Maplecroft (14 page)

(Edited
to note—my guesses were good. I was only half a foot off in one case, and a quarter foot in the other.)

I am at such a loss, without numbers to enter and symptoms to record. Unless that’s what I’m doing, in this roundabout way, as I keep these journals and record the day’s proceedings. I might be thinking about the situation too broadly.

Wolf has his own notes, of course. I might ask to see them, in order to better flesh out my own research.

To
return to my point, I stood by the door, by the window. And again I looked down into the barrel of odds and ends that Matthew so diligently filled, unto his last days. Same as before it was overflowing, with the excess deposited into buckets, jugs, and cups. No longer a barrel of goods—the goods had overtaken the space, and now acquired other spaces nearby in which to collect, and to spread.

The goods had become a veritable colony.

What
a strange thing to write down. I’m not certain why I’ve done so, but there it is. That was what I thought, and how I felt. That’s what I remember of it, and the rest is frankly foggy, but I need to stay on my toes and record it all to the best of my ability, so I don’t forget it later.

I stood there, by the barrel, by the colony of glittery glass bits and shimmering shells, and I felt distinctly like I was forgetting something . . . forgetting everything, slowly. Like as I lingered, my attention was being drained from my body, a very
slow leak, as from a balloon, and my awareness was sinking, dropping, falling.

Oddly, I was not particularly worried by this. I was only interested in the glint of the light on the pretty rocks, and the clicking sound they made when I put my hand into the barrel, gently so I wouldn’t cut myself on any sharp edges. Clicking together, the pebbles and stones and glass. Clicking like crab claws, or beads on a necklace.

Clicking like a necklace.

But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? Maybe not. Still, that was what sprang to mind, and something about the randomness of it all made me cling to it. It was too specific and weird to lack meaning.

I might’ve mulled this over further—or then again, I might’ve stood there all night, my fingers running through the barrel’s contents, drawing little furrows, making tiny mounds and digging little holes—except that Wolf joined me once again, having finished his examination of Matthew’s bedroom.

He said my name, loudly. He insisted that it was the third attempt to rouse my attention, and he asked if I was all right, but of course I was all right. Of course he didn’t call my name thrice. I’m
confident
he must have been mistaken.

No, that’s not so. I’m not confident of anything, and the thoughtful look on his face suggested that I would dismiss his concern at my peril.

“Of course I’m all right,” I said in response, shoving my hands into my pockets, and clenching, unclenching my fists. My hands were cold from playing with the barrel’s lifeless, brittle contents.

“I should hope so, because we’ve one stop left before I can return you to your routine, Doctor. I could’ve done this much of
the trip myself, though I was happy for the company; no, sir, I need you for the funeral home. I want you to tell me about the bodies.”

“Ah.” It was all I could think to say.

My hesitation likewise gave him pause. “Ah? Is there . . . some reason you’d prefer to bow out?”

“No, no, that’s not it,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry—I only had a moment of moral confliction.” I reached for the door and opened it, letting the real world, the real ocean air, breathe into the store.

“Moral confliction? Of what sort?”

“I’m terribly curious, that’s all. I do indeed want to see them,” I asserted, and this was true. “But it would be unseemly to get too excited about it, don’t you think?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you certain?”

He shut the door and locked it behind us. “We should always be excited about the pursuit of truth.”

We stood there, taking in the sun, and together, I believe, we were both relieved at the normalcy of the morning on the shop’s narrow stoop. With the door closed, there was no sign of what had gone on within.

None but the warning sign, that is.

It dangled from the rope, reminding me that I was wrong, and that I could pretend all I wanted that it was a beautiful day, and all was right with the world. But I was completely wrong.

The funeral home was only a few blocks to the north, so we walked the distance together. I led the way at Wolf’s request, but I got the distinct impression that he knew the general location already. He was obviously a man who came to every situation prepared.

I wondered
how
prepared, and I frowned, but to parlay the act into something less vague I returned to his last comment. “You don’t think it’s strange at all?” I asked him. “You think it’s well and good that we should grow giddy over the corpses of friends?”

“They’re not
my
friends,” he noted. “And I said nothing about ‘giddy.’ But I have no doubt that the deceased Hamiltons were fine, upstanding citizens, so yes, I am all the more interested in their remains, that we might find the justice they so richly deserve.”

“But what justice is there, when a malady is at fault? One can hardly prosecute an infection.” I scoffed at the very idea. “Matthew was ill—desperately so, and I can’t speak as to the nature of his affliction. I did my best to treat him, but his condition was beyond my abilities.”

“Beyond anyone’s but God’s?” Wolf asked. He looked up at me with a tiny gleam in his eye.

“Beyond anyone’s,” I said carefully.

“Filthy atheist,” he replied.

It was meant to sound like a joke, so I laughed—but the laugh was awkward. “My beliefs have no part in this case. And you were the one who wished to abandon the topic of religion. If I recall.”

“But if I’m to understand correctly, you
believe
that Matthew was sick, and that Ebenezer acted in self-defense when his godson threatened his wife’s life. You have faith, is what you mean.”

“That’s . . . not the same thing.”

“It might be. Look—is this the place?”

“Yes,” I said, and I absolutely would not have described myself as “giddy.” But I was indeed glad we’d arrived. I didn’t want to talk about faith, because I don’t have any. That having
been said, I did not detect any judgment from the inspector, only curiosity. You never know. If I’d let the chatter run its course, I might have discovered a kindred spirit.

“Shall we, then?”

“After you.”

I stood aside and he climbed the stairs first, and stepped inside before me—but held the door that I might join him.

The interior was a sadly familiar place. My own wife had been buried through that same establishment, as had a number of other friends and patients through the years. In a town so small, everyone is a friend, or a cousin, or a neighbor at the very least. When one person dies, it’s likely that half of Fall River will turn out to pay respects—or watch others do so.

In the reception area we stood uncertainly. It was a warm place, without anywhere significant to sit; it was a place for exchanging condolences and news, and to ready oneself for the service as needed. The floors were covered in pretty, detailed rugs, and the windows were set with colored glass reminiscent of a church, in the area we all called the chapel.

A small white-haired woman poked her head around the corner, and I recognized her as Martha Wann, wife of the elder brother.

She recognized me in turn. “Doctor Seabury, hello. The sheriff said you’d be here this morning.” She joined us in the foyer, and performed a little bow. To Wolf she said, “You must be the fellow from Boston.”

“Inspector Wolf, yes.” He returned her little bow. “A pleasure to meet you, though it’s a pity the circumstances are so unfortunate. Please, could you take us to the Hamiltons?”

Solemnly she nodded. “Certainly, gentlemen. This way.”

She led us back into the chapel, past the rows of simple wood
chairs and through a door, beyond which we found a set of stairs. “The real work happens below, you understand,” she delicately explained. “But the good doctor here, he knew that already.”

“You’ve assisted with such things before?” Wolf asked me.

“A handful of times, when there’s been uncertainty.”

“About the cause of death?”

“Yes,” I said. “But sometimes, I attempt to help identify an unknown body. They wash up from time to time, over at the rocks. Sailors and the like.”

“And we return to the unknown, once again. That kind of identification must be tricky.”

“Always. As often as not, all I can do is describe teeth, tattoos, and scars, or any bones that have broken and healed, in the case of a skeleton. Sometimes these things help a man’s mortal remains find their way home, to the people who’ve missed him.”

“But not always?”

I shook my head. “No, not always.”

Mrs. Wann opened another door and held it for us, ushering us inside. “In here you’ll find what you’re looking for, but as a matter of kindness, I must warn you—it’s not a pretty sight. Whatever became of them . . . I . . . I can’t say. I’ve never seen its like. You really should prepare yourselves.”

The inspector beat me to a response, though our sentiments were more or less the same. He said, “Mrs. Wann, I’ve seen all sorts, all kinds, in my line of work. Thank you for the warning, but we’ll be well enough.”

She nodded gently, not quite believing us—but her profession left her too ready to demur. “Very well, gentlemen. If I can be of any service to you, please let me know. I’ll be right upstairs in the office.”

Privately, I was thinking of Abigail Borden, and how her
body had looked lying on this same table beside her husband. They’d been hacked so badly, but still there was a swelling and, now that I considered it, a peculiar smell.

Not quite the same as the one from the shop. Not quite different from it.

We
thanked Mrs. Wann, and when she discreetly closed the door behind herself, I drew Wolf toward a large table tilted at an angle, and covered with tin sheeting. (The genteel description of such a table is a “drying table.”) Upon it rested two long shapes, covered in canvas cloths that were less like sheets, and more like the kind of drapes a painter might use. I think these cloths might have been waxed, to protect them somewhat against the damp of the dead . . . though ordinarily, the embalmers did not bother with such things in the privacy of their own laboratory.

It did not bode well that even the funereal folks couldn’t bring themselves to look.

I took a deep breath to steel myself. I’d done this sort of thing before, yes—but this was different. I knew it was different, and I needed to see
how
it was different. And given the circumstances, I might need to prove how different this case truly was, in order to keep Ebenezer Hamilton a free man.

“The smell’s not so bad in here,” the inspector observed. “
Bad
, yes. But more ordinary bad than the shop itself, if that makes any sense.”

There was that word again, “ordinary.” As if we were trying to reassure ourselves.

I wasn’t sure why the inspector needed any reassuring. He couldn’t possibly know the truth, about either Ebenezer’s experience, or the Bordens’. With regard to the latter, he would only know what he’d seen in the papers—and half of that was wrong.

“No, I believe you’re right,” I said of the odor. “Worse by far at the shop.”

He mumbled, “Tell me, is there another light in here . . . ? Oh, wait, I see the switch.”

At the touch of his hand, a very bright lamp sparked to life, illuminating the chilly place without adding any warmth.

I looked around the cool, utilitarian embalming room, and eyed the cabinets, jars, bottles, and needles in their stacks and baskets. I looked over the heaps of towels, the folded sheets, and the dirty cement floor beneath our feet, with its telltale drain.

“Shall we, Doctor?”

“I suppose there’s no delaying it further.”

Quickly, before I could make some excuse, I went to the nearest corner of the drape, and lifted it. I tossed it aside in one quick snap of my wrist—revealing the bodies of Felicity and Matthew Hamilton.

Inspector Wolf choked.

I almost did the same. I saved myself by turning quickly away, staring at the floor, and giving my mind a moment to adjust, and my stomach a moment to return to its usual position.

Mere gunshot wounds were bad enough, but the two people on that table had not died from anything half so normal.

Or . . . no.

That was not quite true, not exactly, because when I gathered the strength to look again at the table, I saw that yes,
technically
Matthew had expired due to an excess of buckshot from a fowler’s gun. His torso was speckled and smashed with dozens of holes, and surely they would’ve killed him or anyone else at such close range. A chunk of his side had been blown free, leaving him with ribs exposed and shattered. He was missing most of one kidney.

I focused on these details because they were the ones I could
write down in a report, and no one would question my sanity or my professional qualifications.

Inspector Wolf tamed his retching instinct, and once again having retrieved his handkerchief, he said what I was thinking (and wondering how to suggest it). “It’s as if they were filled with water, until they burst.”

“That’s . . . not an unfair or inaccurate observation.”

“If a disgusting one,” he added, the words muffled by the scrap of fabric he was using to hide his mouth. “I mean, the lad there . . . shot, with two barrels of buck, at a very near distance. But the woman . . . ?”

“Mrs. Hamilton. Yes, she’s . . . bloated,” I said, finding the word I meant.

“Not a small woman in life, I shouldn’t think.”

“No, never the delicate sort. But she’s taken on . . . what must be, I mean . . . I have to assume . . . a significant amount of water. And that
does
correspond with Ebenezer’s report.” I then realized with a fast jerk of guilt—that I didn’t know what he’d ultimately told the police . . . or whatever higher authority in Boston the inspector represented. I knew I should watch my words more closely.

Wolf filled in a small bit of information. “About how Matthew tried to drown her?”

Ah. So that’s what he’d heard. It was a reasonable thing for Ebenezer to say, when he did not wish to seem mad or unreasonable. What he’d shared with me, he’d shared in confidence. It would not do for me to betray it.

“Something like that,” I said without confirming or denying anything.

Once again the Bordens leaped to the forefront of my mind.

Their daughter’s trial flashed through my brain, and yes, I
reminded myself with terrific firmness: yes, I must be
very
careful with regard to what I said about Ebenezer’s confession or behavior. Any little thing could be used, construed, or bent to whatever ends the authorities settled on when the time for formal inquiry came around.

But Wolf pressed on. “Something
like
a drowning? What do you mean?”

Still, I was cautious. “He was quite distraught. He talked in circles, and not all of it made sense.”

The inspector eyed me warily, a moment longer than was comfortable. Then again, he might’ve only been trying to stare at something other than the corpses before us. My extensive experience with the dead had done precious little to ready me for the sight of these two, so I could hardly blame him if that was the reason. But surely a man who investigated murders would have experience comparable to mine in war, or
some
experience anyway. Unless he typically investigated something else. Really, I had no idea—and his evasive answers thus far suggested he wouldn’t be too forthcoming, were I to ask.

I forced myself to look at the corpses again. No, even in war there was nothing to compare this to. War was only brutal. This was unnatural.

Beside the table was a shelf, with the implements of embalming ready at hand. How the Wann family planned to prepare the Hamiltons, I could scarcely imagine. The boy was in pieces, and his mother was . . .

Not herself.

I picked up a long metal probe and gingerly, with as much respect (and as little disgust) as I could muster, I prodded at Matthew’s flesh. It oozed fluid—water? Some unusual decomposition?—and the probe left virtually no impression in
the flesh. The texture reminded me of nothing half so much as a sea-jelly.

“What are you doing?” Wolf asked.

“Nothing useful. I’m at a loss. They’ve been dead two days or less, and they almost look like they washed up on the rocks after a week in the ocean. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He cleared his throat and reached into his pocket for a set of vials. “So might it be said, Doctor Seabury, that I have your permission to take some samples?”

“My permission? You don’t need it. You’d be better served to ask the Wanns, but honestly, there’s little they can do for these two. Other than close the casket.”

He agreed, and selected a small scalpel from the table with the probes, tubes, and jars of foul-smelling fluids.

I averted my eyes while he worked, though I loathed myself for it, just a little. I ought to be stronger, better, more of a man—and a professional—than this. If I were to treat myself more kindly, I might’ve made the excuse that my specialty was the living body, and not the dead.

But in fact, I was a coward.

That night, I dreamed of the drying table, and the tubes, and the probes. But beneath the sheet lay Abigail and Andrew Borden, bloated and swollen. Waterlogged and yet living, their eyes watching me as I walked horrified around them, unable to leave the room. Unable to understand. Unable to look away.

Emma Borden was right. I needed a word with her
sister.