Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(43)

“But not always?”

I shook my head. “No, not always.”

Mrs. Wann opened another door and held it for us, ushering us inside. “In here you’ll find what you’re looking for, but as a matter of kindness, I must warn you—it’s not a pretty sight. Whatever became of them . . . I . . . I can’t say. I’ve never seen its like. You really should prepare yourselves.”

The inspector beat me to a response, though our sentiments were more or less the same. He said, “Mrs. Wann, I’ve seen all sorts, all kinds, in my line of work. Thank you for the warning, but we’ll be well enough.”

She nodded gently, not quite believing us—but her profession left her too ready to demur. “Very well, gentlemen. If I can be of any service to you, please let me know. I’ll be right upstairs in the office.”

Privately, I was thinking of Abigail Borden, and how her body had looked lying on this same table beside her husband. They’d been hacked so badly, but still there was a swelling and, now that I considered it, a peculiar smell.

Not quite the same as the one from the shop. Not quite different from it.





? ? ?


We thanked Mrs. Wann, and when she discreetly closed the door behind herself, I drew Wolf toward a large table tilted at an angle, and covered with tin sheeting. (The genteel description of such a table is a “drying table.”) Upon it rested two long shapes, covered in canvas cloths that were less like sheets, and more like the kind of drapes a painter might use. I think these cloths might have been waxed, to protect them somewhat against the damp of the dead . . . though ordinarily, the embalmers did not bother with such things in the privacy of their own laboratory.

It did not bode well that even the funereal folks couldn’t bring themselves to look.

I took a deep breath to steel myself. I’d done this sort of thing before, yes—but this was different. I knew it was different, and I needed to see how it was different. And given the circumstances, I might need to prove how different this case truly was, in order to keep Ebenezer Hamilton a free man.

“The smell’s not so bad in here,” the inspector observed. “Bad, yes. But more ordinary bad than the shop itself, if that makes any sense.”

There was that word again, “ordinary.” As if we were trying to reassure ourselves.

I wasn’t sure why the inspector needed any reassuring. He couldn’t possibly know the truth, about either Ebenezer’s experience, or the Bordens’. With regard to the latter, he would only know what he’d seen in the papers—and half of that was wrong.

“No, I believe you’re right,” I said of the odor. “Worse by far at the shop.”

He mumbled, “Tell me, is there another light in here . . . ? Oh, wait, I see the switch.”

At the touch of his hand, a very bright lamp sparked to life, illuminating the chilly place without adding any warmth.

I looked around the cool, utilitarian embalming room, and eyed the cabinets, jars, bottles, and needles in their stacks and baskets. I looked over the heaps of towels, the folded sheets, and the dirty cement floor beneath our feet, with its telltale drain.

“Shall we, Doctor?”

“I suppose there’s no delaying it further.”

Quickly, before I could make some excuse, I went to the nearest corner of the drape, and lifted it. I tossed it aside in one quick snap of my wrist—revealing the bodies of Felicity and Matthew Hamilton.

Inspector Wolf choked.

I almost did the same. I saved myself by turning quickly away, staring at the floor, and giving my mind a moment to adjust, and my stomach a moment to return to its usual position.

Mere gunshot wounds were bad enough, but the two people on that table had not died from anything half so normal.

Or . . . no.

That was not quite true, not exactly, because when I gathered the strength to look again at the table, I saw that yes, technically Matthew had expired due to an excess of buckshot from a fowler’s gun. His torso was speckled and smashed with dozens of holes, and surely they would’ve killed him or anyone else at such close range. A chunk of his side had been blown free, leaving him with ribs exposed and shattered. He was missing most of one kidney.

I focused on these details because they were the ones I could write down in a report, and no one would question my sanity or my professional qualifications.

Inspector Wolf tamed his retching instinct, and once again having retrieved his handkerchief, he said what I was thinking (and wondering how to suggest it). “It’s as if they were filled with water, until they burst.”

“That’s . . . not an unfair or inaccurate observation.”

“If a disgusting one,” he added, the words muffled by the scrap of fabric he was using to hide his mouth. “I mean, the lad there . . . shot, with two barrels of buck, at a very near distance. But the woman . . . ?”

“Mrs. Hamilton. Yes, she’s . . . bloated,” I said, finding the word I meant.

“Not a small woman in life, I shouldn’t think.”

“No, never the delicate sort. But she’s taken on . . . what must be, I mean . . . I have to assume . . . a significant amount of water. And that does correspond with Ebenezer’s report.” I then realized with a fast jerk of guilt—that I didn’t know what he’d ultimately told the police . . . or whatever higher authority in Boston the inspector represented. I knew I should watch my words more closely.