by K. B. Owen
“Did you not receive my note?” Concordia asked.
David escorted her back to her chair and pulled up another.
“I have been at the riverfront these last few days.”
Concordia nodded. Capshaw had not ignored her, after all. “The riverfront?”
“Interviewing people who work at the pier and the warehouses, in case someone had seen Guryev or anyone dumping…something in the river.”
Such as a body. She swallowed.
“Have you made progress?” David asked.
“After four weeks, the trail has gone cold.” He scowled. “Everyone thought Guryev had fled to Russia long ago.”
“Except you,” she said.
He raised a surprised eyebrow. “How did—? Ah, Sophia.”
Concordia nodded. “David and I have some information that may help in that regard.”
Capshaw leaned forward. “Go on.”
She described what she had seen of Guryev’s nervous behavior the night of the alarm clock prank, and what her students had noticed the days before his disappearance. “It strikes me that he felt he was being watched, even here on campus.”
Capshaw waved a dismissive hand. “He was. There were two debt collectors trailing Guryev—each with a nasty reputation, I might add. They work for different gambling establishments. Frankly, I am surprised there weren’t more after him, but perhaps the others he owed money to didn’t want to join the fight.”
Concordia frowned. Mercy, what a sordid mess Guryev had gotten himself into.
“I doubt when you saw Guryev gazing out his window that night,” Capshaw went on, “it was anything but nerves. Strange men skulking around a women’s college in the wee hours would be much too conspicuous.”
She bit back her disappointment. Her discovery had not been useful, after all. “Have you located the men following Guryev?”
Capshaw shrugged. “I’ve talked to one. Barney Johns. He admits to making threats against Guryev and his mother, but of course claims he had not yet resorted to physical violence. However, his whereabouts that night are not entirely accounted for. He’s still a suspect.”
“What of the other?” David asked.
“Ike Coutts. I’m still trying to find him.”
“Is it possible Guryev killed Oster and then drowned himself in the river?” David asked.
Capshaw sighed. “If that were the case, where is the blueprint? We thoroughly searched the campus, his mother’s hotel room, and the Armstrong farmhouse.”
“So one or the other of the debt collectors is your best suspect right now,” David said, “killing both Oster and Guryev and taking the money and the plans.”
Concordia rubbed distractedly at her stinging arm. “I do not understand why the murderer would leave Oster’s body to be discovered and dump poor Mr. Guryev in the river.”
“If we are talking about Johns or Coutts being the murderer,” Capshaw said. “Guryev could have escaped when Oster was killed. Then the murderer caught up to him later, killed him and dumped his body in the river.”
“So this Mr. Johns is your best suspect for Oster’s murder,” David said.
“In terms of a motive, yes,” Capshaw said. “But how did he know Oster and Guryev would be at the farmhouse? Johns could not set foot on campus grounds to track Guryev’s movements. Even if he waited just outside the gate, the sheep tracks leading up Rook’s Hill are not visible from that vantage point.”
Concordia leaned forward in excitement. “Unless he was disguised as a Trinity student.”
Capshaw started. “Hartford Women’s College has begun permitting college boys on campus?”
“They attend the new engineering program,” Concordia said. “It is only twice per week, and the young men are required to leave campus before dark. Though I suppose it would be possible to conceal oneself and continue to watch Guryev after the Trinity students had left for the day.”
Capshaw was madly scribbling upon his notepad. “I had no idea,” he murmured. “How many young men are we talking about?”
“You’ll have to ask President Langdon for precise numbers, but my students tell me as many as two dozen. The girls know only a few of them by sight.”
Capshaw hesitated, lost in thought. “There is one problem with that. Barney Johns is a rough-looking fellow. Big and burly, unkempt, missing teeth. Smells bad, too. Hardly collegiate material.” He flipped through his notes, his face brightening. “Ah. The description I have of Coutts, on the other hand—tall, lean, youthful face—it’s possible.” He straightened. “Now I just have to find him.”
Chapter 25
Week 7, Instructor Calendar November 1898
It is the privilege of the bride to name the wedding day. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Concordia and David helped the rest of the staff set up cots and curtained dressing areas for the students from Willow and Hemlock Cottages, nearly four dozen of them in all, except for the four young ladies who remained in the infirmary. Word of the college’s misfortune had spread, and donations of pillows, blankets, and clothing had been brisk.
It was certainly a boost to the spirits after the dismal experience of picking through her charred, sodden belongings earlier in the day. She had lost all of her skirts and shirtwaists, and the books from her sitting room were a pulpy mess.
But she would miss her bicycle most of all. The adjoining shed it had been stored in was now a pile of rubble.
With a guilty pang, she wished the etiquette book Drusilla had lent her had perished as well, but it and her other books were safe in the office, as was Mrs. Bradley’s aquamarine brooch that she had shoved in her desk drawer.
She blew out a breath. “Hand me a pillow, would you?”
David put a coverslip on it and passed it over. “Why doesn’t Langdon simply close the school and send the girls home?”
She fluffed the pillow and set it on the cot. “The seniors need to complete their coursework in order to graduate on time. Besides, three out of the five cottages were spared. And then there are the students who live off-campus and ride the streetcar to school. Why penalize all of them?”
“The girls cannot stay in the gymnasium indefinitely,” he said. “Can’t the remaining cottages accommodate them?”
She shook her head. “Miss Pomeroy and Miss Jenkins surveyed the bedrooms and said each cottage could only hold five more students. Otherwise, they would be crammed together even worse than here.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That leaves thirty-five.”
She sat wearily on a cot. Thirty-five young ladies, most without any possessions to call their own. “I do not know what else we can do.” If only a place nearby could house them. It would have to be a large residence.
She took a breath. A large house, nearby.
She glanced at David. What had he said? The entire place has been cleaned out. No debris. Scoured top to bottom. We would need to do very little to get it ready.
She felt a tingle of excitement, her previous reservations fading. This is why we found the Armstrong property. This is what we must do.
David’s brown eyes narrowed with curiosity. “You have an idea.”
Concordia hesitated. Would he agree to such an outrageous proposition?
She motioned to a chair. “You had better sit down. We have much to talk about.”
“So, are we in agreement?” Concordia asked.
David chuckled. “Housing nearly three dozen high-spirited young ladies in our future home is certainly not what I originally had in mind, but there is no denying the place is large enough. And it’s the right thing to do.”
“You are sure there are ten bedrooms? We did not have the opportunity to tour the entire house before....” Her voice trailed off. How would the parents of the young ladies feel about their daughters staying in a place where a murder occurred? The matter must be handled delicately.
He nodded. “Ten, along with the housekeeper’s quarters on the ground floor. You and Ruby would have to shar
e that.”
“That would be no problem. If we had three students to a room, we would only need to find other places for five girls,” she said. “Perhaps they could stay with the students who board locally?”
He blew out a breath. “I just thought of something. How long will they need the house?”
“I don’t know. Months, probably, for Willow Cottage to be rebuilt. Winter weather could slow that down, too. We will have to speak with Mr. Langdon—oh!” Comprehension dawned at last. She gave him a worried look. “The wedding.”
“Exactly. We cannot be married and live with the young ladies, you know.” He gave her a wink.
She blushed. “No, that would not do at all.”
They were quiet for a while. She stole a glance at his face, trying to gauge his feelings on the subject. Was he coming to the same conclusion as she? His faraway air told her nothing.
Finally, she had to say something. “Would you mind terribly...if we...postponed the wedding? Just until the spring semester was over.”
He sighed and met her eyes. “I have waited this long, my dear. I can wait a few months more.” He gave her an impish grin. “I take it your mother will have the elaborate June wedding for her daughter that she had long despaired of.”
Concordia grimaced. “Ah well, nothing is without its price.”
Chapter 26
Week 8, Instructor Calendar November 1898
There is something exquisitely poetical in the idea of a June wedding. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
President Langdon was understandably reluctant at first, but after a tour of the Armstrong property, he quickly warmed to the idea.
Within a week, it was arranged. The money was paid, the papers signed, and the house preparations begun. After a long, closed-door meeting with the mayor of Hartford, Langdon established the college’s first Gown and Town Day, dedicated to the special bond between the college and the citizens of Hartford. The Courant ran the story. This year, Hartford Women’s College was to be the beneficiary, and the plea went out for help. Matrons, shopkeepers, and farmers—many of them long-time friends of the Armstrong family—arrived the following Saturday morning to turn the old farmhouse into comfortable living quarters for the students. They brought tools, furniture, and dry goods. Students and faculty pitched in. Miss Lovelace, her uncle, and the other engineering students set to work hanging curtains and securing wobbly banisters.
One of the farming families apparently thought the introduction of chickens to the homestead was crucial to the young ladies’ comfort as well. They set to repairing the dilapidated coop in the barnyard and gallantly presented half a dozen live chickens to Concordia, as the lady of the house. While she privately cringed at the thought of waking daily to the sounds of a rooster crowing, she graciously accepted the gift.
Mrs. Sanbourne brought a gift as well, a beautifully framed pastel sketch of the farmhouse.
“How lovely! That is most kind of you,” Concordia said, examining it closely. Mrs. Sanbourne had created a sunset scene, making liberal use of pinks and oranges. “We will be sure to find a suitable place.” She hesitated. “I wish to apologize for distressing you with my questions a few weeks ago.”
Mrs. Sanbourne smiled, and the gray feather of her mulberry felt hat swished as she nodded. “Not at all, dear. All is forgiven.” She leaned in more closely. “Though you may wish to curb that inquisitive nature of yours. If you will permit a bit of friendly advice from a married woman of ten years, a man does not appreciate a nosy wife.”
Concordia flushed and changed the subject. “We’ll be setting out the tea things soon. Can you stay?”
“Regretfully, no. Peter and I have a luncheon to attend. But he extends his congratulations as well.” With a wave, she was off.
Concordia’s mother, accompanied by Sarah and Gracie, arrived soon after. Ten-year-old Sarah ran up and put her arms around Concordia’s waist. “It has been ages since I’ve seen you.”
Concordia returned the embrace and smoothed a shiny red braid, very much like her own unfortunate hair color, over the girl’s pinafore. “And I’ve missed you, dear. How are you getting along in school?”
The girl grimaced. “I don’t mind the regular subjects like mathematics and Latin, but I hate having to do needlepoint.”
Letitia Wells gave a disapproving frown. “A lady does not say she hates something. You dislike needlepoint.”
Sarah looked up with innocent eyes. “If you know I dislike it, why must I learn it?”
Concordia’s eyes watered from the effort of holding in a laugh.
Four-year-old Gracie, thumb firmly in her mouth, tugged on Concordia’s skirt and pointed toward the tree swing. “Can you pusth me?” she lisped.
Concordia inclined her head toward Sarah. “I think Sissy can push you much higher. I’m a bit out of practice.”
Sarah grinned and grabbed her sister’s hand. “All right then, let’s go!”
“Not too high!” Mrs. Wells called after them.
The girls nearly collided with the Bradleys, who were climbing out of their carriage. Both men hefted sizable hampers of food. “Whoa. Steady there, young ladies,” John Bradley said, lifting his basket high. David handed his mother and Aunt Drusilla out of the vehicle, Bandit jumping out and trotting at their heels.
“Concordia, dear,” Mrs. Bradley said breathlessly, coming over to embrace her. “We were so worried when we heard about the fire. I am glad you are safe.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Concordia said. “It has been a trying time.”
“Be sure not to overtax yourself. You sound a bit hoarse.”
Concordia pressed her hand. “I promise.”
Drusilla’s mouth puckered as she took in the view. “I cannot believe you two decided to live here, of all places—”
“Now, Drusilla,” John Bradley interjected, “we talked about this on the way here. The decision has been made and it is not productive to discuss it further.”
Drusilla had just drawn breath for a retort when Bandit started barking. A terrified rabbit leaped from behind a broken fence post and tore across the field. The dog gave chase.
“Bandit! Come back here at once!” Drusilla yelled. The dog paid no attention and was soon out of sight.
“I’m sure he’ll return,” Concordia said. “If not, we’ll send one of the boys after him.”
Georgeanna Bradley shook her head. “The mutt definitely has some hound in him. Always sniffing out something.”
“I was about to show Mother the house. Mrs. Bradley, would you and Aunt Drusilla care to join us?”
On their tour, Concordia took care to avoid the back porch where Oster was found. She did not want to revive that particular conversation.
“It requires a bit of imagination,” she said apologetically, as they surveyed the upper floor, “but once the new wallpaper is hung and the windows have been cleaned, the place will be quite charming.”
Aunt Drusilla sniffed as she ran a gloved finger along a dusty windowsill. “So many bedrooms! How many children do you and David plan to have?”
Both Concordia’s mother and Georgeanna Bradley regarded the bride-to-be with a glint in their eyes.
Concordia flushed. “Let us leave that to Providence, shall we? Come, you haven’t seen the kitchen yet. It’s enormous.”
After coming upon a mice nest in the pantry and enduring Drusilla’s gloomy prognostications about drafty rooms, the primitive cook stove, and the ancient state of the pipes, they escaped back outside into the bright sunshine.
More volunteers had arrived, including the Capshaws. Sophia, her blonde hair tucked neatly beneath a charming beribboned leghorn, leaned on her husband’s arm to catch her breath as they crested the hill. Aaron Capshaw carried a large wicker hamper on his other arm.
Concordia smiled. Mercy, they would have enough food to feed the entire town at this rate.
Today, instead of his police uniform, Capshaw wore a red flannel shirt and denim overalls that emphasized hi
s tall, lanky frame. Concordia blinked, mentally shifting from the accustomed image of Capshaw as policeman to that of Capshaw as country farmer. All he needed was a ragged straw hat and his resemblance to a redheaded scarecrow would be complete. She stifled a chuckle as they approached.
Sophia gave her a hug and whispered, “Can you tell he comes from a farming family?”
Concordia grinned. The less said within earshot of Capshaw, the better. “I’m so glad you came.”
Capshaw glanced around at the work in progress. “It’s good to see you transforming the place. I know Oster’s death gave you pause, but I believe you’ve made the right decision.”
Concordia’s mother leaned in closer. “I read about the discovery of poor Mr. Guryev. Any news in that regard?”
“We have a lead, thanks to your daughter.”
Concordia quickly checked over her shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief that Mrs. Bradley and Drusilla Fenmore had moved off to chat with President Langdon.
Mrs. Wells’ eyes narrowed as she glanced at her daughter. “Indeed? I sincerely hope that is the extent of her contribution.”
Concordia laughed. “Don’t worry, Mother, I will be too busy feeding chickens.”
Eli, the Capshaws’ adopted son, caught up with them.
“My goodness, how you’ve grown! I hardly recognized you,” Concordia said.
Life with his new family certainly agreed with the thirteen-year-old. Gone was the thin child with the pale, pinched face, dirty knickers, and skittish manner. Although she could see the remnants of childhood in the hairless cheeks and the curly black hair ever in need of a cut, he was sturdily built now and tall enough to look her in the eye.
He gave her a radiant smile. “I grew four inches this summer.”
“Hardly a surprise,” Capshaw said with a grin. “The lad eats anything that isn’t nailed to the floor.” He passed him a hammer. “Speaking of nailing, let’s help with the porch steps.”