Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(68)

Good God, Daniel—what the hell is going on out there?

I’m acutely aware of my role as a receiver of information, and that my duty is to relate the missives with discretion, not commentary; but for heaven’s sake, I’m only human, and I can’t very well transcribe without reading and absorbing much of what I catch. This is the third such incident in as many weeks! The fourth, if you count that thing at the cannery. Not sure if we ought to or not, considering . . . but it’s impossible to rule it out, wouldn’t you say?

Now, when Preston says he’s sent for the Boston inspector, that must be Wolf—isn’t that correct? I’ve seen his name bandied about with some regularity, as of late. Assuming I’m correct, and he’s the expert upon whom these recent hopes have been pinned, will you send for him, too? If you do, might I be allowed to accompany him? Let’s be honest, dear brother-in-law, I’m probably better briefed on the crimes than half your force. By the sounds of things, you’re playing this all very close to the vest, and I certainly won’t fault you for it—but perhaps you’d prefer having a non-police set of eyes on hand. I could report back to you, and tell you everything he says, everything he wants. Everything he sends back to Boston.

I could be of better use to you out about town, rather than serving behind a desk—that’s what I’m saying. I’m not your secretary, and I only wish for the chance to prove it.

At the risk of talking out of turn, I may have additional details which aren’t quite public. Say what you will about my job behind a desk, but this desk is covered day in and day out with rumor, flashed back and forth across the country at the speed of electricity. You’d do well to take advantage of my inadvertent eavesdropping.

For example, did you know that there is talk of an altar? You know, like the kind in church, only not intended to praise the God of Love, I can promise you that much. Apparently, at the Wakefield scene and the Campton scene both, there was evidence of unholy worship, and again, it’s possible that a similar setup was in use at the Franklin cannery. The fire chief found something in the ashes, and he refused to identify it formally, but when drinking with friends, he confessed it looked like it could’ve been some kind of sacrificial table, or cabinet, or . . . well, he declined to use the word “altar” as if he deliberately shied away from it.

But we’re fooling ourselves if we don’t admit the obvious.

These evil acts are performed by a group of men, and maybe women as well—you can’t count them out. A group that follows the devil, that’s how all signs point. The ritualistic murders, the altars, the frantic quiet of law enforcement officials like yourself . . . You don’t want to cause a panic, and that desire is indeed commendable. But if you plan to withhold the facts until the case is closed, then surely your obligation is to close it quickly, and through any means necessary?

I’m better means than you might expect.

You’re wrong when you complain of my imagination. It’s not a nuisance; it’s a virtue. You’re wrong also when you assume my skills are less worthy than yours; though our abilities may differ, they have commensurate value. To be blunt, people will talk to me before they’ll talk to you. They suspect you of watching them, and waiting for some misstep that might incur a fine or a jail cell—and even the most innocent of men will balk if he thinks it a possibility. They second-guess their every move, and wonder what wrong turn they’ve taken today, that you darken their doors.

But me? I’m the friendly neighborhood gossip.

Whether that embarrasses you or not, you’d be foolish to deny that my sociable nature is useful. Should you think otherwise, then I offer you a small tidbit for future thought: Ask your Boston investigator what he makes of the tentacles.





Owen Seabury, M.D.


APRIL 28, 1894

I was stunned—and not at all displeased—to find Inspector Wolf on my doorstep this morning.

His stout shape and bespectacled face were a sight for sore eyes, not least of all because I might be able to tell him something. Anything, really. Any small measure of what I’d learned from the Borden sisters . . . any illicit tidbit would unburden me by just that much.

I knew it was a silly, perhaps dangerous idea. But it had become so much to carry—so much more to watch for, to wonder about. It was as if my whole world had been upended, yet I remained unmoved. And now I am forced to piece together a mystery from my upside-down space, my head gone light and my brain confused by all the new angles.

Really, I was almost embarrassed by how glad I was to see him.

And before long, I would learn that he must be brought into our confidence to some minimal degree. Whether the ladies liked it or not.





? ? ?


I invited the man inside, and he politely agreed—though only long enough for me to find my shoes, coat, and hat. I was missing all three, but I was within my own home, and I’d learned that some mundane procedures of civility must be allowed to simply fall by the wayside when larger projects presented themselves.

He removed his hat and stood in the foyer, though of course he was welcome to enter the parlor, or anywhere else that suited his fancy, as far as I cared.

He said to me, “I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time.”

And I said, “No, of course not.” Then upon gazing at my surroundings—which I’d been neglecting, and having let the housekeeper go the week before . . . I hope he was not afraid that he’d interrupted some kind of personal tribulation.