Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(41)

How he could stand to remain in that filthy, stinking room, I had no idea, but somehow the man had acclimated to breathing without his handkerchief. More power to him. I left him to sketch what he found important, and returned to the storefront area, which only felt grim and sad—rather than murderous and unsettling.

I stood in the middle of the room, staring down the two aisles of products and back again at the counter, and the register, and the faint tracks my fingers had left in the slime that coated everything. From a certain angle, I could even see our footprints on the floor, when the light hit them just right. The whole place was tainted with something, and I was seized with the impulse to dash home and run myself a bath.

But I could do that later.

I kept my breathing shallow, lest I suck in any more of the disgusting air than I absolutely had to . . . and I strolled about, trying to be an observant and useful partner to Wolf, but mostly just wanting to take off my clothes and fling myself into the nearest supply of clean water.

I wandered to the door, and to the window beside it. The glass was murky, like everything else, and when I ran the side of my thumb along the nearest edge of the pane, it came away black. Almost as if it were the stain of old soot, or the residue of a place where men too often smoked. But that was a silly thought, wasn’t it? Smoke and fire, in a place all but destroyed with damp. It wasn’t quite right, and I knew it.

I can only talk my way around these things. There is so little that can be precisely said. The room was chilly, perhaps sixty degrees. (I wished for a thermometer, but didn’t have one handy and didn’t see one in the store.) The bloodstains were approximately three square feet, and four square feet, respectively. Wolf’s measuring tape would tell us more firmly.





? ? ?


(Edited to note—my guesses were good. I was only half a foot off in one case, and a quarter foot in the other.) I am at such a loss, without numbers to enter and symptoms to record. Unless that’s what I’m doing, in this roundabout way, as I keep these journals and record the day’s proceedings. I might be thinking about the situation too broadly.

Wolf has his own notes, of course. I might ask to see them, in order to better flesh out my own research.





? ? ?


To return to my point, I stood by the door, by the window. And again I looked down into the barrel of odds and ends that Matthew so diligently filled, unto his last days. Same as before it was overflowing, with the excess deposited into buckets, jugs, and cups. No longer a barrel of goods—the goods had overtaken the space, and now acquired other spaces nearby in which to collect, and to spread.

The goods had become a veritable colony.





? ? ?


What a strange thing to write down. I’m not certain why I’ve done so, but there it is. That was what I thought, and how I felt. That’s what I remember of it, and the rest is frankly foggy, but I need to stay on my toes and record it all to the best of my ability, so I don’t forget it later.

I stood there, by the barrel, by the colony of glittery glass bits and shimmering shells, and I felt distinctly like I was forgetting something . . . forgetting everything, slowly. Like as I lingered, my attention was being drained from my body, a very slow leak, as from a balloon, and my awareness was sinking, dropping, falling.

Oddly, I was not particularly worried by this. I was only interested in the glint of the light on the pretty rocks, and the clicking sound they made when I put my hand into the barrel, gently so I wouldn’t cut myself on any sharp edges. Clicking together, the pebbles and stones and glass. Clicking like crab claws, or beads on a necklace.

Clicking like a necklace.

But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? Maybe not. Still, that was what sprang to mind, and something about the randomness of it all made me cling to it. It was too specific and weird to lack meaning.

I might’ve mulled this over further—or then again, I might’ve stood there all night, my fingers running through the barrel’s contents, drawing little furrows, making tiny mounds and digging little holes—except that Wolf joined me once again, having finished his examination of Matthew’s bedroom.

He said my name, loudly. He insisted that it was the third attempt to rouse my attention, and he asked if I was all right, but of course I was all right. Of course he didn’t call my name thrice. I’m confident he must have been mistaken.

No, that’s not so. I’m not confident of anything, and the thoughtful look on his face suggested that I would dismiss his concern at my peril.

“Of course I’m all right,” I said in response, shoving my hands into my pockets, and clenching, unclenching my fists. My hands were cold from playing with the barrel’s lifeless, brittle contents.

“I should hope so, because we’ve one stop left before I can return you to your routine, Doctor. I could’ve done this much of the trip myself, though I was happy for the company; no, sir, I need you for the funeral home. I want you to tell me about the bodies.”

“Ah.” It was all I could think to say.

My hesitation likewise gave him pause. “Ah? Is there . . . some reason you’d prefer to bow out?”

“No, no, that’s not it,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry—I only had a moment of moral confliction.” I reached for the door and opened it, letting the real world, the real ocean air, breathe into the store.