Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(38)

“Probably,” he said, nodding, in all apparent seriousness. “Would you do me a small favor? Whatever you discover in your investigations, kindly keep it between us—and report it to me, rather than the new authorities. I wouldn’t ordinarily ask such a thing, I swear to you. I know it’s a betrayal of the public trust, and I know it’s not standard procedure anywhere, least of all a place like Boston—with better resources than we have, I’m sure.”

Before he could continue, I said, “No, I understand perfectly. The new regime has untoward ties to the matter, or there’s an excellent chance that it might. I’ll happily keep the loop small. As small as you like.”

“Excellent, thank you. I honestly do believe it’s for the best; and if you should learn anything, or have any questions, please come to me—I’ll answer what I can, and see if Eagan can’t be helpful as well. We know the city, and we’ve fought for the city, but the city let us down. Or maybe it’s the other way around.” He sighed.

“You’re not finished yet,” I promised. “And I’m barely started.”

I extricated myself with another handshake and a vow to return, and to keep my findings fairly private. I would’ve stayed longer and kept him company there, except for two things: one, the basement was beginning to feel oppressive, and I wanted away from it; and two, I had some phone calls to make.

I’d ignored the universe long enough. It’d sent a message loud and clear, and it was my job to respond—both to the patterns at large, and to the Boston office, who’d no doubt want to hear about my pending plans. I needed them, anyway. I needed them because they could find me a phone number for Lizzie Borden with much greater alacrity than I could, since I was stuck in the wilds of Birmingham.

I needed to speak with Miss Borden. I had something in my possession that was bound to be of great interest to her: a portrait of her former companion, the long-gone actress Nance O’Neil.





Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)




FALL RIVER, MASSACHUSETTS SEPTEMBER 27, 1921


Last year, I had a telephone installed.

Not for any particular reason, really. I like new things, and telephones are new. No one was ever likely to call it, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more concerned with the sad eventualities of life, and the sad eventuality is this: I’m growing older, and weaker. I’ll never be any stronger than I am right this moment. Next week, imperceptibly, I’ll be that much weaker still.

And next year. And the year after that.

So in another ten or twenty years, what would become of me if I should fall? What if I should take some topple down the stairs, or slide across the kitchen floor and shatter my brittle old bones . . . what then? No one ever comes to visit, except the paperboy and the milkman, and the postman, of course—but he never knocks. It might be days before anyone realized anything was wrong.

But (I told myself, in a moment of dire paranoia) if I had a telephone on the premises, and assuming I could reach it, I could summon help. Besides, I had the money . . . and what else was I doing with it? Absolutely nothing, but ordering more books and magazines, and giving the postman more difficulty cramming them all through the mail slot . . . or leaving them on the porch, to be perched upon by the cats.

So I have a telephone, but I usually forget about it.

Today, it scared the living daylights out of me. It rang.

For a good twenty seconds I stood there, astounded and confused and wondering what on earth that racket could possibly be. I had literally never heard it ring before. Not once, in the eleven months since it’s been hooked up downstairs in the parlor, on the end table beside the davenport. In that time, I’ve only used it twice: Both times, I placed phone calls to universities to inquire after a library’s holdings. It felt strange, speaking to someone I couldn’t see. The etiquette was all funny, and we kept stumbling over each other’s words—since we lacked the visual cues that would keep us taking turns in an easy fashion.

But the telephone rang, that’s what I mean to record here. It rang, and the noise rattled me down to my bones.

Then I felt silly.

Shortly on the heels of feeling silly, I felt alarmed, and then curious (in quick succession). Curiosity won the day. I quit merely staring at the shiny black device, and lifted the receiver like a modern, civilized person.

I wasn’t sure what to do next, but the man on the other end of the chat had more familiarity with the process than I did. He said, “Hello there.”

I said hello in return, with the strong hint of a question mark at the end.

“Miss Andrew, it’s been quite a long time since last we spoke, and for that I do apologize.” He talked quickly, in a clipped city accent. I couldn’t decide whether or not he sounded familiar to me, so I let him continue. “But I daresay the last thirty years have been strange for us both; and as for me, they’ve stayed strange, and gotten stranger—particularly in the last week, which brings me to my reason for calling.”

Before he could offer such an explanation, I blurted out, “Thirty years? I’m sorry . . . I’m not sure . . . I don’t understand. Who is this?”

“Again, I apologize. God, but I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. These blasted Southerners are rubbing off on me.” He noted that last bit under his breath, and added, “This is Simon Wolf, and as you may or may not recall, I’m an inspector from Boston. We met in Fall River quite some time ago, and under difficult circumstances.”