by Hester Fox
Ignoring her question, Caleb removed his hat and gave a short bow to a table of well-dressed women. “Ladies.”
An older woman in a silk bonnet put down her cup. “Why, Mr. Bishop, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months! Prudie said she saw you going into the Beacon Club—you haven’t forsaken us, have you?”
“Never,” he said, sweeping a low bow and planting a chivalrous kiss on the woman’s gloved hand. “Cards is all I’m after in there. I could never abandon your charming company, or your cause. If you’ll excuse me, though, I have promised my friend here a pot of coffee and some of your renowned delicacies.”
“Of course.” She craned her neck to get a look at Tabby and gave her a warm smile. “I do hope you both enjoy. You must try the buns—Mrs. Denny made them.”
When the woman had returned to her conversation with her friends, Tabby tugged Caleb’s sleeve. “What cause?” she asked him. “What is this place?”
“It’s a ladies’ suffrage club, and they practice temperance,” he finally replied as he pulled a chair out for her. “They run the coffeehouse, and use the proceeds to fund their work.”
“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I didn’t realize you were interested in women’s suffrage. Or temperance.”
He gave her a look. “I don’t take spirits,” he said without elaborating. “Here.” He handed her a little card that listed all the café’s offerings.
After Caleb had ordered them a pot of coffee and a heaping plate of Mrs. Denny’s sweet buns dripping with honey, Tabby broached her concerns again. “What did you and Mr. Whitby talk about? Would you tell me if you were in trouble?” She watched as he took a long sip of coffee as if he wasn’t going to answer. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
Sighing, he put his cup down and leaned back in his seat. “You’re a love for your concern, but I am a grown man capable of handling my own affairs. Just because you stumbled into this mess doesn’t mean you should be involved. Really, we hardly know each other.”
The bun she had been holding crumbled in her fingers. His words stung. Of course she didn’t have any claim over him, any right to know the first thing about his affairs. She hadn’t even known that he was a sober man, or that he frequented a women’s suffrage club for goodness’ sake. Yet she had thought he might at the very least see her as an ally, a friend.
His expression softened and he reached forward, patting her hand. “I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. But I have enough going on without worrying if you’re getting into trouble.”
She nodded, but a shiver of foreboding ran through her. He didn’t understand people the way she did. He didn’t know that sometimes the hand that reached out to help you was also the hand that could strike you the hardest.
* * *
Caleb saw Tabby safely home, and then turned back to his own house with leaden feet. Despite what he had told her, the meeting with Whitby had not gone particularly well. As he had worried, several investors had pulled their funding on finding out that the new owner was in prison awaiting trial on charges of murder. Even worse, Whitby had told him that the police did not have any other suspects for Rose’s murder. It looked as if he would have to stand trial, and hope for the mercy of a reasonable judge and jury.
“Well, how did it go?” His mother greeted him at the door, wringing her hands.
“Swimmingly, Mother,” he said with a quick peck on her cheek. “Couldn’t have gone better.”
She followed him into the drawing room as he shrugged off his coat and poured himself a glass of water. “Does that mean that the charges have been dropped? Is the business safe?”
Downing his drink, he closed his eyes and gathered himself. He didn’t like lying to his mother, but after a lifetime of safeguarding the woman’s nerves and protecting her from his father’s malice, he was surprisingly good at it. “We did lose an investor or two, but Whitby says all told that it could have been a lot worse. He’s optimistic that we’ll come out of this stronger than ever.”
The tightness in her face melted into relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Your father would turn over in his grave if the business was in trouble.”
Caleb inwardly winced at his mother’s choice of words.
“I just keep thinking about poor Rose,” she continued. “I do hope the police take the hunt for her murder seriously and not just bandy about ridiculous accusations. And you, my poor boy, I can’t help but worry for you.”
“For God’s sake, Mother, don’t waste your fears on me. I assure you they are entirely unfounded.”
Nevertheless, she gave a put-upon sigh. “To lose your father—your mentor!—and then your betrothed, and so close together... Well, I mourn for your broken heart.”
A stab of guilt ran through Caleb. Rose’s sudden death horrified him. Because he had only heard bits and pieces of how it happened, his imagination filled in the rest, and he had a very colorful imagination. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her sprawled on the floor, her limbs splayed like a broken doll in a pool of blood. But the horrible fact of the matter was he didn’t miss Rose as much as he should. Oh, he did miss her, but not in the way of a tortured lover. He missed her easy manner, and the proficient way she had of handling things. He missed the security and companionship that she would have provided, but his heart was stubbornly intact. And, well, he missed his father not at all.
“Caleb?”
He snapped from his thoughts, looking up to see his mother gazing at him with concern. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
She frowned. “Never mind.” Standing up, she gave a weary sigh. “I’m retiring for the night. Mind that you don’t stay up too late.”
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 EVEN been 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 tha
t 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, titled The 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.
It was a sapphire or topaz, some sort of deep blue stone, and it was set in filigree and hung from an earring hook. It was exquisite; by far the most precious thing that she had ever held in her hand. But that wasn’t what gave her pause. There was no question that it was a woman’s piece of jewelry. Perhaps Mr. Whitby kept it as the relic of some doomed love affair, or an acquaintance had lost it and he had yet to reunite it with her. Or perhaps there was a more sinister explanation. Slipping it into her pocket, Tabby gently closed the box and returned it to its place on the desk. To stay any longer would be to press her luck too far, and even if the jewel was nothing, it was the closest thing she had found to a clue.
“Looking for something?”
The voice stopped her heart in her chest, and she spun around. A dark shape in the doorway stepped forward, revealing every intimidating inch of Mr. Whitby. “Miss Cooke, what a charming surprise.”
No matter what he had seen, there was nothing she could do to explain her presence in his study in the middle of the day. Her tongue was suddenly thick, her feet slow. She just stared at him.
Moving
into the room with lethal grace, Mr. Whitby came right up to her until she thought he was going to grab her by the shoulders and shake her senseless. But he continued moving past her to a sideboard and picked up a glass.
“You seem to have an inordinate amount of interest in me,” he said casually as he fixed himself a drink. Did she have enough time to make a dash for the door? Before she could find out, Mr. Whitby turned, drink in hand, and placed himself between her and the only exit. “First following me on the street and now appearing uninvited in my study. I won’t flatter myself that you have any sort of romantic designs on me, but I must say I find it curious that you make such an effort to put yourself in my path.”
She forced herself to return his cold, unyielding gaze. “You killed Rose.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. What was she thinking? The last thing she ought to do was provoke him. As the air between them grew hot and prickly from the accusation, some animal instinct inside of her screamed for her to flee. But before she could obey, he was lunging toward her, hands reaching for her like the talons of a bird of prey.
He was going to kill her, she thought numbly as his glass shattered on the floor. She had always prided herself on her survival instincts, had always thought that she was made of stronger stuff, but as she watched him approaching her at lightning speed, all she could do was shrink down into herself and pray that she was wrong about his intentions.
Stumbling back, she would have hit the desk except that elegant hands grabbed her by the collar and jerked her back up.
Time stopped and she froze in place, his hands still at her neck. “How dare you,” he hissed. His cold blue eyes were mere inches from hers, his breath hot and unpleasant on her skin. “You come into my house, rifle through my belongings, and then accuse me of murder.”
