Page 24 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
On a sudden impulse, Caleb stood as well, drawing his mother into an embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of talcum and lemons that had comforted him since he was a little boy. “You’re a dear, do you know that?”
His mother blushed, abashedly swatting him away. “Oh, come now.”
“No, it’s true. Don’t worry yourself about me or the business. I’ll take care of everything.” But even as he said the words, he doubted in his own ability to carry them out.
12
“AND THE EYES THAT CANNOT WEEP ARE THE SADDEST EYES OF ALL.”
IT HADN’T EVENbeen a week, but Tabby couldn’t wait a full month to perform her ritual of trying to contact Alice. Tea with Caleb—Mr. Bishop, she corrected herself—had brought the standing of their relationship into sharp relief. Just because her heart sped up and the sun shone brighter when she was with him didn’t mean that he felt even remotely the same about her. And honestly, she should be thanking her lucky stars that he felt that way, as she had no business pining after a man she could never give herself to. Perhaps she mistook the throbbing in her chest as love, when in fact it was only loneliness.
Loneliness, at least, was a familiar ache. Though it would mean her sister was dead, Tabby longed to make contact with her, even if it was just a glimpse of her face through the dark ether. Would Alice still have the same auburn hair done up in plaits as when they were children? Would she open her arms to Tabby and welcome her into her comforting embrace? She would do anything to see her sister one more time, anything to soothe the burning ache of loneliness.
Settling down on her usual church step, Tabby took a deep breath and allowed her mind to open.
All was still, the night sounds of the city far away and subdued. Tabby kept her breath steady, her body tensed and expectant. But the apparition that appeared before her was not her sister.
Rose’s spirit was little more than the pale husk of a woman, her skin sallow, her mouth slack. Rose did not speak, but Tabby could see the pain, the confusion in her sunken eyes.
She would not squander her opportunity to speak to Rose.You asked for my help, but I need yours first. You must think back to your last moments as a living being. Who killed you? You sang a song that I heard Mr. Whitby humming before—was it him?If Rose told her that it had been Caleb, Tabby was not sure that she could bear it.
The spirit opened her blackened lips, and a terrible choking noise came out, raising the hairs on the back of Tabby’s neck.
I know it’s hard, I’m so sorry. I would not ask if it wasn’t of the gravest importance.
But if Rose could speak, she did not.Was it...was it Caleb? Tabby asked in a whisper.
Slowly, so slowly, Rose shook her head. Tabby let out a breath. Caleb, at least, was not guilty.Was it Whitby?
This time, Rose nodded. It was a jerky motion, her neck bobbling unnaturally. Any relief Tabby had felt quickly evaporated. She’d had her suspicions, but now they were confirmed. Mr. Whitby was wealthy, connected. He would not be an easy man to accuse of murder, especially when Caleb was already under suspicion.
Rose was trembling, a leaf clinging to a branch in the wind. Tabby did not know what toll it took on the dead to appear to her, so she let her go.Good-bye, Rose. Go in peace.
When Tabby was back in bed with the quilt pulled up to her chin, she lay there for hours, thinking. The encounter had set her mind at ease, but the fact still remained: the words of a ghost were not proof enough to free Caleb, and if he was to be acquitted, then she was going to have to find clear, irrefutable proof. Perhaps he would see her in a different light if she was the one to exonerate him. Perhaps he would take her seriously, less like a little sister and more like a grown woman with love to give.
It was only as Tabby was standing across the street from the modest brick home two days later, that she realized what a daft idea this was. She had gone to Mr. Whitby’s office once again the evening before and followed him home, this time with an overabundance of caution, and found that he lived on Beacon Hill, not far from Hammond House. Satisfied that he would be at work for the day, she knew she would be able to get inside and look around without him the wiser. The only problem was she couldn’t very well walk up to the front door and knock...could she? What if she played the lost waif, frightened and hungry and in need of succor? She had done it before, though it had not been an act then. No, there was no guarantee that the staff would take pity on her and invite her inside. And even if they did, they would most likely take her to the kitchen, below stairs and far from Mr. Whitby’s personal rooms. It was too risky; she would have to slip in undetected.
Hurrying around the side of the house, she found a worker leaning casually against the wall while he smoked a pipe. She froze, and waited for him to yell at her, but all he did was cock his head toward the open side door and say, “Deliveries through there.” She nodded before he could question why she didn’t have anything with her, and bolted inside.
She did not have much experience in the houses of wealthy folks, but thinking back on the layout of Hammond house, she found her way to the staircase and quietly made her way upstairs. When she reached the main hall, she stood still, straining her ear and trying to hear past the pounding of her heart. From somewhere upstairs came the muffled chatter of maids as they worked. The house was not empty, but Tabby would be quick. She would find what she needed and then slip out before anyone even knew she was there.
The carpet under her feet was plush, but the floorboards beneath it groaned in protest as she made her way down the dark wood-paneled hall, and she had to stop frequently, waiting for them to settle.
The first room off the hall was a drawing room, followed by a dining room on the opposite side. That left the last door on the right. It was ajar and she was just able to slip in without creaking it open any farther.
Perspiration was starting to gather on her brow. What was she looking for, exactly? Surely if Mr. Whitby had committed the murder, he would have more sense than to leave a bloody knife lying on his desk. But if there were going to be answers anywhere, it would be here in his study. She was certain of it.
Heavy damask curtains were drawn in the study, casting the room in melancholy shadows despite the bright day, but she didn’t dare open them as she slowly tiptoed inside. An entire wall of the room was given over to books lined neatly on shelves. Unable to help herself, Tabby gravitated toward them. Eli always said that there was nothing so important in life than to be able to read and write, and had taught her how to when she first came to him. Yet books were expensive, and were a rare luxury in their household, with the Bible and a handful of short story volumes comprising their entire library. Instead, Tabby had read and reread the inscriptions on the gravestones, imagining the lives that had inspired such tender and heartfelt words. When there was enough money, Tabby bought cheap penny papers that left her with inky fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the satisfying weight of a book in her hands.
Mr. Whitby’s collection proved to be disappointing, however. There was an unsurprising amount of law volumes, treatises on British corn tariffs, an anatomy book from the last century, and titles in languages she couldn’t even identify. Tabby allowed her fingers to trail over the leather spines, reveling in the gilded titles and embellishments. One, titledThe Fugitive Slave Act, caught her eye. Had Mr. Whitby helped draft that reprehensible law? Wicked man. She wouldn’t be surprised. With a shudder, she moved on.
The great desk which dominated the room seemed like the obvious place to start, and as she grew closer, she felt as if an invisible string pulled her toward it. The first two drawers opened easily, but after rifling through them she didn’t find anything more than documents and paper packets. The bottom drawer was locked. Mr. Bishop’s spirit had told her that he had kept his important ledgers in the bottom drawer of his desk behind a false panel. Perhaps Mr. Whitby did the same.
Just as she was feeling along the woodgrain for a latch, a noise in the hall stopped her, something that might have been the creak of a footstep or nothing more than the house settling. She froze, waiting for it to come again. When her legs had grown hot and tingly from sitting on her heels and she didn’t hear the noise again, she let out her breath and resumed searching.
The bottom drawer wouldn’t open, and she couldn’t risk spending any more time trying to force it. Switching her focus to the top of the desk, Tabby ran her hands over the sparse items on the well-polished surface: a stack of newspapers, a handsome set of pens and blotting sand, a small wooden box inlaid with ivory. Gingerly, Tabby put her thumb to the lid of the box and pushed it up. To her surprise, it opened easily.
In the dim light she could just make out the hodge-podge of contents. There were a few loose buttons, stamps, and coins...the normal assortment of homeless items that find their way into a such a box, only to be forgotten. But then something caught the little bit of light coming through a crack in the curtains, reflecting back at her. Fishing it out, Tabby held up the small bauble for a closer look.
