Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(39)

I was too dumbfounded to speak. My mouth went perfectly dry.

I remembered him, yes. A heavyset, pink-faced man in spectacles, representing some “Boston office” that he was never very clear about. He’d worked alongside Doctor Seabury, before that dear man went mad and passed on. He was helpful to us, at the time: There was a madman coming for my sister, and the inspector had given us what information he had, in order for us to prepare ourselves. He struck me as a competent—if somewhat cryptic—kind of man, the sort who is forgiven all sorts of nosy transgressions by virtue of his manners and his confidence. The sort of man who uses his wit instead of his size to get what he wants. (And I mean that as a compliment, really.)

And now, he’d called me on the telephone. The only person to do so, ever.

I stammered, because that was all I could do. “Inspector Wolf, yes. It was a difficult time indeed, and a long time ago at that.”

“I suppose this call surprises you.”

“I’d scarcely be human if it didn’t.”

“It’s rather out of the blue, I know. But if the call itself surprises you, you’d better hang on to your hat for the reason I’m making it.” He didn’t give me time to brace my hat or anything else; he launched forward into his explanation without so much as taking a breath. “I’m working on a murder case, but not in Boston—I’m in Birmingham, Alabama, at present, where a series of axe murders have taken place over the last year. Now, please, do not assume that I’m being indelicate, given your own notoriety. Far from it, I assure you. In fact, the simple coincidence of your trial and the hatchet deaths is not nearly enough for me to broach such a request as the one I’m about to make: Miss Andrew, could you possibly join me here? I believe our interests may overlap, and we might be of some assistance to each other.”

I was so deeply, purely stunned that once again—I couldn’t speak.

“Miss Andrew?”

I made some pitiful sound in return. It wasn’t a response, but it encouraged him to continue in his rapid-fire way.

“In short, and perhaps I should have opened with this, now that I think about it . . . in short, I am aware that the fate of your old companion Nance O’Neil has long been something of a mystery.” I gasped to hear her name, but he didn’t hear me, so he kept on going. “And I regret to inform you that I have no hard evidence in hand to suggest any resolution on that point. However, I do have a rough portrait of her—found in a box of evidence relating to the recent axe murders here, drawn by a man with a grievous head injury. He called her the gray lady, and I recognized her. Not immediately, no. It took me a moment of staring, trying to figure out why she appeared so familiar to me; but once I’d made the connection, you can imagine my astonishment. It may sound strange to say this, but I’ve been thinking of you lately, due to a series of coincidences, if you believe in such things. This portrait I’ve found . . . this is the most recent one, and I felt that, should I ignore this, I would do both of us a great disservice. I’m sorry, Miss Andrew, but are you still there? Have we become disconnected?”

“No,” I whispered. I said it again, louder, in case the word was so small that the line could not carry it. “I mean, yes, we’re still . . . I’m still here. I’m sorry, I’m only . . . You’ve caught me off guard, sir.”

“Maybe I should’ve risked a letter instead, to give you some time to absorb the information; but this is a new age, isn’t it? We can speak across the miles—a thousand or more, right this very second—and it’s both a virtue and a curse. I’m putting you on the spot, and it’s a rudeness, I daresay, this failure to give you time to collect yourself and form a response to what is surely the most ludicrous request you’ve received in ages.”

“No, not rude. Only shocking, and . . . and I want to say thank you, for thinking of me.” It was a stupid sentiment, but it was the best I had at my disposal. “You said . . . you’re in Birmingham?”

“In the Deep South, rather than the British Isles—though it could scarcely be more foreign if it were.”

“You mentioned coincidence . . .”

“I’m always on the lookout for them,” he told me. “I like to think of them as hints, or suggestions.”

“From God?”

“From whomever.”

He said it like an atheist, not that I cared. “I’ve read about the axe murders recently. I ordered some newspapers, in order to learn more about them. And there’s something else going on down there, something that bothers me terribly, but we can discuss it in person.”

“So that’s a yes? You’ll come and join me?”

“I can hardly say no, and it’s not as if I have any other offers of travel or adventure beating down my door . . . though I’ll need to make preparations for the cats.”

“The cats?”

“I have some cats. Or they have me, as the case may be.”

“Fine animals, cats.” I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or not. “So long as they don’t prevent you from your earliest possible arrival.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll get a train schedule. I’ll hire a car. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I told him, and I meant every syllable. “Tomorrow, if I’m lucky. The day after, if I’m not.”