Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(57)
“Reverend Davis,” Lizbeth murmured, still holding his stare, blink for blink.
He couldn’t have heard her over the ruckus of the courthouse visitors, but he saw that she mouthed his name. He nodded, but he didn’t give her that same condescending sneer he always saves for me. He didn’t give her any look at all . . . all he did was give up and look away.
I was shocked. It was a little thing, I know, but it gave me great joy to see him back down from someone—from this lady I’d only just met, this tiny thing, really—an inch or two shorter than me, and she was wearing square little heels that gave her a smidge of lift.
She was the one who made a condescending sneer, and she sent it in his general direction. He wasn’t looking anymore, but she didn’t do it for show; she did it because that was how she felt about him. She sniffed and said, “I’ve tangled with worse.”
The inspector shook his head. “You don’t know that yet.”
For a second, she seemed uncertain. Then she straightened up, set her jaw, and said, “Well, I’ve tangled with just as bad. Don’t worry, Ruth. If he picks a fight with you, he picks a fight with us; and I promise, that’s more trouble than he’s prepared for.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I appreciate it,” I said, and I truly did.
But standing there beside her, and the inspector, and the old police chief, and nobody else . . . I felt well and truly surrounded, regardless. I’d seen the awful red, white, and blue button on the reverend’s lapel, and I knew where he stood. I knew where all of them stood—they all wore it on their collar, on their sleeve, wherever.
Someone was passing out the damn buttons—yes, there she was. A tall woman with a box of them, standing by the front door. I only just then saw her. She was smiling real big and greeting everyone who came and went, offering a button and a pamphlet. Most everyone declined the pamphlet, because most everyone already knew what they were all about. But everyone took a button.
The thirty-minute recess was almost over, and people started filing back into the courtroom. One by one, two by two, animals into the ark—each of them wearing one of those TA buttons, putting on a united front against the four of us, and it wasn’t hardly fair.
The woman at the door shook her box as if to see how many buttons she had left, then looked up when another man came inside. With a bright “Good afternoon!” and a huge smile, she held one out to him.
He pushed her hand away and told her to go to hell.
Inspector Simon Wolf
SEPTEMBER 29, 1921
Over by the front door, someone told the button-pushing blonde with the awkward hat that she ought to go to hell, and I thought, “I know that voice . . .” Indeed I did: It was George Battey Ward. He shoved past her into the lobby, or foyer, or whatever you call that space between the front door and the courtroom; he scanned the place, spotted Ruth and myself, and made a beeline for us.
He took her by the arms as if he meant to shake her—or convey something very, very important and he wanted her full attention. “Ruth, are you all right?”
The poor girl was somewhat rattled by this weird how-do-you-do, so she stammered, “Yes . . . yes, sir, I am. Are . . . are you? All right, I mean?”
“Me? I’m fine. I only . . . I’d heard . . . It’s just . . .” He paused to collect himself. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.” He released his grip on her, which caused Lizbeth to relax. For a moment there, I thought she was going to produce an axe and smack him away from the girl. It might’ve been a sight to behold, but I’m glad she restrained herself.
George looked like a maniac, and I say that with all the casual affection of someone who was actually quite pleased to see him. His hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled, and there were smudges of dust at the top of his thighs—presumably where he’d wiped his hands after foraging in that bizarre basement downtown. Storage Room Six had not been kind to him. I had a feeling that it wasn’t kind to anybody.
“I’m not alone,” Ruth said bravely. “The chief’s been here all along, and I can’t remember if you’ve met the inspector or not—”
“I did, the other day,” he cut her off. He shook my hand and said, “I’m glad you’ve come to lend your support.”
I told him I was happy to oblige, and then said, “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, a consultant from the Boston area. Miss Lizbeth Andrew, this is George Ward, former city commissioner and friend of Father Coyle’s.”
He took Lizbeth’s hand and gave it a genteel kiss. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Then, to Ruth, he added, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here, girl. I’ve been studying, researching. Trying to find some foothold, you understand? It’s distracted me, and again, I’m very sorry. But I’m here now, for I thought you might need me.”
“I’m happy to see you, sir,” she told him. “But why now, in particular?”
“Because . . .” The courthouse door opened with a creaking swing, and a bailiff darkened its threshold with another man in tow. Quickly, George told her before she could see it for herself: “They’re bringing in your father. He wasn’t hurt in the jail cell, he was drunk on a gift from the reverend. Now he’s up and about, and he’s deigned to appear for the second half of the day’s testimony.”