Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(49)

But I am here to help!

She needs me more than she knows. Whatever she’s engaged in, or fighting against, or keeping so secret, she can’t keep it that way all by herself. That might be the root of it all—she knows it’s too big for her to handle alone, and Emma is no help at all, no matter what she says about the old woman’s books and notes and letters.

To hell with books and notes and letters.

Sometimes you need a hand instead.





? ? ?


Something just dawned on me: Emma must think the doctor might prove helpful to Lizbeth, with this weird undertaking she hides beneath the house. Seabury, that’s his name. Seems like a nice old gentleman, and he’s kind enough to Lizbeth—which I appreciate, given how the rest of this wretched little town will have nothing to do with her.

He is kind, then. But he is not close.

I am close. And I will be the partner that she wants. The partner she needs.

Soon I’ll know the truth for myself. Tonight, when everyone’s asleep. I didn’t have time this past evening, for a dose of Mrs. Winslow’s sleeping draught didn’t maintain quite enough hold over Lizbeth.





? ? ?


I’ve not found evidence that Lizbeth is prone to drinking such draughts, to the point of developing a tolerance for them—though of course Emma keeps some around in the drawers beside her bed. She also keeps a great, heavy handgun, but I assume that’s for protection. One thing my lover has confessed easily enough, without wheedling, bribing, or bargains is this: After her trial, there were threats by the score and she chose to arm the household. The threats were not against Emma, no, but Emma lives here, too—and she’s as dependent as a toddling child, I swear. No great surprise she keeps painkillers, sleeping draughts, and weapons, but I can’t imagine that most days she has the strength to lift any of them unassisted.

So Lizbeth has access to such things. Some nights, I’m sure she’s indulged in something stronger and more fortifying than anything she may pull from her dead father’s liquor cabinet; otherwise, how can she sleep at all? The world has left her high-strung, wound tight. It’s left her defensive, a one-woman fortress with an axe by the door. I’ve seen the axe. Or I’ve seen an axe, here and there around the house. A defensive measure, I’m certain—if a grisly one.

I don’t care; I sleep just fine knowing it’s here, and knowing she’s here, and that she knows how to wield it. I don’t believe she ever wielded it against her parents, but I admit, sometimes it gives me a strange tingle to see it, or touch it. Just in case I’m wrong.





? ? ?


So in summary, Lizbeth might well be prone to downing soothing syrups like Mrs. Winslow’s on occasion. Maybe she helps herself to Emma’s. Maybe she keeps a stash of her own, hidden away. Regardless, I know she takes them—because the drops I administered should’ve produced a longer result.

Maybe that’s what’s in the cellar?

Some people take great shame in confessing that their bodies need chemicals. She doesn’t seem the sort, but she does keep secrets—so how can I say? How can I know?

Well, I can go take a look. That’s how.





? ? ?


I checked all the obvious places where a woman might stash a key: all the drawers, cabinets, ledges, tables, and bookcases. (My God, Emma keeps some strange books. At least, I assume they’re Emma’s. She’s the one with the fondness for biology journals, but how some of these things are related to biology, I’m not sure . . . The connection seems tenuous at best.) I checked under beds and under sinks, beneath flowerpots and inside the dead father’s leftover shrine to distilled spirits. I wonder if they’ve restocked it since his death. Some of the bottles look old. None of them look like they’ve been lately opened. The wool felt that lines the shelves has gone light with a coating of dust.

I’m answering my own question, I think.

But I did find the key.

That’s what I mean to say. I must quit talking around myself. I spend too much time talking around myself, and what I really mean—and to think, I only just complained about people who do that. Physician, heal thyself.

God, I’ve been so distracted lately. Not the kind of distracted that ought to worry Lizbeth (but does, or so it appears), but distracted enough to lose my train of thought. Especially when I stand in the kitchen. Especially when I stand near the door.

And I have a key to that door.

Whatever’s down there can’t be doing this to me. Whatever’s down there is likely only some peculiar embarrassment that would mortify no one but her, and certainly wouldn’t bother me. For that matter, even if she did hack up her parents, I’m not strictly certain it would put me off. I know her and love her well enough these days to believe that she does only what needs to be done, out of love for her beloved problem of a sister. Or me, if I flatter myself—and I might as well.

But I don’t think she did it. Sometimes she gently hints that it’s always possible she’s guilty after all, and that I should be more cautious about where I place my trust. But it’s nonsense. She’s only testing me.





? ? ?


Lizbeth doesn’t know I found the key. She doesn’t know I have it, but she’ll notice it’s gone before long. How long? I don’t know. I don’t know how long it will take for her to notice I’ve replaced the proper key with another of similar size and shape. It depends entirely on how often she goes down to the cellar, or basement, or whatever awaits down there. The first time she tries, she’ll fail, and she’ll know. And we’ll have some terrible fight, unless I can satisfy my curiosity and return the correct key to its original position. That might prove trickier than my initial theft, or then again, maybe it won’t.