Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(80)
Perhaps.
So I told him, “But in all honesty, I don’t know where she is. I don’t know what happened to her. She had been . . . changing, as if preparing to abandon the land in favor of the ocean, and whatever weird ‘mother’ awaited her there. And then she disappeared, shortly before Zollicoffer arrived—so I can’t say that he took her, or killed her, or that he stole her away from me. If it were as simple as that, surely she would’ve returned upon his passing.”
“One would think. Then I apologize, from the bottom of my belly—which is infinitely larger than my heart. I did not mean to . . . it’s . . . well, such a painful subject. I should’ve let it lie.”
I sighed heavily, both at his apology and his attempt at endearing levity. This wasn’t the time or place, but he was making an effort to placate me. “It’s all right, Simon. Consider yourself forgiven, if perhaps . . . when all this is finished, you and your organization might lend your expertise to the matter.”
“I volunteer every spare moment of my own, and my office,” he said gallantly. “I don’t know if we can help you solve that mystery or not, but by heaven and math alike, we will try.”
“Thank you, and now let’s leave this place. Take the box with you, if you think it might tell us more—but nothing is safe when stored here, not in containers, and not in the skulls of little old women like myself.”
“Very good, yes. Absolutely,” the inspector said decisively. “We really must see about finding George, anyway, and keep him out of whatever trouble he’s courting.”
“Do you think he’s gone to Chapelwood?” I asked. It was only the most logical of questions, but it left a bad taste in my mouth.
“I think that’s as good a guess as any, but we can’t charge headlong over there demanding his return. We might be wrong, for one thing. For another, he’s a grown man—free, white, and twenty-one, isn’t that the expression?—and he can come and go as he likes, even into peril.”
“Just like us,” I observed dully. I gave one last glance to the revival tent flyer, the accounting books, the sad and dusty place where George must have come to sleep, to research, and perhaps to forget. “But there are still souls left to save, and I’ve failed so many in my time.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, an awkward little pat of reassurance. Then he picked up the box of fading evidence. “Don’t talk that way. No one’s finished yet except for James Coyle. The rest of us still have a fighting chance—and we must make the most of it.”
Inspector Simon Wolf
OCTOBER 4, 1921
I strongly doubt I will ever solve the mystery of Nance O’Neil, but I do not regret promising Lizbeth the effort. You never know. The Quiet Society might learn something new.
Or it might only waste a great deal of time and money. What of it? We waste time and money all the time. We may as well waste it toward a good cause—toward easing the suffering of a lonely old woman, and exploring the possibilities beyond Zollicoffer, beyond the ocean.
I’ve always known there was something beyond him. But what?
I may well need to learn to live with never knowing. I don’t like the idea. I don’t know how my friend has done it all these years.
? ? ?
After leaving the basement together, Lizbeth and I retreated upstairs to try our luck at the civic offices, in case there were further records we might get our hands upon. But Nathaniel Barrett was not present, and I couldn’t decide if I was glad or not, so I ended up erring on the side of “pleased that I didn’t have to shake his hand again.” Mostly we were ignored, apart from a few curious stares, but in the background we heard whispers. Word was getting around: The two fancy out-of-towners were friends of the Stephenson girl (no, the Gussman woman) and therefore enemies of the True Americans, and so forth, and so on.
We left before the balance shifted from idle chatter to threat. There probably wasn’t anything useful left to be found there anyway. If the storage room hadn’t eaten it, it was no doubt hoarded by men who’d never let us touch it . . . or otherwise it had surely been destroyed.
So, that luck tried, and found to be lacking . . . I suggested the police.
“What might we find there?” Lizbeth asked.
“I’m very curious about the death of Mr. Kincaid. Perhaps my badge can get us a peek at whatever evidence they collected in the wake of his ‘suspicious’ death by crucifixion.”
But by the time we arrived at the station, some tipping point had been reached—some critical mass of gossip and group information had found us out—and it was made entirely clear that we could expect no further assistance from any authorities. I suppose word might have spread by phone, except that no one else knew our next stop—so instead, the chilly reception we received at the station must have been the result of one truly outstanding grapevine. The receptionist could scarcely be persuaded to acknowledge our presence, much less the badge. She only repeated, “I’m sorry, but it’s a local investigation—and no outside assistance is required. Or preferred, either. I can’t help you, and neither can anyone else.”
We gave up and planned to retreat to the hotel, but on our way to the car a young man in a patrolman’s uniform came trotting up to us.