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Chapters (206)
  1. Praise for Maplecroft
  2. Title page
  3. Copyright page
  4. Contents
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
  7. •   •   •
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  12. A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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  20. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  21. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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  31. Nance O’Neil
  32. THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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  37. AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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  43. THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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  46. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  53. BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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  55. CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
  56. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  57. •   •   •
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  62. HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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  67. A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
  68. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  69. •   •   •
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  71. Nance O’Neil
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  84. Emma L. Borden
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  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  93. RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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  101. Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
  102. Emma L. Borden
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  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
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  115. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  119. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  130. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  131. Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
  138. •   •   •
  139. Emma L. Borden
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  150. Emma L. Borden
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  153. FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
  154. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  165. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  176. Emma L. Borden
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  186. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  197. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  205. Inspector Simon Wolf
  206. •   •   •

“That’s a relief,” she replied. “I should hope that something as small as a tour of the cellar wouldn’t be enough to chase you off.”

“Oh, it’s not,” I promised. “You’ll never get rid of me that way.”

•   •   •

After tea I took the tray downstairs so that Lizbeth could spend a few minutes getting Emma ready for work time at her desk. This is quite an undertaking, wherein Lizbeth moves books, journals, a week’s worth of mail, and her sister into an office at the end of the hall. Why Emma won’t just write in bed, I don’t know. If I were feeling ungenerous, I’d suggest that she does it on purpose, to interrupt my visit in as many small ways as she can possibly contrive.

I’m rather frequently ungenerous, these days.

But this particular interruption gave me another opportunity to spend time alone in the kitchen, where the cellar door was still calling me. Did it call? Or did it only sing such a siren song because Lizbeth wanted me to stay away from it?

No, I think I said it right the first time. It was calling me.

I’m forced to assume she keeps something dangerous or embarrassing down there, but how dangerous could it be? How embarrassing? She’s renowned throughout the world as a murderess who escaped justice, and she’s taken up with a flamboyant young actress in a more or less public, and suspiciously romantic fashion; you’d think she’d be well past embarrassment by now.

Regardless, she doesn’t need to protect me—from herself, or anyone else. So I approached the door once again, though this time I didn’t hear the ocean-swell sound rising and falling behind it. I pressed the side of my face against it, and I closed my eyes, and I listened for all I was worth.

I heard nothing at all.

CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW

Owen Seabury, M.D.

APRIL 18, 1894

Shepherd Duffy rapped on my door before the sun came up—a hard, insistent knock of the kind I know all too well. Someone was in labor; someone was injured. Some surprise catastrophe had befallen somebody, someplace. I knew it as I gathered my wits and stumbled down the stairs; and I knew it was likely worse than I’d thought when I saw Shepherd’s hat through the glass pane in the door. He was dressed smartly, as always: in a crisp brown suit that identified him on sight more quickly than the badge upon his chest. Only a slight rumpling of his collar betrayed that he too had been roused from bed and thrust into action at such an inconvenient hour.

I opened the door and adjusted my spectacles.

Without preamble, and before I could ask how I could be of service, he said, “You’d better come down to the courthouse. Ebenezer Hamilton is asking for you.”