Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(45)

If she were braver, that’s what she’d do. Or if she were less lonely, I should say.

At least she’s talked Nance out of a party. As always, that was the first thing the girl wanted upon her arrival, and the last thing we needed. So Lizzie is capable of putting her foot down on the big things, and thank God for that. I’d be happier about this development if I didn’t know all too well how it’s the little things that’ll catch us in the end. They check the details for devils, you see.

Already, the poor girl has become fascinated with the cellar door, and we all know nothing good can come of it. Lizzie is almost out of excuses. And whatever’s calling from down there . . . whatever it is . . . will undoubtedly win out over locks and prohibitions.

It’s only a matter of time, I fear.

Hell, isn’t everything?





Lizzie Andrew Borden


APRIL 21, 1894

Doctor Seabury came today, and I hardly know what to make of his visit.

I am both invigorated and terrified, for he seems to be on the very edge of grasping how much there remains to be understood, and how far away is any mortal mind from understanding it. I hesitate to consider it, but we might well prove kindred spirits after all. My new optimism stems from the Hamilton murders, which occurred last week on the other side of town.

(Oh dear. I really shouldn’t call it “optimism,” considering.)

Regardless, my feelings are predominantly positive, tragedy aside. Some good may come of it yet, if the doctor and I can bring ourselves to trust one another enough. We came very close to naming a collaboration today, but not quite yet. We’re both very afraid.

We have every right to be.





? ? ?


As for the Hamiltons, whose grisly end has brought us together . . . I never knew the family well, but I knew of them.

Everyone did, like everyone in Fall River knows everyone else, on sight if not in person. The Hamiltons owned a store down by the pier, catering mostly to mariners and those who like to pretend to such things, by way of keeping the trappings about their homes. The family unit consisted of a husband and wife a few years older than Emma, and a boy in his teens—their godson, otherwise orphaned some years previously.

It would seem that the boy attempted to drown his godmother, and Mr. Hamilton intervened—and this intervention required a gun. Mr. Hamilton has been taken to Boston, but I don’t think he’s been arrested. I suspect they’re evaluating him, considering whether or not to place him in an asylum.

That’s the best ending he might expect, I’m afraid (assuming he’s told the truth). His other option is likely prison, in the event that he’s manufactured some cunning lie. And from what I recall of Mr. Hamilton, “cunning” wasn’t the first descriptor that sprang to mind.

Kind, yes. Unlikely to go on a killing spree, certainly. But simple in his motives and actions.

And, I believe, quite innocent of murder.





? ? ?


Doctor Seabury came by to attend to Emma, as has become his custom. On this particular visit, she hovered excitedly, trying to urge us to talk—but her fluttering made nothing easier, since both he and I knew that she’d spoken to him, and that we were now intended to have a difficult conversation.

The whole thing was exquisitely awkward at the outset.

Finally, when Emma had exhausted all her heavy-handed tactics, she excused herself. Any fool could’ve seen that it was a ruse, and I’m certain that Nance wondered what was going on when my sister asked for her assistance, rather than mine. She couched it in the guise of Nance’s height and strength, and hinted that I had some private matter to discuss with the physician.

It was true, but it made the whole thing sound dirty and weird, and I’ve put off explaining myself to my houseguest thus far . . . but my protestations won’t work for much longer. I’ll need a good story by this evening, or I’m afraid that Nance might become dramatic.

When the doctor and I were finally alone, we hemmed and hawed around the discomfort of our topic, until he surprised me by blurting out, “I saw the Hamiltons’ bodies.”

I wouldn’t have been more stunned if he’d taken of his shirt and done a little dance.

“You . . . you did?”

The explanation tumbled out. He’d been keeping it bottled up tight, and once the seal was broken, there was no stopping him. “An investigator was sent from Boston, and he requested that I accompany him on his rounds. A fine man, name of ‘Wolf,’ if you can imagine anything more fitting . . . and he’d asked specifically to see the bodies.”

He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, so I could scarcely stop myself from doing the same. “Given that the case is now a criminal one, or at least a suspicious one, I was pleased to have been included . . . I’ll admit I was frankly curious and also . . . also, frankly frightened. Matthew had been unwell, you see, and I had worried for his . . .” He hesitated.

“For his safety?” I asked, somewhat boldly, in my own opinion. But the doctor seemed to require a prompt. While he considered how much to share, I added, “I should tell you, I’ve heard rumors. Gossip says he’d been tied to the bed.”

Seabury’s eyes met mine, and they were filled with turmoil. “For his own safety, yes. And his godparents’ safety as well. He’d become restless, yet unresponsive. Something was wrong,” he concluded with great conviction. “Wrong in a sense greater than any mere malady might explain. And it reminded me of nothing so much as your stepmother, Abigail.”