Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(32)

And I heard something else, too. Not Emma, I mean.

This was something else . . . a dull roar—a rumbling, rolling, washing sound that came with an added whisper. Not quite the ocean. Not quite a seashell, held up fast to my ear. Not that sound exactly, but something like it.

We were close to the seashore, but not that close. I couldn’t have heard the tide from the kitchen, nor even the street outside. Something else, then? A distant railroad train? No, not that, either.

The longer I stood there, letting the tea steep . . . the more I thought it must be coming from the cellar. There it was. A rushing, swishing, soothing noise.

Coming from behind the door.

I remember putting down the hand towel, for I’d held it all this time that I stood there, letting my imagination run wild. I set it on the counter, I’m almost positive—though I later saw it on the floor, and wasn’t sure how it’d gotten there. I went to the cellar door and held my ear against it, thinking again of a seashell and all its auditory gifts. I was listening for the ocean. For answers. For something, and it was there, and I heard it; I’d bet my life on it. I’d bet Lizbeth’s life, and that’s saying something more.

“Nance!”

She said my name loudly, and it startled me. I jumped, a feeling of childish guilt washing through my chest, though I’d done nothing wrong. “Lizbeth!” I said her name back, with mock drama. “You startled me! Why would you shout like that?”

Her eyes looked old, very old. One way or another, she was about to lie to me.

“I called your name two or three times, and you didn’t hear me. What are you doing? I thought you were making tea, but look—” She tapped the kettle with the back of her hand, quickly—to judge the temperature. “It’s gone cool.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It couldn’t possibly . . .” I’d only been standing there a minute, if that long. I stepped toward the counter and slipped on that damn towel, almost falling headlong into the sink. I felt dizzy, and drained. Like I’d misplaced something—something I couldn’t remember having lost. “Lizbeth, what’s in the cellar?” I asked, too dizzy to play whatever game she’d crafted in this place.

She put her arm around me and gave me a long squeeze. “Nothing’s in the cellar, darling. Nothing but cans, preserves, and a few jars. No true laboratory of any sort, regardless of what I might have blurted while drunk. There’s some wine, obviously, but most of it’s not any good, not anymore. It’s all gone to vinegar by now.” She emptied the kettle and refilled it from the pump at the sink. “I’ll just throw a new batch of water on the stove, and we can settle in with sandwiches. Would you like some? I can make some . . .”

I knew what she was doing. She was babbling, distracting me, even as she moved with great deliberation—like the deception was something that forced her to concentrate, and to perform. I still felt off my balance, like the room might have tilted while I wasn’t looking, and I hadn’t felt the shift.

“Sandwiches would be nice,” I told her. For all I knew, it was only hunger that made me so scattered. “But I still want you to show me the cellar.”

“Not now, Nance.” She said it firmly, but she didn’t turn around so she could lie to my face, when she added, “Later, maybe.” From the box on the counter, she withdrew some bread—and in the drawer beside her hip, she found a knife.

“Maybe tonight?”

“Oh, not tonight. It’ll be cold down there, and damp. But if it’s dry and warm, we could do it tomorrow.”

“And if it’s not?”

She shrugged. “Then some other time. The day after next, or after that. Or your next visit. You’ll come again one day, won’t you?” She faced me then, quickly—and with worry all over her lovely face.

I forced myself to smile. “Always. Whenever.”

“That’s a relief,” she replied. “I should hope that something as small as a tour of the cellar wouldn’t be enough to chase you off.”

“Oh, it’s not,” I promised. “You’ll never get rid of me that way.”





? ? ?


After tea I took the tray downstairs so that Lizbeth could spend a few minutes getting Emma ready for work time at her desk. This is quite an undertaking, wherein Lizbeth moves books, journals, a week’s worth of mail, and her sister into an office at the end of the hall. Why Emma won’t just write in bed, I don’t know. If I were feeling ungenerous, I’d suggest that she does it on purpose, to interrupt my visit in as many small ways as she can possibly contrive.

I’m rather frequently ungenerous, these days.

But this particular interruption gave me another opportunity to spend time alone in the kitchen, where the cellar door was still calling me. Did it call? Or did it only sing such a siren song because Lizbeth wanted me to stay away from it?

No, I think I said it right the first time. It was calling me.

I’m forced to assume she keeps something dangerous or embarrassing down there, but how dangerous could it be? How embarrassing? She’s renowned throughout the world as a murderess who escaped justice, and she’s taken up with a flamboyant young actress in a more or less public, and suspiciously romantic fashion; you’d think she’d be well past embarrassment by now.