“Carmichael. Isn’t this the grave that was robbed?” another voice says. It’s familiar, though I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it before.
“Yes, sir,” the Irishman says. “That’s what folks are saying. But I watch this cemetery, day and night, and I’ve never seen any sign of grave robbers. The anatomists go to the public cemetery for bodies.” The mausoleum’s metal door whines. “Funny thing, though. This door was closed this morning, when I got here. Someone’s been inside.”
“Could have been animals. We’ll have a look and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Not an animal, Officer. Look here. Someone placed a rock, to keep the inner door open.”
It dawns on me, then, where I’ve heard the officer’s voice. He’s the same one who attended to the dead woman—Sally—on Market Street. I recognize his clipped cadence. I will myself to remain still as they go inside. I consider running. But with the dry grass and leaves, they’ll surely hear my footsteps. My ears strain to make out their muffled conversation, though I can only discern a word or two. “Vomit” is one of them. I’ve always had a bilious stomach.
A few moments later, they come out again. “Probably just a drunken vagrant,” the constable declares, sniffing. “It’s been cold the last few nights.”
“Gads, how could anyone stand the stench in there?” The Irishman coughs and spits, nearly gagging.
“Explains the vomit, sure enough. But there’s no sign of anything suspicious, Billy.”
“Maybe not now. But you should have seen that other casket, sir. Shattered, like it was hit by a mortar. I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“What are you getting at?”
“That woman. His daughter—Miss Carmichael. Something weren’t right about all that business. I saw her body in the receiving tomb, before they buried her. She looked too good for three days dead. Her skin still had color to it.” The man scrapes his foot against the gravel. “I’ve heard things, too.”
“What?”
“People have seen her. In town, like. Wandering the streets in the same dress she was buried in.”
I swear beneath my breath. I was so careful that night, taking the back alleys in the wee hours of the morning after my escape. But Charleston, and especially the Peninsula, is at its heart a small town. All it would take is one person seeing me out their window to start the chain of gossip.
“Are you saying Miss Carmichael isn’t really dead?”
Billy barks a dry laugh. “It’s whether shestayeddead. Your mother ever tell you any stories, growing up?”
“I suppose so, yes. Fairy tales and the like.”
“Well.Mymam’s stories would make your skin crawl. About monsters. Old horrors. Things like the Abhartach and the Dearg-Due, a beautiful woman risen from the grave, who hungers for the blood of men.”
“I’ve heard those old tales.” The officer chuckles. “Meant to scare children and keep them in their beds. Surely you’re not implying that’s what’s happening here?”
“I saw the papers. Read about that dead prossie they found. Heard she didn’t have a drop of blood left in her body.”
The constable clears his throat. “We’re still investigating that. Try to put superstitions and gossip aside, Billy.”
“Fair enough, sir. But mark my words. If it’s a Dearg-Due, that prossie won’t be the last body to turn up. Just watch. Any woman that’d kill her own sister ... she might have it in her to kill again, wouldn’t she? The lads were talking about it at the Hibernian meeting, just last week. Some of ’em used to work for the family. The Carmichaels. Won’t own slaves, so they hire our sort for work. The Scots think themselves a cut above us, you know.”
A chill runs up my back, from far more than the cold marble crypt behind me. It took only one person seeing me on the street to start therumor that I still live. And despite the constable’s warning, I have a feeling Irish Billy won’t stay quiet.
How long will it take for word to spread that I’m a blood-drinking, undead murderess, risen from her grave? It seems ridiculous. But the Lowcountry is a place that lives and breathes superstition.
I wait for the men to depart, until I can no longer discern their voices, and flee through one of the cemetery’s side gates. I’ve no real idea of where I should go next, or where I might hide. My disguise has been successful thus far, but how much longer will it work? I think of Arabella—that flare of recognition in her eyes when I stumbled into her at the pawnshop. I must assume she recognized me. It will no longer benefit me to believe otherwise.
My image will have been all over the papers, with news of my “death” on my way to the gallows. Something that sensational wouldn’t easily fade from the public’s consciousness. It’s only a matter of time before someone else recognizes me, even if Arabella didn’t. I need to leave the city.
I stay close to the river on my way back to town, my mind awhirl as I comb through my limited options. I can’t chance the steam ferry to Mount Pleasant—too crowded. But with the money I’ve stolen, I have more than enough to buy food and charter a skiff across the Cooper. I’ll take refuge in the salt marshes for now, on one of the many barrier islands along the coast.
By the time I reach town, I’m wedded to my choice. I buy a crust of bread from a vendor in the market, just as he’s closing for the day, and fill my new leather water flask at the artesian well. After midnight, once the streets have emptied, I walk to the eastside wharves, staying in the shadows. Exhaustion tugs at my limbs, the sorrows of the day taking their toll. I’ll find a place to sleep, close to the wharves, then hire a skiff at dawn. I’m nearly to the docks when someone whistles, high and loud. I freeze in place, ducking into a doorway.
“You there. Boy!” The voice is authoritative and loud. One of the dock officers on patrol, no doubt. “I see you there, hiding. Come out. I only want a word with you.”
I slow my ragged breathing and unfold from the doorway. A young, clean-shaven guardsman stands there, in the guttering light from a streetlamp. He nods at me and smiles tightly. “A bit late to be on the streets, isn’t it, lad?”
