Though the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end and her stomach had turned to lead, Tabby forced herself to turn slowly back around.
She had built up her wall. She had taken care to keep her mind closed. Yet it had mattered not one drop. The words took shape on Miss Hammond’s veiled lips before Tabby heard them, hoarse and so quiet that she could not tell if they came from the corpse, or from inside her own head.
Help me.
8
IN WHICH AN ARREST IS MADE.
IT RAINED THE day of Rose Hammond’s funeral, and everyone in attendance agreed that it was only appropriate that the heavens should weep for the loss of such a lovely young woman struck down in her prime. Tabby, who had witnessed more than her fair share of burials, might have told them that it was only superstitious nonsense, except that it did seem somehow fitting, as if the universe recognized the sorrow, the guilt, and the apprehension in Tabby’s heart.
She had not gone to the funeral service at the church, but now she trailed behind the somber procession snaking its way down Tremont Street and into the large cemetery in the center of the city.
The last time Tabby had seen her, Rose had been nothing more than a vague shape under a gossamer shroud, and before that, a sparkling young beauty in the cemetery, vivacious and lovely. Now she was simply the contents of a polished black casket.
Nearly as old as Tabby’s cemetery, the Granary Burying Ground was the final resting place of giants of the Revolution such as John Hancock and Samuel Adams. And now Rose Hammond would take her place amongst them.
The Hammonds had spared no expense for the burial of their only daughter; magnificent ebony horses with matching black ostrich plumes drew the glass funeral coach, trailed by a steady current of mourners. It seemed that Rose Hammond hadn’t just been beautiful, but kind and well loved. How was Caleb bearing it? Tabby simply could not believe that he was capable of visiting the kind of violence on Miss Hammond that Mary-Ruth had described. Had they fought the night of her death? Perhaps. Had it been because of Tabby? She hoped not, though she couldn’t help but feel it might have been. Had he struck her? Even that didn’t seem likely, let alone that he could have stabbed her over and over until her flesh was raw and tattered. The man was a rake and a philanderer, but that did not a murderer make. Rumors were swirling about Boston that his arrest was imminent, but as far as Tabby knew, he was still a free man.
Miss Hammond’s mournful words echoed in her head as the church bells pealed their sad song: Help me. Help me. Tabby was no stranger to requests from the dead, but there was something chilling in Rose’s message, something that plucked a foreboding note on Tabby’s heartstrings. As a rule, Tabby did not involve herself with the affairs of the dead, not after what she’d seen in her aunt and uncle’s parlor, but she couldn’t help but feel that she owed a debt to Miss Hammond. But then what if she did help her, and discovered something about Caleb Bishop that she would rather not know? What if Miss Hammond learned that Tabby was responsible for Caleb’s straying? Would she seek vengeance on Tabby from beyond the grave? Was such a thing even possible?
As if on cue, Tabby looked up, and there was Caleb, slowly climbing out of a carriage and then turning to assist his mother. Tabby’s heart sped up; he was here, which meant that he had not been arrested. Perhaps no charges had been brought against him. Perhaps it was all just a dreadful misunderstanding. Perhaps she was not such a terrible judge of character after all.
He was sharp and handsome as ever in his black tails and tall hat, but gone was the spring in his step, the boyish sparkle in his eyes. Her traitorous body jolted with excitement as she remembered the feeling of his arms around her, his lips on hers.
Once the Bishops had taken their place amongst the mourners, the service began. Tabby’s cheeks burned with shame under her veil as the minister ruminated on the nature of resurrection, and made the sign of the cross over the open grave. She hadn’t been the one to initiate the kiss, but she had enjoyed it all the same, had wanted it to go on forever. And now his fiancée was dead. Lifting her veil, Tabby swiped away a hot tear before it could overflow.
After the service, the mourners continued milling about the gravesite, kissing wet cheeks and shaking hands, making plans for dinners, all the little gestures that reminded them that they were still alive.
Mr. Bishop had been speaking with someone, but when he turned, he caught her eye and made his way toward her.
“Miss Cooke,” he said, giving her a short nod. “How kind of you to come.”
“I—I heard what happened. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything that I can do...” she trailed off, knowing very well that there was nothing she could do for him, that she barely even had any business asking after what had transpired between them.
Taking off his hat, he ran his hands through his curly hair, heedless of the rain. His face was pinched and wan, dark circles under his eyes. “That is kind of you, but there’s nothing that can be done now.”
Though she knew she shouldn’t get involved, Tabby couldn’t help herself. She dropped her voice. “An officer came to see us the other night... He said that you’re under suspicion.” She watched his face carefully as she said this. She wanted more than anything to believe that he was incapable of such hateful violence, and against a woman that he was supposed to love and protect, no less.
To her surprise, he quirked a shadow of his crooked smile at her. “I’m honored they have taken such an interest in me, but it’s a waste of their time. Meanwhile, whoever did this to Rose walks free.”
Of course he would never admit his guilt if he had indeed done it, but she couldn’t help but be reassured by this. Growing bolder, she asked, “What happened?”
Before he could answer, there was a ripple of murmuring, and the crowd of mourners parted as if for passing royalty.
“Lord have mercy,” Caleb murmured. “Rose’s parents.”
“You have some nerve coming here.” The woman who addressed Caleb was tall and straight, laced into her black silk mourning with all the precision and tension of a wound clock. Beside her, her much shorter husband stood on his toes to hold an umbrella over her head.
“Mrs. Hammond, Mr. Hammond,” Caleb said, bowing deeply. “My deepest sympathies. You have no idea how sorry—”
But Mrs. Hammond had no intention of letting him finish. Tabby watched as the mourners around them broke off in their conversations, aware that something of interest was happening. The soft patter of rain on umbrellas intensified, a charged silence falling over the cemetery.
“Sorry indeed!” Her voice was growing shrill, her eyes unnaturally bright.
“Shouting at Mr. Bishop will not bring her back,” her husband murmured. “Come along, my dear.”
Caleb swallowed, his gaze flitting nervously around at the onlookers. “You must believe me. I—”