Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(89)
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Simon asked me, “Do you have a gun?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. My father’s old service revolver is all I ever kept—and I left it at home, like a fool.”
“How about an axe?”
“I didn’t think to pack that, either. But between a gun and an axe, I’m more comfortable with the latter than the former. My aim is nothing to praise, but my swing is a thing to behold, or so I was told once or twice.”
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It was Seabury who told me that, after the battle. He said I looked like Joan of Arc headed off to war, with a more useful tool than a sword. More graceful, anyway. He said I looked like Joan if she had been a dancer. I don’t know if she ever danced. I wonder.
“Then again . . .” I changed my mind, because that’s a woman’s prerogative. “I’m older now. I might destroy my shoulders if I tried to strike anything, or even swing something so heavy as an axe. A gun would be better, if you have a spare . . . and for that matter, were you being funny? When you asked if I’d like an axe?” He’d never known, had he? He’d never seen me swinging that weapon at the creatures, spinning and cutting like Joan of Arc dancing across the lawn.
“It was a joke in poor taste, but you seized on it so happily . . . I admit, I’m confused.”
“Don’t be confused, and I don’t mind the poor taste.” I picked up my purse and tucked it under my arm. “I must change clothes, though—and you should probably do likewise. The sun will set in an hour or less, and we may find ourselves wanting to hide.”
“You’re sure I haven’t caused offense?” he asked, trailing behind me as I led the way down the corridor to the stairs and then up to our rooms, which faced each other across a hall.
I was a little charmed that he was so concerned, but I was likewise well beyond such delicate worries. By way of explanation, I said, over my shoulder, “Zollicoffer didn’t come alone to Maplecroft, and before he arrived, there were . . . minions. Monstrous things, smaller than a man but stronger, and more dangerous. I couldn’t very well let them inside, now could I? No,” I answered my own question, and shook my head as I climbed the steps. “They would have killed me, and killed Emma . . . or worse. So I killed them all first, and disposed of them in the very machine that eventually claimed the mad professor. In fact, I bought it for them—and not for him.”
“You did?”
“Of course. We knew about the creatures long before we knew of the unfortunate doctor, or his impending visit. That’s why—” I stopped in front of my room and held my key before the lock. I faced him as I finished: “That’s why I went to the trouble. We knew something awful was happening, but there was no one we could approach for help. Who would have believed us—much less sent us aid?”
“I would have,” he insisted. “The Boston office would have . . .”
I believed the first part, but not the second. He didn’t, either, if the waver in his voice was any indication. I reminded him, “But we knew nothing of you until you arrived. Even then, we didn’t know enough to trust you with the truth. And even when this fabled Boston office of yours was aware of the horror, you told me yourself: It sent no one. It did nothing.”
He paused, his own key in hand. He gave me the look of a kicked puppy. “I cannot apologize enough. I can try—I can apologize until the end of days, and I will happily do just that, if you’ll let me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—I don’t need your apologies. Whether or not your office might have been some service to us . . . no one will ever know, and it scarcely matters now. Now, I need your assistance to retrieve Ruth Gussman from the hands of murderers, who will surely add us to their tally of corpses and mayhem without a second thought, if they are given the opportunity. So we must be subtle, insofar as we are able. I have a navy blue travel dress, which is close enough to black—and if you have anything more funereal than the cream-colored linen you’ve preferred thus far, you’d be well advised to try it out.”
“You want me to attempt stealth?” He looked well and truly astonished at the thought.
“In the dark, all men look the same,” I reminded him. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I’ve never been accused of any such thing.”
“Excellent.” I unlocked my door and said, in parting, “Give me five minutes, and I’ll meet you downstairs. Bring an extra gun if you have one, or don’t, if that’s not an option.”
“But I have no other gun. So what will you carry when we storm this bastille?”
“My wits, and my experience. And we’ll see what else the Good Lord sees fit to provide.”
Reverend Adam James Davis, Minister, the Disciples of Heaven
CHAPELWOOD ESTATE, ALABAMA OCTOBER 4, 1921
I might have spoken too soon, with regards to Edwin Stephenson.
On the one hand, he did us a service by removing James Coyle from the equation. On the other, I was told to wait, and that Ruth would come to us, of her own free will—and now this is simply not an option. No amount of faith or patience could ever bring the young woman back here again, as it’s only pure brute force that’s brought her around today. Even if we set her loose, and wished her well, and reimbursed her for her time and trouble . . . she’d only take the opportunity to flee us for good.