Dangerous and Unseemly

by K. B. Owen

  He hesitated in the doorway. “I would feel better if you locked the door behind me.”

  She did.

  Chapter 27

  Week 10, Instructor Calendar, April 1896

  Concordia, Mr. Bradley, and Miss Hamilton waited in Concordia’s sitting room. They had been ordered to stay out of the way as Miss Jenkins and Dr. Musgrave, the physician that Mr. Bradley had found, attended to Sophia. Ruby was occupied with keeping the all-too-curious student residents of Willow Cottage in their rooms.

  Concordia, now in dry clothing, cradled a cup of strong tea that Ruby had brought for each of them before disappearing upstairs. She looked over at Mr. Bradley, who was toweling his hair. His shoes and jacket had been placed in front of the hearth, wisps of steam coming from them as they dried.

  “Mr. Bradley, why don’t you sit closer to the fire?” Concordia invited.

  He complied, but answered with a grin, “I liked it better when you called me ‘David.’”

  Concordia flushed, replying tartly, “No doubt you did, Mr. Bradley.”

  Miss Hamilton stifled a laugh. The gentleman did his best to look chastened.

  Miss Hamilton broke the silence that followed, bluntly putting forward the question they were all considering. “Who do you suppose attacked Miss Adams, and why?”

  Concordia shifted in her chair. She would never become accustomed to Miss Hamilton’s candor. The lady principal was a study in contradictions: unreadable at some moments, and blazingly forthright in others, all while comporting herself with an unflustered, dignified air.

  “It might have been an accident,” Concordia said tentatively.

  Miss Hamilton shook her head. “Unfortunately no, Miss Wells. I checked the path where she was found; there was no rock, or other object, which could have caused her wound. The weapon was carried away by the person who wielded it. We must be realistic, as unpleasant as it is.”

  Miss Hamilton was right. Concordia sighed. As soon as she had locked the door behind Mr. Bradley, she knew there was something to fear. It was foolish to pretend the danger wasn’t real.

  Mr. Bradley leaned forward. “One possibility is that someone resents her suffrage work. I understand that there was a protest group at the rally, and even a drunken lout who tried to disrupt the event? I wasn’t able to attend, but I certainly heard of it. It would not be surprising if Miss Adams has made enemies.”

  Miss Hamilton frowned. “That could give the president, and others who share his opinions, more reason to ban such events in the future. If Miss Adams was indeed a target because of her activities, it may be deemed too dangerous to involve the campus any further.”

  Concordia was quiet. Dr. Musgrave seemed to be taking a very long time with Sophia.

  “What do you think, Miss Wells?” Miss Hamilton asked.

  Before she could answer, there was a polite knock, and Mr. Reynolds stepped into the room. The rain must have stopped, Concordia realized, because he was perfectly dry, and as immaculate as always. What a contrast to poor Mr. Bradley, she thought, looking over at that gentleman. He was drying out nicely, but his hair had a wild curl to it. The odor of wet wool hung in the room.

  Mr. Reynolds had noticed David Bradley and paused, puzzled, until Miss Hamilton said, “This is Mr. Bradley, one of our part-time instructors. He and Miss Wells discovered Miss Adams lying under the hedge. Mr. Bradley,” she continued, gesturing to Reynolds, “this is Mr. Reynolds, one of our trustees.”

  The two men exchanged wary glances and curt pleasantries. Mr. Bradley continued drying his hair. Reynolds promptly ignored him, turning to Concordia.

  “I came over from the trustees’ breakfast as soon as I heard,” he said, sitting beside Concordia and taking her hand, which prompted a lift of the eyebrow from both Miss Hamilton and Mr. Bradley. “It is so unfortunate! Your dearest friend!”

  While Concordia felt comforted by the warmth of his hand, she pulled away, afraid that such sympathy would cause her to lose her composure.

  “Who could have done this?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Reynolds cleared his throat. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that on my way over here.” He hesitated.

  “Yes, Mr. Reynolds, what is it?” Miss Hamilton asked.

  “Well, I’ve been wondering if the attack upon poor Miss Adams is part of the whole of what has been happening at this college,” he answered finally.

  “How is it possibly connected, except by geography?” Bradley quipped.

  Reynolds gave him a frosty glance, then turned to Miss Hamilton. “Suppose Miss Adams was not the intended target,” he continued, “perhaps the attacker mistook Miss Adams for someone else.” He looked steadily at the lady principal.

  Miss Hamilton looked surprised. “Mistaken for me! Surely not.”

  Concordia sat up straighter. “Yes, I’ve noticed it, too. You and Sophia do look remarkably alike. I recall observing the similarity at the rally yesterday.”

  “But I must be at least—hmm,” here Miss Hamilton hesitated, “twenty years older than Miss Adams!”

  “But in low light, with the rain coming down in sheets? Her form and carriage could have been easily mistaken for yours,” Reynolds pointed out.

  Miss Hamilton sat silent, and thoughtful.

  “What about Miss Lyman?” Concordia asked, disturbing the silence. “Could her death have been—”

  There was a knock at the door. Dr. Musgrave came in, accompanied by Miss Jenkins. Concordia’s stomach lurched when she saw the blood upon Hannah Jenkins’ infirmary apron.

  Dr. Musgrave was a small man, elderly and gruff in manner. He was dressed in the standard attire of a local town doctor: black morning coat, stethoscope bulging from the right pocket; gray worsted trousers, water stains fading around the cuffs; sturdy leather oxfords with worn heels.

  The doctor began without preamble. “The young lady’s condition is very serious. She has not regained consciousness, and I do not know if she will. There is no fracture to the skull as far as I can determine, but there is a great deal of swelling. She hit her head as she fell, thus compounding the injury.”

  “Can you surmise what kind of weapon she was struck with?” Miss Hamilton asked quietly.

  Dr. Musgrave answered, “Most likely, it was something compact but heavy, with some sort of irregular edge that lacerated the scalp. The attacker hit her just above her right ear, from behind.”

  Concordia felt the backs of her eyes prickle. “Is there any hope?” she asked.

  The doctor’s eyes softened in pity. He cleared his throat. “In a few of these cases, yes, the patient has recovered, at least partially. A complete recovery is rare,” he added gently. “But she is young, and strong, and those factors are in her favor.”

  “Miss Hamilton,” he continued, “since the young lady is in such grave condition, she should not be moved very far. I recommend that she be moved—carefully, mind you—only as far as your campus infirmary.” He gestured to the infirmarian. “I have given instructions for her care to Miss Jenkins. I can also provide you with the names and addresses of competent private nurses.”

  “I will return to check on her tomorrow,” he said to Miss Jenkins, who nodded.

  “I will take my leave of you, then. I am behind on my rounds.” Dr. Musgrave bowed, and left.

  “What will happen now?” Concordia asked Miss Hamilton, as the doctor closed the door behind him.

  “President Richter has spoken with the chief of police,” the lady principal said, her brows creased in a troubled frown. “I expect they will be sending someone here shortly.”

  Miss Hamilton’s prediction proved correct. Sophia had scarcely been settled into her infirmary bed before Concordia and a nearly-dry Mr. Bradley were summoned (rather like naughty children, Concordia thought) to Miss Hamilton’s office, where a Lieutenant Capshaw was waiting to question them.

  Capshaw rose from his seat when they entered. He was a tall, gaunt man, with wavy red hair and a neatly-trimmed mustache to
match. Concordia noticed that he stooped over slightly when upright, as if continually searching for something he might have missed. The downward slant of his brows, heavy-lidded eyes, and bent head conveyed an air of perpetual melancholy. He wore the standard wool tunic of his profession, with brass buttons running down the front in a double row. His cap had been set aside.

  With only a perfunctory introduction, the lieutenant pulled out an oft-folded wad of paper, crumpled and worn along the edges, and a tiny nub of a lead pencil. Once they were seated, he addressed Concordia.

  “Now, miss,” he began carefully, as if fearful that she would erupt into hysterics at any minute, “we only need a wee bit of information from you, nothing at all to worry about.”

  Concordia looked over at Miss Hamilton, who lifted an eyebrow in amusement.

  “You needn’t treat me with kid gloves, Lieutenant,” Concordia answered. “I promise I will not have a fit of the vapors.”

  Mr. Bradley’s lips twitched. Capshaw turned as red as his hair.

  “Very well,” he continued, clearing his throat. “I believe, Miss Wells, that you were expecting Miss Adams the morning of her attack? What time would that be?”

  Concordia explained the arrangements she and Sophia had made, and how she had become concerned when the prearranged time had come and gone.

  “So you went out into the downpour to look for her? Was that wise? You could have caught a chill, or ruined your dress.”

  Concordia wondered which consideration the lieutenant thought was more pressing to a lady: risking a cold or spoiling one’s attire?

  Capshaw did not seem to expect an answer to the question. He turned to Mr. Bradley. “And why, sir, were you walking about in the pouring rain? Is this a practice on college campuses with which I am unfamiliar? Not being a college man myself, of course.”

  Mr. Bradley gave a rueful smile. “I was returning Miss Wells’ bicycle to her. It needed some repair.”

  Capshaw pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Indeed.” He looked at Concordia as if she had grown a second head. “You ride one of those machines?” He shook his head. “Extraordinary. Do you often ride your bicycle in the rain, miss?”

  Concordia was startled. “Of course not,” she snapped.

  “Then why was Mr. Bradley venturing out in the rain to bring it to you, when a sunny day would have suited better?”

  Mr. Bradley stood up. “I can explain, lieutenant.”

  Capshaw waved him back into his chair. “Yes, I would very much like to hear that explanation, Mr. Bradley, although I think we needn’t keep Miss Wells any longer.” He stepped over to the door and held it open for her. “Thank you, miss. You may go.”

  Concordia got one last look at the exasperation on David Bradley’s face as she left the room. Poor Mr. Bradley.

  Chapter 28

  Week 11, Instructor Calendar, April 1896

  You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting

  With most admired disorder.

  III.iv

  “‘Be this the whetstone of your sword.’” Malcolm began.

  “’Let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.’”

  Malcolm (otherwise known as Mabel Davis) paused, looking at Concordia.

  “Good, Miss Davis,” Concordia responded. “Since our Macduff is currently at basketball practice, I will read her part:

  ‘O, I could play the woman with mine eyes

  And braggart with my tongue!

  Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;

  Within my sword’s length set him.’

  Concordia looked up expectantly. This was where the girl had stumbled before.

  Miss Davis answered easily:

  “’This tune goes manly.

  Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready;

  Macbeth is ripe for shaking, and the powers above

  Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may.

  The night is long that never finds the day.’”

  “Excellent!” They were proceeding smoothly through the fourth act tonight. The seniors were certainly applying themselves.

  “That will be all for this evening,” she said to the girls, “but remember--we still need fabric for costumes. Ask the other students in your cottages, too. I want everyone’s contribution by the end of the week. Before next weekend’s basketball game,” she emphasized.

  Concordia followed the students out of the auditorium, switching off the electric lights as she went, and locking the side door they had come through.

  The evening, though clear, was cool. Even in April, the ground quickly returned to its late-winter chill after sunset. Concordia could see her breath. She shivered, and picked up her pace.

  She wanted to stop at the infirmary to check on Sophia, who, a week now after the attack, had not yet regained consciousness. At least she had not developed a fever from her exposure; the doctor was of the opinion that she hadn’t been outside for long.

  Concordia hoped the policeman was making progress. She hadn’t spoken to either the detective or Mr. Bradley since the day of the incident, although she’d heard that Mr. Bradley had at last gone to Boston. He must have been able to finally allay the policeman’s suspicions. The notion of Mr. Bradley attacking Sophia, while holding a bicycle in the pouring rain, was absurd. But the lieutenant struck Concordia as a very thorough man.

  But was Lieutenant Capshaw any closer to answering the questions that had been keeping Concordia awake all week? Who had attacked Sophia? Was she the intended target, or was it Miss Hamilton? And why? Concordia doubted that suffrage activities could spark such a violent response.

  Miss Hamilton as a target made more sense: her quarters had been searched; a knife had been left in her effigy and no one else’s. And yet, this was only the lady principal’s second semester at the school; how could she have made an enemy so quickly?

  And was the assault connected to Miss Lyman’s death? Had Sophia’s attacker actually killed Ruth Lyman, and made it look to be a suicide? But again, why? Sophia and Miss Lyman had never even met.

  Miss Hamilton and Miss Lyman, on the other hand, had worked very closely together on college business. Were administrators being targeted? If the attacker had picked the wrong victim this time, would he try again?

  “Concordia!”

  She jumped as a tall, lean figure emerged from the shadowy path to her right. It was Julian Reynolds. He had an uncanny ability to catch her unawares. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Mr. Reynolds, hello,” she said weakly.

  “’Mr. Reynolds?’ I thought we were better friends than that,” he said, capturing her hand and drawing closer. “You must call me Julian. We are more than mere acquaintances, are we not?” He smiled down at her, and stray lock of his sand-blond hair fell across his brow. Concordia resisted the sudden impulse to smooth it back.

  “Ye-es, of course—Julian. But whatever are you doing here?” It was nearly the students’ bedtime hour.

  “Our beloved Literature Club,” he answered. “Those girls are certainly avid readers! We talk about all sorts of things, besides books. They are quite the gossips.”

  Concordia laughed. “You are only just discovering this?”

  He grinned. “Actually, no. When I taught Miss Banning’s classes, I found that to be the case as well. You ladies are not good at keeping secrets.”

  Concordia bristled at such a remark, but decided to let it pass. “I really must go. I want to visit Sophia before retiring.”

  “You shouldn’t walk alone on campus at night.” Reynolds frowned. “I’ll accompany you.”

  Concordia was about to protest that she could take care of herself, but recent events made her hesitate, and take his proffered arm.

  “Did you like the rose?” Reynolds asked as they walked.

  “It was lovely—Julian. But you cannot leave such tokens and ardent notes out for all to see—and read. It could compromise my reputation. You don’t want that, do you?”


  “Of course not!” Reynolds paused and made a mock gallant bow. “You have but to say the word, m’lady. I shall restrain myself in the future.”

  Concordia smiled to herself. He was quite charming.

  The private duty nurse was with Sophia when they arrived. She stood up from the bedside and handed them the visitors’ log sheet to sign. Sophia was looking much better, her breathing more regular.

  “Her eyelids have been fluttering,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Dr. Musgrave is hopeful that she may eventually become conscious.”

  “Wonderful,” Concordia breathed, sitting beside her bed.

  “You cannot stay very long,” the nurse reminded her.

  All too soon, they had to leave. Julian walked her back to Willow Cottage. The night air was chillier still. Her light wrap offered little warmth, and her teeth chattered despite herself. Julian shrugged off his coat and put it around her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she blushed. The garment smelled of an exotic cologne she could not identify, but it was pleasant. She smiled up at him, but he was looking away, his thoughts elsewhere.

  They walked along in silence for a while, with only the sounds of their boot heels along the pavement audible in the stillness.

  “That man—Bradley—have you known him long?” Julian asked abruptly.

  “No.” Concordia was puzzled by the question. There was more silence, until they had reached the porch of Willow Cottage.

  “How do you know him, if I may ask?” Julian persisted.

  Concordia wasn’t sure she liked his tone. He sounded jealous, and proprietary.

  “You may ask,” she replied tartly, “but I’m not sure I care to answer.” She handed back his jacket. “Thank you. Good night.” She put her hand to the latch.

  What happened next took her by surprise. In a moment, she found herself gathered in his arms. She gave an alarmed squeak as he lowered his face toward hers. Then he kissed her.

  She involuntarily relaxed. What was she doing? Part of her mind frantically protested the kiss; the other part, what the minister called the “Eve” of a woman’s nature, had almost expected it, and found it quite agreeable. Had she not been waiting for this, since the time he surprised her in the back room of his house?