When the interview was over and the smell of death had receded, Tabby leaned over with her head between her knees and heaved. At least she had what Caleb needed now. At least it hadn’t been for nothing.
When her legs felt steady again and she could breathe, she stood up, ready to slip into the warm safety of her bed. But just as she was turning to leave the cemetery, the faint tinkling of a bell sounded in the still night air.
Quickly, she slipped back inside the gates and ducked behind a gravestone. There was just enough moonlight that she could make out a man dressed in dark clothes and carrying some kind of tool, a pickax, maybe. He was speaking to someone in a hoarse whisper, but a tree obscured her view. Tabby edged closer, using gravestones as shields until she had a clear line of sight to the crypts where the man stood.
There was the second man, his bobbing cap just visible in the recessed entrance of the crypt. The bell that had been installed on the door jangled in protest as they hefted the door aside. Few crypts were equipped with such a bell, and aside from particularly windy days, Tabby had never actually heard one of them ring. But now it rang in vain.
After the spate of robberies ten years ago, Eli had mended the fence and installed new locks on the gates, and, coupled with the diminishing amount of burials in the old cemetery, it had seemed as if the days of grave robberies were nothing more than a dark memory.
But now she watched in horror, paralyzed, as the wrenching sound of metal splintered through wood. The first man paced nearby, every now and then throwing a glance over his shoulder. This would break Eli. He took so much pride in keeping the cemetery safe, a sacred space.
The man in the crypt had disappeared from sight, but now he appeared again, hefting a pale bundle to the man above. Between the two of them, they carried the shrouded body to the far wall and clumsily hoisted it up and over to where a cart was presumably waiting on the other side.
Mouth dry as cotton, she crouched there for what seemed like hours, until her legs were numb. When the creaking of wheels had finally faded into the night, she clambered to her feet and crept over to the row of crypts.
The sourness in her stomach returned, and she felt as if she might faint, despite the anger pumping through her veins. It was a foggy night, and the moon had long since disappeared behind a heavy veil of clouds, but she didn’t need to read the plaque to know what it said: it was the Bishop crypt.
5
IN WHICH A FORBIDDEN FRUIT IS TASTED.
AFTER THE RAIN of the previous night, Boston was enjoying a sunny, warm day. Couples picnicked on the Common, children ran down Tremont Street with hoops and sticks, and shop owners threw open their windows, the scents of roasting coffee and fresh-baked bread wafting out onto the streets. With his walking stick in one hand and the sun on his face, Caleb headed out into the city. He was just going to visit his father’s grave one last time, and if he happened to bump into the intriguing Miss Cooke in the cemetery, well then, he could hardly be blamed for such a coincidence. That was what he told himself, anyway, as he briskly walked across town.
As he passed by the theater, a pretty brunette he recognized as the soprano from the other night threw him a wink. He tipped his hat, but kept walking. Since his engagement to Rose, he had been trying so hard not to slip into old habits, but he still enjoyed the attention of pretty girls. Pretty girls didn’t expect lofty things from him, like running a business or carrying on the family legacy. All they expected was flattery and a bit of fun, both of which he was only too happy to provide. Seeing Miss Cooke would be a welcome distraction from the avalanche of responsibility that had come crashing down on his shoulders in the recent days.
He had hardly stepped foot through the cemetery gates when he spied the limping caretaker hurrying toward him. “Oh, Mr. Bishop. It’s good you’ve come,” Mr. Cooke said. “I was just about to send a messenger to fetch you.”
Caleb blinked and grew wary, momentarily wondering if the man had somehow discerned Caleb’s impure thoughts about his daughter. “You were?”
“I’m afraid there’s, uh, been an incident.”
So not about Tabby, then. Caleb frowned. “What kind of incident?” Scenarios ran through his mind, but none of them seemed particularly pressing. Had the silversmith botched the dates on the plaque? Had the payment from the bank not gone through? Mr. Cooke could have sent him an invoice or letter if any of that was the case.
Mr. Cooke pressed his lips tight together, looking exceedingly uncomfortable. “There was a robbery last night.”
“A robbery?”
“Yes. That is...your father.” Clearing his throat, the caretaker removed his hat and scrubbed at his graying crown of hair. “Rest assured, I’ve contacted the constable and he’s aware of the situation.”
Mr. Cooke was still speaking, but Caleb hardly heard him. “I’m sorry, but did you say my father was...robbed?”
The caretaker nodded.
Caleb considered this. “Are you trying to tell me that someone dug up my father’s corpse just to rob the old fellow?”
Mr. Cooke looked taken aback at Caleb’s language, but pressed on, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Sir, I’m telling you that someone dug up your father to rob him of his corpse.”
Well. He certainly had not been expecting that. His father had been gouty and pockmarked; he hardly seemed like an appealing prospect as far as corpses went.
“Are you all right, sir? I know it’s a shock, but—”
Caleb waved off his concern. “Yes, yes, quite all right. But,” he said, “what on earth would anyone want with my father’s body?”
“Er, I believe the freshly dead sell at a premium to surgeons and medical students. For dissection, that is.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Caleb marveled at this. His father had been a miser and a hard man, but he certainly hadn’t deserved such a fate. Caleb wouldn’t be able to tell his mother about the desecration, of course; it would shatter the poor dear’s nerves. Rose likewise should be kept in the dark, lest she become upset. “I thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Caleb said, turning toward the back of the cemetery. “I’ll bid you good day and take a walk to the grave site if it’s all the same.”
Mr. Cooke looked as if he would have thrown himself in Caleb’s path to stop him if he could have. “I... You want to go to the grave? There’s nothing to see there except a pried-open door and a splintered coffin,” he said. “It might be most distressing for you.”
But Caleb was already making his way to the back of the cemetery, scanning for a splash of bright red hair.
The crypt yawned at him balefully as he approached, debris and evidence of forced entry scattered about the ground. But it was the person he found there that caught his interest. “Hullo there.”