After Alice Fell(81)

Dr. Finch leans forward, elbows to his knees, and his smile is so wide I see the missing molars in the top left.

“You’re staring.”

“I would very much like to take some measurements. Of your head. May I be so bold?”

“You may not.”

“But we can determine quite quickly the nature of your condition.”

“I don’t have a condition.”

“Rule out conditions, then. I won’t force you. But I am a noted phrenologist.”

“You may not touch my head. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“As you say.” He taps the table.

“I’ll have some coffee, now, if you will.”

He nods once. Lifts the pot to pour. The coffee is thick and brown. He blows on it, as if the liquid will burn his lips, then gives a grimace of surprise when he sips. He sets the cup down and pushes it my way. It sways in my grip; I can’t stop the tremble of my hand. This man’s opinion is all that stands between me and the state asylum for the insane. Which, if rumor has any credence, makes Brawders House the Queen’s palace. I’ve been blubbering like an idiot.

“Do you suffer?” he asks.

“Like Alice?”

“Like someone who has murdered two innocent people and nearly two more.” He curls his lips and swats a fly away from his sideburn. He doesn’t change his focus. That remains upon me. “Never mind the monies paid to have Miss Alice Snow pushed from the roof.”

I open my mouth, about to answer.

He pushes the sugar across, then the tongs. “I must know, Mrs. Snow. If I am to assess you. I am not a man of snap judgments.”

“Where is my husband?”

“Directly across. Recuperating in the men’s wing.”

“I did nothing, Dr. Finch. He did nothing.” But the red heat on my cheeks belies me. And his patience wears. “It would be more abnormal if I thought nothing of it. Marion tried to kill me. And she killed that man, that laborer. They plotted against us.”

He swings his foot. It is so uncommonly thin. “And now you make up stories to alleviate your guilt. Blame others for that original sin. It is common to do so. Guilt is a corrosive beast. The mind is not made for it. Nor the heart. Our brains make up new stories to mop up the mess, hide all the rust stains and remorse.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you committing me?”

He makes a click of his tongue. “Yes. I am. To the wing for the criminally insane. The third floor. You’ll have your very own room.”





Chapter Thirty-Three


The coachman hefts my trunk to the livery boy, who straps it to the roof. “Heavy one,” he says.

I shade my eyes and gaze up at him. “Books and toys. The next one’s lighter.”

Toby hops down the steps of the general store and slows to peer in the shadows of the porch. He pushes aside a tin tub and crouches, snapping his fingers to tempt a cat. Then he unrolls a bag and pours the contents to a pan. One more snap before he rises and dusts his short trousers and bare knees.

I watch him lope along the wood walkway and then jump to the road. He runs the tips of his fingers along the white wood of the post office and the brass plate of the bank.

“Bank of Turee,” he says to no one in particular. He will be tall as his father. He’ll need a new set of clothes before the school year begins. “Horse.” He rubs the muzzle of the chestnut, and then strokes the nose of the bay. Then he steps next to me, fumbling in his vest pocket for his watch, making a show of springing it open and contemplating the time. He rubs his thumb across the glass. It was Lionel’s.

It is the last of his father, as the locket around my neck is the last I have of Alice.

I haven’t told him the truth of Lionel’s commitment. I have only said his father knew nothing of Cathy’s evil. I could not hide anything else. Toby had been too curious. He watched the slides. He knew they told the truth. He believed Alice. And she had kept him safe.

“Thirteen more minutes,” he says and snaps the watch closed.

“What did you give the cat?”

“Jerky. Mrs. Flowers says it’s his favorite.”

The bay paws a hoof to the road. The driver climbs to his seat. “Milford, Nashua, Boston,” he calls.

“We’re off, then,” I say. “An adventure.”

He looks up at me, his expression somber. It will be long before he can sleep through a night. He takes my hand, fingers sticky from candy. “An adventure.”

We won’t be back. And I won’t look back down the road. Saoirse and Elias have gone to her sister’s in Newburyport. The house has been sold to the Runyons, who will tear it down and turn the whole of it over to sheep. They are glad for the pond.

Alice’s stone came. White granite that sparkles in the light.

Beloved sister.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Alicia Clancy, you are an editor extraordinaire. I am so appreciative not only for your keen sense of story, but for your support and encouragement. I am so lucky and honored to work with you.

Mark Gottlieb, can I say again how much I appreciate you? You are so generous with your time and ideas and advice and knowledge. Thank you.