Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(42)

“Moral confliction? Of what sort?”

“I’m terribly curious, that’s all. I do indeed want to see them,” I asserted, and this was true. “But it would be unseemly to get too excited about it, don’t you think?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you certain?”

He shut the door and locked it behind us. “We should always be excited about the pursuit of truth.”

We stood there, taking in the sun, and together, I believe, we were both relieved at the normalcy of the morning on the shop’s narrow stoop. With the door closed, there was no sign of what had gone on within.

None but the warning sign, that is.

It dangled from the rope, reminding me that I was wrong, and that I could pretend all I wanted that it was a beautiful day, and all was right with the world. But I was completely wrong.

The funeral home was only a few blocks to the north, so we walked the distance together. I led the way at Wolf’s request, but I got the distinct impression that he knew the general location already. He was obviously a man who came to every situation prepared.

I wondered how prepared, and I frowned, but to parlay the act into something less vague I returned to his last comment. “You don’t think it’s strange at all?” I asked him. “You think it’s well and good that we should grow giddy over the corpses of friends?”

“They’re not my friends,” he noted. “And I said nothing about ‘giddy.’ But I have no doubt that the deceased Hamiltons were fine, upstanding citizens, so yes, I am all the more interested in their remains, that we might find the justice they so richly deserve.”

“But what justice is there, when a malady is at fault? One can hardly prosecute an infection.” I scoffed at the very idea. “Matthew was ill—desperately so, and I can’t speak as to the nature of his affliction. I did my best to treat him, but his condition was beyond my abilities.”

“Beyond anyone’s but God’s?” Wolf asked. He looked up at me with a tiny gleam in his eye.

“Beyond anyone’s,” I said carefully.

“Filthy atheist,” he replied.

It was meant to sound like a joke, so I laughed—but the laugh was awkward. “My beliefs have no part in this case. And you were the one who wished to abandon the topic of religion. If I recall.”

“But if I’m to understand correctly, you believe that Matthew was sick, and that Ebenezer acted in self-defense when his godson threatened his wife’s life. You have faith, is what you mean.”

“That’s . . . not the same thing.”

“It might be. Look—is this the place?”

“Yes,” I said, and I absolutely would not have described myself as “giddy.” But I was indeed glad we’d arrived. I didn’t want to talk about faith, because I don’t have any. That having been said, I did not detect any judgment from the inspector, only curiosity. You never know. If I’d let the chatter run its course, I might have discovered a kindred spirit.

“Shall we, then?”

“After you.”

I stood aside and he climbed the stairs first, and stepped inside before me—but held the door that I might join him.

The interior was a sadly familiar place. My own wife had been buried through that same establishment, as had a number of other friends and patients through the years. In a town so small, everyone is a friend, or a cousin, or a neighbor at the very least. When one person dies, it’s likely that half of Fall River will turn out to pay respects—or watch others do so.

In the reception area we stood uncertainly. It was a warm place, without anywhere significant to sit; it was a place for exchanging condolences and news, and to ready oneself for the service as needed. The floors were covered in pretty, detailed rugs, and the windows were set with colored glass reminiscent of a church, in the area we all called the chapel.

A small white-haired woman poked her head around the corner, and I recognized her as Martha Wann, wife of the elder brother.

She recognized me in turn. “Doctor Seabury, hello. The sheriff said you’d be here this morning.” She joined us in the foyer, and performed a little bow. To Wolf she said, “You must be the fellow from Boston.”

“Inspector Wolf, yes.” He returned her little bow. “A pleasure to meet you, though it’s a pity the circumstances are so unfortunate. Please, could you take us to the Hamiltons?”

Solemnly she nodded. “Certainly, gentlemen. This way.”

She led us back into the chapel, past the rows of simple wood chairs and through a door, beyond which we found a set of stairs. “The real work happens below, you understand,” she delicately explained. “But the good doctor here, he knew that already.”

“You’ve assisted with such things before?” Wolf asked me.

“A handful of times, when there’s been uncertainty.”

“About the cause of death?”

“Yes,” I said. “But sometimes, I attempt to help identify an unknown body. They wash up from time to time, over at the rocks. Sailors and the like.”

“And we return to the unknown, once again. That kind of identification must be tricky.”

“Always. As often as not, all I can do is describe teeth, tattoos, and scars, or any bones that have broken and healed, in the case of a skeleton. Sometimes these things help a man’s mortal remains find their way home, to the people who’ve missed him.”