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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
  22. •   •   •
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
  27. •   •   •
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
  30. •   •   •
  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. •   •   •
  70. •   •   •
  71. Nance O’Neil
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  84. Emma L. Borden
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  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  89. •   •   •
  90. •   •   •
  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  92. •   •   •
  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
  103. •   •   •
  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  106. •   •   •
  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
  108. •   •   •
  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
  111. •   •   •
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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.
  132. •   •   •
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  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
  138. •   •   •
  139. Emma L. Borden
  140. •   •   •
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  145. •   •   •
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  150. Emma L. Borden
  151. •   •   •
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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. •   •   •

It was a strange answer, and I didn’t like it. I felt like it implied something more awful than it stated outright, and I was on the verge of demanding answers when we drew up to the courthouse. The sheriff told me he’d tend to the horse and cart, and meet me inside.

“Go to the consultation room on the first floor. They’re waiting for you there.”

The night was still and very, very dark—despite the gas lamps that burned softly on the town’s square. They cast shadows too sharp to be pretty, and if the moon was out, I couldn’t see it. The air was thick with frost and something else: a peculiar odor. I caught the barest whiff of something rotting. Something that came from the sea, and ought to have stayed there.

I stamped my feet and went up the steps, letting myself inside.

Inside the courthouse was warmer and brighter, but it bustled with young men in hastily donned uniforms, and a pair of narrow old men in cadaverous black suits. I recognized them as the brothers who own the funeral parlor—last name of Wann, which is so appropriate as to be almost inappropriate, or so I’ve always thought. They nodded at me, with their usual grim expressions of sorrow and fortitude. They are good men, and good professionals, but they always remind me of crows on a laundry line. Vultures atop a gate. It’s the job, and what their presence implies, that’s all. It can’t be helped, and my morbid fancies should not reflect upon them.

I nodded back at them, and carried onward to the consultation room at the end of the hall. A heavyset woman with a large bag begged my pardon, and turned sideways to pass me; I leaned against the wall to let her proceed, wondering at all this commotion, and what it meant. Knowing that it could not be good.

Matthew was dead, and Felicity was “very” dead. That was all I knew, and it wasn’t enough to explain the nervousness that permeated the building. The hall was clogged with it, the unhappy vibrations of fear, confusion, and doubt.

The consultation room was on my left. Inside it, I found Ebenezer Hamilton seated between two sturdy men who were either guarding him or comforting him, or performing a bit of both as necessary. Ebenezer was covered in gore, his hands quivering, his eyes red. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve—which belonged to a thick-knit sweater like the old mariners often wore. In this little gesture, he managed to smear blood across his face. More of it, I should say.

He looked up when I entered.

“Doctor Seabury,” he said, his voice choked with tears and phlegm. “I thank you for coming, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about . . . about . . . the hour . . .”