by Hester Fox
After what seemed like an eternity, the smallest of breezes kicked up in her mind, carrying with it the cloying scent of decomposing flowers.
She forced down the dry lump in her throat. “Rose?”
Rose Hammond peered at Tabby from sunken eyes behind a stringy veil of dark hair, her shoulders slumped. Despite her fear, Tabby’s heart ached for her. How terrible to be bound to that in-between place, with no justice and no peace, unable to move on.
“What can I do, Rose? How can I help you?”
If the spirit understood her, she gave no indication. She stared through Tabby with unseeing eyes and when she opened the black hole that was her mouth, it was not words that came out, but a thin, sickly string of minor notes.
Gradually the notes grew fainter, and with them, Rose’s pale face. When all that remained was a curl of smoke like a snuffed-out candle, Tabby opened her eyes, slowly coming back to the world of the living. She had hoped for answers, for some clue as to how to help Rose and find her true killer. Instead, all she had gotten was a song.
9
IN WHICH ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST.
PRISON WAS EVERYTHING the novels and serialized dramas Caleb had read in his youth promised it would be. His cell mates included drunks, vagrants, and a fellow who proclaimed loudly and frequently that he was the Duke of Wellington and was going to be late for a naval engagement if he was not released immediately. Time was marked by a leak in the ceiling which dripped slow and steady, day and night. The bread that he was given was somehow both mealy and stale, and the whole place smelled like piss. Yes, prison did not disappoint when it came to hopeless ambiance. His father must have been joyfully rolling over in his grave—or wherever his body was—vindicated that he had been right when he predicted that Caleb would someday find himself in jail.
Caleb wasn’t terribly concerned that he would languish in here for more than a few hours. Mother would send Mr. Whitby—his father’s business partner and solicitor—with some money and papers and he would clear the whole mess up. The question was, when? How would it look to Caleb’s business investors to see the new owner of Bishop & Son Shipping behind bars? How many meetings would he miss, and at what cost? It was like being granted a stay of execution from all those unpleasant business matters he had been dreading, only to spend it in, well, prison.
No, what did concern him was Rose and her terrible fate. What on earth had happened after he left Hammond House? Poor, sweet Rose. Who could have been coldhearted enough to think her deserving of death? Thinking back to their argument and what an unforgivable cad he had been, he let out a groan. He had not loved her in the way a husband should love a wife, but they were supposed to have had a lifetime to find their path together. He imagined her dark blue eyes staring at him accusingly from across the divide, a life abbreviated. She had deserved more, so much more.
“Caleb Bishop?”
The rough voice snapped him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see the warden standing with crossed arms in front of the iron bars. “I’m the gentleman in question.”
The warden scowled. “You’ve got a visitor.”
That would be Whitby. About bloody time. Caleb stood up, waiting for the warden to unlock the door and lead him to some more hospitable chamber where he and Mr. Whitby could discuss the matter at hand, but instead the warden disappeared. When he came back, he had a young woman in tow.
Caleb’s jaw nearly fell to the ground. “Good God, Miss Cooke?” He rushed to the bars, sure that his eyes deceived him.
“Get back!” The warden jabbed at him with his club through the bars.
Caleb just stared at her, shocked but also more than a little peeved. How he wished he had never given in to his incendiary desire and kissed the girl. She was a living, breathing reminder of the price both he and Rose had paid for their fight. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes had widened, staring past him. Turning, he followed her line of sight to where a drunkard was relieving himself very loudly with a satisfied grunt in the corner. Jesus Christ, what a place for a young woman. He gestured to her to come to the other end of the cell, peering at her through the bars and was just about to ask her again why she had come when she spoke.
“I need you to know something...” she trailed off, twining her hands. “I... I know that you are innocent.”
Hadn’t he told her as much at the burial? “Of course I’m innocent!” His words came out much too loud, causing the Duke of Wellington to pick up a chorus of “Innocent! Innocent!”
She shook her head impatiently, the tattered ribbon in her plain straw bonnet nearly coming undone. “Yes, but no one will believe you unless we have proof. And to get proof I need you to tell me about Rose.”
He stared at her. If her thoughts were following some logical trajectory, he certainly couldn’t see it. “What about Rose?”
“How long did you know her? Did she have any enemies, anyone who might wish her harm? Other suitors, perhaps?” The questions tripped off her tongue faster than Caleb could keep track of them until she suddenly stopped. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at it, and for a moment Caleb was transported back to their kiss at the cemetery, his regret tempered with a sudden jab of longing. “I can help you,” she said softly.
“The only person who can help me is my lawyer. Now if you would be so kind, I believe I have some pensive brooding to do just over there on that bench while I figure out what the hell he can do to get me out of here.”
Color rose to her face. “You may not want my help, but I promised Rose that I would bring her killer to justice, and I always honor my promises.”
What on earth was she talking about? “You promised Rose? You didn’t even know Rose! Don’t you think you’ve done enough? She wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
She jerked backward as if he had struck her, and he instantly regretted his sharp words. He knew full well that he had been the one to instigate the kiss, that it was his impulsive and base behavior that had caused this mess. The fault was his and his alone. Perhaps that was why he said what he did, because his own guilt was unbearable. “Look, I don’t know what you’re going on about, and frankly, I don’t want to know. I’m just as much responsible for that damned kiss as you, but I think it would be better for all parties involved if you were to stay out of my affairs.”
She gave him an unreadable look, her cloudy eyes seeming to see right through him. When she spoke again her voice was low and more forceful than he had ever heard from her before. “You forfeited that right when you came into the cemetery and kissed me. For better or worse, I would say I am already rather entangled in your affairs.” With that she turned on her heel and marched out.
“Tabby!” he called after her. God damn it, she meant to get involved. “Tabby, wait! Stay out of this!”
But it was too late. The strange young woman was already floating down the hall as if she were a spirit herself.
* * *
Blinking back the brightness as she emerged from the dank prison, Tabby walked briskly through the city, too preoccupied to worry about being followed for once.
She had so carefully fortified her defenses over the years, and then this young man came along and they all but came crumbling down when he so much as looked at her. She should have been angry with herself for her lack of restraint, but instead she found herself irritated beyond all reason with him. He was a temptation, a threat to the life she had worked so hard to salvage. Harden your heart against that which you can never have. The old refrain ran through her mind as she walked. She would harden her heart against Caleb, but she was determined to help Rose. The dead, after all, could not break your heart.
Her feet carried her as her thoughts churned. Though it was less than a mile from the cemetery, Tabby had been to this part of the city only twice before: once to visit Mary-Ruth at Hammond House, and the seco
nd time to escort Caleb’s mother home at his request. It was the latter to which she went now, feeling the smooth paved sidewalk beneath her shoes, listening to the pleasant sound of birdsong.
The Bishop home stood shoulder to shoulder among an unbroken row of other stately brick homes, generously bedecked with ivy climbing up the sides, and flower baskets of pink geraniums hanging from the windows. The day of the funeral when Tabby had taken Mrs. Bishop home everything had been a blur, but now as she climbed the front steps, she realized what a welcoming, pretty house it was.
A maidservant admitted her, and Mrs. Bishop intercepted them in the front hall, kissing Tabby’s cheeks like she was an old friend, and not acquainted with her son by the strangest of threads.
“It is good of you to come, dear,” Mrs. Bishop said as she led Tabby to an airy parlor appointed with cream-colored drapes and high crown molding. She was dressed in full mourning, her wide black skirts rustling as she seated herself, a brooch quivering with black crepe flowers pinned at her breast. When she caught Tabby taking in these details, she gave her a weak smile. “First Thomas, and then poor Miss Hammond. It feels as if I’ve lost Caleb now, as well.”
Not sure if it was her place but too moved not to, Tabby reached out and patted Mrs. Bishop’s hand. She liked the older woman, her comfortable, motherly demeanor making her easy to talk to. Mrs. Bishop gripped her hand in return.
Tabby didn’t think it wise to tell her that she had seen her son in prison, so she forced a smile. “I’m sure Caleb will be out in no time. He is innocent after all.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. He’s too clever and spirited to stay there long.”
A tawny cat with nicked ears and a crooked tail strode in, planted itself at Tabby’s feet, and began mewing piteously at her. “Mind your manners, Buttermilk,” Mrs. Bishop told the cat. “He must be missing Caleb.”
Tabby eyed the cat, whose coat couldn’t be further in color from its namesake. “Buttermilk?”
“Caleb named him,” Mrs. Bishop said affectionately. “Found him on the street when he was a boy and would not be consoled until I allowed him to keep the mangy creature.”
Buttermilk looked every inch the cat that had gotten the cream, a street Tom who now found himself living in the lap of luxury. Tabby scratched him behind the ears until tea was brought in. She had to force herself not to grab all of the mouthwatering cakes and fancies on the tray by the fistful. As she slowly chewed a fruit tart and Mrs. Bishop poured out the tea, Tabby let her gaze wander around the stylishly papered walls of the parlor. A few somber portraits of men in high, stiff collars, and women with overly large, expressive eyes dotted the walls, interspersed with framed pencil etchings.
“Aren’t those dear?” Mrs. Bishop said, following Tabby’s gaze. “Caleb drew them.”
“Truly?” Putting aside her tea, Tabby stood to look more closely at the etchings. Most of them seemed to be libraries and municipal buildings, but there were a few landscapes, garden scenes bursting with flowers and a lovely sense of movement. They were deceptively simple, executed in economic, confident pencil strokes.
“He’s always sketching away. He’s shy about his artwork, tries to keep it from me. His father didn’t approve,” Mrs. Bishop said, her lips tight, “but now that he’s gone, I thought it would be a shame to keep them hidden.”
Tabby was about to ask where her son had learned to draw like that, when the butler came into the room and cleared his throat expectantly.
“Yes, Larson?”
“Mr. Whitby is here, ma’am.”
It was as if the son of God himself had been announced. Instantly, Mrs. Bishop’s face lost about ten years, all the tension lines smoothing out and her heavy gray eyes lighting up. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said in a flood of relief. Then, as if remembering that Tabby was there, gave her a sheepish look. “Tabby, I hope you don’t mind, but Mr. Whitby was my husband’s partner and our family solicitor. I expect he’s here to discuss Caleb’s release.”
Tabby reluctantly placed her plate down, and stood to leave. But Mrs. Bishop stopped her. “Oh, do stay. It’s so nice to have a young person in the house and it shouldn’t take long. Larson,” she said, “show Mr. Whitby in.”
Larson gave a stiff bow of his head, and disappeared. A moment later a man of middling years in an immaculate navy frockcoat and dark trousers was striding into the room. Buttermilk let out a hiss, and then bolted back out past him.
Unfazed, Mr. Whitby gave Mrs. Bishop a neat bow. Tall and svelte, he looked about the parlor as if he were a wolf assessing prey, but as soon as his sharp gaze landed on Mrs. Bishop, his expression softened and filled with concern.
“My dear Mrs. Bishop.” He bent over and kissed the older woman’s hand. “You must forgive the tardiness of my visit. I came as soon as I heard.”
His words rolled off his tongue like liquid silver, but Mrs. Bishop didn’t seem to notice. “It has been so difficult since Thomas passed,” she said with a heavy sigh. “And now Caleb has been taken away from me, under the most ridiculous of pretenses... As if he could even hurt a fly!”
Mr. Whitby drew back, his expression dismayed, but his eyes flat and unreadable. “Horrible, horrible business. I have not yet had the time to call on the young Mr. Bishop, but rest assured, I shall go as soon as my schedule permits it.”
“He’s been waiting for you,” Tabby said, unable to stop herself. Regardless of how infuriating she might have found him, Caleb was innocent and rotting away in prison, the only thing giving him hope the promise of this illustrious family friend to swoop in and make everything right. And here the man was preening and posturing, claiming that he had not been able to spare one single moment to visit Caleb and put his mind at ease.
At her outburst, Mr. Whitby straightened and slid a cool gaze in her direction. “Indeed? And who might you be? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“This is Miss Tabby Cooke,” Mrs. Bishop supplied. “An acquaintance of Caleb’s.”
“A pleasure,” he said with another neat bow. Turning his attention back to Mrs. Bishop, he took a seat with a smart flip of his tails. “You know that I will do everything possible to make sure your son is cleared of these most heinous charges.”
Mrs. Bishop’s shoulders slumped in obvious relief. Reaching forward, she took Mr. Whitby’s hand in hers, the crepe flowers at her breast rising and falling with her breath. “Oh, Mr. Whitby, you are indeed good to us. I knew that I could depend on you.”
“How generous of you,” Tabby murmured.
“I could not live with myself if I did not do everything in my power to see the family of my dearest friend and respected business associate cared for in their hour of need.”
Mrs. Bishop’s face shone with hope and gratitude. “You are too good to us,” she said again. “I hope that it will be soon? Every day that my boy is away from me is an eternity. I am so very lonely now that I find myself a widow in this twilight hour of my life.”
“Oh yes, soon. Very soon,” he said absently. Pulling out a silver watch, he looked at it with a frown and stood. “I’m afraid I must be off. I have pressing business, but rest assured I will be paying a visit to Caleb as soon as it is possible.”
After the door had closed behind him, Mrs. Bishop poured out fresh cups of tea, chattering happily about what a good friend Mr. Whitby had always been to the family, a residual glow of excitement on her cheeks. But Tabby wasn’t listening; she worried at her lip, suddenly finding she had lost her appetite. She sprang up. “Mrs. Bishop, you’ll excuse me but I must be going, as well.”
10
IN WHICH AN ENEMY IS MADE.
MR. WHITBY HAD barely reached the corner when Tabby slipped out the door and into the flow of pedestrians, trailing behind him as quiet and soft footed as a cat. As she wove between strolling couples and hackney carriages, she could occasionally catch snatches of the tune he whistled. He
seemed to be in high spirits, considering how distraught he claimed to be over Caleb’s incarceration.
She hadn’t expected him to go directly to the jail, and he didn’t, instead heading in the opposite direction into the city, taking the broader streets lined with chestnut trees and tulip beds. It must have been very pressing business indeed.
They were just coming to the statehouse square when Mr. Whitby stopped in his tracks, and then turned quickly around. Tabby held her breath and froze in place, wondering if she had time to duck into a doorway. But it was too late; he had seen her and was making his way back to where she stood. For all her experience making sure that she was never followed, it seemed that the same could not be said of her abilities to follow someone else.
“Miss Cooke,” he said, giving her a thin smile that did not reach his pale blue eyes. “How extraordinary to find ourselves taking the same path. You should have mentioned at Hammond House that you were leaving too and I would have been only too glad to escort you.”
Bothered at herself for being so obvious, Tabby lifted her chin, determined to appear undaunted. “Thank you, but I don’t need an escort.”
“Of course,” he said. “You appear quite independent.” His unimpressed tone made it clear he did not consider this a compliment. “How can I be of assistance, Miss Cooke?”
Well, at least she had his attention. “Mr. Bishop needs your help. He’s innocent and sitting in jail, and thinks you’re the one to help him.”
A dark brow rose. “You’ll pardon me, but I don’t believe I’ve heard your name come up before in connection to the family. I can hardly discuss such matters with a stranger. Who, or what, exactly are you to the Bishops?”
Tabby ignored his question. “I think if you cared half so much about the Bishops as you claim to, you already would have visited him, if not secured his release.”
