Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(114)

Something has happened between them, and maybe that something was Miss O’Neil, or maybe it was something else. Maybe the Fall River Event was more than their bond could stand. Maybe it was never a very tight bond to begin with. The age difference between them is something like ten or eleven years; their relationship was probably always a bit odd for siblings.

I overheard Emma curtly inform Lizzie that she intends to send letters. I guess we’ll see how their future works out. Sometimes, a bit of distance can help. Sometimes, it’s easier to write things down and mail them than to have the most difficult conversations in person.

I hope they do correspond, given the obvious sorrow and loneliness of the notorious Lizzie Borden, or Andrew, or whatever she’s calling herself these days. (Sometimes she appropriates some version of her father’s name, for the sake of anonymity—or something like it.) I do believe the woman is guilty of her parents’ murders, but there’s no proving it now . . . and if I could, I might not be inclined to. She isn’t just hiding something. She’s protecting something, perhaps with very good reason.

Something or someone. Herself? The town? Doctor Seabury?

You tell me.

Speaking of Seabury, since you asked about his state as well, I wish I had better news. I noted previously that his mind was slipping, and that I had concerns about his continued involvement in these events—not that there was any good way to remove him from the situation. The ladies of Maplecroft took him into their confidence at the start of this affair, and could not (or would not) extricate him from it. If anything, he’s been their sole friend and confidant these last couple of years.

But when I asked after him, Emma could scarcely bring herself to say his name. When she did, it was with a bitter gleam in her eyes. That woman is leaving town, and she’s not looking back. I’m not sure I blame her.

(Do what you must; that’s what I say. But then, I rather liked her. I wish her well, for all that my wishing can do for her.)

But Seabury. His state. When I finally caught up to him for coffee, it was clear that he’s slipping yet further, and I’m not sure how it’ll end.

He’s unlikely to recover from whatever ailment plagues his mind—experience has taught us that, if little else. He remains mostly sequestered in his own home, rearranging the furniture and muttering to himself, pretending that all is well and he’s cleaning house, or searching for some long-lost documents belonging to his late wife, or . . . or whatever excuse he reaches most easily these days. The man is building a fort, and he means to live the rest of his days barricaded inside it.

Lizzie makes a routine effort to engage him, visiting with cooked meals or merely companionship; but from what I saw, it’s almost entirely one-sided. Only once in a while will Seabury rouse himself and notice she’s present—at which point he’ll begin to chatter wildly about all the preparations and warnings yet to be made before “mother” arrives.

God only knows what he’s talking about. His mother’s been dead for decades.

Well, God and Lizzie Borden, perhaps. She’s patient with him, gentle and kind. Especially now that her sister is leaving, she has no one else to interact with, really. I suppose it’s him or nobody.

Apart from her routine visits to the doctor in his makeshift fortress, she rarely leaves Maplecroft. She sits on her porch, which has been customized all the better to hide her—that she can rest outside in the fresh ocean air without being seen. She feeds and watches the birds, and she feeds and watches the stray cats—that the cats might leave the birds in peace. She reads the newspapers, and whatever books she orders from the library. She waits for Nance O’Neil, who will not return, and she waits on Owen Seabury, who will never leave.

If anyone knows the true shape and scope of what occurred in Fall River, it’s her—but she doesn’t know or trust me well enough to share that burden. She carries it around instead, as if it’s more than ill cargo: it’s a duty. Her duty. Her penance, maybe, for her transgressions carried out since the axe first hit her father. (Or was it her mother—stepmother—she struck first? I’ll be damned if I can recall. At any rate, you know what I mean.)

I am satisfied that I know some vague outline of what’s taken place, and I know it better than you ever might—not because I’m unwilling to give you the information, but because you’re unwilling to receive it. You asked me to investigate, and I investigated. I can’t help it if you don’t like the results. The facts are the facts, warped and strange and uncertain though they might be. I’d know more of them if you had given me room to find them.

But I’m finished complaining about that. I’m finished complaining about you, and the organization, and the lack of support combined with the rise in demands. I’m done, do you hear me? Give me the freedom and resources to do my job, or cut me loose.

Perhaps I can be of greater service to mankind without you.

Yrs,

SW