The Yellow Lantern

by Dicken, Angie;

  “We shall light this when we enter the gate.”

  “But we will be noticed.”

  “Of course. We are mourning the loss of Harry Garnett.” She snickered beneath her breath—a choppy laugh sending a chill down Josie’s neck. “You unlatch the gate.” She stepped aside, holding the lantern.

  The minister and his companion were leaving through the gate closest to the village shops. Josie unlatched the side gate, pushed it open, and held it ajar while the woman slipped into the cemetery. “Here, light it.” She motioned for Josie to take the box of matches in her cloak’s pocket. Why could she not light it herself? Josie wondered if this was a test to see how much she would comply.

  She had no choice in the matter. Trying to still her shaking hand, she struck a match and lit the candle.

  “I think he sees us.” The woman’s voice now grazed above a whisper. It was tight, as if spoken behind clinched teeth.

  “Who?”

  “The minister—”

  The minister entered the cemetery again, holding his own lantern. He called out, “I apologize, but the funeral is over.”

  “We could not leave the mill until now, sir,” the woman called out breathlessly. “Please, do not hinder your leave, we shall say our prayers and be gone shortly.”

  “Ah, very well. I am sorry for your loss. God’s peace on him.” The minister tipped his wide-brimmed hat and backed out of the gate.

  “Pray for us, sir,” the woman sniffled. She then elbowed at Josie and snapped, “Come on.”

  Agitation crept along Josie’s nerves. This woman played a part, owning her act in a most unapologetic way. But something else about this woman irritated Josie. Perhaps it wasn’t the woman but the fact that Alvin forced Josie into this charade with no instruction. He’d given Josie over to take orders from this stranger. So, maybe Alvin was the cause of Josie’s irritation. He had been so many things to the Clayton family.

  Josie wished she’d never met him.

  A soft rhythmic thump met her ears, and she tried to see beyond the yellow glow that led them between headstones. They trampled the long grass springing up from the beds of final rest until they came upon a hunched man working a shovel. The shovel dug the earth, unapologetically also.

  Thump of soil.

  Stab of the shovel.

  Thump of the next heap upon a wooden box.

  Harry’s wooden box.

  “Poor Harry Garnett,” the woman muttered.

  “You missed the funeral.” The man kept shoveling, hardly looking up at them.

  The woman stepped closer, shining the light down into the hole. The box was completely covered. “You work fast, don’t you?” Her honey tone coated each word as if she complimented a child.

  “Aye.” He heaved another pile of dirt, then his shovel hovered in midair. “Would you like a moment of quiet?” He shrugged his shoulders and spat out a piece of grass from the corner of his mouth. “I can stop if you’d like.”

  “No, no.” She sniffled. “We do not mind, sir. It is peaceful. I can rest assured that his final resting place is well secured.” Her head turned toward Josie. Perhaps she was smirking at the irony of her words? The sarcasm, the wicked lie.

  “Good.” The man declared then continued at a slightly quicker pace.

  The woman set her lantern at the headstone, seemingly looking up and out toward the village as she did so. She must be positioning it for some sort of signal.

  Thump.

  Stab.

  Thump.

  Josie and her accomplice stood like statues watching the burying of Harry Garnett. The mysterious woman sniffled and cried, while a hopeless prayer poured from Josie’s heart with her head bowed. The night darkened, and the yellow lantern outshone every shape and form. Even the hunched old man, who now patted the dirt with the back of his shovel, seemed only a shadow of life. The glow of the lamp consumed all of Josie’s attention. No moon shone in the dark sky. The lantern was the only light.

  “May God be with you, madams. All is done now.” The man slung his shovel on his shoulder and tipped his hat. He stomped through the graveyard. His final farewell sounded in the loud slam of the cemetery gate.

  They waited. Josie was not sure what was to happen next. Her unsteady breath warmed the air beneath her veil. Her skin crawled as silence widened between them. Life was far away, the distant murmur of the village carried on the breeze.

  “There now, easy enough.” The whisper came like a slithering snake into Josie’s consciousness. “Only a moment longer. There was nothing unusual. No traps set.”

  “What traps?”

  “Sometimes they’ll lace the dirt with straw so it’s more difficult for grave robbers to shovel. In Boston, they’ve even made cages to go on top of the dirt. Sawing through that creates quite a ruckus for the snatchers.”

  “Are they that desperate for a body?” Josie barely said. It was a thought more than a question.

  “The price is right, and besides—” The woman pulled her shawl closer, a smart idea in this chilly night. “Imagine the discoveries that might be made.”

  Josie understood how important discoveries were—she’d longed for them when her mother was ill. Yet, she’d known no other doctor but Chadwick. And he was hardly someone to depend on for advancements in medicine. His wild face haunted Josie’s mind, setting off an uncontrollable shiver throughout her body. The glint of the knife, the fog in her sickened head, the fear that iced her as if she were a corpse already.

  Hollow church bells called her from the nightmarish memory. Eight o’clock. She would never listen to those wise notes the same again. They may as well be a banshee cry. That clock tower was a holy mourner standing tall at a distance, saddened beyond the death, but in the thick of thievery.

  “We shall both kneel,” the woman instructed.

  “How will Alvin know it is safe?”

  “We’ll blow out the candle. He’ll know that all is well.” The woman began to kneel. “If we keep the candle lit past the hour, then he’ll know something is off.”

  “Would he come?”

  “No. Only if he sees the light snuffed out.”

  Josie joined her on her knees, the fresh earth cooling through her skirts. She reached out and pressed on the soil, once again praying God’s mercy.

  The woman leaned over and blew out the candle.

  Every image was a smudge of charcoal against even blacker shadows. The woman’s breath was steady. “Any moment now … we’ll hear—” The gate moaned. All seemed still around them; no footsteps could be heard. Josie’s stomach shook. She pressed the flowers to her nose, begging for some calm. But none came. She squeezed her arms around her frame, trying to warm up, but she was certain the chill came from the inside out.

  “Do you have your ointment?”

  “I do.”

  “Pass it to him.” The woman sat back on her heels. “Now.”

  Josie looked around but could see nothing. She may as well have been stuck in the box below. “Where—where is he?”

  A warm breath skimmed her ear. “I am right here.” Alvin’s sinister words lurched Josie forward and away. The lilacs tumbled on the fresh earth of the grave.

  Both the woman and Alvin chuckled. Josie stood up and flung the ointment in Alvin’s direction.

  “Ow,” he rasped. She could not see where it hit him, but she was satisfied that it had.

  “How dare you, Alvin Green.” Josie crossed her arms. He shuffled on the ground beneath her, probably looking for the ointment bottle.

  The other woman stood with Josie. “You are as foolish as your father,” she hissed.

  Josie clenched her teeth. Her heart thudded against her chest, beating anger and sadness and heartache all at once.

  “Enough.” Alvin stood up and pushed past them. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled Josie’s nostrils. He had used the ointment.

  The crunch of a shovel plunging into the earth made Josie jump.

  It had begun.

&nb
sp; “As soon as the body is lifted out, you will fill the hole and then place the lilacs atop the dirt. Good as new,” the woman instructed.

  “What will you do?” Josie’s patience was thin, and she could not withhold the challenge in her voice.

  “I will tell you what to do,” the woman warned. “And I will wait for him at the gate to help.”

  Josie’s lip began to quiver. All she could do was pray for God to be near. She bent down and gathered up the lilacs. What had Mother said these flowers symbolized?

  A small whimper escaped Josie as she realized she had forgotten her mother’s wisdom.

  “Hush,” the woman whispered.

  They stood by Alvin, hearing more than seeing his work. Alvin dug at a faster pace than the gravedigger had. There was no rhythm to the dirt being dumped into a heap beside the grave. After several minutes passed, a blunt thud told her that he’d reached the box. What was next, how would he—? Josie strained to see through the dark into the silence. But it wasn’t quiet for long. The sound of a saw scraping into wood signaled what Alvin was doing.

  Oh Lord, let us not be found out. A selfish prayer, yet the only prayer that bubbled from her soul.

  After some time, the moonlight offered a translucent view. Josie gripped her mouth with a clammy hand. Alvin pulled the body up by the head through a vertical hole in the dirt. The rigid corpse’s bloodless skin caught the eerie moonlight, and Josie gasped. She could look no longer, turning away and weeping into her elbow.

  Lord, forgive us.

  “We’ll be at the canal,” Alvin whispered as he wrapped the body in a blanket. The woman had gone. “You must leave this grave like you first saw it then bring me the tool I left for you.” Alvin trudged away with the body across his shoulders.

  Once she could no longer hear him, Josie crumpled to the mound of dirt, crying and shaking.

  Could she ever do this again? She prayed for deliverance from this night forward. She must be brave now though. Gasping in the crisp night air, she wiped her tears away.

  With her gloved fingers and a small spade that Alvin left behind, Josie began to fill in Harry Garnett’s empty grave.

  Chapter Twelve

  Braham stormed out of the tavern after sitting through an infuriating reprimand from Gerald while Mr. Bellingham guzzled his drink. There was no reasoning with Gerald. He would never take Braham’s word that everything had been done to prevent accidents from occurring. The man would forever see Braham as the servant beneath him instead of a partner in keeping Gloughton Mill up and running.

  Mr. Bellingham held a nasty sneer throughout the whole conversation then finally piped in, “I’ve got at least two good men who can take the burden from you, Mr. Taylor. They’d love nothing more than to tighten up shop around that factory.”

  Braham took that offer as a replacement for his position, not an addition to it. His heels stabbed the road with heavy thuds as he stomped to his horse. The blood pumped in his ears. He’d write his uncle’s executor to outline the conditions of the trust, and then he’d try to convince Gerald to reconsider selling. If Aunt Myrtle was not so ill, he’d seek her advice. She would have a mighty opinion about her brother’s mill leaving the family by Gerald’s whim. But Braham could not risk upsetting her now.

  He took in a long breath to cool his anger. A shadowy movement caught his attention down the road. Mist rolled onto the factory bridge, and a figure mingled within it. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was nothing. Perhaps his temper had gotten the best of him. He continued to his cart, but a miserable moan erupted from the mist. The dark movement from before once again appeared. He stumbled forward, trying to keep his gaze steady enough to make out whatever it was that made such an agonizing sound. But the mist swallowed up the figure again. His heart stilled. All was still. Silence was thick.

  Just like the wax he’d found on the factory door, Braham suspected that mischief lay somewhere in the mist. He prayed that he was meant to find it out instead of turning the other way and calling on Constable James.

  He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm up the chill spreading through his veins.

  There! Another shadow. Yet, it was gone as quickly as it appeared. What moved along the bridge? Something strange was going on near his factory.

  “Hello there,” Braham forced out.

  The squawk of a crow answered him. He looked up and around, but he presumed the bird was hidden by the trees towering over the cemetery to his right. Another moan from beyond the mist summoned him closer to the bridge. The railing appeared through the fog. He reached out to steady himself. Closer still. The board creaked as he stepped on the bridge. The mist broke apart, revealing a figure dressed in black standing at the very center of the bridge.

  “Who is there?” Braham bellowed. He tightened his grip on the rail.

  The figure turned, lifting up a black veil.

  Pale, beautiful, wrought with fright.

  “Miss Clay?” He dashed toward her. Her round eyes were rimmed red, and her cheeks were stained with tears. She was cloaked in black from head to toe; only a few golden curls fell around her face from beneath the veil piled atop her hat.

  “Oh Mr. Taylor,” she blurted in the same tone as the cries that coaxed him near. “I apologize that you are seeing me like this.” She shook her head and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her fingers trembled as she wiped her eyes.

  “You are shivering.” He quickly unbuttoned his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. A mint and floral scent filled the air. He stayed close, wrapping his arm around her. “Come, I see the light from the kitchen over the wall. Let us warm you up.”

  “You mustn’t—” Miss Clay tried to pull away. A splash came from below. The woman stiffened in his arms. “Please, Mr. Taylor, you must go.”

  Braham’s nostrils flared as he searched her widened eyes. He then rushed over to the rail and called out, “Who is there?” But the mist was thick. Rhythmic slaps of water grew faint.

  He spun around. Miss Clay leaned against the opposite rail, sobbing into her handkerchief. His coat hung off one shoulder.

  “Come, Miss Clay. You shall explain this oddity. But first, we must go inside.” He led her across the bridge and through the garden. All the while she leaned into him, sniffling. Her frame shook with silent weeping, and his heart nearly splintered in his chest. When they entered the kitchen, Fran gawked in their direction, holding a shovel of ash over a dying fire.

  “Do not put that out quite yet, dear Fran. Miss Clay is chilled to the bone.” He gently guided her forward with his hand on her back. Fran set the shovel down with a clatter and rushed to retrieve a stool. Miss Clay sat, reaching her hands to the heat. Her crying had settled, but her body still shook.

  “I was just going to bed. Been a long day.” Fran worked about the counter beside the hearth. She poured some tea into a cup and handed it to Miss Clay. “My, my, dear girl. I’ve never heard of a funeral lasting this long into the night.”

  “The funeral ended several hours ago, Fran. I missed it. Only went to pray over—” Miss Clay’s words were weary as she held the cup to her lips but did not sip. “I—I cannot say—” Her lips quivered, and streams of tears spilled down her face.

  Braham said quickly, “Fran, I shall speak with Miss Clay. Please, do not worry. I shall put the fire out and lock up on my way home.”

  Fran nodded fervently. She tossed a worried look to Miss Clay. “You comfort her, sir.” She patted his arm. “Such a sweet girl, she is. You are a good fellow for her.” Her brow lowered with seriousness, yet the edges of her mouth wobbled with a smile. She bustled out of the kitchen. He should not even consider being a good fellow for anyone—not now, when so much was at stake. Although, he could not control the emotion swirling about at the sight of this distressed woman. Just as he could not control the careless accidents of his employees.

  He pulled up a chair beside Miss Clay. “Please, tell me that you are not hurt.”

  “No, not at all.”
She breathed in deeply, cradling the cup in her lap. “Well, perhaps my heart hurts the most.” She wagged her head and seemed to swallow back a sob. “’Tis my father.”

  Braham was tempted to gather her into his arms and comfort her properly. “Is he ill?”

  She shook her head then looked at him for the first time since they sat down. Her lips were blood red, glistening in the warm light. “I found out that he is in much danger because of his business … mishaps.”

  “I see.” Braham leaned his forearms on his knees. “Was his man in the boat?”

  “Boat?” Josie stared hard at the fire. “Yes. He brought a boat here.”

  Relief filled Braham knowing that the mysterious meeting on the bridge seemed to stem from a family affair—nothing to do with his factory. This woman, though, was not relieved one bit. He refrained from reaching out his hand.

  “Didn’t Fran mention a funeral?” He spoke softly.

  “Yes,” she said as quiet as a leaf falling upon the forest floor. “I went to show my respects. The poor soul had no family.” She grimaced then turned away.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Clay. It is never easy—”

  “No, it is not,” she nearly snapped. Her mouth fell open and she turned to face him quickly. “Oh Mr. Taylor, I am sorry for my tone.” She placed her hand on his. Her slender fingers were tiny against his own. He could only stare, afraid she would feel the pulse her touch ignited. She pulled her hand away. Her brow cinched, and she once again paid attention to the fire. “You see, my tears, while partly shed for the fate of that man—” She shook her head. Her chest rose with another deep breath. “But also because my father’s future is nearly as desolate. His man does not assure any good news.”

  She set her cup of tea on the hearth at her knees then untied her hat and placed it in her lap. Braham shifted his gaze from the loosely bound mass of curls cascading down her back to the dancing flames. He refrained from wondering at her beauty and instead pondered her words. He leaned back in his chair, having just sat in a business meeting with terrible fellows.