She had died… hadn’t she?
Elias was still pondering this when he passed the gravedigger’s quarters near the southern gate. An older man sat on a crooked bench, pipe smoke curling into the gray sky.
“You look like you’ve seen the widow,” the man rasped.
Elias stopped. “The what?”
The man tapped the side of his nose. “The cemetery’s widow. She’s been seen these past few weeks. Tall woman, veiled, hair as white as snow. Some say she cries at a grave with no name. Others say she wanders, looking for someone she lost.”
Eeriness crept over Elias. “You believe that nonsense?”
The man shrugged. “I believe what I see. And I saw her once. Vanished behind the Milton mausoleum, right before my eyes. But I ain’t afraid of her. She don’t mean no harm.”
The prickles down Elias’s spine multiplied. “Do you know who she was?”
The man gave him a long look. “No, but I have a feelingyoudo.”
*
The old man’ssuspicion had been on Elias’s mind the rest of the day, and all through the night. Inside his modest flat near Hampstead, sleep hadn’t come easily, and he’d spent most of the time pacing the floor. The flickering gaslight cast shadows along the ceiling, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—her face half veiled, her eyes locked with his.
She’d been real. He was certain of it. And if she were real, then the official record was a lie. But why would she fake her death?
There was only one person who might know more than rumor: the apothecary on Windemere Lane. Old Mr. Holling had been the physician to half the gentry in that part of London. He’d been the one to confirm Isobel’s death, or so Elias had heard at the time. He’d spoken to him once before the war, and the man hadn’t struck him as easily fooled.
When the sun had finally risen in the sky, he went to the shop and found that it hadn’t changed much—still smelling of musty herbs and lamp oil, still dim and cluttered with jars. Mr. Holling, now older and more bent than Elias remembered, blinked behind thick spectacles when Elias closed the door behind him.
“Good morning,” the physician greeted him. “What can I help you with?”
“I need to know about a friend of mine. Before I left for the war, Miss Isobel Fairfax was alive and well, but upon my return, I heard she had died. Is that true?”
“A tragic business,” the man murmured, his hands trembling slightly as he arranged a row of amber bottles. “The fire was thorough. Her maid’s body was found, but Miss Fairfax…” He trailed off.
“No body,” Elias said quietly.
Holling sighed. “None. Her guardian pushed for the death certificate regardless. Too eager, if you ask me. There were… um, rumors, at the time.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That she ran. That she feared for her life. I couldn’t prove anything. I was just asked to sign the papers. Paid handsomely for it, too.”
“By Lord Norton?”
The apothecary hesitated. “Some things are better left buried, captain.”
Elias rose slowly. “Not when the dead come walking.”
The physician shrugged. “Leave it be, captain. Miss Isobel is dead, or someone would have seen her by now.”
Mr. Holling’s words echoed through Elias’s ears the rest of the day. The old man didn’t believe she had died, yet he still wanted everyone toleave it be. Well, Elias wasn’t one to just accept something without proof, especially when he knew he hadn’t dreamed of seeing her yesterday.
That evening, as the fog rolled in over Highgate’s shadowed lanes, Elias returned to the cemetery… this time not to grieve, but to hunt.
He waited near the stone cherub where he had first seen her. The lamp he carried flickered in the cold air, casting dancing light across the monuments. His breath fogged before him. An owl hooted somewhere in the trees.
Off in the distance, he heard the clock tower strike the hour of eleven. A figure emerged from the shadows. It was her. She was veiled and walked with grace.
He stepped forward. “Miss Fairfax. Don’t run.”
