She quickly introduced herself and said that Bianca Salzburg was probably fine, but with the sad state of events lately, they were trying to make sure.
Mrs. Morton gasped softly. “Oh, that lovely, lovely girl!” She turned to her husband, “Henry, she was so pleasant, wasn’t she? She joined us for breakfast.” As he nodded, she looked at Abby. “This is Bianca’s first trip to Savannah. She’s from Chicago, you know. Loves Chicago—her family’s there—but she was offered a chance to manage the new office for her company if she moved to Savannah. She says that since she got here, she’s been absolutely thrilled, the city’s so beautiful. We told her we’d been coming for years. Can’t move from Philly, since our grandkids live there, but we love to spend a month in Savannah every year.”
“It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world,” Abby agreed. “Did Bianca say anything about her plans for the day?”
“Why, yes. She said she’d met a nice local fellow and that she was having lunch with him. Down by the river somewhere. I forget—what did she say, Henry? The Irish pub?”
Henry Morton murmured. “Yes, Connie. The Irish pub.”
“Henry, if you know something, you have to speak up,” Connie Morton said.
“You seem to be doing fine for both of us,” Henry said.
Connie rolled her eyes. Her husband smiled at her.
“Shelly is pretty sure she left around eleven,” Malachi told them. “Does that sound about right?”
“Yes, precisely right,” Connie said. “She waved to us as she was walking out.”
Abby thanked them; when Henry expressed serious concern about Bianca, she promised they’d call the bed-and-breakfast with any news.
They bade Shelly and the Mortons goodbye and headed out.
“They were a lovely couple,” Abby said as they walked to the car.
“Yes.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I have a feeling they’ve been together for years—and that they’re still in love.”
“I envy them in a way.”
He flashed her a smile. “You’re too young to envy anyone yet. The world’s out there for you.”
“Yes, I know. They just made me think of my parents. The world was once theirs, too. But they died before they made it to where the Mortons are now.”
“And yet,” Malachi said softly, “what they had was probably better than what many people get even if they live to be over a hundred.”
That was true, but Abby missed her parents and her grandparents as much as ever and found it painful to talk about. She changed the subject back to work.
“So, we’re going to see Helen?”
“Yes.” When they drove alongside Colonial Park Cemetery, she was surprised when he suddenly saw a parking space and slid into it.
Abby frowned. “Helen’s at the hospital. Why are we here?”
“I know. I thought we’d stop for a minute.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He was already out of the car. She followed as he walked through the main entrance, beneath the arch and the great eagle. He kept moving toward the back, making straight for the bench where he’d seen the ghostly old couple and pointed them out.
They weren’t at the bench. They were standing by a grave.
Abby hung back and watched. She saw Malachi approach them, not speaking at first. He stood by the grave and bowed his head.
After a few minutes, Abby inched closer. Malachi spoke quietly. “Good afternoon,” he greeted the pair. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your son?”
The man appeared startled and looked at his wife. Then he looked at Malachi again and Abby heard his voice, like paper shifting on the wind.
“You are speaking to me, young man?”
“I am,” Malachi said. “If you’ll forgive my intrusion.”
“Of course.” The woman nodded. “Yes, it is our son.”
“He is gone, you know. And you could be with him,” Malachi told them.
The elderly man shook his head. “Soldiers came here,” he said. “They defaced Josiah’s grave. Scraped off his name with their knives. We must stand guard, lest they come again.”
“If you tell me what should be on the gravestone, I can see that it’s fixed,” Malachi promised. “The soldiers won’t come again. They were bitter because so many of their own died in the war and they behaved badly. But that war is long over—it ended a century and a half ago. I swear, I will see that the gravestone is repaired. If you tell me his name and what you wish written on it, I give you my solemn vow that it will be set to rights.”
“You can do that?” the woman asked.
“With her help,” Malachi said, gesturing at Abby.
She walked over to join them. “Savannah is my home. I know the people who can get this done,” she told them.
The man turned to her. “You would really help us?”
“Of course.”
“You two are always here,” Malachi said.
“Always.” The man took his wife’s hand.
“You must notice what goes on around here,” Malachi remarked.
“We watch. We watch over this grave,” the wife said.
Malachi nodded. “A mother’s love, a father’s dedication. But perhaps you could help us, too. People are disappearing. I know the city is crowded, that tourists come daily. But...late at night, or even during the day, do you see things?”
The man studied Malachi for a long time and then slowly lifted his arm, pointing. “There is something— there, on the corner—something that is odd.”
“Not truly odd. It was dug years and years ago,” the woman said. “It is part of the old drainage system.”
“And it was abandoned years ago!” the man added.
The woman sniffed. “Abandoned. Sealed after the horror of the yellow fever! But there were things that went on then that... I believe they thought if they could get the bodies out of the city through the sewer system, they would not infect others. They dug deep tunnels by the old hospital. But there was more that went on than was ever recorded.”
“Have you seen anything there?” Malachi asked.
“Shadows at night. By day, who knows?”
“People move around,” the old woman said. “There is an alley behind the first mausoleum. Sometimes a tall figure goes there...and does not come back. But there are many of us here. Many, many walk the city. Our kind. We are like shadows. And shadow-walkers may be restless by night. So what we’ve seen...I am not sure. But we will watch for you,” she said anxiously. “If you wish, we will watch for you.”
“That’s very kind.”
“My son...he fought bravely in the War of 1812. Please. His marker should read ‘Lieutenant Josiah Beckwith, born April 9, 1790. Died for his country, September 12, 1814, at the Battle of North Point during the War of 1812. Beloved son, husband and father. A patriot.’”
“We’ll see to it,” Abby said, jotting the details on a small notepad. She prayed she could keep her promise.
The man’s arm was around his wife’s shoulder. He started to offer his hand, but let it fall. “I am Edgar Beckwith. This is my wife, Elizabeth.”
“Malachi Gordon,” Malachi said. “And Abigail Anderson.”
“Anderson?” the woman said, looking at her. “Are you related to the family that owns the tavern?”
She nodded.
“Your family are good people, Ms. Anderson.”
She thanked them, and Malachi took her arm. They left the old couple gazing sadly at their son’s tombstone.
