Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(58)

In a moment, he was at her side and unfastening the latch on his bag. He was rumpled, in that way of a man who’s been ready to settle in for the night—only to be rallied before bedtime. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I felt positively embarrassed.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, and he proceeded to poke and prod her with the diligence of a seasoned professional. He checked her pulse and her pupils, frowning at the state of her eyes and their failure to blink. He felt at her throat, and her belly; he clapped his hands in front of her face and received no response whatsoever.

He sat back on his heels. “How long as she been like this?”

Wretchedly, I confessed, “I’m not sure. Half an hour?”

“Closer to a full one,” Emma corrected me. “I heard her come downstairs. I heard her open the cellar door . . .” She stopped herself, unsure of how much she wanted to share. Then she continued, “I tried to summon Lizzie,” and then to the doctor, “I have a bell, you know. But it took her quite some time to come around.”

He turned his attention to me, understanding plenty at a glance, I’m sure. My pupils no doubt told him plenty in return. “I won’t insult you by being overly delicate: I assume the cause is an opiate? One you’ve made a recent habit.”

I dabbed at my eyes with the bloodstained tea towel. “She’s been drugging me, at night,” I said, cocking my head toward Nance, though I hated to implicate her. “I don’t know what she used. I can go upstairs and search her things and see, or maybe she took something from Emma’s cabinet.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Emma. “But you’re not inclined to taking the drops or syrups, are you?”

“Not routinely. But sometimes, when I absolutely must sleep—and the cough is more than I can bear.”

“I appreciate that you’re not the sort to become dependent on them. They fog the brain,” he said, casting another appraising look at me. “And your studies must prohibit it.” She nodded primly, and for a moment I nearly hated her. Always the teacher’s pet, wasn’t she? And she’d always disliked Nance, so here was one more thing to lay at Nance’s feet.

I fought the feeling down like bile. It wasn’t fair or kind, and we were all just trying to understand, after all. I swallowed so hard that I almost banished the great lump in my throat, and I said, “I’m not accustomed to these things, either. It’s hit me awfully hard.”

“As did something else, if I must judge by your nose.”

“The banister. I fell down the stairs, coming to check after Nance. I . . . it was so very hard to wake up.”

“Depending on what she used, it’s a wonder you managed at all. What was she looking for, down there?” he asked, returning his attention to Nance, who never stirred. He took her wrist in his hand and as he listened to my words, he listened for her heart.

I collapsed into the seat across from Emma, to the doctor’s right. I was worn out, and telling the truth required my full attention. I couldn’t speak clearly and stand up at the same time.

“She wanted to see inside the cellar. I wouldn’t let her; that’s why she began drugging me. She stole the key from around my neck, and she was trying to keep me asleep long enough to investigate without my interfering.”

Calmly, more like a priest than a physician, he asked question after question—sometimes watching me, sometimes watching Nance.

“Why did you want to keep her from the cellar?”

“Because it called her. Or something inside the cellar called her; that’s what I mean.” I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open, now that the first flush of mortal panic was finished with me.

“What are you collecting in the basement, Miss Borden?”

I sighed. “By now, you should call me Lizbeth, propriety be damned.”

“It usually is. What are you collecting in the basement, Lizbeth?”

“Evidence. Research. Samples. Nance was lured there by the contents of a box, which I’d sealed up as best I could—but it clearly wasn’t enough.”

“What was in the box?”

“Beach glass, to the casual eye. Tumbled rocks and gems.”

His eyes went distant, then focused sharply. “Beach glass?”

“Pieces I’ve found, here and there. They call me, too,” I admitted, though I hated to hear myself say it. “I’ve made efforts to study them, and determine—”

“Just . . . little pieces of glass, from the shore?” he interrupted.

“Green ones, usually. Sometimes I find them embedded in sandstone or lime, or polished and set into jewelry. But they always speak the same way, call the same . . . well, it’s not a song.” I struggled for the words.

“I’ve seen them,” he said softly, but suddenly—before I could continue. “In the barrel at Hamilton’s, the odds and ends, bits and bobs. The ones Matthew collected for the shop.”

The connection clicked, in both our heads. Our eyes met.

I said, “They called him, too.”

“And your stepmother,” he said sharply, and with wonder. Like it’d only just occurred to him. “She wore something. I saw it on her once or twice. A necklace . . .” On some instinct, or half-spied detail he’d only just recalled, his gaze jerked down to Nance’s neck. A thin red line marked the spot where I’d pulled the necklace off, breaking it and leaving a narrow welt.