Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(13)

“I want Father James Coyle to be alive and well, and tending his flock at Saint Paul’s in Birmingham. In lieu of that, I want to go there myself and find out who murdered him. And why.”

He sighed heavily, and for a moment the whole room reeked of scotch. This was not his first glass of the afternoon, nor surely his last. He folded his arms and leaned forward on them, using his elbows to hold himself up. “It is a shame about the man. I know you liked him.”

“He sent me some letters before his demise, regarding the recent axe murders in that city, among other strange occurrences.”

“Jesus,” he said. I thought he’d take another swig, but he only gazed longingly at the glass. “You didn’t get enough of axes with that Borden woman?”

“Can one ever really get enough of axes?”

“Now you’re being an ass.”

“You began it, sir. I’ll end it by catching the next train to Birmingham, since we’re both agreed that this conversation should take a different course.”

He went ahead and took that swig after all, downing the contents in a hearty gulp. “You think there’s some connection between this case and the Borden case?”

“Not really, but you never know. It’s been thirty years,” I said, almost tripping over the number. Had it really been so long? Yes, good heavens. Thirty years since the Hamilton murders, and the disappearance of the actress Nance O’Neil. Thirty years since the stink of death and fetid tidewater. Was Lizzie Borden still alive? I hadn’t heard anything about her passing, so I assumed she must still be among the living. I cleared my throat and swept away the cobwebs in my brain. “The fact is, I don’t really care if this is something within our purview or not. Coyle was a friend—an able academic and a fierce ally. He reached out to me for help in his last days, and I did not respond. So I will respond now, with or without the authority of this institution.”

“I figured as much.” Drake opened his top desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. He shoved it across the table at me.

“What’s this?”

“A train ticket and a stipend, but don’t get too excited about it. It’ll only last you a week, and then you’re on your own dime. I’ve already drawn up a file for this one—just direct your telegrams and notes to number 88193. That’s also the code to start your phone calls.”

I took the revelation in stride. He’s not the chief traffic director because he’s clueless; he’s chief traffic director because he’s more than a little bit clairvoyant. Sometimes, it’s actually useful. I deflected the fact that I was a tiny bit impressed by saying: “Don’t tell me you’re going to start answering the phone.”

“Me, personally? No. I don’t like those damn things. Creepy, is what it is—talking to someone when you can’t see them face-to-face.”

“Says the man who consorts with mediums.”

He frowned, but without any real vigor. “It’s not the same thing.”

“If you insist.”

“Just call us if you need to, and mail your paperwork when it comes to that. We’ve got Gavin on phone duty, and during business hours, yes, he will damn well answer it.”

“And after business hours?” I asked, one eyebrow aloft.

“If I hear it, I’ll pick it up. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.” He opened another drawer and pulled out a cigar, and that was my cue to leave.

I thanked him with a short bow, even though bows are difficult for a man of my girth. I hoped he appreciated the gesture, and took it in the spirit I intended—rather than a gesture of mockery. In retrospect, it might’ve looked like I was making fun of him, but I didn’t mean it that way.

I didn’t think about it long.

I stuffed the envelope into my satchel and grabbed my coat from the rack beside the front door. I donned it, and likewise my hat. It’s only fall, but it’s been cold for fall. I try to be prepared.

I could have walked the distance to my flat; it’s less than a mile, but I prefer to take a cab, so I flagged one down with a wave. I don’t mind the expense. My expenses are few and my pay is substantial. I don’t have to walk if I don’t want to.

I wondered after the weather in Alabama. Not every corner of the Deep South is a hellhole of overheated air, after all. How far south was Birmingham, anyway? I’d never been before, but I had maps at home—and when I checked my train ticket, I was happy to note that it didn’t set me on the rails until the next morning.

There was still time for a good night’s rest, a few investigatory phone calls, and a carefully packed suitcase full of cotton rather than wool.





George Ward, Birmingham City Commission President




BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 23, 1921


I am going to lose.

There’s no sense in pretending otherwise at this point; Barrett has run a rich and disgusting campaign for City Commission president, and Birmingham has eaten it up—gobbled it up, really, and I just don’t understand it. Well, that’s not true. I do understand it, but I hate it—because it makes me bitter. It makes me think that maybe the city deserves whatever it gets with this scoundrel, if it’s going to vote him in and give him rein to do as he pleases.

Ignorance and bigotry and money. This is what it buys you: Nathaniel Barrett.