by K. B. Owen
President Richter frowned in irritation. “For the moment, the attack upon Miss Adams is largely unknown, and I have prevailed upon the fire chief to keep the circumstances behind the fire confidential. We are allowing the public to believe that it was an unfortunate accident. It is our best course of action for the time being. And we certainly can’t be held responsible for the unfortunate actions of an unbalanced woman who took her own life.”
Mention of Miss Lyman’s death sent prickles along Concordia’s spine. She remembered her own doubts about the suicide, at the rally and just after Sophia’s attack. Was there a deranged person on the loose at the college?
But if so, it was not a madman one could easily identify. Such a person would have to deliberately make Ruth Lyman’s death look like a suicide as he dumped her in the frigid water; stalk a young woman in the rain to inflict what was meant to be a mortal blow to the head; select Miss Hamilton’s office out of all others to hide in and then set fire to. While Concordia could not make head nor tail of the connections, she knew there was an intelligence here, wickedness rather than insanity.
Time was working against them. They needed answers, and quickly.
The meeting ended soon after, as the day had been an exhausting one. One of the last to leave, Concordia lingered. She hoped to ask Miss Jenkins how Sophia was recovering. She could see the white hair and trim figure of Hannah Jenkins, in close conversation with Miss Pomeroy, on the far side of the room. Should she interrupt? Judging by the older woman’s gestures and the quick, excited lilt to her voice, the high points of the basketball game must be their topic of conversation. They could be quite a while.
Giving up, Concordia left by a side door. The garden of Sycamore House would put her on the path directly to the cottages.
As she passed the gazebo, she overheard the angry voices of Edward Langdon and Arthur Richter. They had obviously not noticed her through the lattice enclosure. Concordia shamelessly stepped behind a shrub to listen.
“I know what you have been doing, and I will make sure you regret it. You are threatening the security of this college.” It was Richter’s voice, shaking with rage and betrayal.
Langdon was equally furious. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur—I have only the well-being of this college at heart. Can you say the same?”
The hoot of an owl stopped their conversation, and Concordia slipped away before they could discover her.
Chapter 34
Week 13, Instructor Calendar, April 1896
After chapel services the next morning, Concordia had time to visit Sophia before she and Mr. Bradley were to meet for their picnic.
It was the perfect day for an outing. She passed clusters of students, sprawled casually upon the grassy areas, basking in the sunshine. Several were accompanied by gentleman friends, who were permitted to visit on Sunday afternoons. Concordia caught snatches of light-hearted conversation about the basketball game, the upcoming dance, the senior play. The fire of the day before was no match for spring fever.
Many girls waved to her as she passed by. Concordia forced a small smile as she waved back. She was not accustomed to being so popular. The price of swinging out of windows? Mercy! They wouldn’t catch her giving a repeat performance any time soon.
The argument she had overheard last night in the garden came back to her as she walked to the infirmary. She had been too exhausted last night to spend any time thinking over the exchange—she didn’t even remember laying her head on the pillow—but now she found it baffling. Why would the president and Dean accuse each other of wrongdoing, in the most bitter of terms? President Richter had used the phrase “what you have been doing”—not “what you have done.” An ongoing sequence of acts?
The infirmary smelled of lemon wax polish. It was dim compared to the dazzling sunshine out-of-doors, and Concordia hesitated in the doorway to adjust her eyes. A welcome sight greeted her: Sophia, sitting up in bed, awake.
“Sophie,” Concordia breathed.
“It happened just this morning. But—she is suffering from gaps in her memory,” the nurse warned.
Sophia did seem bewildered. She looked at Concordia, frowning in concentration. Then her expression cleared. “Concordia.”
“Yes, Sophie! Oh, we have been so worried about you.” She clasped Sophia’s hand.
“Do you remember what happened?” Concordia asked, sitting beside her bed.
Sophia frowned again, and shook her head, gingerly. “No. The nurse and Miss Jenkins have asked me, too, but I can’t remember. They said that I was attacked. Do you know who? Or why?” Her eyes, wide in distress, looked searchingly at Concordia.
Concordia grimaced. “No, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know. None of us knows. But there is a police lieutenant investigating. He will want to talk to you now that you are awake.”
“Only after I say it is advisable,” a firm masculine voice growled. Concordia looked up to see that Dr. Musgrave had arrived.
The doctor swiftly sent Concordia to the outer room so as to make his examination. She wondered if she should leave when Miss Jenkins walked in.
“Ah, Miss Wells, you are just the person I was looking for,” she said. “Let me take a look at your hand.” She pulled Concordia over to a chair in brighter light, and began unwrapping the dressing. “Isn’t it wonderful that Miss Adams is awake?” she asked.
“It’s a relief, yes. Do you think that she will completely regain her memory?”
Miss Jenkins was looking closely at Concordia’s wound, giving a satisfied grunt. “I will apply a fresh bandage today, and then I want you to return every day, for the next several days, to have it changed. After that, we can remove it and allow the abrasions to continue healing in the open air.”
“Miss Jenkins?” Concordia prompted. Was she avoiding the question?
The infirmarian gave her a somber look. “It’s difficult to say. These things take time. And sometimes gaps remain, especially regarding the incident itself.”
“So she may never be able to tell us who attacked her.”
Miss Jenkins sighed, but said nothing. They both knew it was not really a question.
With a promise to return later, Concordia thanked the infirmarian and walked back out into the sunshine.
“How are you feeling?” Mr. Bradley asked Concordia as he helped her get comfortably settled. He was dressed in high picnicking style today, she thought, noting the jaunty straw boater hat he had just set aside. He had eschewed his usual tweeds for a pair of light linen trousers and coat of blue pin-check cotton. She couldn’t help but notice that the effect was quite stylish.
She was also impressed by his picnic preparations. A great deal of thought was obviously put into it: the comfortable site under a pink-blossomed cherry tree, quiet but not isolated; the well-laid linens and plates, cups already poured to brimming with cool lemonade. Much like a side-show magician producing one wonder after another from a seemingly bottomless carpetbag, Mr. Bradley continued to pull more comestibles from a basket. Fruit, muffins, thinly-sliced cucumber sandwiches—cucumbers in April? Has he raided someone’s hot-house?
He passed her a cup. “You had quite an experience, I understand.”
“I thought everyone in Hartford had attended the game and saw my clumsy scale down the wall.” She glanced down at her bandaged hand. “You weren’t there?”
Mr. Bradley shook his head. “Unfortunately, no, although I’m quite impressed.”
Impressed wasn’t the word she would have used, Concordia thought. Unladylike, hoydenish, or impulsive, more likely. Or, to borrow a more polite term of Miss Hamilton’s, indecorous.
“Do the police have any idea who set the fire?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Hmm—no. I think not. The police lieutenant asked us numerous questions yesterday—you remember Lieutenant Capshaw?”
“How could I forget? I seemed to be his principal suspect in the attack on Miss Adams. He kept me for another hour after you left. I
had no idea that delivering a bicycle in the rain constituted nefarious activity.”
“Well then, be grateful that you were not on campus yesterday, or he would have you in shackles already,” Concordia teased. As she reached for a napkin, the cuff of her three-quarter sleeve fell away, exposing more of the scratches beneath.
“May I see?” The sight of her injuries had a sobering effect on him. He reached for her arm, holding it gently. She drew in a shallow breath. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched.
As he dropped his head to look closely at the marks, she noticed the dark hair curling at the back of his neck. She had a sudden, disconcerting urge to comb it with her fingers.
Land sakes, spring fever was affecting her, too.
When he let go, she expelled a breath and tugged on her sleeve.
“Well!” she said brightly, gazing out over the hills, “I’m famished. Shall we try those sandwiches you brought?”
Mr. Bradley had his head in the recesses of the basket already, pulling out squares of wax paper. With a small smile, he wordlessly passed one over.
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the sunshine filtering through the newly-leafed trees and casting a warm glow upon the breeze-rippled grasses below.
Mr. Bradley broke the silence. “How is your friend, Miss Adams?”
“Oh!” Her thoughts had been far away. “Much better, in fact. She was awake this morning, isn’t that wonderful?”
“Really? Does she remember the attack at all?”
She shook her head. “No. That day is a blank.”
“How frustrating. The culprit certainly seems to have luck on his side,” Mr. Bradley said, frowning thoughtfully.
Concordia sucked in her breath. Sophia’s attacker may not be content to rely upon luck much longer. She could still be in danger, especially once it was known that she was awake. Why didn’t any of us think of that before? She would have to talk to Miss Hamilton right away.
“Mr. Bradley, this has been delightful. Unfortunately, I have to go.” Concordia started packing up the napkins from their meal, shaking off crumbs.
“Of course,” he said, standing up, “but there was something that I wanted to ask.”
Concordia paused.
He took a deep breath. “Do you have plans to go to the Spring Dance next week?”
She nodded. “I am required to go, to make sure the students—and their gentlemen friends—behave themselves. Why?”
“What I mean is—would you accompany me to the dance? Unless someone else has asked you,” he amended.
Concordia hesitated. Certainly no one else had asked her. She half-expected Julian to have done so by now. He’d had ample opportunity. Perhaps he was still sulking.
Mr. Bradley, on the other hand, was a man with whom she felt comfortable. Conversation came easily between them. There could be nothing wrong with attending the dance as colleagues and friends.
It might even be fun.
Concordia realized that the silence had been lengthening as Mr. Bradley waited for an answer. “I would be delighted.” She smiled.
With an even wider grin, he swung the blanket and hamper over his arm and accompanied her down the hill. They parted ways at the quadrangle, Mr. Bradley heading for the front gate and Concordia for DeLacey House. She had to find Miss Hamilton.
She had not gotten very far, however, when she encountered Miss Bellini, sitting on a bench at the far side of the quadrangle, smiling at her. Concordia stifled a groan. Miss Bellini had most certainly seen her walking beside Mr. Bradley, with basket and blanket. She would draw the obvious conclusion. There was no avoiding her now.
“Signorina Wells!” Miss Bellini called out, hurrying over to catch up.
“Hello,” Concordia responded faintly. She reluctantly slowed her pace.
Miss Bellini fell into step beside her, black eyes gleaming with interest. “That young man, Mr. Bradley, is it not? He is certainly most agreeable.”
“Yes.” Concordia was not about to encourage the conversation.
“Ah! You must not think me—what is it?—nosy,” Miss Bellini continued, “but in my home country, the villages are small, and we are interested in--happy about--each other’s amores. A college can be very much like a village, can it not?”
Concordia relaxed a little. Miss Bellini was not teasing her or acting with malice, but was expressing a genuine delight over a possible romance. Concordia found herself blushing.
“Really, Miss Bellini, there is no amore between Mr. Bradley and myself. We are simply friends,” she said firmly. This idea needed to be squelched before it developed into a rumor.
But Miss Bellini was not to be thwarted. “A nice suitor should also be a friend, no? Who knows? Perhaps he will ask you to the dance.”
When Concordia flushed an even deeper red, Miss Bellini laughed in delight. “So, he has asked you! And you have accepted, yes? But that is wonderful! Do you have a dress?”
Concordia realized with dismay that she did not own a ball gown; it had not mattered before, when she was planning to stand on the periphery to monitor her students. She had nothing to wear!
Miss Bellini must have recognized the look of panic on Concordia’s face. She patted her arm soothingly.
“Do not worry! I have several gowns. You can look, and borrow one of mine. We are of a similar size, yes? Perhaps a little alteration, and you will be ready!”
Concordia smiled in gratitude. After making plans to visit her later, Concordia made her excuses and hurried away to locate Miss Hamilton.
The lady principal was not at DeLacey House. “I believe she went ta the infir’mry, Miss,” the housemaid told Concordia.
Drat! She had just walked past the infirmary. She had no choice but to double back.
Breathless, she finally reached the infirmary, where Miss Hamilton was in discussion with Miss Jenkins, Sophia, and the private duty nurse. Miss Hamilton looked up as Concordia entered.
“Miss Hamilton, I came to warn you that…I mean…I don’t think Sophia is out of danger,” she blurted out.
“Do sit down and compose yourself, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton said. “We have been discussing that very issue.”
As Concordia pulled Miss Jenkins’ desk chair over to the bed and sat down, Miss Hamilton continued.
“Miss Adams is safe as long as her attacker continues to believe that he is in no danger of being identified. He would not feel secure, however, in believing that Miss Adams, once conscious, would fail to remember the attack upon her, although that is what has happened. Therefore, we must engage in a little charade, and pretend that Miss Adams is still unconscious.”
“Who knows about Miss Adams’ present condition?” Hannah Jenkins asked.
“Besides those of us here, of course, only Dr. Musgrave. I have already spoken with him, and he has agreed that it is a wise precaution.” Miss Hamilton turned to Sophia. “Unfortunately, Miss Adams, this means that we will have to restrict your visitors to those of us already privy to the secret.”
“I’m afraid that we will have to add Mr. Bradley to the list as well, Miss Hamilton,” Concordia said apologetically.
Sophia started. “Do you mean Lawrence Bradley?” she asked.
“No, David Bradley,” Concordia said, puzzled.
“Oh, I see,” Sophia murmured.
“What about the police detective, Miss Hamilton?” Miss Jenkins asked, “Surely we must inform him?”
“I can tell him nothing,” Sophia said wearily. “I do not remember that morning at all. Can we not delay notifying him?”
Miss Hamilton nodded her agreement. “Dr. Musgrave did not want Miss Adams, in her delicate condition, disturbed by persistent questioning. I cannot see that there is anything to be gained by immediately informing the lieutenant. In fact, if the policeman is seen coming to the infirmary, people will assume the very thing we are trying to avoid: that Miss Adams is indeed awake and being questioned.”
Concordia thought of something. “We
are supposing that the attacker knows Sophia survived. What would he have done next? How could he be certain that Sophia was unconscious? I’m wondering if he has not already made sure of her condition after she was brought here.”
Miss Hamilton looked at Concordia with respect. “An excellent point, Miss Wells.” She turned to the infirmarian. Do you have a log of all of Miss Adams’ visitors, Miss Jenkins?”
“Of course.” Miss Jenkins looked over at the nurse, who passed a clipboard to the lady principal.
“Hmm. Miss Adams seems quite popular,” Miss Hamilton commented, handing the log to Concordia.
The log continued on a second sheet of paper. There were no strangers on the list: faculty, a few administrators and students, and members of Sophia’s settlement house. Even Mr. Bradley had visited Sophia this past week. Concordia found that surprising, although she did not know why. She looked at the nurse. “Would someone be able to see Miss Adams without signing the log?”
“Certainly not,” the woman replied, offended.
“Well, perhaps someone paying a professional call,” Miss Jenkins corrected her. “Dr. Musgrave certainly doesn’t sign in.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t count,” the nurse argued. She hesitated a moment. “If you mean absolutely everyone,” she said grudgingly, “there was another doctor who visited Miss Adams that first day.”
“Dr. Westfield, perhaps?” Concordia asked, her voice deliberately neutral.
“Yes, that sounds right,” the nurse nodded. “He said that he was a concerned friend of the family, and wanted to check on Miss Adams’ condition. What is the matter? I kept her under close supervision, as I always do with my patients; I saw nothing untoward,” she said defensively.
“Yes, of course,” Miss Hamilton said soothingly. “Dr. Westfield is one of the college’s trustees. He was more than welcome to visit Miss Adams.”
“His concern does him credit, to be sure,” Concordia responded acidly. Her mind was a whirl of conjecture; what had Dr. Westfield really been up to?