Defending the Dead (Relatively Dead Mysteries Book 3) (21 page)

“That makes me sound like a terrible hostess, but I really would appreciate it, Sarah.”

When Sarah disappeared into the kitchen, Abby sat down at the table and opened her laptop. She had to admit she had very confused feelings about what she was about to look for. What did she hope to find? Or what was she afraid she would find?

Previously she had ended her search when she found Samuel in Salem. So who was Hannah?

When Sarah returned, she found Abby sitting and staring into space. “Abby? The tea is ready.”

Abby didn’t move at first, then turned slowly to face Sarah. “I know who Hannah was, and who her mother was, and who her aunts were.”

“You need food, and sugar, and caffeine. I’ll bring in the tea, and since I couldn’t find any cookies I made some cinnamon toast. Then you can tell me about it.”

Abby waited, still in a daze. Sarah returned with a tray full of tea things. She poured Abby a cup, added sugar and milk, and set it in front of her. “Drink this.” Abby obeyed, because it was easy. When Sarah slid a plate of buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, Abby dutifully picked up a piece and munched. It did help: after five minutes she was feeling almost human.

“Well, you look better,” Sarah said. “You ready to explain?”

“Yes. And thank you. I feel like I need a keeper as I keep stumbling through this, and I can’t think of a better person than you, Sarah.”

“Not even Ned?” Sarah said.

“No, because he’s a man. That’s not a criticism, just a fact. Haven’t you noticed that most of what happened in Salem was generated by and aimed at women? Sure, the magistrates were all men, and some of the accused were as well, but it was the women—well, mainly the girls—who started it all. By the way, Abigail Williams looked like a very nasty piece of work.”

“You saw her?” Sarah asked, incredulous. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation. Okay, lay it out for me, and I’ll try to keep my comments to a bare minimum.”

Abby nodded, and dove in. “I knew who Samuel was because I saw him in court last Saturday, where he gave his name. I know—saw isn’t quite right, but you know what I mean. Today Abigail Williams was there with her little friends, right up front. Anyway, I recognized Samuel when I saw him on Gallows Hill today. He was standing next to me, and he had his arm around me. He called me Hannah.”

“One quick question: was the person who you were seeing through on Saturday the same as the one today?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.” Abby paused for a moment to recall what she’d seen. “The first one, in the courtroom—yes, I think so. The one at Gallows Hill was someone else. So that’s two female relatives there, plus Samuel.”

“That’s what I was wondering. Go on, please.”

Abby picked up the thread. “I realized I hadn’t really finished the research on Samuel the other day—I’d only been looking to make the connection to him, so I hadn’t looked at the rest of his family in any detail. Like his wife. Her name was Hannah Bridges. They got married in Salem in 1690, before all the craziness started.”

“So you were seeing through his wife?”

“Looks like it, the last time. But that’s not all. Hannah’s father was Edmund Bridges, but he was already dead by the time Hannah married Samuel. Hannah’s mother was Sarah. Her married name in 1692 was Cloyce, and she was one of the accused witches.”

“Oh, wow,” Sarah whispered.

“I’m not done yet. It turns out that Sarah’s maiden name was Towne. Two of the witches hanged at Salem were her older sisters, Rebecca and Mary. I think what I was seeing today was the day that Rebecca Towne was hanged, with her niece Hannah watching. And I think that the other person at the courthouse, before we went to Gallows Hill, was Hannah’s mother, Sarah, who was the accused at the hearing, along with Elizabeth Proctor. They were arrested together, and examined by John Hathorne—that’s Nathaniel’s ancestor—and Jonathan Corwin, the one who lived in the so-called Witch House. Abigail accused Sarah in court that day, and then Sarah was shipped off to prison in Boston the same night. So that’s not the same event when her son-in-law Samuel testified. Sarah’s my lineal ancestor, and I was seeing the hearing through her—and seeing Abigail.”

“Oh, my,” Sarah said. “How awful for you.”

“Yeah, I guess it was.” And Abby burst into tears.

She’d been so good, so strong, keeping it all together in the face of incomprehensible visions.
Sure, Abby, you just watched your umbledy-dumpth great-aunt get hanged as a witch in 1692, with her community watching—and some of them had enjoyed it.
She was the rational one, the one in charge. It was like a historical diorama, right? Or a play. Except it wasn’t: they had been real people, and she was related to them. She wouldn’t be sitting where she was now, or be the person she was, without any and all of them. She had guessed right: the pain had lingered through the centuries, soaked into the ground, the stone. The pain had been very real. The Devil had walked among them, only not in the way they thought.

Sometime in there Sarah had pulled her chair closer and wrapped her arms around Abby. It felt good. Thank God she’d found Sarah, and thought to invite her along on this weird expedition. Sarah understood. Sarah knew.

Time stretched like an old rubber band. After a while Abby was reduced to hiccups, but she’d let out most of the anguish she hadn’t even known she was carrying, and the tears slowed. Sarah spoke first. “Don’t you dare apologize for this. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m glad I was here to help.”

“So am I, Sarah. There are no guidebooks for this kind of thing, and it’s a lot to take in all at once. I feel so badly for everybody involved, which is useless because they’ve all been dead for centuries.”

“But people still remember and talk about those events. They mattered.”

“I know, even though I didn’t understand it before. Sarah, what do I tell Ned?”

“The truth?”

“What will he do with that?”

“He’ll try to understand it. Seriously, he cares a lot for you, and he needs to know about this. He truly wants to believe you, that you’re seeing what you’re seeing, but it’s hard for him. Give him time, but include him, whatever you do. Pretending it’s not happening won’t be good for anyone.” Sarah checked her watch. “Oh, my word—look at the time. Abby, will you be all right if I go home? I’ll stay if you want me to.”

Abby smiled at her. “Thank you for worrying about me, but I think the storm is over.”

“Well, don’t keep it bottled up, okay? And talk to Ned. And if he doesn’t get it, send him to me and I’ll knock some sense into him.”

“That I’d like to see.” Abby stood up, as did Sarah, and Abby grabbed her impulsively. “Thank you, for everything.”

“You’re welcome. And take care of yourself, please.”

“I will.” Abby stood in the doorway and watched as Sarah pulled out of the driveway, just as Ned’s car was approaching from the opposite direction.

He parked and came bounding up the front steps. “Was that my mother?”

“It was. We spent the day in Salem.”

“Oh?” Ned clearly could sense that there was something more coming.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

21

“Something wrong?” Ned asked anxiously.

“No, not exactly. But I think I’ve made a quantum leap forward in what I know about Salem and my ancestors. Come on into the kitchen while I make dinner.”

Ned followed her to the back of the house. “Did you invite Mom, or did she kind of insinuate herself into your trip?”

“That’s not exactly fair to your mother, Ned. She’s not a snoop. And I’m the one who called her—I figured I might need backup.”

“Against what? Angry ghosts?”

“Sit. Have a glass of wine or a beer or something, and listen to me.” Abby waited until he had complied and settled himself at the small kitchen table against the wall. “I don’t know if in your experience you’ve encountered intense negative emotions. I mean, if most of the people you’ve seen have been in cemeteries, they’re probably mourning and sad, but not exactly aggressive. So the emotion is strong but not what you might call confrontational.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. Salem is different?”

Abby found enough ingredients to make a quick pasta primavera and started laying them out. “That is what I guessed, as I told you. Clearly emotions would have been high at the time—they were talking about life-and-death issues, and they took them seriously. Now, on Saturday, with you, what I saw was a court scene, so while there was plenty of tension, it was under control. It was a formal legal proceeding. And I was lucky to identify Samuel Barton because his name was mentioned.”

“Where are you going with this, Abby?” Ned asked.

“Bear with me. After I got back, as you know, I figured out the link to Samuel. And yesterday I did more research on Salem in general, and that’s when I realized I’d seen a kind of subdued side of the whole thing. I didn’t mention that on my first trip to Salem, I’d felt some kind of vague connection, and now I think I know what it was. It turns out Samuel’s father Matthew lived right up the street from the House of Seven Gables, and since Corwin was sitting in judgment on Sarah Cloyce, who was essentially family, he had every right to be angry at Corwin. But when we went back I realized that there was so much more, and I wanted to see if I could track that down.”

“My mother knows all this?”

“Yes. I asked her to come with me, and I explained what we had found, and what research I’d done since, and what I was hoping to find. She was interested.”

“You’re corrupting my mother. She’s lived quite happily for over fifty years without knowing anything about this stuff.”

Abby checked to see if he was serious. Apparently he wasn’t, but his statement still troubled her. “You think that was a good thing? She’s been stifling this for most of her life, and now she’s curious. So far she’s been just an observer—a spotter, I guess you’d say. Isn’t that what they call the people in gymnastics who watch out for you on the equipment and keep you from landing on your head?”

“Sounds about right. So now you’ve awakened my mother’s curiosity, and she’s your psychic in training.”

“Ned! If you keep making fun of me and this, I’m not going to tell you about it. Is that what you want? Would you rather not know?”

Abby could almost see the battle going on inside him. Finally he said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m making jokes because I’m not sure what I think and I’m also not sure I want to believe it, and now you’ve got my mother involved.”

“Poor baby! Do you think your womenfolk are ganging up on you? You can always go over and hang out with your father and watch football. Or basketball. Or whatever sport season this is.”

“No, Abby, I don’t want us to operate like that. Dad doesn’t share this thing with you or Mom, but I do. And if I’m with you, I need to know what you’re going through. Since my mother knows, she might kill me if I don’t.”

Abby smiled. “Yes, there was some mention of beating sense into you. May I resume?” She put a large pot of water on the stove to boil, then turned back to him.

“Please. I promise I’ll listen.”

So Abby recounted the events of her day, and what she had seen in Salem, both in town and particularly on that forlorn Gallows Hill. Mostly the facts, though: she was unsure how to explain her own emotional reaction to what she had seen. Ned remained silent, watching her face, nodding occasionally. The water had long since boiled by the time she finished; at least she’d remembered to turn off the gas under it. “So?” she said finally.

“I don’t know where to start. You are amazing.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“No. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve been around you long enough now, when you’ve seen things, to know that you really believe in what you see. And then you produce proof after the fact. I share enough of it with you to have some idea of what you’re feeling, although I’ve never known anything so strong.”

“Maybe we should look for an ancestor of yours who died on the battlefield, and you can tune it to whatever he’s feeling. Sorry, that sounds kind of flippant, and I just criticized you for doing that. But that would give you some idea of the impact of this.”

“You picked Salem for precisely that reason. You found what you were looking for. Now what?”

“I, uh . . . don’t know. I’ve been so eager to figure out how my ancestors fit that I didn’t look past that. Now I’ve got that, and a lot more experience from the inside, so to speak. I guess . . . I want to know what really happened—the whole thing, not just my family’s part, although they were right in the thick of it. I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately, both in print and online, and there’s no one theory that fits, after all these years. I have a unique perspective. Like I said, when I was in the courtroom, and at the gallows, I was picking up an entire range of reactions—fear, anger, pain, grief. And a few people like Abigail Williams actually seemed happy about what they had done. I want to follow up on that, as far as I can. I want to understand it in my head, not just my heart or my gut or wherever my emotions live. Does that make sense?”

“I think so. Do you plan to publish this? Join the Society for Descendants of Witches?”

“Is there such a thing?” Abby said, laughing. It felt good to laugh.

“I think so. Probably.”

“Well, no. I feel no need to make what I find public. This is for me: I want to understand. I don’t plan to go head to head with the scholars and the kooks who have been digging into this for years. Just for me, and you, and your mother, and maybe Ellie at some point.”

As if by magic, Abby’s cell phone rang. When she checked it, she saw that it was Leslie. Oh, right, she reminded herself—tomorrow was Wednesday, her first scheduled day with Ellie. She pressed the button to answer. “Hi, Leslie, what’s up? Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“I guess.” Leslie sounded less than enthusiastic. “I just wanted to set up where to meet. And to set a few ground rules. Ned there?”

“Yes, he is. You want me to put you on speaker?”

“Might as well, so I don’t have to repeat myself.” Leslie sighed.