Page 46 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

“Good. Come back tomorrow at seven in the morning.” He wagged his finger at her, a glimmer in his eye as if they were sharing some great joke. “This time no wandering about the library, eh?”

After a cold, sleepless night spent guarding her possessions at the boarding house, Tabby made her way back to the library. It didn’t matter if she never slept a wink again; every time she closed her eyes she was assaulted with a barrage of pleas and grievances from spirits. Where were their bodies, they wanted to know? When would they be returned? When would they have their rest? Tabby could offer only harried promises, assurance that she was doing everything possible to help them.

Mr. Quinn was waiting for her at the back entrance of the library. He cast a disparaging glance at the dress she had been wearing the day before, and then gestured for her to follow him inside. Gleaming floorboards squeaked under her boots as they passed academic men carrying on hushed conversations. This time Mr. Quinn led her away from the library and up another set of stairs to a hall lined with studies and offices. He unlocked one of the doors and motioned for her to follow him inside, but she hesitated on the threshold.

Catching her uncertainty, he smiled. “Your modesty is a credit to you, Miss Cooke, but I can assure you, you are most safe.”

She had no choice but to believe him if she wanted to learn what went on in this place, so she stepped the rest of the way inside. The office had an unpleasant vinegar odor, and the air was stale. Bottles with amorphous specimens floating in them lined one shelf, books stacked on another. She swallowed down her revulsion at the jars and forced herself to focus on what Mr. Quinn was saying.

As he explained what her duties would be, it dawned on her just how much a stroke of luck this had been. Not only would she be earning money, but she would have access to places about which she could have only dreamt. She would have to be on her guard, but if there were answers to be found, they would be here.

“It is of the utmost importance that you do not touch anything, for what may look innocuous to you may in fact be crucial research, of which replication is not possible if destroyed. Your path should take you only to the grate, the lamps, and the bookshelves if they are dusty.” He gave her a stern look. “Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He led her back out to the hall, closing the door behind them. To her amazement, he handed her key after key, explaining which rooms each one unlocked.

“Now,” he said, beckoning to a woman bent over a mop at the other end of the hall, “I will leave you to the capable hands of Mrs. Cruikshank, who will show you where the supplies are kept.” He paused, hands in his waistcoat pockets as if pondering some deep thought, before adding, “I hope that you will find the work honest and edifying.”

“Of course,” she said demurely.

When Mr. Quinn had left, Mrs. Cruikshank gave Tabby an assessing look. “Well?” she said, thrusting a heavily stained apron at Tabby. “Are you just going to stand there gawping, or are you going to work?”

She could feel Mrs. Cruikshank looking at her from the corner of her wizened eyes as she tied the apron on and began cleaning. She had endured worse before, and if working her fingers raw was the price of finding answers, then so be it.

The work was monotonous, but it was also soothing. She filled the scuttles with coal, swept the floors, and dusted the spiderwebs from the lamps. It was warm in the building, and there was a stall on the street outside that sold roasted nuts and potatoes for when she was hungry after a long day of cleaning. For the first time in weeks, Tabby didn’t feel so desperately hopeless.

But on the fourth day she had still come no closer to learning what, if any, secrets lurked in this place, and she was beginning to wonder if she ever would. By all appearances, the men who worked in the offices were simply professors and doctors, the building simply a place of learning.

Tabby came out from one of the offices, her hands still black with coal, and found Mrs. Cruikshank on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. Taking up a rag, Tabby went to work beside her. She waited for two men in conversation to pass by before asking Mrs. Cruikshank, “Do you like it here?”

Mrs. Cruikshank let out a snort. “Do Ilikeit? What a question. It’s work, and the pay is fair. My feelings about the place don’t come into it.”

“What goes on here exactly? What sort of experiments do the medical professors conduct?”

“I’m sure I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”

Mrs. Cruikshank’s vigorous scrubbing didn’t invite further comment, but Tabby was undeterred. “I’ve heard there are professors here who study the dead—anatomy and the like. I wonder if you have ever met any of them?”

“They don’t pay me to consort with the faculty. Go in, keep your head down, and try not to get the shivers with some of the things they brine in the jars, that’s my advice.”

“What’s in the jars? What do they do with them?” Tabby pressed. When she had hazarded a look at them, they had mostly been unrecognizable, but some she could identify as frogs and other small animals. There was something sinister about the bloated carcasses suspended in cloudy liquid, a life that should have lasted no more than a matter of months, preserved for eternity.

Straightening her creaking back, Mrs. Cruikshank wiped a dirty streak of water across her cheek. “What do they do with ’em? They do whatever it is men of science do. Now if you don’t stop pestering me with these questions I’ll tell Mr. Quinn that you aren’t fit to work. Go on—” she nodded toward the end of the hall “—there’s windows that need scrubbing.”

Tabby sighed and took up the bucket to bring it to the water pump in the yard. She was taking it back inside when a man appeared in the doorway of an office she’d never been in before. Snapping his fingers to gain her attention, he called to her.

She set down the bucket, glad to give her aching hands a rest. “Yes?”

“The grate is empty and someone tracked mud onto the floor.” He looked at her expectantly. “I have a meeting, but I’ll be back within the hour.”

Sighing, Tabby hauled the bucket into the office, water sloshing over the sides as she went. Her arms ached and her back was stiff as she lazily pushed the mop. Taking a quick glance into the hall to make certain that no one was coming, she rested the mop against the desk and took a moment to stretch and study her surroundings. There was a plush green leather chair that looked awfully comfortable, but she knew if she sat down, she would likely fall asleep and get caught.

The plaque on the desk told her that the man’s name was Dr. Jameson. Unlike some of the other offices that were filled with specimens and medical tools, paintings dotted the walls of this one. Most were portraits of former deans and presidents, stuffy, important men who looked down their noses at the viewer, but one group portrait caught her eye in particular. She paused in front of the grandiose painting in a heavy gilt frame. Below it, a small brass plaque read:

MEMBERS OF THE BOARD OF

ANATOMY AND SCIENTIFIC ADVANCEMENT THROUGH DISSECTION

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