The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

by Hester Fox

  The air around them had gone very still as she spoke, the noise of the prison melting into the background. He stared at her.

  She shouldn’t have told him. It didn’t matter that she would never see him again. What mattered was that he didn’t believe her. She could see it on his face, the wariness, the incredulity. She had been right to build up a wall around her heart. She could never hope to walk amongst the living, to thrive like a normal young woman. Her sister was gone, and with her, the only person that would ever understand Tabby. She was destined to wander through this half-life lonely and misunderstood.

  She braced herself for his words, but it didn’t make it any easier when they broke over her like frigid waves.

  “You aren’t serious.” He searched her face, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile. But the smile quickly faded when she didn’t say anything. “You are serious.”

  She just stared at him, hoping against hope that he would see her earnestness. He returned her look in full measure. “Tabby, love, all that spiritualism and speaking with the dead...it’s all nonsense and parlor tricks, you do know that, don’t you?”

  When she still didn’t say anything, he took a step back. “Oh Christ, Tabby. Is it money that you’re after? You know, I’m quite familiar with your kind. A woman claiming to be a medium fleeced my mother of twenty dollars after my father died. Has that been your aim all along? Is that why you’re so determined to involve yourself in my affairs?”

  Suddenly she was back in the churchyard, Beth Bunn and the other children’s taunts ringing in her ears. He may have had her secret now, but he would not have her dignity. Before he could see the hot tears welling in her eyes, she turned and fled.

  15

  IN WHICH THERE IS A PAINFUL GOOD-BYE

  AND AN UNLIKELY PLAN FORMED.

  AFTER SHE HAD emerged from the prison, Tabby had headed toward the docks, where she would blend in with the crowds of servants and housewives at the fish market. More than anything she wanted to run to Eli, but what if she led Mr. Whitby to him? She didn’t know how badly she had injured Whitby, but it would only be a matter of time before he came looking for her, if he wasn’t already. For all she knew, he might have someone chasing after her. She didn’t doubt that a man like him could find anyone he wanted in this city.

  She just had to see Eli one last time, and then she would disappear, leave the cemetery, and ensure that she never put his life in danger. Eli had once told her that there was a warren of tunnels that ran beneath the cemetery, once used by privateers in the old days, and now abandoned. But Tabby didn’t know where they originated, so instead she took a long, circuitous route to ensure that no one would follow her.

  She found Eli stooped over in the back of the cemetery pulling weeds, perspiration beading his balding temples. When he heard her approaching, he looked up, the plants falling from his hands. “Tabby,” he said, slowly rising. “Where’ve you been, girl?”

  Had it really been only that morning that she had been in Mr. Whitby’s house? Only an hour since she had stood opposite Caleb with nothing but iron bars separating them?

  She let herself be folded into his embrace, his familiar scent of pipe tobacco and shaving tonic wash over her.

  “I—I was helping Mary-Ruth with a laying out.”

  Pulling back, he studied her with a frown. His dark eyes swept over her torn collar and disheveled hair. “Mary-Ruth was here, looking for you.”

  “Oh, that must have been before we crossed paths,” she said lamely.

  Tabby didn’t know if she was a good liar or not; she so rarely had to do it. But he only gave her an unreadable look and nodded. “Well, you’re home now.”

  She didn’t say anything else. How could she tell him that this wasn’t permanent, that she had to leave? The flowering tree boughs swayed gently in the breeze, the sweet scent of pollen making her want nothing more than to stretch out on the warm grass and drift off to sleep.

  She was just about to tell him that she couldn’t stay, when the heavy-set figure of a woman came bustling along the path.

  “Tabby Cooke! Are you coming for supper? I haven’t seen you in church lately, but then, you never came regular. You sure your pa is feeding you right? You know that you always have a seat at our table.”

  Tabby gave Miss Suze a weak smile, trying not to dwell on the memories from the last time she had been there. “I’m afraid not today. I was just telling Eli that I have to go away for a while. You see, I’ve found a relative—a cousin—that lives in Rockport, and she’s invited me to visit.”

  Eli gave her a long look. “A cousin?”

  “Yes, it was a surprise to me, as well.” Shifting in her boots, Tabby forced herself to push on. “It’s just for a month or so, and then I’ll be back in time to help in the winter.” The lies tasted like acid on her tongue.

  Squinting up at the cloudless sky, Eli scrubbed a weary hand over his stubbled chin. “I don’t like this, Tabby, not one bit. You only just came home and you look like you’ve been through the mill. How come you never mentioned this cousin before?”

  “I never knew her. I only just discovered that she lived in Boston.”

  “I thought you said she lived in Rockport,” Miss Suze said.

  “Her family summers in Rockport,” Tabby quickly amended. “That’s what I meant.”

  “I don’t like this, Tabby,” Eli repeated. “You’re a grown woman and you can come and go as you please, but I worry about you. At least stay for supper.”

  She opened her mouth, but Miss Suze tutted. “Your pa is right. At least come in and sit with us for some supper. You can’t travel on an empty stomach.”

  Tabby wavered in her resolve. Her stomach was growling and it would be so nice just to sit down with Eli at their little table again, for one last time. She could leave at first light in the morning and make certain that no one saw her. “All right,” she relented. “Just for supper.”

  * * *

  After Tabby left, Caleb sat on the hard bench covered in straw ticking that served as his bed. Through the narrow window the sounds of a city at work drifted in, as familiar as his own heartbeat, yet foreign as a half-forgotten dream. Here he had thought that Miss Cooke was an innocent, but she was nothing more than a charlatan, taking advantage of the grieving just as the medium had done with his mother.

  But what was more important was the message she had brought about Whitby. If Tabby was to be believed, then he was dangerous, malicious. Could she be believed about anything, though? His brief, unbelievable conversation with her played through his mind over and over. If what she said was true, then his situation was hopeless, dire, even. But why would Whitby work to get him out of prison the first time, only to make sure he was arrested again shortly thereafter?

  Rubbing his stiff knees, Caleb finally stood and stretched, the rush of fresh blood that pumped through his body revitalizing him. The most sensible course of action would be to hire a good lawyer, see the trial through, and hope that the jury was reasonable. But that was in a perfect world where things were fair and actually worked the way they should, not in a world where greedy men killed innocent young women for their own gain. It was a gamble, and while he relished a good game of odds, he was not particularly keen to do so when the stakes were his life.

  If Whitby was truly the murderer, as Tabby claimed, then Caleb would be sitting in this cell until his hair turned gray or he was executed, whichever came first. Whitby would never fall under suspicion, and even if he did, he would quickly be cleared thanks to his connections and name. As the sounds of carts and fishmongers transitioned into the laughter and chatter of dock workers making their way home for the day, the only possible solution became clear: Tabby was right. He had to escape.

  As Caleb took stock of his miserable cell and what was available to him, he couldn’t help but let out a grim laugh. If someone had told him a month ago that h
is father would die and leave him the business, and then his father’s scheming business partner would murder Caleb’s fiancée in order to exact a perverse revenge and gain control of the company, he would have slapped them on the shoulder, saying it was the best joke he’d heard in a long time. But here he was, plotting his escape from prison so that he would not risk standing trial and being found guilty by a bribed jury. God worked in mysterious ways, as his mother was so fond of saying, but he would have paid good money to ask God what He was thinking with this level of absurdity.

  His thoughts were interrupted by an officer bringing Caleb’s evening tray of stale bread and thin barley soup. Caleb recognized the blond man with the close-cropped hair as one of the officers that had been present at his first arrest, and then had supervised his visit with Tabby earlier that day. Officer Hodgeson or something to that effect.

  It wasn’t until the next morning when the same officer came to collect his tray that the spark of an idea took root in Caleb’s head. An inventory of his cell the previous night had made it clear that Caleb was not going to carry off some daring escape involving a tunnel or scaling walls. He hadn’t the patience for digging, let alone the musculature. No, there was only one way out of here, and it was to use his wits.

  Caleb had noticed the way the officer had watched Tabby’s every move, the quick duck of his head when she turned her gaze in his direction, the color touching his cheeks when she addressed him. Despite the officer’s look of wide-eyed innocence and his boyish demeanor, he was well built and tall, bigger than Caleb.

  Officer Hodsdon—as Caleb learned his name was eventually—did not come every day. Sometimes it was the warden or some other nameless officer. But when he was on duty, Caleb made a point to chat with him, find out everything he could about him. He learned that the young man had injured his hand in the line of duty, and that he had been relegated to work within the prison until he mended. He’d recently lost his mother, and her dying wish was that her son reach the rank of sergeant.

  “Back on dinner duty?” Caleb asked in a pleasant tone.

  Officer Hodsdon was juggling three trays in one hand, grappling with his ring of keys in the other. He grunted in answer.

  “Seems like you could use some help.”

  Slipping Caleb’s tray through the slot in the bars, Officer Hodsdon gave a little shrug. “We used to have a girl that handled all the meals and linen collection, but it became clear that her presence was a distraction to the prisoners and guards alike, and she was let go.”

  As far as steering the conversation went, it was rather clumsy, but Caleb had only a few seconds before Officer Hodsdon moved on to the next cell, so he took his chance. “Speaking of girls, do you know that young woman who visits me? The one with red hair and the clouded eyes?”

  Pausing, Officer Hodsdon regarded him with something between wariness and suspicion. “Miss Cooke.”

  “That’s right.” Caleb gave him an encouraging smile. “She mentioned you the last time she was here. Said you looked too kind to work at a place like this.”

  If Officer Hodsdon was intrigued, his face didn’t betray anything. A flush of shame ran through Caleb that he would dangle Tabby in front of this man, like some sort of pretty fairground prize. He decided to try a different angle. “She’s a medium, you know.” Caleb held his breath, trying to look nonchalant as he waited to see if the officer would take the bait.

  Now this seemed to pique his interest. “She is?”

  Caleb rubbed at the back of his neck. God, he was dirty and in need of a bath. “Oh yes. I’d wager she could contact someone for you. Your mother, say.”

  Unmistakable interest crossed the officer’s face, and immediately there was a shift in his demeanor. “You know, we see each other every day. You might as well call me Billy,” he said.

  When Billy was done with the trays, he came back, a pack of cards in his hand. “I don’t suppose you play? Half the men in here can barely count to ten and I’m fit to expire of boredom.”

  Caleb was only too happy to oblige. Dragging a little table right up to the cell, Billy began dealing and Caleb scraped his chair over to position it between the bars.

  They played their cards in silence, Billy occasionally getting up to patrol the other cells in the hall, and Caleb making sure to play well, but not well enough to beat his guard.

  “I could put in a good word for you with her,” Caleb said carefully as he laid his cards out.

  He didn’t say who, and he didn’t need to. The cards in Billy’s hand stilled. “You would?”

  “Of course!” Caleb exclaimed, like they were the oldest friends in the world.

  There was silence as Billy considered his play before sliding Caleb a sly look. “You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? You’re sure you’re not just trying to see her again?”

  Caleb feigned intense interest in his cards. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “She doesn’t mean anything to me. Just a friend of my mother’s.”

  Billy rubbed at his chin, presumably to hide the pink flush from creeping up farther. The man really was smitten with Tabby, and could Caleb blame him? She might have been a fraud and a liar, but she was an uncommonly striking young woman.

  “I don’t know,” Billy said at last, folding his cards on the table and leaning back, his fingers laced behind his head. “I can’t just accept favors from prisoners. If I want to make sergeant, then I have to walk the straight and narrow.”

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind.” Caleb flashed him his most charming smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  * * *

  After four days and no sign that Billy would take Caleb up on his offer, Caleb’s hope began to wane. Was it imperative that Billy did? No, but it would certainly make Caleb’s plan easier. He needed Billy to let his guard down, so to speak, in more ways than one.

  So it took Caleb by surprise when bringing him his tray one morning, Billy slid him a curious, almost sheepish look.

  “Is she really a medium?” he asked. “She can speak with the dead?”

  Caleb chose his words carefully. “That’s right. She’s not like some of the charlatans peddling false promises and nonsense around Boston. I’ve witnessed her gift for myself.” How anyone could believe such tripe was beyond him, but Billy seemed intrigued.

  Leaning against the wall, Billy folded his arms in consideration. “I’d like to see her again. If you’re still willing to arrange something, that is.”

  Caleb’s pulse beat faster but he kept his voice steady. “Of course. I’m afraid that we left on rather poor terms the last time I saw her, but fetch me paper and pen and I’ll write to her.”

  “Well, I’d wager you will have more luck with her than I would. She would hardly look at me when she came last time, even though she was nothing but courteous when I called on her at home.”

  When had Billy met with Tabby outside the prison? But he couldn’t very well ask without sounding suspicious, so he kept his questions to himself.

  If the weak shaft of light coming from his sliver of a window was any indication, then it was still daytime. It wasn’t ideal timing, but an opportunity was an opportunity. He would have to be fast and take extra care not to be seen.

  When Billy returned, he was carrying a sheaf of paper and some lead. “I’m afraid I couldn’t commandeer a pen, but hopefully this will do.”

  Caleb accepted them through the bars, and after making a show of trying to write with the paper braced on his thigh, he turned a sheepish look at Billy. “Say, you don’t think I could write this at your desk, could I? I’m afraid the light in here is rather poor. You could watch as I write and make sure the letter is to your satisfaction.”

  “I can’t let you out, Caleb. You know that.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking,” he said, pausing for effect. “Would you come in here with a lamp, then? You can still look over th
e letter, and we’ll have it off in no time.”

  He could see indecision warring on Billy’s face, not wanting to be impolite, but clearly uncomfortable with the request. Caleb pushed away the guilt of lying to the man who had been nothing but kind to him during his time here.

  Sweat trickled down Caleb’s neck as he waited for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, Billy unclipped the heavy ring of keys he kept at his belt and then he was opening the door and breaching the boundary between freedom and confinement.

  Caleb kept his breathing even as Billy set down a lamp and then settled next to him on the creaking bench.

  “Better be quick about it,” Billy said as he craned his head to peer out the door. “The captain or warden could walk by anytime and I can’t be caught.”

  “Of course.” Caleb began writing, flicking one quick glance at Billy before he fumbled with the lead, dropping it and sending it skittering across the floor. “Damn. Can you see where that went?”

  Billy dropped to his knees, reaching for the lead, which had rolled across the cell and come to rest against a clump of straw.

  Taking a deep breath, Caleb reached for the lamp beside him. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

  Billy didn’t even look up. “Hmm? For what?”

  “For this.” And with that, Caleb brought the lamp down on the back of his head, hard.

  * * *

  The butter on the johnnycakes was starting to congeal.

  Usually when Eli made the special breakfast, Tabby was already wolfing down second helpings before the butter had a chance to so much as soften. But today she sat poking at the cooling cakes, lost in a heavy fog. She had slept poorly the night before, waking every time a stray dog barked outside or a branch rustled in the wind. She’d stolen to the window more than once, peeking out from behind the curtain at the cemetery across the street, certain that she saw a shadowy figure watching her. Dawn had found her with dry red eyes, but there had been no knock at the door from Mr. Whitby, no one come to find her and drag her back to him.