she? What if she played the lost waif, frightened and hungry and in need of succor? She had done it before, though it had not been an act then. No, there was no guarantee that the staff would take pity on her and invite her inside. And even if they did, they would most likely take her to the kitchen, below stairs and far from Mr. Whitby’s personal rooms. It was too risky; she would have to slip in undetected.
Hurrying around the side of the house, she found a worker leaning casually against the wall while he smoked a pipe. She froze, and waited for him to yell at her, but all he did was cock his head toward the open side door and say, “Deliveries through there.” She nodded before he could question why she didn’t have anything with her, and bolted inside.
She did not have much experience in the houses of wealthy folks, but thinking back on the layout of Hammond house, she found her way to the staircase and quietly made her way upstairs. When she reached the main hall, she stood still, straining her ear and trying to hear past the pounding of her heart. From somewhere upstairs came the muffled chatter of maids as they worked. The house was not empty, but Tabby would be quick. She would find what she needed and then slip out before anyone even knew she was there.
The carpet under her feet was plush, but the floorboards beneath it groaned in protest as she made her way down the dark wood-paneled hall, and she had to stop frequently, waiting for them to settle.
The first room off the hall was a drawing room, followed by a dining room on the opposite side. That left the last door on the right. It was ajar and she was just able to slip in without creaking it open any farther.
Perspiration was starting to gather on her brow. What was she looking for, exactly? Surely if Mr. Whitby had committed the murder, he would have more sense than to leave a bloody knife lying on his desk. But if there were going to be answers anywhere, it would be here in his study. She was certain of it.
Heavy damask curtains were drawn in the study, casting the room in melancholy shadows despite the bright day, but she didn’t dare open them as she slowly tiptoed inside. An entire wall of the room was given over to books lined neatly on shelves. Unable to help herself, Tabby gravitated toward them. Eli always said that there was nothing so important in life than to be able to read and write, and had taught her how to when she first came to him. Yet books were expensive, and were a rare luxury in their household, with the Bible and a handful of short story volumes comprising their entire library. Instead, Tabby had read and reread the inscriptions on the gravestones, imagining the lives that had inspired such tender and heartfelt words. When there was enough money, Tabby bought cheap penny papers that left her with inky fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the satisfying weight of a book in her hands.
Mr. Whitby’s collection proved to be disappointing, however. There was an unsurprising amount of law volumes, treatises on British corn tariffs, an anatomy book from the last century, and titles in languages she couldn’t even identify. Tabby allowed her fingers to trail over the leather spines, reveling in the gilded titles and embellishments. One, titled The Fugitive Slave Act, caught her eye. Had Mr. Whitby helped draft that reprehensible law? Wicked man. She wouldn’t be surprised. With a shudder, she moved on.
The great desk which dominated the room seemed like the obvious place to start, and as she grew closer, she felt as if an invisible string pulled her toward it. The first two drawers opened easily, but after rifling through them she didn’t find anything more than documents and paper packets. The bottom drawer was locked. Mr. Bishop’s spirit had told her that he had kept his important ledgers in the bottom drawer of his desk behind a false panel. Perhaps Mr. Whitby did the same.
Just as she was feeling along the woodgrain for a latch, a noise in the hall stopped her, something that might have been the creak of a footstep or nothing more than the house settling. She froze, waiting for it to come again. When her legs had grown hot