The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

by Hester Fox

  Officer Hodsdon made awkward small talk, his furtive gaze following Tabby as she moved about the room. She hadn’t realized how young he was until he’d leaned in closer to the lamp, revealing fair hair and boyish features. For some reason, this put her more at ease, and a little of the tension she had been carrying between her shoulders relaxed. He was just a young officer who had drawn the short straw at the station. He held no malice against them, did not wish to make trouble.

  “That’s heaven,” he said after Tabby had placed the cup in front of him and he’d taken a long draught.

  She knew he was just trying to be kind—it was mostly water and sludgy grounds, supplemented with chicory root. Still, she was beyond relieved when he finally pushed his stool back and made ready to take his leave.

  “Thank you again for answering my questions, Mr. Cooke,” he said. “I’m sure nothing will come of it, but when investigating the murder of a respected member of the community like Miss Hammond, we must be certain to leave no stone unturned.”

  “Of course,” Eli said stiffly.

  Once the officer’s heavy boot steps had receded down the stairs, Tabby slumped down into her seat. She hadn’t realized how tense and prickly the air had grown while the officer was there, how she had hardly breathed the entire time.

  Tabby’s voice came out small in the quiet room. “Do you really think Mr. Bishop could have something to do with Miss Hammond’s death?”

  Eli looked up from his own private thoughts. “I suppose he could have. We hardly know the young man. He’s a charmer, that’s for sure, and sometimes the charmers are the ones with the most to hide.” She must have looked crestfallen, because his look softened and he reached for her hand. “I know you took a liking to him, but you need to be careful, Tabby cat. Not everyone is deserving of your trust.”

  Tabby had never offered Eli the details of her early childhood besides the fact that she was an orphan, and he had never asked. He didn’t know that the guardians to whom her parents had entrusted the care of their children would be cold and manipulative. He didn’t know that Tabby had learned to always be on her guard. He didn’t know the things Tabby had done to survive in those early days. But his reminder was timely; Tabby knew that her greatest fault was that, once won, her trust was too freely given. It was the loneliness in her, the hunger for the warm heartbeat of human connection.

  Caleb might have acted the rogue and kissed her, but it seemed a far leap to murder. She just couldn’t see him being capable of that. But if her instincts were wrong about him, what else might she be wrong about?

  She stood suddenly, rocking the stool back. “I... I have to go out.”

  Eli’s gaze flicked to the darkened windows. “Now?”

  “I have to find Mary-Ruth and learn what happened,” she said, gathering up her cloak and bonnet. “What really happened.”

  * * *

  Tabby hesitantly lifted her hand, and then rapped softly on the back door. She knew that she would find Mary-Ruth wherever the body of Rose Hammond was, and finding Hammond House had not been difficult; she had only to ask the lamplighter as he went about his rounds, and he had pointed her down a broad street lined with brick and marble houses.

  The soft pad of footsteps from the other side of the door sounded, and a moment later Mary-Ruth appeared holding a lamp up into the night.

  This was not the same carefree young woman that Tabby had run and laughed with in the cemetery the other day; this woman wore her abundant hair tucked up under a white turban like a nurse, and there were heavy smudges under her eyes.

  “Tabby? What on earth are you doing here?”

  Tabby glanced about the street behind her. Her childhood fear of being followed and discovered had never abated, and she had spent the entire walk darting between buildings, straining her ear for the sound of approaching footsteps. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was inside with the door bolted behind her. “May I come in?”

  Mary-Ruth ushered her inside and led her down a steep staircase into the bowels of the large house.

  “The family is asleep,” Mary-Ruth said when they reached the kitchen. “I was just about to go home. Now, do you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  Tabby fumbled for the right words. How could she tell Mary-Ruth that she had kissed the man accused of the murder? How could she explain that she was a burning mess of guilt and fear, curiosity and yearning?

  So all she said was: “Rose Hammond... She’s Caleb Bishop’s fiancée.”

  Mary-Ruth crossed her arms. “Don’t you think I know that? They’re saying he’s the one who did it!”

  “It’s not true,” Tabby hurried to reassure her, the words rushing out despite her own misgivings. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “How do you know?” When Tabby didn’t say anything else, Mary-Ruth groaned. “Oh, Tabby. Don’t tell me you’re sweet on him. You had that look in your eyes the other day, but I thought it was just a passing fancy.” She shook her head. “If it’s true what they’re saying, then you ought to stay far away from him, from this whole mess.”

  “I’m not sweet on him.” She bristled. Brushing aside her friend’s concern, she forced herself to ask the terrible question. “How...how did it happen?”

  Pressing her lips together, Mary-Ruth looked as if she wasn’t going to answer. After a moment of strained silence, she finally said, “She was strangled and stabbed. Repeatedly.”

  Tabby winced at the brutality of the truth, but it did not change the fact that she couldn’t rest until she’d seen Miss Hammond for herself. “I just need to see her.”

  “See her! Tabs, why on earth would you want to do that?”

  “I just... I need to. Please?”

  Mary-Ruth looked uncomfortable, but she also looked tired, and Tabby pushed aside her guilt as she realized her friend hadn’t the heart to argue. “Very well, but she...that is, it was a violent death. I could only do so much.”

  Tabby knew what Mary-Ruth was trying to tell her, but the shells that the dead left behind held no dread for Tabby, not after she had seen such horrors in her mind’s eye since she was a small child. “I understand.”

  With a reluctant nod, Mary-Ruth led her down the narrow hall.

  The room where Rose Hammond’s body lay was cold and still as a mausoleum. A lone table stood in the center, a gauzy shroud draped over the motionless form. With the moonlight spilling in from the small street-level windows, the whole scene looked as if it was carved from marble.

  “I’ll dress her tomorrow,” Mary-Ruth said quietly. “The poor thing has had enough for tonight.”

  “May I have a moment with her?”

  Mary-Ruth’s dark brows drew together in question, but she nodded. “I suppose a cup of hot tea might be nice. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  The door clicked shut behind Mary-Ruth, leaving Tabby alone with only the sound of her breathing and the pressing heaviness of the room. The eucalyptus and lavender that Mary-Ruth had placed around the table mingled with the scent of bleach and lime. Taking a deep breath, Tabby closed her mind, and slowly approached the shrouded figure.

  Gently, as if it were as fragile as a spider’s web, she took up the corners of the shroud between her fingertips. A horse cart rumbled past on the street outside, the vibrations causing the shroud to quiver slightly. Just as she was about to pull it aside, she stayed her hands. She shouldn’t be here. She had wanted to do penance for kissing the young woman’s fiancée, and had hoped that seeing Miss Hammond would somehow convince her of Mr. Bishop’s innocence. But now that she was here, she felt only guiltier than ever; she was a voyeur, and nothing more.

  Her heart beat loud in her ears, and she could hear herself swallowing. The air grew heavier, like the building quiet before a storm. Suddenly Tabby didn’t want to be anywhere near Rose Hammond’s corpse or the too-thin shroud covering it.
This had been a mistake.

  She was just turning to leave when the smallest of noises stopped her. It was like the soft rustling of a curtain caught in a breeze, the predawn beating of a swallow’s wing. But there was no breeze in the room, no birds, only Tabby and the corpse.

  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—”

  “I am not inclined to believe anything you say,” she hissed. “We let you into our home, our lives, and you were nothing more than a...a...butcher, a murderer this whole time. You will pay for what you have done.” And with that, Mrs. Hammond drew her head up high and swept toward her carriage with her husband slowly trudging in her wake.

  Caleb’s face had gone green, and rain rolled off the rim of his hat, slicking his cheeks. He looked so stricken, so utterly lost, and Tabby wanted nothing more than to take him by the hand and lead him somewhere dry and safe. But he was a grown man, and it was not her place to offer him comfort, and before she could even say anything anyway, there was a fresh ripple of excitement in the crowd.

  “Caleb Bishop?”

  He hardly had time to respond before two police officer
s were taking him roughly by the arms while a stony-faced constable supervised. Tabby immediately recognized the younger officer of the two: Officer Hodsdon. A terrible thought ran through her mind: What if something she had said the other night had led him to Mr. Bishop?

  Mrs. Bishop, who had fought her way through the crowd, was swatting at the officers with her reticule. “Unhand him, you brutes!”

  “Can’t do that, ma’am,” the constable said. “Your son is under arrest for the murder of Rose Hammond, and he needs to come with us.”

  In the midst of the ensuing clamor, Caleb was the only one who looked calm and resigned, and now he closed his eyes as if for patience. “Really, Mother. I’ll be fine. Go home and I’ll be along shortly after this misunderstanding has been cleared up.”

  “I am not going home, not without you,” she said, glaring at the officers.

  Caleb sighed. “Miss Cooke, would you please escort my mother home?”

  Mrs. Bishop did not look like she intended to go meekly, but Tabby gently took the older woman’s arm. “Mrs. Bishop, will you let me take you home?”

  “But...but, my boy! What will they do with him?”

  Tabby bit her lip. She didn’t know what they would do with him. She could only hope that Officer Hodsdon would be as kind to him as he had been to her and Eli the other night.

  Just as the constable was ordering his officers to escort the accused from the cemetery, Caleb twisted around, looking frantically about. “Tabby,” he hissed as his gaze found hers once again. He briefly wrenched his arm free from Officer Hodsdon, taking Tabby by the wrist and looking her directly in the eye. “Whatever is said, I am innocent. You must believe me.”

  Before she could even do so much as nod, he was being wrenched back and led away, the great black sea of mourners swallowing him up.

  * * *

  After Tabby had finished her embroidery and said goodnight to Eli that night, she went to her room and latched the door behind her. With the image of Rose’s parents and her funeral still fresh in her mind, Tabby took a deep breath and prepared to summon her.