soon forget. Rocking back and forth in her seat, she began a low hum that grew into a wail, the eldritch sound of it making even her hair stand on end.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Whitby asked urgently. He turned to the doctor. “What is she doing?”

  Her eyes were still closed, but she could hear the doctor. “Perhaps this is her method. We must let it take its course.”

  The humming had been strictly for the benefit of the men, but the wail that continued to spill from her throat was real, the result of her mind being yanked and wrenched in unnatural directions. Then the voices grew fuzzy and faraway. Alice was standing in a white expanse so like the void of her dreams, and yet different. Light where the void was dark, open where that was suffocating.

  An image flashed before her, a tall, raven-haired woman that she now recognized as Mary-Ruth. She was standing on the bank of a river, wind in her hair as she smiled up at Alice. Her heart swelled with love. Then the image shifted, and Alice was looking out over a vast battlefield, the aftermath of a terrible skirmish. Though carrion birds pecked and squabbled amongst the carnage, there was no sound accompanying the images. There was a war coming to this country, and soon. She wanted to retch, the sheer magnitude of it all becoming unbearable, but then the image was shifting again. Scene after scene, some containing recognizable faces and places, others so foreign that she could hardly believe they were real. Whitby. I need Whitby.

  It was not the future that would give her the answers that she needed about Mr. Whitby, but the past. Her conversation with Caleb in Edinburgh came back to her and she remembered the jest about his alias, how stupid she had thought it at the time. She remembered the conversation they’d shared about the grave robbers, and all the details therein.

  Her head pounded, the white of the expanse blinding her. And then there it was. Everything she needed.

  33

  THROUGH THE VEIL AND BACK AGAIN.

  TABBY’S EYES WERE heavy and dry, but she forced herself to open them. For a disorienting moment, she expected to see the cracks in the ceiling of her prison room, but instead it was the dimly lit rafters of the auditorium that greeted her.

  Voices. No, just one voice. A feminine voice that tickled at the edges of her memory. Then she recalled the glimpse of face that had flashed before her. Alice. Could it be? Was her sister really here?

  Still too weak to move much, Tabby gingerly turned her head so that she could see the red-haired woman in the brown plaid dress, careful not to draw any attention to herself.

  Alice was sitting straight as a board in the chair, eyes closed, mouth moving. She was more beautiful than Tabby remembered, mature and dignified, and all at once the magnitude of the time they’d lost together hit her. But there was no time for sentimentality. Tabby forced herself to focus, to parse out her sister’s words from the ringing in her ears.

  “I have made contact with a spirit, though it is not the spirit that you wished me to reach.” A heavy, drawn-out pause. “A man.”

  Mr. Whitby’s voice, eager. “What man? What is his name?”

  “A Mr. Pope,” she said. “He comes bearing a message for you, Mr. Whitby.”

  “Are you certain?” Tabby could hear the frown in his voice. “I know of no Mr. Pope.”

  “That may be, but he knows you, and what you have done.”

  * * *

  As soon as Caleb set foot back in the holding cell, it was as if the last six months had never happened. The leak in the corner was still dripping, a fresh crop of drunkards was lazing about, and the air was still damp and heavy.

  He sat down on the bench, but was too nervous to be idle for long, and jumped up again, pacing back and forth. He hadn’t liked watching Alice disappear out the door and he liked the idea of her confronting Mr. Whitby even less. The worst part of being imprisoned again wasn’t the foul air or the pungent belches of his cell mates, but that he had no clue what was happening in the world beyond the damp stone walls.

  He was wearing grooves in the floor with his pacing when Billy approached the bars. “They’re going to move you to Charles Street, they’re just waiting for the cart.”

  Caleb nodded. It was off to the big new prison across the city for him. He’d known that he couldn’t expect any liberties or concessions. He was an escaped convict, wanted for murder. The drunk cell was too good for him.

  “Sergeant? Sergeant!” A man, out of breath and hatless, tumbled into the hall. He looked around and, on seeing Billy, panted a big sigh of relief. “Sergeant Hodsdon,” he said. “You’re needed at the Harvard Medical School. There’s been an incident.”

  Caleb stopped his pacing, and a silent, alarmed look passed between him and Billy. Tabby was there, and they had sent Alice and Mary-Ruth. He rushed up to the bars.

  “What’s happened? Is there a young woman—women—involved? Is everyone there all right?”

  The man ignored him, instead whispering something into Billy’s ear. Caleb could have bent the bars and taken the man by the shoulders, shaking the information out of him.

  “Billy, please.” Caleb reached for his sleeve through the bars, aware that he was very close to being thrown in some dank, forgotten cell in the basement. “Regardless of whatever anger you still have toward me, you have to help her.”

  Billy looked down at his hand on his sleeve and slowly removed it. The look he leveled on Caleb contained no hint of kindness or understanding.

  “Mr. Bishop,” he said, and Caleb’s heart sank at the formality of his tone. “You overreach yourself.” Without a backward glance, Billy strode purposefully after the man, sliding his club into his belt.

  “You have to stop them!” Caleb shouted after his retreating back. “Whatever happens, you have to save Tabby!”

  * * *

  Alice was magnificent. Tabby didn’t know where the words were coming from, but each one found their mark with biting accuracy.

  “Mr. Pope knows your darkest secret, knows that which you would keep hidden.”

  Mr. Whitby shot a worried glance at the spectators before composing himself. “You may tell your Mr. Pope that I am an open book. I have no secrets, and what’s more, I am not interested in unfounded, malicious accusations. We are here to create new life. If Mr. Pope will not help us, then he must step aside so some more obliging spirit can make contact.”

  Dr. Jameson stayed Mr. Whitby with a hand. “It’s remarkable that she was able to make contact at all, given her history with such things. We should allow her to progress as she sees fit.”

  Tabby’s eyes had finally adjusted, and she could not look away from the spectacle, never mind that they might discover she was awake at any moment. Mr. Whitby muttered something and tugged at his collar, the roots of his hair dark with perspiration.

  Alice continued, raising her voice to be heard over the bickering of the two men. “Who is Rose?” she asked. “Mr. Pope keeps speaking of a Rose.”

  Mr. Whitby’s face went pale green, a spasm at the corner of his mouth the only indication that he had heard her.

  “Rose Hammond,” she continued. Then she tilted her head, as if listening to something no one else could hear. Her hand flew to her mouth. “He says you killed her. You killed her in cold blood.”


  A murmur ran through the audience. It took Mr. Whitby an overlong moment, but then he was exploding from his vantage point beside the table. “Lies! I don’t know what you’re on about. I—”

  But he didn’t have a chance to finish. Alice was rising from her seat, shouting over the din of the audience and Mr. Whitby’s outburst. “He says you killed her, and that you will rot in prison for it! You murdered her as sure as you kidnapped and drugged my sister!”

  Dr. Jameson turned to Mr. Whitby. “Is this true, Richard? We agreed from the start that there would be no blood on our hands.”

  “Of course it’s not true!” Mr. Whitby roared. “She’s a fraud. She can no more speak to the dead than I can!”

  Be careful, Tabby willed her sister. In baiting Mr. Whitby, Alice was teetering on a dangerous precipice.

  “It was Caleb Bishop,” Mr. Whitby ground out. “The boy murdered her. If he wasn’t guilty then he wouldn’t have been arrested—twice—and escaped from prison.”

  Alice gave a thoughtful shake of her head, her eyes still closed. “Mr. Pope is quite insistent that it was you. He says there was an earring, a sapphire. You kept it after you killed her, as a sort of trophy.”

  How on earth did Alice know about the earring? Tabby had assumed that her sister was putting on a show, but she knew details, things she couldn’t have known otherwise. Did she, in fact, have the same abilities as Tabby? But when Tabby searched in the ether for a Mr. Pope, there was no spirit of that name.

  Mr. Whitby scoffed. “An earring? That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Dr. Jameson was listening, rapt. “Richard,” he said, finally pulling his gaze from Alice. “It’s true, isn’t it.”

  “You killed her for your late partner’s business,” Alice said evenly. “You killed her in the parlor, choking the life out of her, and then you stabbed her dead body again and again.”