by Hester Fox
Mr. Whitby was tied up in the grave robbing; why else would he appear in a painting with Mr. Graham? She thought back to his personal library, the anatomy books which had seemed so out of place suddenly making sense. It seemed that wherever there were sinister deeds in Boston, there was Mr. Whitby. He was an evil man of giant proportions, throwing a long, menacing shadow over every aspect of her life.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the sound of footsteps matching her pace until they were practically upon her. Only now did she realize how far away from the bustle of the main roads she was. Her neck prickled in warning. Someone was following her.
She quickened her pace, passing deserted alleys and shuttered shop windows. It had to be Mr. Whitby—or, more likely, someone hired by him. Had he followed her to Harvard? Did he know she knew? Perhaps it was her uncle, sent by her aunt to find her and bring her back to them. Rabbit quick, Tabby made a sharp turn onto a busier street.
The footsteps quickened in response. Dodging a drunkard slumped on the ground and then a little boy selling walnuts, she hazarded a glance over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of her pursuer. The footsteps belonged not to Mr. Whitby, nor her aunt and uncle, but a big brute of a man she had never seen before.
Her breath came in sharp, painful gasps. Mr. Graham’s words spun through her head: Powerful men. Men you wouldn’t want to cross. But she had crossed them already, or one of them, and now he was after her.
Ducking into a narrow alley, Tabby closed her eyes and slumped against the wall, fighting to catch her breath. Her legs ached and her lungs were on fire, but she had lost him. She needed to get to Mary-Ruth. She would know what to do.
But she was too late. With a sickening sense of dread, Tabby realized that she was not alone in the alley. The sound of breath, not her own, rasped so close to her ear that she could feel it even in the dark. Her body felt strangely light and far away. Slowly, she opened her eyes, only to see something dark whooshing toward her. Her head exploded with stars, and then...black.
25
IN WHICH A PATH MUST BE CHOSEN.
THE NEXT FEW days moved quickly, with Caleb making inquiries about passage to Boston, and Alice disappearing during the day to sell her sweets.
Alice was an odd one, there was no doubt about it. Like Tabby, she exercised an abundance of caution, verging on paranoia, whenever she was out. Her knife was ever ready up her sleeve, her instincts as sharp and quick as a cat’s. Unlike Tabby, she was strident and outspoken, spending much of her time in pubs enjoying spirits and debating the old men about everything from women’s rights to the price of corn and its effects on transatlantic trade. If Caleb wasn’t gainfully employed, he had a feeling that the two of them could have made a formidable pair at the card tables.
When Caleb at last found a packet that was calling at Southampton, New York, and Boston, he was able to haggle for two tickets. With every step, the journey back became more and more real. He knew very well that when he walked off that plank on the Boston dock that he could be walking straight back into prison. He tried not to think of that, nor of the passage that would see him sick every day for the next six weeks.
Once he had counted out his hard-earned bank notes into the captain’s hands, he began the long walk back to the city. There was one thing he still had to do before he left.
Caleb found Hugh hunched over his desk, compass in one hand, drawing charcoal in the other, a disorganized mass of papers spread around him.
Clearing his throat, Caleb knocked lightly on the door frame.
Hugh looked up, his pipe long extinguished, but still firmly planted between his lips. “There ye are. I was wondering where ye’d gotten to.”
Caleb had hardly been a model employee the last few days as he’d hurried to make preparations for the journey back across the Atlantic. “Sorry, just had to step out for a moment.” He glanced down at the drawing Hugh had been working on and raised a brow. “A mausoleum?”
Hugh gave a weary sigh, tossing his compass and charcoal aside as he leaned back in his chair. “Say what you will about Burke and Hare, but they did wonders for the funerary industry. Now everyone is clamoring for a crypt that will confound grave robbers. Buildings come and go, getting knocked down in the name of progress, but a crypt is sacred. It will last forever. Now,” Hugh said, “what was it you needed?”
Caleb couldn’t put it off any longer. “May I sit?”
Hugh gestured to the chair across from his desk, and Caleb seated himself, sinking down into the plush leather. He would miss the cluttered yet cozy office, and the man who occupied it. He would miss the dusty books and the shelves fit to bursting with papers. He would miss Hugh’s deep brogue and easy companionship. Most of all he would miss feeling as if he belonged, of having a place and knowing that he had earned it with his own merit. Clearing his throat, he gathered his resolve. “Let me start by saying how deeply I appreciate everything you have done for me, and the chance you took when you brought me into the firm. I will never forget your kindness and—”
Hugh stopped him. “You’re leaving.”
“Regretfully, yes.”
Hugh fumbled for a match and relit his pipe. “I had a feeling this was coming.” Caleb’s surprise must have shown, because Hugh gave an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t hire ye because I’m kind, I hired ye because I know raw talent when I see it. I knew when I hired ye that you had aspirations higher than a clerk. Your sketches showed promise, and I was planning on promoting you to partner after ye’d proven yourself first. Well, you’ve proven yourself and then some. So I’d like to offer ye partner now.”
Caleb sat, stunned. “Partner?” he managed to croak out.
Hugh nodded. “I was planning on waiting ’til the new year, but I don’t want to lose ye, so there it is.”
Everything Caleb had ever wanted was being laid at his feet, and all he had to do was pluck it up and claim it for his own. The cozy, cluttered office could be his. Buildings that had been born in his mind would become reality and bear his name.
Hugh gave him one of his rare grins. “You’re speechless. Say yes, for God’s sake. Jenny is with pup and I’m going to need a man I can rely on in the coming months before the bairn comes and I never sleep a wink again.”
“I...” Caleb opened his mouth to decline it. He had to decline it. If he didn’t, the temptation would be too great. But he couldn’t find the words or the will to give up everything he had ever wanted.
“I’ve taken ye by surprise. Why don’t ye take the afternoon to think about it?”
Before he could respond, Hugh was clapping him on the back and ushering him out of the office.
By the time Caleb emerged back out into the street, it was nearing dusk. Hugh’s offer and what it would mean for him should have made him feel light as air, but instead it felt as if he had been burdened with a mantle of lead. He could have not just a new life, but a better life. By returning to Boston now he wouldn’t just be giving up his freedom, but the future of which he had always dreamed.
As he walked through the now-familiar streets of Edinburgh, he cataloged each and every building and landmark as he passed. The Nelson Monument, designed by Alexander Nasmyth, 1807. Charlotte Square, designed by Robert Adam, 1792. The Scott Monument, George Kemp, 1844. Pausing at an empty lot, he envisioned a fountain of beautiful nymphs with long curling hair and marbled eyes, pouring bottomless basins of water. Bishop, 1860. What good could he really do in Boston anyway? Alice would still go back, and she would reunite with Tabby and make sure that she was safe. Who better to protect Tabby than her own sister? Tabby had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t think very highly of him, so he would be going back to nothing but a warrant for his arrest. Perhaps it was better if he did stay.
He found himself walking well out of the city, and ended up back at the port. The ship that he had booked passage on for himself and Alice was
bobbing gently in the water as the crew loaded it with trunks and barrels in preparation for its departure the next morning.
As he watched, his situation weighed only the heavier on him. By going back to Boston, he was giving up his freedom, not only to follow his own path, but to live his life at all. When he landed on the far shore, all that would be waiting for him was a noose. He shivered at the thought. Did they still hang people? Perhaps not a noose, then, but certainly a firing squad. If he was lucky they would kill him in one shot. And after his father’s fate, he’d had the misfortune of learning what became of the bodies of convicts.
Someone touched his shoulder and he jumped.
Alice was standing behind him, dressed smartly in men’s riding breeches and a nipped-waist frock coat.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. The port was a good distance from the city center, and he’d already assured her that he’d taken care of all their arrangements.
“I could ask the same of you.”
He shrugged. A cold, brackish mist was rolling in off the water. “Just thinking.”
Alice did him the courtesy of not probing any further into his thoughts. They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the crew move about the ship, a well-choreographed routine, as hopeful gulls circled looking for dropped food. He slid a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. What would she be leaving behind? What sacrifices of her own was she making to return to Boston? A sharp stab of guilt ran through him; if he stayed, he would be laying all the responsibility on her shoulders. But she at least would be free in Boston. She would have Tabby.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“I’ve packed and made all my arrangements, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly.
She kept her gaze trained on the ship, nodding. “I know. No, I’m not ready. I’m not ready to go back and face the consequences of leaving my only sister to fend for herself, even if it was the right thing to do at the time. I’m not ready to leave behind the life I struggled to build for myself here. I’m not ready to go back to my old demons. But it’s time. I can continue looking over my shoulder in Edinburgh, or I can do it in Boston where at least I have my sister. And if she’s in some kind of trouble, I can do a lot more to help her there than I can here. It’s time,” she repeated.
Caleb swallowed, horrified to find that tears were welling up in his eyes. He hadn’t cried when his father had beat him black and blue as a child, nor when he’d learned of Rose’s death, or was imprisoned for it. He certainly hadn’t cried when his father died. But as he stared out over the harbor lights winking in the dusk and the ship that would bear him back to Boston, he finally allowed the tears to fall. It was time.
26
IN WHICH NIGHTMARES BECOME REAL.
SHE COULDN’T FEEL her body. Cold darkness pressed in around her, and Rose’s sweet, mournful voice echoed through the void.
She was dead. Oh God, she had to be dead. This had always been her fate—it was everyone’s fate—but she simply wasn’t ready. She would never feel fresh spring grass under her feet again, or Eli’s warm hand squeezing hers. She would never smell the crisp scent of autumn mingling with the salty harbor breeze, or taste warm licorice melting on her tongue. She would never know what it was like to make love to a man, nor to be someone’s one and only beloved. How lonely it was, and how much she suddenly realized why spirits were always so eager to be heard by her.
But just when she thought that ether would swallow her up completely, the fog dissipated, leaving her somewhere with the sharp scent of antiseptic, and a dull light behind her eyelids. Voices echoed as if coming through a tunnel, and she could feel the air shift as a person, or people, moved about her. She was alive, but the not knowing where she was or why was almost worse.
Gradually, the voices sharpened and became vaguely familiar. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt her!”
The words were hardly comforting. She didn’t dare open her eyes, for fear of what she might find. Perhaps these people thought her dead, or asleep. Best not to give herself away if she could help it.
The next voice was unfamiliar, but spoke with a crisp, upper-class accent. “Come now, it was just a light knock to the head. She’ll be fine. After all, we wouldn’t want to jeopardize that extraordinary mind of hers.”
“If you don’t let her go, I’ll tell the captain of police.”
This was met by grim laughter. “Hodsdon, I assure you that the captain already is aware. Who do you think looks the other way and allows us to operate with impunity?”
Officer Hodsdon. Her elation at recognizing a familiar voice quickly faded. How did he know about her? Had word gotten out after the séance? Why was he collaborating with these vile men?
She couldn’t play dead any longer. Tabby struggled to open her eyes, but they didn’t want to cooperate. Her legs were equally heavy, and with building panic, she realized that she was bound to the table. She might not be dead, but she was well and truly rooted.
Her efforts to free herself must have attracted the attention of the men because their conversation broke off, and there was the sound of footsteps on a bare wooden floor.
“Here she comes,” said the unfamiliar voice, coming closer.
When she was able to make her sluggish tongue cooperate, her words were hoarse and small. “Where am I?”
“A safe place. A place of learning and enlightenment.”
These cryptic words did nothing to reassure her. When her eyes finally opened and came into focus, she was looking up at a man with a neat brown beard, spectacles, and a white coat. Dr. Jameson. She could just make out the rows of steeply stacked seats rising up around her, the kerosene lamps dotting the walls. She was in some kind of theater or auditorium. “What do you want with me?”
Dr. Jameson gave her an almost pitying look. “You’re a clever girl. You know exactly why you’re here.”
She did know. She knew with a cold and dreadful certainty she’d had since she was a scared and malnourished twelve-year-old stealing into the cemetery in the middle of the night. Her abilities made her valuable. Men could make good money off a girl who had a power like hers and no one to protect her.
“You’re a difficult girl to find, Miss Cooke. When Officer Hodsdon said he knew of a young woman with clairvoyant powers, it was only a matter of looking in the right places. And your aunt was very helpful in that regard. Of course, she wanted compensation for the loss of income she would have made with you, which was easily arranged. Imagine my surprise when you walked right into my office!”
Tabby’s heart dropped. She could not be surprised that her aunt had betrayed her, but she had thought Officer Hodsdon an upstanding young man. She should have heeded her instincts the first time he came to call on them: police could not be trusted.
Dr. Jameson followed her gaze around the empty medical theater and broke into an unnerving smile. “Incredible, isn’t it? But no, Miss Bellefonte, the slab is not your fate. You are too valuable alive. For the longest time it was your aunt and uncle who provided us with the names of the recently dead. Clients would come to them seeking communication, and in turn your aunt would alert us of their loved ones’ deaths and direct us to the body. But sometimes it would be days later, weeks even, before an eligible corpse could be located, and of course by then it would be too far gone for our purposes. With you, on the other hand, you can just take a peek in your mind, and alert us right away when someone dies, before they even have been carted off to the morgue.”
The way his beady eyes bore into her sent chills running down her spine. He looked at her as if she was plated in pure carat gold.
“Yes, yes,” a new voice cut in. Tabby strained to lift her head to see who it was but they remained just out of view. The voice that spoke was cool and even, and made Tabby’s skin crawl. “That’s
all true, but you lack imagination, Dr. Jameson.”
“I’m a medical man, Mr. Whitby. I do not bend to the whims of imagination.”
Mr. Whitby answered this with a grunt and then moved into view, his steely blue eyes looking coolly down at Tabby. “Miss Cooke—or, excuse me, I believe it’s really Miss Bellefonte—can do so much more for our cause. Imagine, if you will, having a line of communication to the dead. Imagine how invaluable it will be to be able to confer with the spirit during the reanimation process. The things they could tell us! Why, just think of all the crimes that Officer Hodsdon here could solve as sergeant if he could simply ask the dead who it was who killed them.”
Reanimation. What a cold, terrible word, as if life were no more than a switch that could be thrown on and off.
“Like how you murdered Rose Hammond?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Mr. Whitby’s lips twitched. “Sometimes we must do regrettable things for the greater good. Just think of the advancements we could make for all of mankind.”
He had said something to that effect before, but Tabby did not believe that his motives were really so altruistic. How had Rose’s death benefited anyone besides Mr. Whitby? Had he killed her simply for the purpose of framing Caleb and thus leaving the path to the business wide-open? Or was there some even darker reason? Besides, if the greater good required the death of young women, then how could that be considered progress?
But Tabby wasn’t finished. She might die here, might never rise from this table again. Mr. Whitby’s admission of guilt could be the closest thing to justice Rose would have. “She was an innocent woman! If you wanted the business so badly you might have just asked Caleb. He certainly didn’t want it. But instead you murdered her.”
Mr. Whitby was so still, so quiet, that she wondered if he hadn’t heard her. Then slowly, he turned, his eyes blazing with fire.
“You understand little of the contents of men’s hearts,” he said in a hiss.
