by K. B. Owen
Capshaw and the gentleman beside him stood politely as Concordia entered the parlor. She stopped short. “Mr. Maynard!”
Randolph Maynard’s mouth barely turned upward in a smile, his lips stretched thin and pale against a shadowed face and stubbled jaw.
“Does this mean he has been cleared?” she asked Capshaw, settling herself upon the tufted ottoman across from Maynard.
Capshaw stretched his bare hands toward the glowing hearth. “Sanbourne’s flight and his implication in the other two murders have raised doubts about Mr. Maynard’s guilt. The prosecutor has decided there is insufficient evidence to bring a case against the dean.”
“That is good news,” Concordia said. “Any word about Sanbourne or the blueprint?”
“I’m afraid not.” He passed a weary hand through his hair. “Two ships departed before a watch was in place: the Rosefield, bound for Hamburg, and the Dona Maria, for Lisbon. We have cabled the authorities in both cities, but he has likely eluded us.”
That was disappointing. “At least you have been released, Mr. Maynard. Does Charlotte know?”
Maynard grimaced. “We called upon Lady Dunwick, who informed us that Charlotte was out Christmas shopping. It was quite a chilly reception. The lady forbade me to resume an acquaintance with her niece.” He shook his head. “I cannot say I blame her.”
“I am sure she will come around eventually,” Concordia said.
Capshaw shifted in his seat. “The problem is that Mr. Maynard has not been definitively cleared of Mrs. Sanbourne’s death. Suspicion remains.”
“But Mr. Sanbourne killed two other people, by his own admission,” Concordia said. “Who knows what could have set him against his wife?” Even as she said it, the doubts whispered.
“Based upon what you and Mr. Bradley told me, there was no motive for him to kill her,” Capshaw said.
Maynard gave a reluctant nod. “By all appearances, Peter Sanbourne was exceedingly fond of his wife. He was certainly prepared to defend her to anyone who suggested otherwise.” He grimaced and rubbed his jaw.
“Then who is responsible?” Concordia asked. “No one on campus carried a grudge against her that I know of. She had a pleasant disposition and was popular with the young ladies, especially her art students. The faculty admired her talent. We all appreciated her willingness to spend her free time teaching the girls.” She gestured to Maynard. “Very few people knew of her past, or that she was responsible for the fire—” She stopped short.
Capshaw leaned forward. “What is it?”
“Miss Smedley suspected Mrs. Sanbourne of starting the fire. She told us so, when Miss Lovelace and I visited her in the infirmary. Perhaps—”
“Surely you do not believe Miss Smedley or Miss Lovelace is responsible?” Maynard interrupted incredulously.
“No, no, that is not my point. What if someone else on campus knew or suspected the fire was started by Mrs. Sanbourne?”
Capshaw frowned. “Murder seems a drastic form of retribution. Why not simply turn her in to the authorities?”
“Much harm had been done, especially to Charlotte,” Concordia said.
“Which brings suspicion right back upon my head,” Maynard said caustically. “That line of thought gets us nowhere.”
She sucked in a breath. Another person on campus was exceedingly fond of Charlotte Crandall.
She is the daughter I could never have.
Even as Concordia experienced the familiar twinge of satisfaction at seeing the puzzle pieces align themselves, her heart recoiled at the path her mind was forcing her to take.
That path led to Margaret Banning.
Miss Banning’s office adjoined that of Maynard. I hear everything through there, she had said, pointing to the wall vent. Concordia had not realized it at the time, but that meant the old lady must have heard her and Maynard discussing Mrs. Sanbourne’s guilt. Miss Banning had certainly appeared distracted just after that conversation, when Concordia had come to take her to the hospital.
Perhaps Miss Banning had heard even more than that. Concordia recalled the open window in the library of Founder’s Hall, the evening she and Mrs. Sanbourne were out on the quadrangle. Mrs. Sanbourne had tauntingly elaborated upon the ways in which she could do away with someone. A simple tea reception would provide ample opportunities, she had boasted. Could Margaret Banning have been in the library and overheard her words? Had she feared that her beloved Charlotte remained in danger? The irony of using Mrs. Sanbourne’s own words against her might have appealed to the old lady. The Shakespearean phrase hoist with his own petard would have sprung to mind.
Then there was the poison. Miss Banning’s health had been poor for quite some time. Did she have a heart condition that required atropine? Capshaw could determine that.
Assuming that atropine was at the ready, Margaret Banning would have had little difficulty coaxing Mrs. Sanbourne into joining her for a cup of tea in the teacher’s lounge. Who would be wary of a frail old woman? Everyone else was at the Revels.
Concordia’s heart clenched in her chest. She desperately wanted to be wrong. As acid-tongued and cranky as the history teacher was, she had a sharp wit, a wealth of knowledge, and a passion for her teaching. She had dedicated her life to instructing young ladies, during a time when few gave a thought for a woman’s intellect or dreams. She had been a pioneer.
But the persistent dread that roiled her stomach and made her heart pound told her she was not wrong.
“Miss Wells,” Maynard said sharply. “We have been talking all this while. You are paying no attention at all.”
Concordia shuddered and looked at Capshaw, not troubling to mask her anguish.
Capshaw’s eyes widened. He sat beside her. “You know,” he murmured.
She nodded, closing her eyes as the tears trickled down her cheeks.
Chapter 44
Christmas Recess, 1898
It is not easy to speak the unvarnished, uncorrupted truth. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Capshaw and Concordia took a hansom cab from her mother’s house to pay a call upon Miss Banning. She wished they could have done this a week ago.
The local newspapers—taking only a brief Christmas respite to publish accounts of how the wealthy and famous spent their holiday—had not relented in their conjecture over Maynard’s guilt. Maynard had respected Lady Dunwick’s wish that he keep his distance from Charlotte. Despite Langdon’s protests, he had moved out of Sycamore House and into lodgings off campus. No doubt it had been a sad Christmas for them both.
Capshaw had needed the time to be sure of his facts, for course. Finding people during the holiday season had slowed his progress.
Both Miss Banning’s physician and the neighborhood chemist confirmed she had been taking atropine drops these past few months. Capshaw had determined that conversations in Maynard’s office could indeed be heard through the vent in Miss Banning’s office.
Piling on evidence of Miss Banning’s guilt was the librarian’s account of the lady’s presence in the library the afternoon preceding the Revels, at her favorite spot by the window that provided the best natural light. She had complained of the chill and had asked that the sash be closed, but the request had been overlooked. When Miss Banning grew agitated and abruptly left, the librarian had assumed she was annoyed at the oversight.
Capshaw pointed out that none of this was proof. It was merely the means by which to attain proof. A confession.
Concordia leaned back against the carriage cushions. Suppose Miss Banning confessed to the murder? What then? A public trial? She shuddered.
Capshaw passed over another carriage blanket. “Are you sure you want to talk with her alone?”
She met his eyes, adopting an air of confidence she did not quite feel. “It will be best. Don’t worry—I will be perfectly safe.” She had likewise reassured David and Charlotte. She could not have a crowd trailing in her wake.
“I’ll be waiting outside, ready to come in whenever you say.”
“She will have to come to the station to sign a confession and be formally charged, but given her age and the state of her health, I’m sure she will be permitted to remain at home until the hearing. She is not at risk of fleeing.”
Concordia looked out the window of the cab. How would Miss Banning endure a public airing of her crime? Concordia could not help but pity her, despite what she had done.
Miss Banning’s house was a modest brownstone along the quieter eastern end of Capitol Avenue. As she rang the bell, she blew out a breath and settled her spectacles more firmly upon her nose.
The same middle-aged parlor maid she remembered from her visit years ago answered the door. Though hardly a maid in the etymological sense of maiden, she gave a creaky curtsy, took Concordia’s coat and scarf, and went to announce her.
The parlor was much as Concordia remembered it, too: a jumble of décor and collectibles in the old Victorian style of excess, from the ornately worked Turkish carpet to the litter of china figures, alabaster vases, embroidered pillows, and dried flowers. The fire burned brightly in the stifling room. A plump ginger tabby dozed on the hearth. There had been ten felines the last time she was here. Perhaps the others had succumbed to old age or over-indulgence.
Miss Banning sat close to the fire, in her favorite padded armchair, upholstered in a faded shade of olive that had lost its sheen some twenty years ago. The crocheted lace doilies spread over the arms could not halt the inevitable passage of time, or keep the stuffing from bursting through whatever breach it could find.
As Concordia approached, Miss Banning watched her closely through bottle-glass spectacles but did not try to rise. She waved her cane with thin-skinned, knobby hands. “Sit down.” There was a labored wheeze in her voice.
Mercifully, the chair indicated was farther from the hearth. Concordia sat and smoothed her skirts.
Miss Banning turned her head toward the door. “You did not bring Charlotte with you?”
Concordia winced, recalling her earlier conversation with Charlotte. The young lady had taken the news of her respected mentor committing murder for her sake with a dry-eyed, white-lipped dignity.
“Charlotte, umm—conveys her regards.”
Miss Banning sighed. “I have not seen her in a week.”
“She wanted to come. I told her I wished to speak with you alone. You know why, do you not?”
“Hmph.” Miss Banning gazed steadily at the fire, the light reflecting in her glasses and making her expression unreadable. Concordia waited. Did the old woman understand? Surely, she must have expected someone to put it together. What now? By the look of her, Miss Banning was not about to unburden herself. Concordia balked at rehashing the details.
She decided upon a different approach. “It has been almost two years since the last time I visited. Do you remember?”
The lady rapped her cane on the leg of the table, causing the cat to twitch its ears. “Of course I do,” she snapped. “I am not dispossessed of my faculties, missy. You came to consult me about how to stage the senior play. The students were performing Macbeth.”
“That’s right. You and I spoke of the play’s themes, and how to help the young ladies understand character motivation.” Concordia clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I still remember a point you made about Macbeth’s character.”
Margaret Banning leaned forward. “Go on.”
“You said,” Concordia closed her eyes to bring back the exact words, “He is human, like the rest of us. No matter how kind, well-intentioned, or amiable we may be, we are each equally capable of malice, under the right circumstances.” She opened her eyes. Miss Banning had both hands on her cane, leaning heavily. “That applies to you as well, does it not?”
Time and again, Concordia had seen it. Most of them—the guilty ones—were not wicked criminals. Under normal circumstances, they were upstanding citizens, even kindly souls. Many were talented, vivacious, personable. Yet, when the crisis had come, they had made a desperate, ghastly choice. There was no going back.
Miss Banning shifted in her seat, wincing. “You are a sharp one. It doesn’t surprise me that you figured it out. I suppose your friend the policeman is waiting outside for me?”
“He wants you to sign a confession.”
The old lady let out a bark of laughter. “Does he, now? If I do sign anything, it will not be a remorse-ridden plea for leniency. I cannot say I am sorry for what I have done. ‘When a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, no one will choose the greater when he might have the less.’ Plato. I could not allow Charlotte to be harmed again.”
Concordia shook her head. “Charlotte continues to suffer. The man she cares for is accused of the crime.”
Miss Banning’s face registered surprise. “Hmph. May-Not. He isn’t good enough for her. She will get over him eventually.”
“No, she won’t. She will always love him. ‘Love is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests, and is never shaken.’” One could always rely upon Shakespeare to make one’s point.
Miss Banning frowned.
“Charlotte is miserable,” Concordia went on, “because public doubt about Maynard’s innocence is keeping them apart.”
Miss Banning looked down at her hands, still gripping the cane in front of her. She was quiet for so long, Concordia wondered if she had dozed off.
Finally, she stirred. “Does Charlotte know?”
“That you killed Mrs. Sanbourne?” Concordia asked quietly. “Yes.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“I do not know if that is possible. Lieutenant Capshaw wants you to accompany him to the station.”
Miss Banning paid no attention. She waved her cane toward the bookcases. “Bring over my writing desk. Tell your lieutenant that I am writing out my confession. He can come back for it in the morning.”
Concordia fetched the desk, laying out pen and paper. “Do you wish me to accompany Capshaw when he returns tomorrow?”
Miss Banning’s frown softened. She laid a bony hand on Concordia’s sleeve. “I can manage on my own. You have already shown me more kindness than I deserve. It is time to leave behind this sordid business.”
Chapter 45
Christmas Recess, 1898
Truth is a virtue more palpable and less shadowy than we think. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Concordia waited anxiously in the library at her mother’s house for Capshaw to bring word of Margaret Banning. David and her mother waited with her.
During her formative years, the family library was one of Concordia’s favorite rooms. She had always loved the smell—redolent of old paper, crumbling spines, and faded ink. A hint of pipe tobacco lingered in the comfortably worn leather chairs. She had spent many happy hours in this room, poring over Papa’s illustrated Greek mythologies.
But Concordia felt no peace in this room today. As she paced, Mrs. Wells sat with her knitting, and David perused the shelves.
After a time, her mother looked up. “Concordia, dear, you will wear out my best Turkish carpet. Do sit down.”
So she sat and stared out the window at the gray-brown bones of the dormant trees against a dull slate sky. The vista looked as dreary as she felt. She wished she had gone with Capshaw, despite Miss Banning’s refusal. At least she would know something by now.
The doorbell rang. Concordia jumped up, but her mother waved her back. “Mrs. Houston will answer it.”
The visitor was not Lieutenant Capshaw, but Randolph Maynard. Although he was immaculately attired in a finely pressed, wool pinstripe suit, his face was pale and he crushed the brim of his derby between his hands as if it were a lifeline.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said in a gruff voice. “I had hoped the lieutenant would be here. The man at the station was uncertain of his whereabouts.”
Concordia shifted over on the sofa. “We are expecting him. You are welcome to wait.”
&n
bsp; “Are you here to learn the status of Capshaw’s investigation?” David asked. “He is—”
“—I want to stop it,” Maynard interrupted impatiently.
“It may be too late to stop it,” David pointed out. “Capshaw was to call upon Miss Banning and bring her to the station this morning. She must have been formally charged by now.”
Concordia frowned. “Mr. Maynard, why do you want to stop it? Surely you wish to be cleared of suspicion in Mrs. Sanbourne’s death?”
Maynard stared at the fire, its light reflecting in the brass andirons. “The cost is too high. I have given this a great deal of thought. To reveal that the college’s oldest and most respected professor is guilty of murder would irrevocably damage Hartford Women’s College, now and in the future. Even if I am not officially cleared of the crime, I am not at risk of being arrested again.”
“But what of the stain upon your name?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“Public speculation will die out in time. Those closest to me know the truth.” Maynard turned to Concordia. “I have you to thank for that. And I have decided to stay on as dean. Edward never wanted to accept my resignation. He said the same thing you did.”
“What was that?” Concordia asked.
“That I was running away from the scandal, instead of facing it.” He hesitated. “I owe you a great deal, Miss Wells.”
Concordia flushed. “It was my debt to repay.” She glanced at the mantel clock yet again. One o’clock. What was taking Capshaw so long?
The doorbell rang again. Concordia felt her spirits lift. At last.
But it was Charlotte Crandall this time, who stopped short as she encountered a chorus of suppressed sighs. “Have I come at an inopportune time?” She caught sight of Maynard, who stood as she entered. “Randolph! I…I did not expect you here.”
The strain of the past few weeks was evident in her pale lips and the smudged hollows beneath her eyes. “Although I am glad you are here. I have news.”