Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(65)

What kind of unholy fiend would draw a cross upon a wall and crucify a man upon it? Some suggest that it’s the handiwork of a mentally unbalanced person or persons, while others propose that it might represent some weird retaliation from the papist community, given the recent restrictions upon them. But why would they single out Kincaid? For that matter, why would anyone?

Mr. Kincaid, formerly an accountant working for the city of Birmingham, had quit his job and all but vanished sixteen months ago. It would seem he’d been living at Little Neil’s ever since, though his friends and former coworkers seemed unaware of whatever circumstances must have brought him to such a place in life. He was a lifelong Baptist with no ties to any known Catholic or anti-Catholic group, though his former employer suggested that he may have once attended the church of Reverend A. J. Davis out at the old Chapelwood Estate, and the beliefs espoused there are somewhat shrouded in mystery.

When contacted for comment, the reverend admitted that Mr. Kincaid had once attended services there, but denied that he’d been in attendance in the prior year. He also denied that any mystery surrounds his church, which he describes as a “strictly Christian service for those who seek to follow the Good Book to the very best of their understanding.”

Police continue to seek information on Mr. Kincaid and his activities, associates, and habits. If you or someone in your household can contribute to the investigation, please approach the downtown station and inquire after Chief Shirley, as he would very much like to hear from you.





Inspector Simon Wolf




OCTOBER 1, 1921


The newspaper rested beside my plate; I hit it with the back of my hand, which still held my forkful of carefully speared sausage. “Can you believe this? Crucified to the wall, and the reporter still feels compelled to note the likelihood of foul play. I’m reasonably confident that it’s impossible to crucify one’s own self.”

Lizbeth sat across the table from me, slowly chewing her breakfast while scanning her copy of the daily rag of note. She did not look up when she asked, “How would you get the last nail in?”

I nearly choked, but only laughed with a full mouth instead. “You’re wonderful, you know,” I informed her, and I meant it.

She smiled demurely, and took another bite of scrambled egg. She swallowed, and said, “You’re not so bad yourself, Inspector.”

“Thank you, madam.” I squinted again down at the newspaper article, focusing on that second-to-last paragraph. “And you noted the bit about Chapelwood, I trust. What do you make of it? He wasn’t hacked to death, except perhaps in the very broadest sense.”

“How do you figure that? Even in the very broadest sense?”

“He was stabbed, apparently. Not such a far stretch from hacking to stabbing. Big metal blade at work, and so forth.”

“It’s still a stretch,” she said, but I didn’t feel like she was really arguing with me. She wasn’t wrong, anyway. “But at this point, I wouldn’t put anything at all past the Chapelwood gang. It’s hard to see precisely what they’re up to, no matter how hard you look at them. Axe murders, religious coercion, and . . . and what else, do you think? Whatever they’re up to, it’s enormous and oddly shaped. If there’s a pattern to it . . .” She sighed, and retrieved her napkin from her lap. She left it on the table. “I’ll be damned if I can see it, and I surely don’t understand what Nance or I have to do with it.”

Mrs. Becker chose that moment to appear, and I thought she was only present to clear the plates and see us off—but she came to me with a strange look on her face. “Inspector?”

“Yes, ma’am?” I replied, for I was picking up on the local linguistic quirks.

“There’s a phone call for you. At the desk, you know—that’s the only phone we’ve got, anyway. It’s George Ward.”

“You don’t say?” It was my turn to deposit my napkin. I stood and pushed my chair back into place. Lizbeth rose, too, wearing a worried expression. “Is it Ruth, do you think? I hope she’s all right.”

She accompanied me to the phone, then hovered at the other end of the hotel desk.

I accepted the receiver from Mrs. Becker, who then discreetly retreated to the office . . . where she was out of sight, but surely not out of hearing range.

“Hello, George?” I asked.

He didn’t offer any similar preamble. “The jury’s reached a verdict. They’re going to read it in an hour.”

“You can’t be serious. They only closed the arguments yesterday.”

“They’re reading it in an hour, with only a few hours of deliberation—if that much. Yes, I’m serious.” George sounded worse than serious, in my opinion, but it wouldn’t have made anything better to point it out. “They’re going to turn him loose, Inspector.”

I’m not sure why, but I told him, “Stay calm, George.” He already sounded calm. Resigned, anyway. Maybe I wasn’t saying it to him, but to myself—because God knew I could feel a hot, angry flush rising up in my belly. “They might surprise us. It’s not settled yet.”

“It’s settled. It’s been settled since before it got started. We always knew they were going to turn him loose.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, George.”