by Hester Fox
Something in his tone made Tabby pause and take notice. This was more than just the ordinary regrets of a dying man. “Who?” she asked. “Who would come for you?”
Mr. Graham went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Such terrible, terrible things. For science, yes, but at the cost of morality and God’s will. Oh, just let my aching body rest in peace, even if I prevented others from doing so. God must forgive me.”
The clock ticked away, and Tabby wet her lips. “What terrible things?” she managed to whisper.
Suddenly he was sitting bolt upright in bed, letting out a hair-raising howl as the sheets fell away from him. “Let the dead lie! Let the dead lie! Let the dead lie!”
Tabby stood to try to cajole him back down, but then his eyes went lucid, and he grabbed her by the wrist. She sucked in her breath as he yanked her down close to him. His breath was hot and sour. “The things they do are unnatural, unholy. I am as guilty as the rest, but I repent! I repent now!”
She willed herself not to flinch at his touch. “What do you repent for? Can you tell me?”
He turned his gaze on hers, holding it with startling intensity. “The resurrection men. They have taken to heart the full meaning of their name. At first it was just paupers and criminals, and when it was for the advancement of medicine that would save lives, it seemed a small enough price to pay. But now they go too far, it has all become too terrible.”
He closed his eyes before continuing. “To bring back the dead. Oh, but you have never seen such a ghastly sight as an electric current running through a corpse, making them jerk and dance like puppets. And does it work? Never! The poor souls are no more alive than they were before, and their mangled bodies are fed to the pigs.” His eyes flew open, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth, “Now do you see? You must swear to me that you will not let them take me. Swear it!”
He broke off in a fit of phlegmy coughing. Tabby pressed him further. “Who are the resurrection men?”
He gasped for breath. “Powerful men, men you wouldn’t want to cross.”
“How am I to stop them from taking you if I don’t know who they are?”
It looked as if he was just about to say something when another coughing fit overtook him. When it had passed, Mr. Graham closed his eyes, his head slumping back against his pillows as he labored to breathe. “Harvard. They hide behind the veneer of learning, but what they do has little to do with education and progress, and everything to do with hubris and the desire to play God.”
Tabby’s mind raced. She grasped his hands in hers and squeezed hard, as if that could wring more information from him. “Who at Harvard? Who else is involved? Did Rose Hammond’s murder have something to do with it?”
But her questions fell on unhearing ears. Mr. Graham gave a rattling breath, and then was still.
The clock ticked on, and, left alone with her roiling thoughts, Tabby sat and watched. Watched and watched and watched until the body stiffened and grew cold, and there was no doubt that there was not an ounce of life left.
* * *
Frost tinted the windows and a bleary September sun was just starting to climb into the sky when the younger Mr. Graham dropped the coins into Tabby’s hands and sent her on her way. They should have felt like hope, like satisfaction, but they only sat cold and heavy in her palm.
As she walked through the early-morning streets, Tabby pulled her cloak tighter around her, the coins clinking in her pocket. She should go tell Mary-Ruth that Mr. Graham was ready to be laid out and dressed, but she couldn’t bring herself to come back to reality and the world of preparations.
Mr. Graham’s last words burrowed into her gut like maggots, making her squirm. She had always thought that robbing a grave for the supposed sake of science was reprehensible, but this was worse, so much worse. She’d read serialized stories about mad scientists and desperate men who tried to bring the dead back to life, and while the stories had always been framed as ambitious and even romantic, she found them revolting. But they were just stories. This was real.
20
IN WHICH AN OPPORTUNITY IS WASTED.
FROM THE FOGGY coffee shop window, Caleb watched the higgledy-piggledy buildings of London weep dark streaks in the rain, and pedestrians with black umbrellas hurry down the street. His vantage made him feel small, safe, and very, very lonely.
London was an old city, so much older than Boston, yet it felt new and full of possibilities. If ever there was a place made for the ambitious imagination of an architect, it was London. The new and the old stood shoulder to shoulder, the classical juxtaposed with the new, just like the citizens of its vast empire.
It was not Caleb’s first time on British soil; as a boy, his father had sent him to Eton for an education, thinking that it would give him a polished edge in the world of American business. In the end, his father had been disappointed in his investment, saying that Caleb had come back only dandified. During his schooling, Caleb had not been beyond the suffocating brick walls of the college, and so the ancient city was ripe for discovery now.
He had been in London for nearly a week and was slowly but surely amassing a small fortune from the card tables he visited every night with what little money he had left from his journey. His abstinence from drink meant that he was sharp, while his opponents made risky bets and played long after they should have stopped.
But that was in the evenings, and the days were long and lonely. Caleb downed the rest of his coffee, shrugged into his overcoat, and plunged into the jostling traffic of the narrow, muddy street. It was time to find his mark for the night.
He would find his man in a pub. It had to be just the right sort of pub, a place that was dark and dull enough that the men who frequented it would be willing to part with a couple of coins, but not so rough that he would risk incurring the wrath of an angry loser.
He was sopping wet and chilled to the bone by the time he laid eyes on the Crown & Cabbage, a narrow door tucked into an alley with a peeling sign depicting the pub’s two namesakes.
Inside was dim and soggy, the wet scent of wool and corduroy mingling with stale beer and body odor. It was warmer than the street, but only just. When he had enough money, he could go to the gentlemen’s clubs where the stakes were higher, the men a better caliber. But until then, places like the Crown & Cabbage would have to do.
As he surveyed the pub for a likely mark, he caught the eye of a woman lounging with one elbow propped up on the bar, her red hair loose and uncoiled. She raised her cup and winked at him in an unmistakable invitation.
His heart beat a little faster, his skin tingled with awareness. Here was his chance to be a new Caleb, a better Caleb. Or perhaps a new person all together. Caleb Pope? No, he needed something completely new, something he had never used before. Daniel... Daniel Cooke had a nice ring to it. He’d always liked Tabby’s surname, and figured she wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it now. Daniel Cooke had a strong work ethic. Daniel Cooke certainly would not take up with the first pretty girl who looked his way in a dark pub. Daniel Cooke was strictly here to play a fair game of cards and be on his merry way.
But of course, the pretty girl in question didn’t know if he was Caleb Bishop or Daniel Cooke or the prince of Liechtenstein, and before Caleb could figure out just what Daniel Cooke would do, she was making her way over to him. Old habits died hard, and Caleb found himself sliding over on the bench to make room for her to sit.
The woman glanced at his cup of coffee. “I didn’t even know they served coffee here. Bit of a strange choice, isn’t it? Come into a pub for a cup of old coffee?”
He raised a brow. “Bit of a presumption, isn’t it, to question a man’s choice of beverage in which to drown his sorrows?”
She clapped her hands together, squealing in delight, and sat down beside him. “You’re an American! Well, I ’spose your strange habits can be forgiven then. Ruby,” she said, sticking
out her hand for Caleb to kiss.
He obliged. “Daniel Cooke.”
“Well, Mr. Cooke, I’ve not seen you in the Crown before. What brings you to our dark and dreary corner of London?”
“Business,” he said. “Architecture, to be exact.” It felt good to lie, to be someone else, even if the someone in question was shaping up to be just as much of a scoundrel as Caleb Bishop. “I was looking for a bit of hospitality when I saw the sign from the road.”
“Architecture!” Her green eyes lit up. “That sounds lucrative.”
He bestowed one of his winning smiles on her. “Oh yes, very lucrative,” he lied. “But I daresay a woman such as yourself isn’t interested in the humdrum workings of my business. Tell me, what is a rare flower like yourself doing here?”
He fell easily into the routine of flirting, letting the flattering words fall off his tongue at the right times and giving the right smiles. Ruby knew her part well, playing the coquette, laughing prettily, acting as if he was the most interesting man in the world.
As they talked, she leaned in closer, her skirt brushing his leg. Her perfume was artificially floral, too strong. He should have felt the old thrill of the dance, but all he felt was emptiness.
He drained the last of his cold coffee and dug in his pockets for some coins. If he didn’t leave soon, he would almost certainly do something with Ruby he would regret. He had to find a mark for a game of cards or he wouldn’t have enough money for his boardinghouse rent. “Miss Ruby, your company has been delightful, a warm draught on this cold night. But I’m afraid I must be going.”
Ruby pouted, her namesake-colored lips looking altogether too inviting. “Have a drink, love, a real one. ’Twill warm you up before you leave.” Ruby pushed a mug of something brown and frothy toward him.
Outside, the London wind howled and banged the pub sign into the wall. Heavy cold rain pelted against the bottle glass windows. Caleb did not relish the walk back to his boarding house. London in the day was expansive and exciting with its many parks and storied architecture, a bustling metropolis of people from every corner of the empire. London at night was a warren of oppressively narrow streets filled with cutpurses and all sorts of depraved characters.
He wavered, one arm in his still-wet coat. “I don’t drink,” he said, eyeing the cup and wishing that it didn’t look quite so inviting.
“Don’t drink!” she exclaimed loudly, drawing a few guffaws from the old men at the bar. “You really are American, so puritan and sober. Come, join the rest of us down in the gutter, love.”
He was about to shrug the rest of the way into his coat and be on his way, but something stopped him. Why not have a drink? He couldn’t sink any lower than he already was. If the possibility of starting a new, fresh life stretched before him, then so too did the emptiness of it. He missed his mother and their house on Beacon Hill, though he would have died before admitting as much to her. He missed Buttermilk’s watery purr. He missed the broad streets of Boston and the blooming gardens. He missed Rose and her kind smile, the gentle touch of her hand on his arm. God help him, he missed Tabby. He’d spent so long chasing that elusive feeling of belonging, of being good enough. It would feel so good to let go.
Ruby wrapped herself around his arm and laughed in approval as he grabbed the cup and downed it in two gulps. The liquor blazed a warm trail throughout his body, pleasantly fuzzing the edges of reality. He’d spent so long trying not to be like his father, and look where that had gotten him. The card tables could wait. His new life could wait. Right now, he just wanted to slip into comfortable oblivion. He wanted to feel the warmth of a woman beside him and forget everything else.
“Do you have somewhere we can go? Somewhere private?”
Ruby grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. ’Ave another drink first, won’t you?”
* * *
The muddy street dipped and weaved under his feet, and Caleb had to brace himself against the slick shop walls as he made his way back from Ruby’s room. Hacks driven by mud-drenched horses trudged past, spraying him with fetid water. Misery was a pair of boots saturated with London mud. How had his father managed to drink himself into this state so regularly? It had been only one night of indulgence and between the pounding of his head and the acid in his stomach, Caleb was certain that he would never see the light of day again.
He staggered past shuttered shop windows and beggars under blankets tucked into doorways, trying to remember what streets he had taken, but London was a dark labyrinth of alleys and dead ends. An occasional gas lamp glowed in the thick darkness, but other than that, the heavy fog blocked any moonlight. Bracing himself against a lamppost, he doubled over and retched. Just as he was wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, two figures stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.
“Well, well, well. What do we ’ave here?” said a thick cockney voice. “Looks like someone’s been a little too deep in ’is cups.”
“That’s him. The fancy American toff I was tellin’ you about,” a familiar voice said. Caleb struggled to bring his gaze into focus, and he caught a glimpse of red hair and a low-cut bodice. “A rich architect, and sauced off his ass.”
The man grunted as he advanced on Caleb, backing him up against a wall. “You done good, Ruby girl.”
From somewhere beyond the panic and the haze of alcohol, Caleb almost laughed. They thought him a rich architect. They thought him Daniel Cooke, and not Caleb Bishop, the most wretched man to ever walk the earth. Well, they were in for a sore disappointment. Caleb Bishop had only had a few coins to his name.
“I don’know whatyouthink—” Caleb slurred.
A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, drowning the rest of his words in blood. Hot pain exploded in his face. Stumbling back, Caleb lost his footing in the mud and went sprawling.
He was about to get robbed, beaten, and possibly killed, and all Caleb felt was a numbing sense of disappointment; he’d had every chance in the world laid before him to start fresh, and he’d thrown it all away because he’d felt sorry for himself. He’d wasted his chance at happiness with Rose, and it occurred to him from somewhere deep down in a sober corner of his heart, that he perhaps had loved Rose, but had been too stupid to recognize his feelings of affection and respect as love. He could have made an honest living here in London, and instead he’d played cards and cheated weak men out of their money. His father had been right about him all along: he was a failure and a disappointment.
“Don’t need to be so rough,” Ruby said from somewhere beyond his vision. “Can’t you see he’s only a slip of a thing? Stiff breeze could knock ’im over.”
The blow to his pride hurt almost as much as the blow to his jaw. Almost. Hauling him up by the collar, the man pinned Caleb’s neck with his elbow, while his other hand rooted inside his coat pocket.
Pulling back, the man spat in disgust. “Where’s the rest of it, then?”
“That’s it. That’s all my money,” Caleb said through the blood. He kept one shilling squirreled away in his boot as an insurance policy, but he somehow doubted even that would appease the man.
“I thought you said ’e was rich.”
“He said he was. Guess the little fellow was lying.”
“I’m not little,” Caleb protested weakly. “I’m fine boned.”
But the man wasn’t listening. “Maybe I should kill ’im. At least get some money for ’is body then.”
That sobered him up right quick. The man was busy counting out the sorry collection of coins in his palm. Gathering his strength and what little balance he had, Caleb was able to put his head down and ram all his weight right into the man’s stomach.
Ruby screamed as her partner fell backward. “Charlie!” She crouched over him as he swore and wheezed. She wrenched back around and faced Caleb. “You bloody rotter! You bloody liar! To think, I spent all night plying you with beer and kisses. Not e
ven a bloody guinea to your name!”
Caleb doubted that he’d done more than knock the wind out of Charlie, but he wasn’t eager to find out. Stumbling and nearly slipping again in the putrid mud, Caleb staggered out of the alley and back into foggy oblivion.
21
IN WHICH THERE IS A FAMILIAR FACE.
TABBY HURRIED THROUGH the city. Wet leaves slicked against the cobblestones and a cold breeze carrying the scent of wood smoke clung to her cloak. The brilliant, early days of autumn had come and gone, leaving the trees bare and a bitter promise of snow in the air.
In the past two months, she had survived by watching and embroidering, taking in mending. It was a lonely existence, and aside from occasionally crossing paths with Mary-Ruth, she had become a creature of silence and solitude. She missed Eli and their little routines, their shabby yet homey rooms in the boarding house. Only occasionally did she allow her thoughts to turn to Caleb, and wondered where he was.
But tonight there was no dying person to watch, and so she would have to sleep at the flea-ridden room she shared with six other girls in a rickety tenement. They slept two to a bed, the straw mattresses damp and moldy. The last time she had slept there, someone had stolen her stockings as they’d hung on the grate to dry. As if reminding her that she had no other option, the wind kicked up, frigid air biting her through her thin cloak.
People hurried home from work, doing their last errands before the snow began. Tabby had always loved the bustle before the storm, the sense of camaraderie that it inspired. In that brief window of anticipation, all differences were forgotten as people made predictions about how much snow would fall, laughing and greeting fellow last-minute shoppers. For those few moments, even Tabby belonged.
She stopped at a crossroads, taking care to keep her face covered. If she turned right, the street would take her to the north end of the city and to her cemetery. To Eli. More than once she had teetered on this corner, fighting the urge to run home and see him. But she had a chance to make things right, not just for Rose, but for all the nameless dead who had been robbed of their dignity and eternal rest. There were answers out there, and they only needed to be found. If what Mr. Graham had said was true, then the men in power were the ones responsible and would never do anything. But she could.
