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.
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