Defending the Dead (Relatively Dead Mysteries Book 3)

by Sheila Connolly

  “You’re not the only one who wonders that, Abby. Hey, dinner won’t be ready for another half an hour. You want to stroll around the garden and decide what annuals to put in?”

  He was clearly changing the subject, but Abby didn’t have the energy to object. “That sounds lovely. How do you feel about marigolds?”

  • • •

  The next morning Abby sent Ned off to work with a kiss and a smile—that faded as soon as she turned to go back in the house. He was right, in a way: she shouldn’t let this unexpected ability dominate her and shape her life. After all, it didn’t intrude on other people, unless she made an issue of it. It didn’t get in the way of her leading a so-called normal life, as long as she didn’t gasp and point when she saw one of the people from the past. If she kept her cool, no one need ever know. But ignoring it didn’t seem right.

  In the past she had heard that genealogy could be addictive. That was true, she had discovered, even without the bonus of all those family ghosts. Too bad they didn’t come with handy name tags, or even a brief description: “Hi! I’m your sixth great-grandfather Fred Smith, born in Cambridge, moved to Worcester, and fought in the War of 1812.” No, that would be too easy. The bottom line was, it was up to her to decide when to put the whole issue to rest, or at least on the shelf until some later date. Right now she had a man she loved, a house that needed a lot of improvement, and a job to find, somehow.

  That resolution survived through breakfast. After cleaning up, she found herself drifting back toward the laptop. Just for a little while—then I’ll do something else, like buy plants, Abby told herself. Or rather, lied to herself, because one thread led to another, and then there was this interesting footnote, and . . . The day sped by, and at the end of it she was left with another stack of notes, this time about Salem, who was who, who lived where, and what happened in what order. As she had seen from her earlier cursory research, there were lots of theories and little agreement. Kind of like the research on Stonehenge, in fact, and that went back much further: each generation came up with new theories and interpretations. But as far as she knew, she had had no ancestors at Stonehenge—and there was no way to prove it anyway.

  She stood up and stretched—all this sitting sure was hard on her back. Tomorrow she really needed to get out of the house and move around more. As Ned had said, the weather was lovely, and she hadn’t begun to see half of Massachusetts. But . . . Salem nagged at her. She wasn’t finished with it yet, or maybe it wasn’t finished with her. Before she started to make dinner, she called Sarah Newhall.

  “Hey, Abby,” Sarah answered, sounding ridiculously cheery. “What’s up?”

  “You want to play hooky? I need a sounding board, or a friendly ear, or something, about my family tree.”

  Sarah laughed. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

  “How would you feel about visiting Salem tomorrow?”

  Sarah was silent for a moment. “Oh-ho. So that’s the way the wind blows.”

  “Yes. I’ve found someone of mine there, and there may be more.”

  “And you need someone to watch your back, in case they gang up on you?”

  “Kind of, I guess. Do you mind?”

  “No, not at all. I haven’t been to Salem in years. You want me to drive?”

  “Sure, that’s fine. I can direct you, since I’ve just been there.”

  “Then I’ll swing by and pick you up at, say, ten?”

  “Sounds good to me. See you then.”

  They hung up simultaneously. Abby felt absurdly pleased: having Sarah along would keep her grounded. Sarah wasn’t affected by whoever was running around Salem, or else Ned would have been, so Sarah would be a steadying influence. Abby, why do you need one?

  She was smiling as she went into the kitchen. Over dinner she somehow neglected to mention to Ned her planned excursion the next day with his mother—time to tell him about it afterward.

  • • •

  The next morning Abby was ready and waiting when Sarah arrived. “You want coffee or something?” Abby asked when she opened the door. “It’s not like there’s any hurry.”

  “But you have a bee in your bonnet.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Yes, kind of. Weren’t you just in Salem over the weekend?”

  “Yes, and Danvers too—which used to be Salem Village. But that was just to get the lay of the land, because I’d never been to Danvers, and only once to Salem, for a couple of hours. Now I have a better sense of where things are.”

  “And you saw something,” Sarah said.

  “More like someone,” Abby replied. “My ninth great-grandfather, if I’ve got it right.”

  Sarah grinned. “Cool! What was he like?”

  “Uh . . . not real tall. Probably about my age. Dressed in homespun kinds of things, all in shades of brown. So I guess he wasn’t rich—he didn’t get dressed up to speak in court.”

  “Ooh, he was testifying? Tell me more!” Sarah leaned her elbows on the table and waited for Abby to explain.

  Abby obliged. She described how she had found the most recent end of the Barton line, but hadn’t followed up until she’d “seen” him in court in Salem, and then she had traced the rest of the line and even found an image of the original copy of Samuel’s testimony—the one she had seen herself. And why she thought there was something more to be found. “Up until now I mainly see through people, so if I was watching Samuel, it’s likely there was another relative there, except I’m not sure who,” she finished.

  “This is really fascinating,” Sarah said slowly. “So as far as you know, Samuel was neither an accused witch—or did they call the men wizards?—nor an accuser. He was there to testify for someone else, someone he knew.”

  “Exactly. His testimony is recorded—he was defending Elizabeth Proctor. And no Bartons appear on any of the lists, apart from this one appearance, which was short. His testimony didn’t do any good, by the way—the poor woman was convicted anyway, because there were a heck of a lot more witnesses who spoke out against her.”

  “Which means your Samuel was taking a risk—he must have known about the others, in such a small community. Why did he do it, do you think? He could have kept his mouth shut and gone on about his business. Other people did.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah. I haven’t had time to find out. Most of this I put together yesterday. I’d like to believe he thought he was doing the right thing, because he didn’t stand to gain anything by it.”

  “So you’ve got more work to do. Elizabeth Proctor was one of the big names during the trials, along with the Towne sisters.”

  “Ah, that’s where I saw the name Towne. Three sisters, all accused, right? And two of them were hanged early.”

  “Exactly. There was Rebecca, who married Francis Nurse—I think she was the oldest—and Mary, who married Isaac Estey, and the youngest one, Sarah, who married Peter Cloyce. Sarah was the one who survived. The Nurse house is open to tourists, at least part of the year.”

  “One of my Bartons, a couple of generations after Samuel, married a woman with the name of Towne, but that was much later and in a different part of the state, in Oxford.”

  “Could have been a coincidence, then. Anyway, Sarah was the baby of the family, and came along really late in her mother’s life.”

  “Why do you know about the Townes, Sarah?” Abby asked.

  “Well, they were among the first accused, sort of witchdom superstars, I guess, like the Proctors. There was a PBS movie filmed on location a few years ago. You should track it down.”

  “I should, I guess, although not until I’ve seen what I want to see in Salem. You ready to go?”

  “Sure. Let’s hit the road.”

  Once they were in Sarah’s car, the ride seemed shorter than Abby remembered—maybe because now it was familiar. “Ned went with you on Saturday?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes. You know, I think he’s not happy about this whole thing. He’s trying to do the right thing b
y being supportive, but I think he’d rather it had never happened.”

  “He’s a man. They like things simple.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s tried to talk to you yet?” Abby asked tentatively, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

  “You mean about Ellie? Nope. You told him I know?”

  “Yes, I did. It wasn’t like he was hiding her from you. Since he won’t tell you, I will: Leslie’s husband can’t have children, so Leslie asked Ned to help out with a, uh, contribution. Twice. But that’s as far as it went. She’s happy with her husband, and Ned was content to stay out of it, which is why he knew so little about Ellie.”

  Sarah smiled to herself. “Thank you for letting me know, Abby. I won’t let on that you did, if he ever decides to fill me in. My, how complicated this has become!” She paused for a couple of miles before saying, “Does he have a problem with you digging all this old stuff up?”

  “I don’t know yet. I hope not. I know I’ve been kind of wrapped up in it lately, but I tell myself I can quit any time, and I do want to know what’s going on. What the limits are, I guess. How to manage this thing, if that’s possible.”

  “So you don’t find yourself taking a shower in some nice bed-and-breakfast somewhere and a not quite live man wanders through?”

  Abby giggled. “I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, that could be a problem. But is there some way to shut them out? Maybe a sign I could put up?”

  “No ghosts allowed? I doubt it. We’re almost there—where do you want to park?”

  “Near the center of the historic district, if you can. That’s where I saw Samuel, and that’s where they held the trials.”

  “What, not Gallows Hill?”

  Abby shivered involuntarily. “Well, there’d be plenty of emotion there. Of course, nobody’s quite sure where it was. There are a couple of hills that could be it, but it’s not certain. It’s almost like people in the eighteenth century made a point of forgetting. Although I read about this one guy who was born on the day of the first hanging, in sight of the gallows, or so he said long after the fact.”

  “You’ve really been doing your homework,” Sarah said.

  “Guilty. I got interested, more so when it became personal. I’ll stop soon, but I’m not done yet. Do you mind tagging along?”

  “No, of course not. I haven’t been here for a while, and I figured if we were going to have a witch in the family, I’d better know my stuff.”

  “Am I? In the family, I mean?”

  “Of course you are. Don’t mind Ned—he’s a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but his heart’s in the right place.”

  Sarah guided the car into a convenient garage and parked. “All right, we’re here. Now what?”

  “We go looking for Samuel and friends.”

  19

  Standing on the pavement outside of the garage, Sarah scanned the area. “Where to?”

  “I have to keep trying to fit the old maps over the reality here,” Abby told her. “If I’ve got it right, the courthouse and the First Church are about a block in that direction—that’s where Ned and I were sitting when I saw Samuel.” Abby pointed. “And the prison would have been behind us. I’m guessing there would have been a lot of back-and-forthing then between the prison and the court. And then of course the final journey from the prison to the gallows.”

  “Did they have to walk?”

  “No, I think they got to ride in carts. Kind of like the French Revolution, right?”

  “Were there people lining the streets, or did they stay away?”

  “I haven’t read all the histories, but I’d guess people would want to see the officially convicted witches and would turn out to watch. And to make sure they were dead, hoping that executing them would be the end of things. Which of course it wasn’t, at least not for a while.”

  “How do you want to do this, then?” Sarah asked.

  “Let’s start with where the trials were held and see what—darn, I still don’t have a vocabulary for this! See what I see? Or sense? See who shows up?” Abby realized that she was kind of keyed up. Was that because she so urgently wanted to prove something, anything? Or was she picking up the collective residual anxiety that those poor people had felt so long ago? A couple of pedestrians gave her an odd look as they passed, and Abby was tempted to say something rude to them. After all, this was Salem—they should be used to crazy people roaming the streets.

  “It’s up to you, Abby. We don’t have to do anything. If it’s too much, we could go visit the museum, which I recall is very nice.”

  “It’s okay, Sarah. We’re here for a purpose, and you’re the trusty sidekick who will bail me out when I get too serious.”

  Sarah laughed. “Ah, so I’m the comic relief here? I think I can handle that. So, trials it is.”

  Abby led the way to the small plaza where she and Ned had been a few days earlier. Early in the day, there were only a few people drinking coffee and reading the paper, so they had their pick of tables. Abby sat at one, and Sarah sat across from her. “That’s the site of the First Church,” Abby said, pointing to the Victorian building, “and the place where the trials were held was right around here somewhere. I feel so silly sitting here and waiting for some spirit to come calling. I think I understand why some psychics use a crystal ball or other object—it gives them something to look at or to touch. Maybe it even reassures the marks. If I came here alone and sat here with my eyes closed, somebody would probably grab my bag, or ask me if I needed medical help.”

  “And that’s why I’m here, Abby,” Sarah reassured her. “Don’t worry. If nothing happens, no problem. If something does, you can tell me all about it while it’s still fresh.”

  “Do you think you had anyone here?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know—I never did the research. Maybe that’s denial, but I’ve spent most of my life dulling my perceptions, not sharpening them. Anyway, today is about you and the Bartons. Why don’t I get us some coffee?”

  “Sure, fine. I’ll be here.” Waiting—for what? From what she’d learned, Samuel had appeared only once during all the court proceedings. Did ghosts do reruns? Would she see the same event over and over? But if there was another person, would he or she show up? She put her bag between her feet, in case there were any lurking bag grabbers, and shut her eyes.

  The same room as before, or one much like it. Dark wood, small windows. Crowded with people, both men and women. She recognized a couple of the faces at the front table—the judges? She hadn’t memorized them all, and of course nobody really knew what they looked like, save that they were all men. It was hard to guess ages for anyone—life had been difficult in those days, life expectancies short, medical care nonexistent. You lived and died by God’s will, unless the Devil intervened. This group believed they were fighting the Devil. Her gaze turned toward the spectators, who wore a variety of expressions, ranging from fear to anger to curiosity. In the front row was a cluster of young girls, maybe teenagers, and Abby realized with a start that they must be the accusers who had started everything. They were children! How could they have done this? Why had anyone believed them? There they sat, giggling and twitching like any girls their age—but what they said in court had resulted in multiple deaths.

  One of them turned and looked at her. Well, not her, exactly, but the person through whom she was seeing. It was a woman, Abby realized—not Samuel, watching and waiting. The girl all but smirked, and Abby felt an irrational urge to slap her. Then one of the judges said something, and her conduit turned her attention to him. Abby realized she was standing, and she was tired, exhausted really. This wasn’t the beginning of something, this was the end.

  “Abby? You okay?” Sarah’s voice interrupted, and Abby was back in the real world.

  “Yes. It was more of the same. But I didn’t see Samuel, and I was seeing through a woman. Oh, God—that obnoxious little brat in the front row must have been Abigail Williams!”

  Sarah sat do
wn and slid a cup of coffee toward Abby. “You don’t look very upset,” she commented.

  “Well, no, I guess not, because I knew what to expect. And in a weird way, this is exciting. I mean, I’m seeing the judges, and the accusers, right there where it happened.”

  Sarah turned her cup slowly in her hands. “Abby, I know you believe this, but can you be absolutely sure you’re not just seeing what you want to see?”

  The same thing Ned had asked. Abby fought down a surge of anger. Why would anyone do this to herself, deliberately? But she recognized that Sarah was trying to help, and it was a fair question. Except that the answer was yes, she knew what she had seen. Twice now. She took a deep breath. “Sarah, I haven’t studied a lot of history. I’ve been doing serious research on this for like a week total. Obviously there are no photographs from the trials, and any engravings done after the fact are probably pure fabrication. If I were making things up, no one would be able to disprove them, unless I stuck an iPad into the scene. But what I’m seeing . . . the detail is so specific. I can tell you what people were wearing, where they sat, what they sounded like—heck, what they smelled like. If it’s a hallucination it’s a damned good one.”

  “Okay,” Sarah said. “I believe you. And I know you aren’t doing this to call attention to yourself or to impress anyone. So who were you seeing? The girls who were flinging accusations around?”

  “Yes, and giggling all the while. I so wanted to shut them up!”

  “And the magistrates. Other witnesses?”

  “A fair number of people. I can’t exactly identify them all.”

  “And the woman who was your . . . what? Ancestor, at least?”

  “I think so. She seemed exhausted.”

  “Was she on trial?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe this was a different date. I didn’t see Samuel, but maybe they sent him out after he had made his statement. Sarah, what am I supposed to do?”