Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(39)

I was unstoppable.





HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON



Owen Seabury, M.D.


APRIL 19, 1894

The Boston inspector didn’t arrive yesterday morning as I was promised, but he came this morning instead—bright and early, if not so early as the sheriff had the day before. The sun was up, I’d had my coffee and toast, and I was as prepared as one could hope for what we were bound to find in the Hamilton home, where two people had died, and now nobody lived.

The inspector’s name was Simon Wolf, a fine name for a man who hunts wrongdoers—but aside from his peculiarly practical nomenclature, he wasn’t at all what I expected. Rather short, somewhat wide, and thickly bespectacled, Wolf was nonetheless a sharp-witted man with an air of crisp professionalism about him. I knew immediately that I liked him, and that I could work with him.

Together we approached Hamilton’s Ocean Goods and Supplies, the store which the Hamiltons had kept, and within which they’d lived (in the back rooms, apart from the business front).

The main entryway was closed off with rope, more for show than for restraint. A sign hung from the rope, announcing that the shop was “Closed Indefinitely,” with the subsequent admonition, “Do Not Enter Without Police Approval.”

But as Wolf put it, “My approval is somewhat more official than mere police permission. So I’ll see to the knot.”

“But you’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“I meant no offense, of course,” I said, fearing I might have caused some all the same.

He waved away my concerns. “None taken. Our offices work in close conjunction. Fine men, the Boston police. But no, I’m not one of them. Good heavens, it’s a devil of a knot.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I did not inquire further. Instead I said, “I have a penknife, if you think it’d help . . .”

Before I could finish the offer, he’d released the informal barrier with a determined pinch of manual dexterity. “Thank you, but I’ve finally got it.” He fished about in his pocket for a key, given to him by the sheriff, I assumed. Or maybe it came courtesy of some other authority, as he implied. He found the key, retrieved it, and inserted it into the lock. “You’ve been here before—is that correct?”

“Everyone in town has been here, at one time or another. It’s a local institution. Or it was, I’m sorry to say.”

The door unfastened, and he pushed it open. “There’s always a chance that someone will reopen it. Some family member or another. But the Hamiltons had no children . . .” It wasn’t a question; he was merely recalling the facts as he’d heard them. I wondered who’d filled him in on all the peripheral details. “A brother, or cousin, perhaps.”

“Ebenezer had a brother, but he was a mariner and I only met him once. He was older, too. For an old man who’s spent his life upon the sea . . . it might be a good retirement, to operate a shop such as this,” or so I thought aloud. “Then again, perhaps he’s lost his taste for living on solid ground. Some of them do, you know. They take to the ocean, and never find comfort elsewhere.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Hamilton when I speak to him next. That poor man . . .” He might’ve said more, but we both stepped inside, where the store was dark and strangely cool. Both of us went quiet; we milled about in the entryway, beside the overflowing barrel of sea glass. It drew my eye, even when I consciously decided that I must look elsewhere.

Nervously, I said, “Bit of a chill in here.”

“Bit of a smell, too. Did Mr. Hamilton mention it?”

“Yes, he did. Compared it to the stomach contents of a beached whale. And he ought to know—for he helped discard one. It was the talk of the shores last summer.”

Wolf nodded. “The bowels of a rotting whale. That sounds about right.” He flinched, like he’d prefer to pinch his nose, but it wouldn’t be manly.

“It is terrible,” I agreed, though it wasn’t quite the veritable wall of stench I’d been guaranteed. It was more of an undercurrent in the chilly, damp air. Something riding the humidity, as if the very mist itself was the source of the odor.

It felt like some strange trespass, to visit the store under these circumstances. Closed for business, perhaps for good. Dark and quiet, with no Felicity Hamilton behind the counter, no Matthew to refill the odds-and-ends barrel. No Ebenezer on the pier just outside, spreading out nets and sails to dry in the sun, later to be repaired. I wondered sadly what would become of the stock, of the store, of the building itself.

“Can you imagine . . .” I murmured, scanning the room.

“I can imagine many things,” he replied. “But what precisely do you have in mind?”

“Can you imagine buying a business or home like this, knowing what took place here? For generations, schoolchildren will accuse it of being haunted. You can rest assured of that.”

“Children and adults alike—it’s not as if we ever outgrow our darker fears. Let’s not pretend we’re all so reluctant to entertain the unknown.”

“Do you?” I asked bluntly.

He faced me, and even in the low light I could see how quizzically he regarded me. He was thinking about his answer. He didn’t know me well, and wasn’t sure of what might turn my opinion, or so I gathered.