The Silent Orphan Read online

  She nodded and sniffed noisily. “Will you tell the others?” she coughed tearfully. “I just don’t think I could bear to do it.”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  He closed the door to the kitchen and made his way upstairs. He knocked on the door of the dining room. Abigail was sitting at the head of the table, winding a strand of hair around her finger.

  “Where is my breakfast, Mr Cobbler?” she asked, a hint of impatience in her voice. “I’m very hungry.”

  “There will be a slight delay with your breakfast,” he told her. “Mrs Graham has died.”

  Abigail’s brow creased. “Died?” she repeated.

  “Yes.”

  She tapped her chin. “I see. That is most unfortunate. Where is she?”

  Gid folded his hands behind his back. “On the floor of the kitchen. I ought to send for the undertaker.”

  Abigail nodded distantly, “Yes. I suppose you ought to. Thank you, Mr Cobbler.” As he turned to leave, she said distantly: “The woman has no family. I suppose it will be up to me to see to the funeral arrangements.” She sounded more than a little irritated. More than a little dramatic.

  Gid gave Abigail a reassuring smile, “Don’t you worry yourself, Miss Gresham. I’ll see to all the arrangements. After all, it’s my area of expertise, is it not?”

  She gave a small laugh. “Of course,” she let out an enormous sigh of relief. “Oh Mr Cobbler. Whatever would I do without you?” She brushed light fingers down his arm, making him shiver involuntarily. “You will take whatever money you need from the housekeeping fund. See she has a suitable burial. Nothing too elaborate, of course. But nothing that will make me look like a miserly employer.”

  Gid nodded, “Of course, Miss Gresham. As you wish”

  Abigail shivered suddenly and wrapped her arms around herself. “Send for the undertaker immediately,” she told Gid. “I don’t want a dead woman lying on my kitchen floor all day.”

  * * *

  Gid sent for to the undertaker. He had requested the services of James Corker’s funeral parlour, the Flatleys’ biggest competitor when they had been in business. Within an hour, two men appeared at Haverstock House and wrapped the old woman’s body, carrying it out to the waiting hearse with barely a murmur.

  Gid knew Able and Arthur had been the ones to retrieve the bodies from their death beds and bring them back to the Flatley’s cold room. He could barely imagine what a debacle the twins would have made of such a delicate task. He was certain they would not have appeared at a customer’s door within an hour. And even more certain they would not have been silent and respectful as they carried the body to the hearse. When last he’d seen the twins, they’d been reeking of tobacco and liquor.

  The following morning, Gid went to the Corkers’ parlour to discuss the details of the burial. The shop front was painted in crisp grey and white, windows polished and front path neatly weeded. Gid thought back to way the Flatleys’ had looked the day he had left: the painted chipped and peeling, the windows covered in grime, the sign above the door missing a letter. Though he and Martha had done their best to keep the place in good shape, there had simply been too much work for them to handle on their own.

  Gid sat down with Mr Corker at a large polished table. A pot of tea and cake appeared in front of them, along with gentle condolences from the undertaker.

  “Were you close to the woman?” he asked. There was such genuine concern in his eyes, Gid felt reluctant to admit he had only learned Mrs Graham’s first name that morning. Instead he lowered his glance and said, “I was, yes. Her passing has come as quite a shock.”

  Mr Corker set a slice of sponge cake in front of him, “I’m sure. Here. If you’ve not got the stomach to eat right now, I shan’t be offended.”

  Gid found he did indeed have the stomach for cake. He ate hungrily while Mr Corker dug into his desk drawer for the relevant papers. In all the hubbub over the housekeeper’s death, Gid realised he’d not eaten in almost a day.

  With a gold-nibbed pen, Mr Corker began to draw up the details of Mrs Graham’s funeral, swamping Gid with a seemingly endless barrage of questions and options.

  A short procession, oak casket. A mute, yes of course. Mourning stationery, no, no, that won’t be necessary, thank you.

  “Our employer, Miss Abigail Gresham will be paying for the funeral,” Gid told Mr Corker. “Yes, yes, it is most generous of her, I agree.”

  “And mourners?” Mr Corker asked. “Have you any idea how many we can expect?”

  Gid gave a dramatic sigh. Now he had started this ruse of being close to Mrs Graham he was finding it difficult to pull back. “The poor woman had no family. There’ll not be many of us, I expect.”

  Mr Corker gave an understanding smile, “Tea and cake for a small group of mourners then.” He scribbled in his notebook, the pen scratching noisily.

  Gid left the funeral parlour half an hour later, Abigail’s housekeeping fund considerably lighter.

  He remembered the words of Mr Flatley, the day he had hauled Gid from the workhouse. Funerals are a big business these days.

  Mr Flatley had been right. Gid felt quite sure the dead had more spent on them than the living. An elaborate funeral was a way of illustrating social status, he’d learnt that early on. No self-respecting gentleman would dare send their loved ones to the grave without an appropriate degree of pomp and circumstance. The more mourners the better, the longer the procession the better. Horses decorated with black feathers; the casket swathed in the finest white roses. Let everyone in London see how much money a family had— and, of course, how much they had loved their dear departed.

  A big business indeed.

  Gid knew the Flatleys had been forced to cut their prices after their customers started defecting to the Corkers in droves. Now Gid could see why. Mr Corker’s funeral parlour was a sharp, professional operation. A sharp, professional operation that was bringing in a considerable sum with each funeral. Done right, this funeral business could indeed be a lucrative one.

  Gid felt his thoughts begin to churn.

  Chapter 21

  Abigail found herself pacing across the parlour. The death of the old woman had rattled her. Haverstock House had seen its share of death, of course. Both her parents had died in this place, along with her aunt and uncle. And after each death, Abigail had felt the expanse of the place. The passageways had felt longer, the empty rooms darker. And she always seemed to half-hear footsteps pacing above her head.

  As a child, there had been something fascinating about the maze of empty rooms in Haverstock House. On many nights, she had crept out of bed and explored the house with a candlestick in hand, searching for the source of those barely-audible footsteps.

  Now the thought of doing such a thing seemed terrifying. She shivered, stepping closer to the fire.

  Her half-eaten supper sat on the table beside her. After Mrs Graham’s death, the kitchen staff had apparently been in disarray, serving up this mish-mash of eggs and cold meat. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

  She wished the mute was here. She needed the company. How many hours did it take to organise a damn housekeeper’s funeral?

  She heard the door click and she felt a swell of relief. The mute had returned.

  She rang the bell.

  As he always did, Gid appeared at the door within seconds. Sometimes Abigail wondered how he physically moved so fast across the house to get to her.

  At the sight of him, the tension inside her began to dissipate. Somehow, he always managed to make her feel better. She wanted to throw her arms around him. Hurriedly decided the better of it.

  “Did you make the necessary arrangements?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes Miss Gresham. Everything is taken care of. You’re not worry yourself about a thing. The funeral is to take place this Friday. All you need do is attend,” he hesitated. “If you see fit to, of course. I know many ladies—”

  “I shall attend,” Abigail interrupted. “I’m no stran
ger to a funeral procession, Mr Cobbler.” She flashed him a smile. “As you well know.”

  He returned her smile, “I’m sure Mrs Graham would be glad of it. She was always fond of you.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows arched, “Was she?” This was news to her.

  “Of course,” Gid proclaimed. “All your staff are fond of you.”

  “Except Mr Groves, it seems.”

  Gid shrugged, “Mr Groves was a thief. It was in his nature. I’m sure it had little to do with you personally.”

  Abigail let out a sigh of relief and sank onto the chaise in exhaustion.

  Everything taken care of. All she had to do was attend. She could do that.

  She reached for Gid’s arm. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Mr Cobbler. I’m very grateful to you.”

  His eyes lit, “You are?”

  “Of course,” she tightened her grip around his forearm. “You will stay with me a while, won’t you? This place feels so dreadfully cold and empty at times like this. So full of death.” She patted the seat beside her. Gid sat with a self-satisfied smile.

  “I shall need to find a new housekeeper,” Abigail said after a moment. She gave another sigh. How inconsiderate of Mrs Graham to die now, when there was another dreadful board meeting coming up next week. Didn’t she have enough to concern herself with?

  “I’ll take care of it,” Gid placated, as she had hoped. “I told you you’d not need to worry about a thing.” He met her eye boldly. “You do trust me to hire a housekeeper for you, I assume?” There was playful light in his eyes.

  She stroked his arm, “Of course. I trust you with everything. You know that.” Her fingers worked their way across his forearm.

  The lamp flickered suddenly, making shadows dance across the room. Above their heads, the house creaked noisily. Abigail shivered. She slid across the chaise, so her shoulder was pressing against Gid’s. She needed his closeness.

  What had happened to that bold little girl she used to be, she wondered. Once, she had gone fearlessly striding through the house on a search for ghosts. Now creaks above her head made her heart race.

  The stress, she told herself. The stress of being the head of the household. It was enough to steal a woman’s confidence.

  “What was it like?” she asked suddenly. “Working at the funeral parlour?”

  Gid shrugged, “Not so bad. Mr Flatley and the twins were bullies, but—”

  “I don’t mean working among the Flatleys,” she interrupted. “I mean, working among the dead. Was it frightening?”

  Gid’s lips twitched. He stared into the fire. “It were frightening at first,” he admitted. “When I was a boy, all those coffins used to scare me,” his lips quirked. “The horses scared me too.” He chuckled. “I wasn’t the bravest of lads.”

  Abigail smiled to herself. She found that easy to believe. That scrawny little mute he had been when she had first met him had certainly not looked the bravest of lads.

  “The first dead woman I saw,” Gid continued, his eyes growing glassy, “She had hanged herself. There were rope burns on her neck and her tongue was bulging out from between her lips.”

  Abigail shivered, but she was strangely unable to pull her eyes from Gid. She nodded at him to continue.

  “The sight of her terrified me,” he said. “I couldn’t help but think of my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  He nodded. “My mother hanged herself,” he admitted, his eyes on his clasped hands. “After my father’s execution.” His voice was low and secretive.

  Interesting, thought Abigail. She had never before considered the mute’s family. Never thought to ask. She had had no thought of whether or not he was an orphan. It made sense, she supposed, given that he had grown up at the Flatley’s funeral parlour.

  “Your father was executed,” she said. “Why?”

  She saw colour rise in his cheeks. Was he ashamed he had admitted such a thing to her?

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never cared to know. He was the reason my mother took her own life. I’ve little time for his memory.” There was bitterness in his words.

  Abigail tapped her chin, her eyes raking over him. What an interesting development. She found herself wondering more about the mute. How old had he been when his mother had died? Had he found the body himself? Best not ask too many questions, she thought. Best not to appear too interested. But there was one question burning on the edge of her lips.

  “And were you a workhouse boy?” she asked as evenly as she could manage.

  Gid’s cheeks coloured further. He nodded. “Does that repel you?” he asked. “Are you ashamed to have such a man in your service?”

  Abigail gave a short laugh. “Of course not,” she said. And she was surprised to find she believed it. She pictured Gid Cobbler as that scrawny, blond-haired child, shuffling through the workhouse with a bowl of gruel in his hand. Her heart gave an unexpected lurch. She covered his hand with hers. “I could never be ashamed of you, mute.”

  A smile flickered on his lips.

  Abigail left her hand resting on his for a moment. “My mother was afraid of being buried alive,” she told him. “When she was a girl, she heard a tale of a man going to his grave before he was dead.” She looked into Gid’s eyes for dramatic effect. “Story was, the undertaker heard scratching noises coming from his parlour. Scratch, scratch, scratch, all night long. Told himself it was his imagination. But at the funeral procession they all heard it again. Scratch, scratch, scratch. So they opened up the coffin.” She slid closer to Gid, her eyes widening. “The man was dead, just as they had expected. But they found marks on the lid of the coffin. Finger marks. He’d been clawing at the coffin lid, trying to escape. All that scratching had done him in.”

  She saw Gid shiver.

  “My mother was terrified of the same thing happening to her,” Abigail told him morosely. “She had been sick for much of my life and each time she took to her bed, she made me promise she would not be buried until the doctors were certain she was dead.”

  Abigail thought of the bell chiming above her mother’s coffin. For a fleeting second, she had been filled with joy. For a fleeting second, she had believed her mother would be returned to her. Had believed she would not have to face this beastly world and all the men in it without her mother at her side.

  Just a draught, Mr Flatley had said. Happens all the time in here. Abigail remembered it as though it were yesterday.

  She had pressed Uncle Charles to open the coffin anyway. The image of her mother’s lifeless body had burned itself into her memory. She had been lying with her mother when she had died, but lying in the coffin, she had looked so different. So colourless, so stiff. So unreal. Abigail had torn away from the coffin, her entire body trembling with grief and shock.

  It had been the mute who had asked after her, she remembered. Not her aunt or her uncle. That scrawny little blond-haired mute. He had stood close to her and asked if she was all right.

  Abigail glanced sideways at him. His eyes were glassy as he stared into the flames. Was he too remembering that day, she wondered? Or was he still thinking of his mother’s broken neck? Still thinking of his father’s execution?

  She touched his arm to make him look at her. She needed those adoring eyes taking her in. She found herself peering closely at him; this little workhouse boy who had ended up running her household. He didn’t look like a workhouse boy, she reasoned. His sandy hair was trimmed neatly at his collar, and his cheeks and chin were freshly shaven. His shirts were always crisp and white, his shoes always polished. No, to look at the man, no one would ever know.

  No one would ever know…

  Her gaze fell to his lips. She wanted to kiss him, she thought suddenly. The realisation made her breath leave her. What was she thinking? She was a wealthy young lady from the upper reaches of society. He, her servant, a mute, a workhouse boy.

  A workhouse boy with a criminal for a father.

  What am I thinking? />
  But the desire was there, as much as she tried to wrangle it away. There was desire in his eyes too— there was always desire in his eyes. She found herself drawing closer to him. His lips were inches from hers. Just a tiny kiss, she thought. Just a peck, to see what such a thing might feel like. He would be receptive, of course. He would long for more and it would make her feel strong and desirable.

  But what would happen then? The mute would believe that his feelings were reciprocated. That could never be. Not ever. The balance of power between them would be forever shifted. She would lose that precious upper hand. There was not a man in the world whose kiss was worth that.

  She had promised her mother on her death bed that she would not let herself be manipulated or taken advantage of by a man. She would not let herself lose that power, that strength.

  She pulled back suddenly and heard a sharp intake of breath from the mute. She gave him a coy smile and lowered her eyes. “Not yet, my little mute,” she breathed into his ear. She pressed her hand to his chest and felt his heart hammer wildly beneath her fingers. “Not yet.”

  Chapter 22

  Gid found himself oddly looking forward to Mrs Graham’s funeral. And that, he was well aware, was simply not right. But he found himself full of curiosity as to how James Corker would run the affair. Found himself curious to find out all the things Mr Flatley and the twins had done wrong.

  And perhaps, yes, there was a part of him that wanted to see Abigail Gresham in her mourning attire; a part of him that wanted to see those coloured eyes peering out at him from beneath her black veil. More than a little part of him, he accepted.

  The story of the man buried alive had kept him awake that night she’d told it in her study while the brandy bottle grew ever emptier.

  He’d heard the story before, of course. Martha Flatley had told it to him during one of their arithmetic lessons. It was why her father had insisted on attaching a bell to the lid of the coffins, she’d told him, leaning close to the lamp so shadows danced on her cheeks. Gid had been frightened by the tale back then. And he’d been unnerved by it all over again the night Abigail had told it. There had been something about the intensity in those strange, multi-coloured eyes that had left him unsettled.