The Grave Robber's Secret (9 page)

Martha looked up from where she sat at the little table. “Come in, Robby,” she said.

He walked into the room and picked up the kitten that came to rub against his legs. “I'm sorry I talked mean to you about your father's work, Martha.”

“It's all right. You're the only friend I've ever had.” She looked down. “Jacob Taylor was my uncle. Papa brought the walking stick home after my uncle died. He said Uncle Jacob would want him to have it.” She raised her head. “Close the door, Robby. I'm going to tell you something about my papa, but you have to promise me you won't tell anyone, not even your mother or Miss Stone.”

“You don't have to tell me,” he said, but he closed the door.

She shook her head. “I do have to. I'm bursting with need to talk to someone about it.” She motioned for him to come closer. “Papa is gone out, but still I don't want to say anything loud.” She pointed to the other wooden chair. “Sit close.” When he was seated, she leaned toward him. “Do you promise? I mean really, really promise.”

“I swear,” he said. “Cross my heart and hope to die if I tell.”

Martha folded her fingers together, and sat looking down at her hands. The room was quiet for a minute or so, and Robby stroked the kitten in his lap. Then Martha spoke. “In Boston my father worked with my uncle, the husband of my mother's sister. His name was Jacob, like I said, and he was ever so kind to me. My aunt was too. They had no children of their own, but they loved me like I was theirs.” She swallowed, drew in a breath, and went on. “One day my uncle fell down a long flight of stairs. His neck was broken.” Her lips began to tremble, but she did not stop. “The next day Aunt Susan came to our house. She was crying hysterically, and she told my mother that money was missing from the business. I listened just outside the door, and I heard it all. She said my father took money, and she said she believed he killed my uncle.” Martha was crying now, but she went on. “We were already sick, my mother and me, but when Papa came home, he loaded us in the carriage. We left Boston in the dead of night.”

“Oh,” said Robby. “That's really bad.” His head was swimming. Burke had killed his sister-in-law's husband. Robby remembered Burke's cold, dark eyes, remembered the way the man had tripped him, the threat about being able to kill a man with the handle of his stick. Was a killer living right here in Robby's house, eating at every meal with the rest of them, sleeping every night in the room across the hall?

Martha reached out to touch Robby's arm, and his head cleared enough to hear her say, “I think my aunt was wrong, I mean about my papa killing Uncle Jacob. I can believe about the money, but not murder.” She shrugged. “But then, it is quite a coincidence, I mean my uncle dying right after Papa took the money. But Papa wouldn't kill anyone. I just can't believe he would do that.”

Robby saw that Martha was trembling. He wanted to comfort her. “Lots of people steal. I mean, my Da has taken things from people. He has a new wheelbarrow in the shed right now that he took from someone. That doesn't mean he'd kill a person.”

“So you don't believe Papa killed my uncle?”

Robby did believe Burke was a killer. He felt certain of the fact, but he didn't want to say so—not until he had better evidence. “I don't know, Martha, but you don't have to feel ashamed. You aren't responsible for what your papa does. That's what Father Francis says to me about Da.”

“Thank you, Robby. Please don't ever tell the police or anyone else.”

“I won't. I'm sorry I said that, but I need to tell you what business your papa goes to. I followed him. It looks to me like he spends his time gambling.”

“Oh, gambling.” She sounded relieved. “He's done that before. In fact, my aunt said he probably had gambling debts to pay, and that's why he …” She stopped.

Robby wanted to take her mind off her father. “What's this cat's name?” he asked.

“I've not given her a name, and I must,” she said. “I'm sure she doesn't like being called just ‘kitten.' ”

“Everyone likes to be called by name,” Robby agreed. “I hate how Da calls me ‘boy' most of the time.” He stood up. “Let's go see what Miss Stone says about a name for her.”

They found the woman sitting in a chair, her Bible on her lap. “Perhaps you should call her Alley because that is where she came from,” she suggested after they told her why they had come.

“Oh,” said Martha. “I like that. Alley it is.”

Robby went to the window beside Miss Stone's bed. He leaned over to pull back the curtain and look out. It was almost dark, and a terrible feeling of dread came to him. How could he ever go to sleep at night knowing his feeling about William Burke had been right? A shiver went through him, and he tried to think of something else. Daft Jane! He wondered if she had found food. Then he remembered her strange words. They had not disturbed him when she had uttered them, but now with what he had learned about Burke—and now that it was dark outside—Jane's words came back to his mind. He hated to tell Martha that Jane had not stayed with the Quakers. He would put off telling her, but he wanted to talk about what she had said.

“A beggar woman stopped me on the street tonight,” he said, still looking out. “I could tell she wasn't right in the head.” He stayed facing the window, not wanting to look at Martha, who had settled on the small rug with her cat. “I had nothing to give her.”

“Poor thing,” said Miss Stone. “Was she angry when you gave her nothing?”

“No,” said Robby. “She made a strange remark about someone watching me and said I should be careful.” He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

“Well, then,” said Martha from the floor, “you'd best be careful. My mama used to tell me that sometimes addled people had special gifts. Maybe this woman can tell the future.”

“Yes,” said Miss Stone, “it is true that sometimes those who appear weak-minded can have special gifts. I once knew a girl who could add huge sums in her head, but who barely knew her own name. It seems sometimes God gives them special gifts to make up for not giving them common abilities.” She smiled. “I doubt fortune-telling is among such gifts.”

“So you think no one is watching me?” Robby asked.

“No one watches you, dear. Likely she repeated something she'd heard before, like a parrot.” Miss Stone stood up. “I believe it is my bedtime now, so you two should take Alley and run along. I will see you in the morning.”

Robby and Martha said their good-nights and moved toward the door. Just before he left, Robby went back to kiss the lady's wrinkled cheek. She put her hand out to touch his face. “You are a dear, dear boy,” she said, “and perhaps that woman was, in a way, right about your being watched.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, she is right about at least one person watching you. I shall watch you always, even when I am in heaven.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
wo days later a scream woke Robby. His mother had risen early and gone to help Miss Stone with dressing and preparing for the day, but she had found her in bed, cold and lifeless.

Robby left his pallet and raced up the stairs, knowing what he would find. He stopped at the open door. His mother still stood beside the bed, tears rolling down her cheeks. “She's gone, Robby. Our Miss Stone is no more.”

“No!” he cried. “Are you sure?”

“She's cold, son, cold as ice.”

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We'll have to tell your da,” she said. “The undertaker must be fetched.” She looked about the room. “Her things must be sold to pay for her burial—but then, she did pay her rent early. T'wasn't due until next week, but she give it to me yesterday.” Quickly she turned, went to the door, and shut it. “Listen, Robby. I put the money in the kitchen in a jar. Something told me to wait to give it to your da. Let's see if we can keep her death a secret. We'll wait until he's gone out to send for the undertaker. We can use the rent money and let on like the undertaker was paid in advance by Miss Stone.”

“Da wouldn't use the money to bury her, would he? Even though her rent wasn't due yet?”

“He would not, and if he got to the body first …” Ma stopped and pushed the gray hair from Miss Stone's eyes. “You know what your da would do with her body.”

The truth of his mother's words left him weak-legged, and he sank into the rocking chair. “I'll go on down,” she said. “There's breakfast to cook. You stay here until you're able to face the others.” She went out, closing the door behind her, and Robby listened to her feet on the stairs.

Tears started pushing at his eyes, but he wiped the first ones away. “You can't cry now,” he said aloud to himself, “not if you want to save her from being cut up.”

He looked around the room and wondered if his father would allow him to keep the books. He would not fight for them, but he would fight if Da found out she was dead and wanted to sell her body. “I know you wanted me to have the books, Miss Stone,” he said, as if she could hear him, “and I would be proud to make them mine, but that's not the main thing. The main thing is to see you in a grave. Maybe we can put you beside Lolly.”

When the smell of sausage cooking reached the hall and seeped under the door, Robby knew it was time to go down. He had heard Martha and her father already on the stairs. He would need to find a way to get the message to Martha not to go into this room. He pulled the red and blue diamond-patterned quilt his mother had thrown back over the body and, at first, over the face. He changed his mind about that. For one thing, it did not seem right to cover her so, and besides, if his father should look in for some reason, Miss Stone would appear to be sleeping.

Downstairs Robby stood in the open kitchen doorway, and, unobserved, he looked about the room. His mother moved about cheerfully putting food on the table, and he marveled at her ability to hide her feelings. Then the truth of her life with Da came to him. She had spent years hiding her feelings.

Da sat at the end of the table, and his normal coloring had returned. “Your da feels better now,” his mother said as Robby entered the room, “but I told him you were a bit poorly this morning yourself.”

His mother was a genius. He smiled weakly. “I am, and I'd not want to spread my illness. I'll just fill a plate for Miss Stone and carry it up to her.” He made a bit of an unpleasant face. “I couldn't eat anything myself.”

“I've got a plate warming on the stove,” Ma said quickly. “Are you sure you don't want me to fill another?”

He shook his head and moved to get the food. William Burke stood in the kitchen doorway. He took out his handkerchief and wiped at his forehead. Robby looked at the white hands and long fingers with well-trimmed nails. What things had those hands done? “I hope the air in this house is not poisoned,” Burke said. “It concerns me, one of you sick after the other.” Martha stood beside him, and he leaned to look closely into her face. “Of course, my fears are for Martha.”

At the end of the table, Da pulled himself up straight in his chair. “Oh, no, no,” he said quickly. “Me, I've had bilious spells all me life, and Robby's likely just tired from all the work he done yesterday for the doctors. The boy ain't used to working that hard.” He turned his head in Robby's direction. “You come right back down here, and eat yourself a good meal, boy,” he said. “You ain't really sick, are you?”

“No, Da, I guess just tired, like you said.” He backed quickly from the room.

Upstairs he set the plate on the table just inside Miss Stone's room. He lingered only long enough so that it was believable that a short conversation had taken place, and then he headed back downstairs.

His mother had a filled plate waiting for him. Robby wasn't sure he would be able to stomach a meal, but the breakfast tasted amazingly good to him.

William Burke took his last bite and held his handkerchief to dab at his mouth. “I thought I heard a scream earlier this morning,” he said, and Robby could feel the man looking at him. “Surely one of you heard it too.”

“It was me,” Ma said quickly. “I burned myself with hot water when I washed up this morning. Hope I didn't wake you.” She looked down at her plate.

“Hmm,” said the man. “It sounded much closer, as if it were upstairs.”

“These old houses,” said Da, “you can never be sure where a sound comes from. I take to sleep real hard, I do. Didn't hear a thing this morning.”

Burke pushed back his chair. “Well, I must be off. Business waits, you know.” He kissed Martha on the cheek and was about to walk away when he turned back. “Hare,” he said, “doubtless you recall that I mentioned you might want to investigate my business, see if you'd like to take part.”

Da was on his feet at once. “I do. I do recall. Would this be a good day for me to join with you, have a look-see?”

Burke looked at Da, his eyes obviously lingering on the man's clothing. “Do you not have any attire more suitable for a gentleman?”

Robby saw his father's face grow red, but he did not appear to be angry. “I've got a coat,” he said, “not as fancy as yours, but I've saved it just for special.”

“By all means, my good fellow, put it on, and make haste doing so. I will wait in the parlor.”

Robby had just finished eating when Da came back from his bedchamber. He had squeezed into a dress coat that Robby could not remember having seen before. It was clearly too small, and Robby followed his father through the swinging doors into the parlor to see Burke's reaction.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Burke looked at Hare for only a second. “Well,” he said, “if you are to be my associate, we must stop at a clothier for a better coat.” He held up his hand in a motion designed to stop any protest. “I'll take the price off next month's rent.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Roger Hare.

“Would you believe it?” said Ma when the men had gone outside. “I don't know what business it is that Burke goes to, but it is something your father wants in on bad.”

Robby was about to tell Ma about the gambling, but a thought came to him. “Where's Martha gone off to?” he asked, but the question left his mouth just as the answer came.

A terrified bloody scream split the air, and then came words. “No, oh, no.”

Robby ran up the stairs, his mother behind him. Martha sat beside the bed, her face buried in the quilt. Her body shook with great gulping sobs. Robby put his hand on her shoulder. “There, there, now,” he said. “She isn't ailing anymore. She's walking on heaven's streets right now, maybe with Lolly and your mother. Likely, she's telling your mother how glad she was to get to know you.” Martha raised her head.

Ma came in then, breathing hard from the quick climb.

“Now, you two listen to me. Miss Stone lived a good life, never harmed a soul. She made the world a better place with her teaching, she did, and she made this household better by teaching you, Robby.” She nodded her head decisively. “Her life was good. Now it's up to us to see that she is laid to rest the way she deserves.”

She touched Robby's shoulder. “You go to the undertaker's house. You know it, the big white one on Third Street. There's a sign in front. 'Course, I've never read it, but it seems likely it's about the man's business. Tell him to come right quick. Tell him he'll be paid a mite extra if he hurries. Off with you now. Martha and I will take care of things here.”

Robby started toward the door, but stopped when his eyes fell on the clothes rack. “Ma,” he said, “what dress will you put on her?”

“I was just studying on that myself. I think the yellow one.”

“Pa will sell everything else to the secondhand man.” He reached out to touch a brown dress with a white collar. “Can I have this one to give to Daft Jane?” He saw Martha glance up. “I mean take it to her at the Quaker House on Sunday.”

“Yes, take it,” she said, “but don't be dealing with poor Jane or anyone else on the way.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “You can do that later. There's no time for discussion now. We've got to get this dear soul to the undertaker's house afore your da comes home.”

Still, Robby grabbed the dress and ran down the stairs and to the front door, where he stopped suddenly. Turning quickly, he dashed into the kitchen, took chunks of bread and sausage, and wrapped them in a cloth. Then he was out the back, the brown dress tucked under his arm with the food inside.

Ma was right about the sign, a big white one with black letters that read
BOSTIC AND SON, MORTICIANS.
Robby stood in the street looking up at the house. The first floor had lots of windows and a wide door with a cobblestone drive leading to it. Mr. Bostic would need to drive his carriage in and out of the door to deliver bodies and to carry caskets to be buried. A small sign that read
KNOCK
hung on the door.

Robby squared his shoulders, moved to the door, and did as the sign directed. A boy, a few years older than he, opened the door. “What's your business?”

“We're in need of an undertaker.” Robby leaned around the boy to look into the big room. Four wooden shelflike beds jutted out from the walls. Two of those shelves had occupants who were covered with sheets. There was a big table with baskets in the middle, the tips of instruments and brushes sticking out of the top.

“Can you pay? We don't do credit.”

Robby nodded. “We can. My ma says that you got to hurry though, and if you do she'll give you extra.”

The boy turned toward the stairs at the back of the big room. “Papa,” he called. “We got one.”

Mr. Bostic came down the back stairs. He was a tall man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a small pointed beard. “Come in,” he called when he saw Robby, “come in and we will talk.”

Robby decided to tell the truth. “There's not much time,” he said. “One of our boarders died, and Ma wants her to be buried. If my father gets home, he'll say no.”

Robby could see that Mr. Bostic was undisturbed by the revelation. He probably had heard lots of strange stories from his customers. “Joseph, quick, bring the carriage round,” he called, and the boy disappeared out a side door. “I am Oliver Bostic, at your service. Just let me get my hat and coat.” He moved toward a peg in the back of the room, took down a long black jacket and a tall black hat, and put them on.

“Where do you live, my boy?”

“On Sixth Street, number 318. It's in the middle of the block, a big old house with a broken stoop and trim that wants painting.”

“Very well, you may ride in our carriage with us. Come, follow me.”

It was only a moment before Joseph came around the house with a horse and black carriage. “You can climb in back …” Mr. Bostic paused. “I don't believe I know your name, lad.”

“Robby Hare.” He scrambled up the side to sit in the long carriage bed where he knew coffins often rested.

“Am I to understand that your mother wants the remains taken at once for burial? There will have to be time for the diggers, don't you know?” Mr. Bostic called over his shoulder after the carriage had begun to move down the street.

Robby did not know what to say, but decided Mr. Bostic, who now engaged in a quiet conversation with his son, did not expect an answer.

They were getting close to home when Robby saw Daft Jane sitting on the edge of the street, where she could easily get run over. He wondered if she even realized the danger.

He stood, holding on to the carriage side. “Stop,” he yelled. “I need to get out here. I'll run on home and meet you there.”

He walked slowly toward the woman, who still sat on the road, using one hand to twist a strand of red hair. “Jane,” he said, “I have something for you.” He unfolded the dress, unwrapped the bread and sausage he had carried in the folds, and held it out.