Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(74)

We rode on in silence for a bit, until it occurred to me to ask, “This storage room . . . it’s where you found the drawing of Nance, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Was there any other sign of her? Anything else you might have noticed?” Because hope could not fail to spring eternal, even when it damn well knew better.

“Not that I saw at the time, but I wasn’t there for very long. I didn’t spend long with the boxes and files; there’s plenty yet to be explored.”

“Or maybe not, if George is to be believed. I’ve never heard of such a thing, have you? A room that consumes anything it holds, given time enough to do so?”

He shook his head, but I could tell he was racking his brain trying to think of some corollary. “No, nothing springs to mind. George tried to explain it when I first found him there, and I wrote it up in my notes—then sent the packet back to Boston, in case anyone there might have any ideas. I do that every couple of days—mail off my findings, that is. I like to record my progress and report it, for the sake of posterity and the sake of my own safety, too. Should my investigations suddenly cease, along with any communication, the office there would know to send someone after me.”

“A wise plan,” I agreed. I liked the idea of it: a paper trail to stand witness.

? ? ?

(I’ve left plenty of paper trails myself, but I’ve never had anyone to direct them toward—no one except for you, Emma, and that’s wholly an act of sentiment, since you’re gone. You’re beyond reading these things, and you might not have been interested in them anyway.

Probably, I bring up Nance too much.

Probably, you’re sick of hearing about her.)

? ? ?

“It’s a safety measure more than a plan,” he continued. “Besides, once the case is finished—or as finished as some of them ever get—it’s helpful to see the whole thing laid out from beginning to end. Sometimes I can see patterns after the fact . . . details that seemed insignificant may add up or line up to spell something important.”

“How many cases have you solved?” I asked, afraid that it might verge on impoliteness—since it might imply his efforts were not uniformly successful. But I was too curious to restrain myself.

“More than I’ve abandoned due to lack of evidence,” he answered quickly, without sounding insulted in the slightest. Then, more slowly, more thoughtfully, he added, “But solving a case . . . it doesn’t always mean that an answer to a riddle has been found, or that a great truth has been revealed. As often as not, a solution is little more than a conclusion—the ability to say, ‘This is what happened.’ Or even, ‘I don’t know what happened, but here is the mechanism by which it operated.’ It’s rarely quite so simple as the detective stories would lead you to think.”

“Maybe not, but the prospect charms me. The idea of a community like yours . . . an organization that at least attempts to address the things others may dismiss.” Suddenly I sat up straighter, and with a gasp. Two ideas had collided in my brain with such velocity that I was stunned they hadn’t met before.

“Lizbeth? Was it something I said?”

“That’s what you were doing in Fall River,” I noted. “You were there about Zollicoffer.”

He was puzzled; you could see it in the zigzag lines of his forehead. “You knew that already. You knew it at the time.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. You investigated that case, those deaths, that man . . . because none of it was natural, not in the traditional sense.”

“You are correct.” He nodded, still uncertain as to why this had unnerved me so. He must have assumed I’d figured it out already . . . and to some extent I had. But given all the excitement, I hadn’t really stopped to consider . . . so I asked him, “The Zollicoffer case. Do you consider that one . . . solved?”

“It’s as I told you, ‘solved’ is a slippery term at best. I believe I called that one ‘concluded.’ After my last visit to Fall River . . . shortly thereafter, that is, if you’ll excuse me . . . erm . . .”

“Go on,” I prompted. I wanted him to ask about it. I’m not sure why.

Likewise, I’m not sure why he was so reluctant.

He arched an eyebrow toward the back of our driver’s head, as if to remind me that we weren’t alone. Cautiously, he said, “We’d suspected that Zollicoffer’s course of action would lead him to Fall River—but we did not have anything firm to base it upon until it was . . . to be frank . . . entirely too late to do anything about it. I had some grand ideas about rushing into your town, lending a hand, saving the day, and so on . . . but there wasn’t time. Certainty came to us in increments, you see. And”—he shifted in his seat so he could better face me, and lend the impression of earnestness—“that was one of my great complaints, with the way the case was handled. Everyone was so afraid that we’d predict the wrong path and miss the monstrous fellow altogether . . . that no one wanted to make a decision on the matter. No investigator would stand up and say, ‘I believe the professor will next strike here,’ because what if he turned out to be wrong? It was a coward’s handling of the matter, from top to bottom.”

“What about you?”