Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  I finally heard the wagon leaving and knew Father and Birdy were gone, and then Sheriff Crane came into the kitchen, looking tired and irritable. “Birdy was hit in the head, like you said. But there’s no sign of injury on your father. No wounds or blood. It all seemed rather peculiar until I remembered Mr. Oliver. Must be another poisoning.” His shrewd eyes tightened on me. “Don’t leave town, Valentine. It’s late, but I’ll be back with more questions.”

  Mrs. Henny gave a little mewl of protest. “You can’t think Valentine had anything to do with it. Maybe … maybe Mr. Deluca drank himself into a stupor and froze to death. And … and Birdy tried to help him and hit her head.”

  It was a ridiculous story. For one thing, Father never drank in excess. But I appreciated her defending me.

  23

  In the days that followed, it became clear that Mrs. Henny was the only one who would defend me.

  The murders were the most fascinating thing to have happened in Feavers Crossing in recent memory. I felt the gossip more than heard it. Conversations halted when I entered Utley General Goods or the Duncans’ bakery. Mothers grabbed their children’s hands and crossed the road. Even Mr. Dibble looked uneasy as I dropped off my sewing and picked up another bundle.

  I understood their wariness. Two dead bodies had lain in my stable for months, not far from where I slept. People whispered about their current state, thawing and stinking. I saw their disgust as I passed, mingled with morbid interest.

  There’d always been a whiff of scandal about me, and now the smell was rank.

  At school, voices faded when I neared. A crowded staircase parted. Fragile friendships disappeared and teachers avoided looking at me. In a strange way, it almost made me feel powerful. When I coughed in class, Tall Meg jumped, and when I walked down the school staircase, a cluster of freshmen girls scattered like roaches.

  Rowan distanced himself, as I’d asked—which surprised me somewhat. I’d expected him to find little ways to see me. To need a few scolding reminders. In the woods, I craned my neck, expecting to see him waiting near the boulders, pretending he just happened to be there. At night, I lingered in the kitchen, listening for his stealthy knock.

  But it never came.

  When I did catch glimpses of him on the school grounds, he stared stonily ahead. No tender smile of reassurance. No note pressed into my hand. I worried that I’d hurt him more than I’d intended when I’d told him to stay away. I tried to remember everything I’d said that night.

  I wondered what hidden fears his grandmother was finding and prodding. What smoldering embers she’d managed to fan into flame.

  If I could just talk to him, I knew I could reassure him. After lunch, I lingered in Rochester Hall after the other girls had left, watching as the boys clattered down the staircase for their own lunch hour. Rowan saw me. He smiled sadly, and I expected him to detour a few steps to talk to me. But he looked away and entered the dining hall.

  The irony, of course, was that he was only doing as I’d asked.

  At Friday morning devotional, he sat in the middle as usual, between Philly and Lucy. And I sat in the back corner, watching his back, craving some small indication that he knew I was there—that he knew I’d cried myself to sleep the night before, holding my father’s shirt. But when Rowan finally glanced back, he found me watching and his eyes quickly darted away, filled with …

  Guilt, I realized in surprise.

  An uneasy feeling crept into my chest. Why should Rowan feel guilty? I was the one who’d coldly ordered him to stay away.

  Absurdly, the more he avoided me, the more I sought him out. I finally found him alone near the school library, but when he saw me approaching, he stepped back, his face flaming with that same inexplicable guilt. “I’m sorry—I can’t. She has eyes everywhere. I don’t even dare write to you. Please, just know that I’m thinking about you.” He turned and hurried up a back staircase.

  I stood frozen, staring after him.

  His grandmother had ordered him to stay away from me.

  And he’d obeyed.

  I reminded myself that it was what I wanted as well. That it was best for both of us. Rowan wouldn’t avoid me forever, only until the real killer was found and I was no longer watched so closely.

  Still, I felt abandoned.

  * * *

  That afternoon, as I left school, Sheriff Crane stood near a black carriage, beckoning me with a crook of his finger. I approached with reluctance, feeling the curious stares of my classmates on my back.

  “Shall we speak inside?” he suggested, holding the carriage door open. “Bit more private.”

  I stepped up into the carriage, my heart hammering. It wasn’t as nice as Judge Stoker’s carriage, with sagging upholstery and a musty odor. Sheriff Crane sat across from me, his long legs brushing mine.

  He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Dr. Pritchard says that your father was poisoned like Mr. Oliver. Which certainly implies that the same person killed both of them.”

  “What about Birdy?” I asked.

  “That blow to her head did the deed. Perhaps she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I’d already reached the same conclusion. I couldn’t tell Sheriff Crane that this was about Nigel Blackshaw’s death, but a few helpful nudges might point him in the right direction. “I think my father was murdered first. He left the house one night in December and didn’t show up for work the next morning. The next day, Mr. Oliver died. But Birdy witnessed his death, and then stayed at my house for a few days before she disappeared. The killer must have lured her to the stable somehow. She was killed because she was a witness.”

  Sheriff Crane’s eyebrows arched. “Stayed at your house? And yet, when I knocked on your door after Mr. Oliver’s death, you assured me that you hadn’t seen her.”

  My face warmed. “You were going to arrest her for murder, and I knew she was innocent—as now proven by her death.”

  His voice bit with annoyance. “Your lies don’t help me find this killer, Valentine. Is there anything else you’d like to confess?”

  I swallowed the real confession. “No. Did you ever find Mr. Oliver’s missing tea tin?”

  “No, but I doubt your father sat down to a cup of tea in that abandoned stable. For him, it was probably a swig of liquor.” He watched me closely with his shrewd eyes. “It has occurred to me, Valentine, that the killer must have known both the rector and your father fairly well to have shared food and drink with them. Can you think of anyone like that?”

  A shaft of afternoon sunlight came through the window, making the carriage too warm. “One of my neighbors, I suppose. The church isn’t far from my house.”

  Sheriff Crane’s eyebrows lifted. “Your father was friendly with your neighbors?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  “And Birdy? She was shy of strangers, which meant she must have known this person rather well to be led into the stable. Which means we’re looking for someone who was close to all three of them. I made a list of people who match that description.” Sheriff Crane didn’t blink as he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Would you like to know who I came up with, Valentine? Only one person.” He turned the paper so I could see my name.

  My pulse throbbed in my temples. “I didn’t kill them. Why would I?”

  “Why indeed?” The shaft of light hit Sheriff Crane’s face, deepening the shadows below his cheekbones. “On the surface, you don’t seem like the sort of girl who would murder someone. But then, I wouldn’t have suspected it of your mother either. I grew up with Isabella.” His lips quirked. “Even fancied her for a while. But she was far above my reach. Poor Nigel wasn’t so lucky.”

  I shrank back against the carriage seat. No weapon could have stabbed deeper.

  “Some are saying that murder must run in your veins. But I wonder if it isn’t more of a learned behavior, handed down from mother to daughter.” The sheriff held up a heavy book with a d
ark red cover. “Look familiar?”

  I tilted my head to read the title—and drew a startled breath. It was a book on Greek and Roman mythology that I’d borrowed from the school library. “Where did you get that?”

  “Your bedroom, late this morning.”

  Fury crawled up my spine, tangled with fear. “What were you doing in my bedroom?”

  “Searching your house while you were in school. As you have already demonstrated, I can’t trust you to tell me the truth.” He flipped a few pages and held up an archaic sketch of a pagan god. “Looks like witchcraft to me. I’ve heard tales of it still existing in certain families.”

  I gave an incredulous laugh. “Witchcraft? Are you serious? That’s mythology!” I could see that the word meant nothing to him. “Ancient religions and gods.”

  His eyebrows arched: I’d proved his point.

  “Why would I kill my own father? And Mr. Oliver, who was kind to me? And Birdy, a close friend? I loved those people! My heart is broken that they’re gone!”

  Sheriff Crane studied me in the shaft of light coming through the carriage window. “I confess, that is the question that perplexes me. I just spoke to the headmaster, hoping for clarity, but he only assured me that you’re an excellent student of good character.”

  I was surprised that Mr. Foley had spoken well of me. But then, he wouldn’t want the scandal of a student hanged for murder. “May I go? Or are you going to arrest me for studying mythology?”

  “Mind your tongue. I am on your side.”

  “Are you? You sound ready to burn me at the stake.”

  “If you didn’t kill anyone, you have nothing to fear.” His eyes didn’t blink.

  And my face warmed, because of course I had killed someone.

  He leaned closer. “It may surprise you, Valentine, but I am the reason you aren’t already behind bars. I used to see you in town with Birdy and was impressed by your kindness to her. So, I remain unconvinced. But people are screaming for justice, and you have drawn the ire of the wrong person.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw. “I didn’t kill them, I swear.”

  Sheriff Crane’s voice dropped to a warning purr. “Sometimes, the truth doesn’t matter. Sometimes, you just have to be smarter than they are. Stay away from the graveyard; it makes you look like you’re obsessed with death. Stay away from Mrs. Blackshaw’s grandson. And for heaven’s sake—no, for the sake of your own immortal soul—put a Bible on your nightstand, not this pagan corruption!” He held up the book, then slammed it onto the bench beside him. He looked away, releasing an impatient breath.

  My heart pounded like a drum.

  “I have a hard time believing you killed them, Valentine, but there are stronger voices than mine in this town. I cannot stop an angry mob. You understand?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  He pushed the carriage door open. “You may go.”

  I stepped down. My legs felt shaky as I walked away. With every step, I felt his eyes on my back. He didn’t want to believe I’d murdered anyone, but in the end, that might not matter.

  I should have been looking for a killer all winter, not flirting with Rowan, not drawing the wrath of Mrs. Blackshaw.

  I was glad to finally round the back corner of the school stable, putting me out of view.

  But a few steps later, I halted, hearing voices inside. Rowan’s voice. My heart leaped. Finally, a chance to talk to him—to tell him I was lonely and scared and couldn’t stand the way he turned to stone every time we passed on campus. Ever since that night of sewing flags at the Hennys’, something had been broken between us, and I felt a clawing need to set it right.

  I peered around the stable door—then jerked back, catching my breath.

  Slowly, I looked again.

  Rowan stood near a far stall with Philly. He said something in a low voice, and she gave a pretty laugh. Then he entered the stall and led his horse out.

  “They’re always so tall up close,” she said, looking nervous.

  “Don’t worry, he’s gentler than he looks. Here, put your foot in the stirrup.”

  She lifted her foot, showing a long stretch of stockinged leg, then he grabbed her waist and helped her swing up into the saddle.

  “My mother would be horrified. She thinks it’s indecent, riding astride.”

  “Here.” Rowan shook out Philly’s skirt, covering her leg. “Now slide forward. Here I come.” He swung himself up behind her, and she gave a little laugh as their bodies slid together. “You comfortable?” he asked, touching her waist.

  “I’m not sure. It’s so high.” She wiggled into a better position, closer to Rowan. “Don’t go too fast.”

  “I won’t. I’ve got you.” His arms reached around her waist to take the reins, then he gave the horse a gentle kick and they rode out of the stable toward town.

  I sank into a crouch, suddenly light-headed and nauseous. I shut my eyes, trying to forget the image. Trying to forget Philly’s pretty laugh and Rowan’s gentle reassurances. I’ve got you.

  When did this start? Or was it nothing new? Had he been stopping at her house before coming to mine? Flirting with her at school, then meeting me in the woods?

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t think.

  I felt foolish—and fooled.

  Had I imagined the way Rowan watched me in my kitchen, his eyes warm with attraction? The way he walked closer than necessary in the woods, twirling my curls around his finger? Half the girls at Drake watched Rowan Blackshaw with dreamy-eyed infatuation. Was I just one of many?

  I forced myself to stand and walk home, my chest crawling with uncertainty, my head throbbing with doubt. I rethought every moment Rowan and I had spent together. Every word we’d spoken. Every look we’d shared that might have meant something.

  I had his drawing.

  That night, I brought it into bed with me and studied it by the light of a single candle, unable to pull my eyes away. I saw the full softness of my lips. The gentle curve of my cheek. The beauty he’d imagined. This was how he’d seen me that day. I felt sure of it. Whatever feelings he’d put into this drawing had been real.

  But temporary.

  A few weeks ago, I’d found a baby bird on our walk to school and returned it to its nest, then insisted we watch for a while, making us late for school. As I’d watched the nest, Rowan had watched me.

  “Maybe you really are a woodland fairy,” he’d mused with a lazy smile. “Do you talk to the animals, Valentine, and tell them all your secrets? I want to know your secrets.” The purr in his voice had sent my stomach floating into my throat.

  But maybe Mrs. Henny was right. Maybe I’d been nothing but a rebellious fascination, not a serious alliance.

  And now, I’d become too dangerous.

  I couldn’t forget the look on Rowan’s face as he’d stared at the melting, rotting corpses in my stable. Not just abhorrence, but fear. Oh, Valentine. Explain this to me. For a moment, he’d actually wondered if I’d done it—or protected the true killer. Suddenly, his grandmother’s twisted opinions had rung true. He’d enjoyed his winter flirtation with me, but seeing those bodies had slapped him awake, and he’d moved back to safer ground.

  Back to his grandmother.

  Back to Philly.

  And I’d been foolish enough to push him out the door.

  * * *

  Sam returned to town the next day. He came to me as soon as he heard, waiting for me in the woods after school. For one tumbling heartbeat, I thought it was Rowan walking toward me—then I recognized Sam’s broader silhouette and had to swallow my disappointment.

  But as soon as his strong arms enfolded me, my bones melted. “Oh, Sam,” I breathed.

  His embrace felt safe and familiar. Devoted. He smelled of homespun cotton and long summer days and years of fishing side by side, not needing to speak, just listening to the gurgle of the creek.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he murmured against my hair. “I’m home now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

&n
bsp; I believed him and wept.

  24

  Sam became my rock, rarely leaving my side. He offered to bring a bedroll and sleep in the kitchen, but I told him it wasn’t necessary and people would talk.

  Mostly, I didn’t want Rowan to hear that Sam was leaving my house in the mornings—proof that his suspicions had been right. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  I tried to push Rowan from my mind. I’d wasted months lost in some spell, imagining the impossible, not appreciating the best thing in my life.

  Sam.

  He stood next to me as Birdy was laid to rest in the graveyard she’d loved, next to Ida Howe. Sam and I were the only people there—except the new rector, Mr. Newland, who hadn’t even known Birdy. A wooden cross would mark the spot for now, but as soon as I could afford it, I intended to buy her a headstone to match Ida’s.

  The next day, Sam borrowed a wagon from Hale Glass and drove me to a neighboring town for Father’s funeral; Feavers Crossing didn’t have a Catholic church. We sat side by side in a vast, echoing chamber full of empty pews, while a priest I didn’t know officiated over a ceremony I didn’t understand.

  I’d sent Molly Gillis a note about the funeral, but she didn’t show up. Sam told me he’d seen another man walking her son to school. I tried not to judge her too harshly; she was a young widow with two boys to feed.

  My mood settled as Sam and I rode home in the wagon along quiet country roads. Father’s body now lay at rest, and the day was beautiful, full of spring. Green grass sprouted between piles of dirty snow. Sam allowed the horse to clop lazily, the reins loose in his hands.

  As we neared my house, I asked Sam to stop at my mother’s grave. I waited while he secured the horse, then he helped me down. We walked through the church graveyard and stepped over the old rock wall into unhallowed ground.

  The white marble headstone glowed in the warm light of late afternoon. I slipped my hand into Sam’s as we stood in front of it.