Page 60 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

Caleb stopped his pacing, and a silent, alarmed look passed between him and Billy. Tabby was there, and they had sent Alice and Mary-Ruth. He rushed up to the bars.

“What’s happened? Is there a young woman—women—involved? Is everyone there all right?”

The man ignored him, instead whispering something into Billy’s ear. Caleb could have bent the bars and taken the man by the shoulders, shaking the information out of him.

“Billy, please.” Caleb reached for his sleeve through the bars, aware that he was very close to being thrown in some dank, forgotten cell in the basement. “Regardless of whatever anger you still have toward me, you have to help her.”

Billy looked down at his hand on his sleeve and slowly removed it. The look he leveled on Caleb contained no hint of kindness or understanding.

“Mr. Bishop,” he said, and Caleb’s heart sank at the formality of his tone. “You overreach yourself.” Without a backward glance, Billy strode purposefully after the man, sliding his club into his belt.

“You have to stop them!” Caleb shouted after his retreating back. “Whatever happens, you have to save Tabby!”

Alice was magnificent. Tabby didn’t know where the words were coming from, but each one found their mark with biting accuracy.

“Mr. Pope knows your darkest secret, knows that which you would keep hidden.”

Mr. Whitby shot a worried glance at the spectators before composing himself. “You may tell your Mr. Pope that I am an open book. I have no secrets, and what’s more, I am not interested in unfounded, malicious accusations. We are here to create new life. If Mr. Pope will not help us, then he must step aside so some more obliging spirit can make contact.”

Dr. Jameson stayed Mr. Whitby with a hand. “It’s remarkable that she was able to make contact at all, given her history with such things. We should allow her to progress as she sees fit.”

Tabby’s eyes had finally adjusted, and she could not look away from the spectacle, never mind that they might discover she was awake at any moment. Mr. Whitby muttered something and tugged at his collar, the roots of his hair dark with perspiration.

Alice continued, raising her voice to be heard over the bickering of the two men. “Who is Rose?” she asked. “Mr. Pope keeps speaking of a Rose.”

Mr. Whitby’s face went pale green, a spasm at the corner of his mouth the only indication that he had heard her.

“Rose Hammond,” she continued. Then she tilted her head, as if listening to something no one else could hear. Her hand flew to her mouth. “He says you killed her. You killed her in cold blood.”

A murmur ran through the audience. It took Mr. Whitby an overlong moment, but then he was exploding from his vantage point beside the table. “Lies! I don’t know what you’re on about. I—”

But he didn’t have a chance to finish. Alice was rising from her seat, shouting over the din of the audience and Mr. Whitby’s outburst. “He says you killed her, and that you will rot in prison for it! You murdered her as sure as you kidnapped and drugged my sister!”

Dr. Jameson turned to Mr. Whitby. “Is this true, Richard? We agreed from the start that there would be no blood on our hands.”

“Of course it’s not true!” Mr. Whitby roared. “She’s a fraud. She can no more speak to the dead than I can!”

Be careful, Tabby willed her sister. In baiting Mr. Whitby, Alice was teetering on a dangerous precipice.

“It was Caleb Bishop,” Mr. Whitby ground out. “The boy murdered her. If he wasn’t guilty then he wouldn’t have been arrested—twice—and escaped from prison.”

Alice gave a thoughtful shake of her head, her eyes still closed. “Mr. Pope is quite insistent that it was you. He says there was an earring, a sapphire. You kept it after you killed her, as a sort of trophy.”

How on earth did Alice know about the earring? Tabby had assumed that her sister was putting on a show, but she knew details, things she couldn’t have known otherwise. Did she, in fact, have the same abilities as Tabby? But when Tabby searched in the ether for a Mr. Pope, there was no spirit of that name.

Mr. Whitby scoffed. “An earring? That doesn’t mean anything.”

Dr. Jameson was listening, rapt. “Richard,” he said, finally pulling his gaze from Alice. “It’s true, isn’t it.”

“You killed her for your late partner’s business,” Alice said evenly. “You killed her in the parlor, choking the life out of her, and then you stabbed her dead body again and again.”

“Miss Bellefonte, I am warning you. If you—”

But Alice continued, speaking over him. “You didn’t mean to kill her, did you? It just happened, and before you knew it, it was too late. I know that you loved her. It must have hurt to see her with the very man who had taken your business from you, as well. You stayed silent, but all the while the woman you loved cared for you no more than the most casual of acquaintances. You could never hope she would return your love, of course. How could any woman, let alone a gentle, sweet woman like Rose Hammond, love a monster such as yourself?”

In an instant he was rushing toward Alice, just as he had done to Tabby in his study. He was going to hurt her, kill her, right there in front of all those respectable men. Tabby willed her sluggish body to come to life, but she had no more feeling in her legs than she did in her heavy tongue. She was going to watch Mr. Whitby kill her sister and she was helpless to stop him.

Dr. Jameson was just stepping in front of Mr. Whitby, hands out, when there was a heavy thud from the gallery. “Open the door!” came a muffled cry. “In the name of the police, open the door!”

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