Maplecroft (15 page)

A
PRIL
18, 1894

The Hamiltons have been murdered. Two of them, at least—the wife and son. Nephew? Godson? I can’t recall the particulars, but I believe he wasn’t theirs by birth. Regardless, he’s dead now: shot by his father, or whatever the man of the house was, in relation to him.

Ebenezer Hamilton has been taken into custody, and Fall River whispers so loudly that even such shut-ins as my sister and I have heard a number of details. The newspaper told us little that the gardener or the milkman hadn’t; we gleaned only one
new tidbit from the official report, which was very brief, likely due to the suddenness of it all.

Apparently the boy had been ill for some weeks. He’d been kept indoors before the tragedy, out of fear that he might be a danger to himself or others. There are rumors that he’d been physically restrained, tied to a bed.

None of these precautions were excessive, as it turns out. They were not even sufficient.

When young Tim Haines came to collect our newspaper fee, he added the salacious detail that Matthew (that’s the boy’s name—I’d forgotten it until just now) had drowned Mrs. Hamilton in a washtub, and Ebenezer tried to save her. That’s where the gun came into it.

I have a terrible suspicion about this, and I know that Lizzie does as well. I know this, because she can hardly be persuaded to speak of it. She’s hidden the papers from Nance, lest she be called upon to gossip about the situation, and it’s entirely too near to the heart.

What an awful little place this town has come to be. Full of awful little people, and awful little creatures who make everything worse, exponentially. Daily.

And Nance hardly improves matters.

I honestly believe that Lizzie would throw that tall, noisy strumpet back onto the first train north for her own good, if she could—and it might yet come to that. I keep hoping there may be some catastrophic fight, instigated by my sister with the specific intent of sparing her beloved, even at the expense of the love itself.

If she were braver, that’s what she’d do. Or if she were less lonely, I should say.

At least she’s talked Nance out of a party. As always, that was the first thing the girl wanted upon her arrival, and the last thing
we needed. So Lizzie is capable of putting her foot down on the big things, and thank God for
that
. I’d be happier about this development if I didn’t know all too well how it’s the little things that’ll catch us in the end. They check the details for devils, you see.

Already, the poor girl has become fascinated with the cellar door, and we all know nothing good can come of it. Lizzie is almost out of excuses. And whatever’s calling from down there . . . whatever it is . . . will undoubtedly win out over locks and prohibitions.

It’s only a matter of time, I fear.

Hell, isn’t
everything?

A
PRIL
21, 1894

Doctor Seabury came today, and I hardly know what to make of his visit.

I am both invigorated and terrified, for he seems to be on the very edge of grasping how much there remains to be understood, and how far away is any mortal mind from understanding it. I hesitate to consider it, but we might well prove kindred spirits after all. My new optimism stems from the Hamilton murders, which occurred last week on the other side of town.

(Oh dear. I
really
shouldn’t call it “optimism,” considering.)

Regardless, my feelings are predominantly positive, tragedy aside. Some good may come of it yet, if the doctor and I can bring ourselves to trust one another enough. We came very
close to naming a collaboration today, but not quite yet. We’re both very afraid.

We have every right to be.

As
for the Hamiltons, whose grisly end has brought us together . . . I never knew the family well, but I knew
of
them.

Everyone did, like everyone in Fall River knows everyone else, on sight if not in person. The Hamiltons owned a store down by the pier, catering mostly to mariners and those who like to pretend to such things, by way of keeping the trappings about their homes. The family unit consisted of a husband and wife a few years older than Emma, and a boy in his teens—their godson, otherwise orphaned some years previously.

It would seem that the boy attempted to drown his godmother, and Mr. Hamilton intervened—and this intervention required a gun. Mr. Hamilton has been taken to Boston, but I don’t think he’s been arrested. I suspect they’re evaluating him, considering whether or not to place him in an asylum.

That’s the best ending he might expect, I’m afraid (assuming he’s told the truth). His other option is likely prison, in the event that he’s manufactured some cunning lie. And from what I recall of Mr. Hamilton, “cunning” wasn’t the first descriptor that sprang to mind.

Kind, yes. Unlikely to go on a killing spree, certainly. But simple in his motives and actions.

And, I believe, quite innocent of murder.

Doctor
Seabury came by to attend to Emma, as has become his custom. On this particular visit, she hovered excitedly, trying to urge us to talk—but her fluttering made nothing easier, since
both he and I knew that she’d spoken to him, and that we were now intended to have a difficult conversation.

The whole thing was exquisitely awkward at the outset.

Finally, when Emma had exhausted all her heavy-handed tactics, she excused herself. Any fool could’ve seen that it was a ruse, and I’m certain that Nance wondered what was going on when my sister asked for
her
assistance, rather than mine. She couched it in the guise of Nance’s height and strength, and hinted that I had some private matter to discuss with the physician.

It was true, but it made the whole thing sound dirty and weird, and I’ve put off explaining myself to my houseguest thus far . . . but my protestations won’t work for much longer. I’ll need a good story by this evening, or I’m afraid that Nance might become dramatic.

When the doctor and I were finally alone, we hemmed and hawed around the discomfort of our topic, until he surprised me by blurting out, “I saw the Hamiltons’ bodies.”

I wouldn’t have been more stunned if he’d taken of his shirt and done a little dance.

“You . . . you
did
?”

The explanation tumbled out. He’d been keeping it bottled up tight, and once the seal was broken, there was no stopping him. “An investigator was sent from Boston, and he requested that I accompany him on his rounds. A fine man, name of ‘Wolf,’ if you can imagine anything more fitting . . . and he’d asked specifically to see the bodies.”

He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, so I could scarcely stop myself from doing the same. “Given that the case is now a criminal one, or at least a
suspicious
one, I was pleased to have been included . . . I’ll admit I was frankly curious and
also . . . also, frankly frightened. Matthew had been unwell, you see, and I had worried for his . . .” He hesitated.

“For his safety?” I asked, somewhat boldly, in my own opinion. But the doctor seemed to require a prompt. While he considered how much to share, I added, “I should tell you, I’ve heard rumors. Gossip says he’d been tied to the bed.”

Seabury’s eyes met mine, and they were filled with turmoil. “For his own safety, yes. And his godparents’ safety as well. He’d become restless, yet unresponsive. Something was wrong,” he concluded with great conviction. “Wrong in a sense greater than any mere malady might explain. And it reminded me of nothing so much as your stepmother, Abigail.”

He said that last part too quickly, so fast that the words ran together.

My mouth was hanging open. I closed it. “You saw her. The night
before
.” I recalled it all too well, how she’d fled the house and run across the street. I’d been terrified that she’d go on a rampage herself, inflicting heaven-knew-what harm on whomever she encountered.

“Yes. I saw her. And whatever had gone . . .
wrong
 . . .” He selected the same word again, and deployed it carefully. “It was not unlike the change that had overtaken Matthew. I did not know how to treat Abigail, and I did not know how to treat that young man, either.” He held up his hands and looked at them, and looked at me again with that awful uncertainty radiating from his face. “I do not know what I am up against, and I do not think that it is natural. I do not think that it will stop with the Hamiltons.”

A shiver ran up and down my spine, and I did my best to keep from breaking out into a wide, ridiculous smile. It was awful news! A terrifying prospect! An outrageous proposition,
suggesting that the whole town was in danger of falling prey to this unnatural malaise!

A smile would’ve been grossly inappropriate, so I swallowed it down, and instead I reached for his hands. He didn’t know what to do with them. They were flapping about, and I caught them in my own. In other circumstances, it would’ve been a forward gesture of something unseemly, but this was a unique case. I needed his attention, and we needed to trust one another—or at least
believe
one another.

His hands were large and dry, and they shook very slightly.

I met his eyes, and with all the calm I could muster, I asked, “Tell me, Doctor . . . did you speak with Ebenezer Hamilton, before they took him to Boston?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“And did he tell you something impossible? Something that can’t be remotely true?”

He nodded again. “Yet the corpses suggest that his explanation
must
be true. Or true enough, if you wish to believe that the trauma has unhinged his mind, and what he shared was only some distorted fraction of what really happened.”

I took a long, slow breath through my nose, and sat back against the divan. I rubbed at my eyes, and again I tried to shake off the feeling of euphoria. This was nothing to be euphoric about, but my sensibilities betrayed me. I’d carried the knowledge around too long, and carried it all but alone. To clarify matters, I said, “You believe his impossible story, but in believing him, you risk your own sanity. Is this more or less the situation?”

Miserably, he bobbed his head. “I saw the shop, and the scene of the crime. I can’t imagine an alternate theory with regard to what occurred, but the story is so outlandish that I don’t dare admit that I’ve given it any credence at all.”

“Did Matthew kill his godmother?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“And Ebenezer killed Matthew, in an attempt to save his wife?”

“That is also correct. But I’m afraid they’ll either commit him or hang him, depending on what he tells the authorities. I want to speak up for him. I want to defend him—”

“As you defended me?” I interjected. I didn’t mean to.

He was silent, and then he said, “As I defended
you
.”

I gathered my wits and my strength, and with all the courage I could muster I said bluntly, “You knew I was not innocent.”

Just as bluntly in return, he replied, “I
feared
that you weren’t, and I feared that no one would believe a plea of self-defense. But I
saw
her . . . ,” he said, and his eyes went far away. “I saw what she’d become, or what she was becoming. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Some kind of . . . change. No one would’ve believed you.”

My voice caught in my throat. I said, “Oh God . . . Doctor. All this time, and you . . . ?”

The heavy tread of Nance’s feet on the stairs stopped me cold. I finished up by saying only, “Nance doesn’t know. We mustn’t speak of it in front of her. Not yet. Not now.”

“But we will, won’t we?”

“Later,” I promised. I swore it again. “Later. Tomorrow afternoon? I’ll find some errand for Nance and chase her out of the house.”

I rose, and smiled primly, politely. He rose, too, and gathered his bags.

When Nance appeared in the parlor, the doctor was on his way out the door with a nod in her direction, and some murmured pleasantry about meeting her. She responded in kind, halfheartedly and without any real interest in the matter. She
didn’t care to pretend. She was interested in our conversation, and what it had entailed.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, the pantomime was over.

She demanded to know. “What the hell is going on, Lizbeth?”

“Nothing serious. Just a small question for the doctor. A private one, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re lying. Not about the private bit, but you’re keeping something from me—and I doubt it’s a medical issue.”

“I’m keeping a number of things from you,” I said with attempted gaiety. It almost rang true, for I was still so charmed at the prospect of a helpful friend to share the burden of my research. I felt light-headed and all but delirious, stunned and yet energized.

From a practical standpoint, it was almost too much to hope for. Emma was helpful in her way, of course, but her condition prevented her from any firsthand investigation by my side; and her relation to me kept her from participating in the community, where the very best information was likely to be gleaned. Doctor Seabury, on the other hand, had no such difficulties—and he was an educated, informed, respected man whose profession gained him access to even the most closely guarded secrets.

But Nance didn’t need to hear any of this.

“Lizbeth . . .” She nearly whined. The look I flashed in return suggested she should take a different approach. She did so, trying to mirror my lightness, the casualness of my dismissal. “So now we’re keeping things from one another? Such as what?”

But just this once, I was the better actress between the two of us.

I didn’t want to fight. I only wanted to distract her, and I knew precisely how to do so. “Such as . . . how the greens I
ordered from McKamey’s disagreed with me terribly, or how my eyes water at garlic, besides onions. And how my knees grow weak whenever you’re present, my love.”

“You’ve told me that one already,” she replied sulkily, but it wasn’t a pure sulk. A little flattery goes a long way with her, and I’m not above it.

“I’ll likely say it again, at some point during your visit.” I took her hands and gave her a quick kiss, an act which required me to stand on my tiptoes. “Now, how is Emma? Is she settled comfortably?”

“Took her own sweet time about getting that way, but yes, she’s fine.”

“You must be patient. Depending on the weather and her lungs, she finds it difficult to move as swiftly as you or I.”

“I still can’t imagine why she asked my help.
You’re
the patient one,” she said with a sigh.

A hasty lie sprang to mind, and I liked it, so I let it past my lips. “
I
suggested it. I thought you two ought to spend some time together once in a while. I truly believe that with a better acquaintance, you could become great friends.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” she said dubiously. “We’re terribly different.”

“But you have some terribly wonderful things in common.”

“Just you,” she said with a wink. Then she took me by the hand and lured me back into the kitchen, and I thought I was in for a round of tea or perhaps something more engaging . . . and then I realized that I was wrong.

“Lizbeth, your sister is out of the way for now, and the doctor is gone . . . so there should be no visitors.” Nance leaned against the cellar door, bouncing coquettishly against it with her bottom.
“Why don’t you show me what’s downstairs? There’s privacy and darkness, and just you . . . and
me
.”

The joy that had positively flooded my heart . . . now evaporated with her prettily phrased petition. I believe my face might’ve gone all but green. “Dearest,
no
,” I said slowly. “There’s nothing romantic about the cellar at all.”

“Just dust and wine and bugs, or so you’d have me think.
Show me
,” she insisted, and it wasn’t just another whine. It bore all the hallmarks of a demand.

I was running out of ways to defer the exploration, and I knew it, and it was awful because every excuse was a lie—but a lie that might save her life, or her soul. “Darling, I’m not even sure where the key is right now. Off the top of my head . . . it might be in the odds-and-ends basket by the back door . . .”

“No,” she said with steel in her eyes. “I already checked.”

“You . . . you checked? You went looking for the key?”

“I found several keys, stashed here and there. In drawers, and atop tables. None of them fit this lock.”

The key was safely around my neck, as always. But the fact that she’d gone looking for it chilled me to my core. “Why are you so determined to see it?”

“Because you’re so determined to keep it from me. It must be terribly interesting, if you’re so certain I shouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

“Rather the opposite,” I said with a shrug, wandering to the sink and placing my hands along the cool enamel surface. I reached for the teakettle in order to have something to do, some meaningless task to distract myself—but she took it away and set it down on the counter.

“So it’s a dull, safe, unremarkable place?”

“Entirely.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to,” I said, digging in my heels. I’m at least as stubborn as she is, after all. “I don’t like going down there. It’s damp and cold, and all the wood is eaten up by rot. Every time I descend the stairs, I’m halfway convinced they’ll shatter out from under me. Mildew and mold, all the way through.”

“Doesn’t sound very safe to me.”

“Oh, stop it. You know what I mean.” I moved away from her again, and she followed me again—staying very close to me, her eyes never leaving my face. I hated it, because it meant she’d been touched by the things down there, or called by them, and I was no longer dealing merely with a woman I adored but who could be a tad insistent.

I was confronted by a woman who’d acquired a compulsion.

And I hated it because she was looming over me, and I could not shake the feeling that it was deliberate. She was intimidating me, using her size against me. Using her height to tell me, without any words, that she could wrestle me into submission if she felt the need, and she was feeling all kinds of needs right now.

I didn’t know if she could best me in a fight or not. I’m smaller, yes, but more compact. And in the previous two years, I’d learned a great deal about violence, and my capacity for it. “Nance,” I whispered, and she was hovering so close that my breath tickled her eyelashes. “You’re beginning to worry me.”

“Worry you?” She cocked her head.

I swallowed, and leaned back away from her as far as the counter would allow. “I think you’re trying to frighten me, and I don’t like it.”

My direct accusation broke the spell, or cracked it sufficiently that she withdrew, a look of honest horror on her face.
She blinked quickly, repeatedly, like someone awakening from an engrossing dream. “Frighten you? Lizbeth . . . whatever are you going on about? I’m doing no such thing.”

I released a breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding, and when I did so, my corset stays stretched against the fabric of my dress. Apparently it was a big breath. Apparently I’d held it hard.