Dangerous and Unseemly

by K. B. Owen

  Exactly what Concordia thought, too. She checked her watch. Time to go back for more grading, anyway. She waved to Miss Hamilton, who was still looking thoughtfully at the shoe.

  Chapter 46

  Week 17, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  Such welcome and unwelcome things at once

  ‘Tis hard to reconcile.

  IV.iii

  The tall windows of the auditorium illuminated the stage with an over-enthusiastic brightness. The glare hit King Duncan square in the face. The king squinted and held up a hand to shield her eyes.

  “Miss Pomeroy, could you please draw the shades?” Concordia called over her shoulder. She had finally wedged the stiff, leather scabbard into position so she could secure the belt to it. She didn’t want to let go now, dash it, or she would have to fuss with it all over again.

  Miss Pomeroy, crouched at the hem of a student’s costume, sighed, brushed straggling wisps of hair from her round face, and awkwardly got to her feet. Concordia offered an apologetic grimace from across the room. It seemed that there were never enough hands. Thank goodness the performance was tomorrow night.

  Miss Pomeroy pulled on the stiff chain of the window blind, grunting with the effort. It wouldn’t budge. Concordia abandoned the scabbard and went over to help, but even between the two of them, the rusty spring refused to yield.

  “Ladies, allow me?” a voice offered.

  Concordia turned, startled, to find Dean Langdon nearly at her elbow. The man was as quiet as a cat for someone so large. She nodded and stepped back.

  He reached above the window frame—at least, as far as his hefty middle would allow—and yanked. It was an exertion even for Langdon, as he tugged on the chain and growled an ungentlemanly oath under his breath.

  Concordia frowned.

  She and Miss Hamilton had heard that same muttered invective in the stairwell of Founder’s Hall.

  So—Dean Langdon was their intruder, just as the lady principal had suspected! But why had he been there?

  Langdon, still occupied with the shade, took no notice of Concordia. With a final screech of protesting old gears, the blind rolled down. He heaved a sigh of manly satisfaction, brushed off his hands, and made his way to the seats to observe the dress rehearsal.

  Several teachers came in and seated themselves as well, along with Miss Hamilton.

  Now was her chance. Concordia turned to Miss Pomeroy. “Would you mind terribly getting the remaining students into their costumes? I need to speak with Miss Hamilton. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Nodding, the ever-patient Miss Pomeroy shepherded the stragglers backstage to dress. Concordia caught Miss Hamilton’s eye—not difficult to do, as the sharp-eyed lady principal missed little—and gestured toward the wing.

  The wing was empty and, with their voices lowered, relatively private.

  “Miss Hamilton, I realize this is a bit unorthodox, but I have a favor to ask of you,” Concordia began, when they had found a secluded corner. “I need to make a substitution.”

  Miss Hamilton listened intently as Concordia explained what she wanted to do, and why.

  “Hail, King of Scotland!”

  The dress rehearsal was coming to a close as the new king was crowned. Only a few difficulties had arisen. Lady Macbeth still had a tendency to giggle during her sleep-walking scene, and Macduff’s sword kept catching in its scabbard during the fight scenes. But tomorrow, they would be ready.

  The seniors, flushed and pleased, accepted Miss Hamilton’s and Dean Langdon’s praises before heading to the storeroom with their costumes. Concordia asked why the president had not attended the dress rehearsal.

  “It’s a long-held tradition,” Miss Pomeroy had explained. “Years ago, one of the senior classes had insisted that the president see only their finished product, and it has been that way ever since. The senior play is a source of great pride to them.”

  The spectators made their way out, a few giving Concordia superfluous, contradictory advice. Concordia thanked them—through clenched teeth—and privately wished them gone. Soon only the dean and lady principal remained behind, absorbed in murmured conversation, as Concordia closed windows.

  A rhythmic thump-bump, thump-bump, punctuated by wheezing, and then a garbled yell, disturbed the quiet. Alarmed, they all turned to see Margaret Banning lumber into the room, brandishing a worn leather-bound book.

  “I found it, heh, heh!” she cried, gesturing excitedly, cane poking madly through the air in their direction, “right under your young noses! Missed it, did you? A sad want of common sense, I’d say, missy,” she finished, wagging the book lastly at Concordia, who stared, open-mouthed.

  Without a word, Miss Hamilton, after a quick glance outside, firmly closed the auditorium doors.

  “A bit more quietly if you would, Margaret. May I?” She reached for the volume in the old lady’s hand.

  Reluctantly, Miss Banning relinquished her treasure. Dean Langdon helped ease her into a chair, although she promptly waved him off after she was seated.

  “I’m not incapacitated yet, Edward!” she snapped.

  Dean Langdon gave Concordia a sidelong smile as he retreated to a safe distance.

  Miss Hamilton had put on her spectacles and was thumbing through the pages. She looked over at Miss Banning.

  “I congratulate you. It is indeed the ledger I have been looking for. Wherever did you find it?”

  “Where I knew it would be, of course.” Miss Banning’s voice, although quavering with age, held a bit of a gloat. “In my office.”

  Concordia saw Miss Hamilton start in surprise, but she recovered quickly.

  “Of course. What better place for concealment than an unoccupied office?” the lady principal thought aloud.

  Dean Langdon interrupted.

  “Would someone show me the almighty kindness of explaining why this—this—ledger—is so important, and who has hidden it in Miss Banning’s office? I have a right to know what is going on here!” The dean’s face was quite red.

  “Of course, Edward,” Miss Hamilton said soothingly, as though addressing a fractious child, “but do calm down.”

  Through her large bottle-glass spectacles, Miss Banning was watching the interchange with barely suppressed glee. Leaning heavily on her cane, she rose stiffly.

  “Humph. I doubt, Edward, that you are as ignorant of the goings-on here as you say. Pretend if you like, but don’t have a conniption fit about it.” She turned to Miss Hamilton. “As for you, this is not some clever little puzzle to challenge your Pinkerton wits. ‘There is a time when even justice brings harm.’ You should read your Sophocles.”

  And with that parting shot, she thumped and wheezed her way out of the room.

  It was a long moment before anyone spoke. Dean Langdon looked in shock at Miss Hamilton. She returned his stare calmly, although her fingers were clenched around the volume, knuckles white.

  Concordia looked from one to the other, waiting.

  Langdon finally broke the silence. “I never imagined that you were a—did she say ‘Pinkerton’? You are a detective? How can that be?”

  Miss Hamilton gave a sigh. “It’s true. I was sent here to find proof of who has stolen funds from the college. I was able to investigate without hindrance, for a while at least, until Miss Wells discovered my secret”—this said with a sharp glance in Concordia’s direction—“and after that, I thought it worth the risk to take Miss Banning into my confidence. She knows every nook and cranny of this institution.” She sighed. “I will have to impress upon her again the necessity of maintaining my confidence. I would also ask you, Edward, to keep this private. Only the three of you know who I am.”

  Dean Langdon nodded, still a little dazed. “Extraordinary. I never would have thought—”

  Concordia broke in. “But Mr. Langdon, when you saw Miss Hamilton go into the Hall late that night, why did you follow her? You suspected she was in some way involved in the incidents, did you not?”

  Langdon gave
Concordia a puzzled look. “How did you—?” Abandoning the question, he continued, “I knew something was amiss, although I could not work out precisely what.” He turned to Miss Hamilton. “I imagine you were looking for that?” He gestured toward the ledger.

  Miss Hamilton nodded. “After the fire in my office, it was even more urgent that I find it, before it was destroyed.”

  “I had the impression a second person was in the Hall the night I followed you,” Langdon said.

  Miss Hamilton convulsed in laughter. Concordia flushed and looked at the floor.

  “Our activity had drawn Miss Wells to the Hall,” Miss Hamilton, said, in between gasps. “It was quite a lively evening.”

  Dean Langdon looked at Concordia, then back at Miss Hamilton. A small smile tugged at his mouth, and he chuckled.

  “Land sakes, then, why didn’t we sell tickets? We were practically a vaudeville act.”

  Concordia couldn’t help but smile. The image of the three of them that night did seem absurd: separately prowling the halls, playing cat-and-mouse in the dark, each ignorant of the identity or intentions of the others.

  But some questions about the dean’s behavior still troubled her.

  “Why did you search Miss Hamilton’s private study?” Concordia asked abruptly, as the laughter died down. “Did you perhaps set fire to her office as well?”

  Miss Hamilton frowned. Was she annoyed by the blunt accusation, or had that also occurred to her?

  “No! I would never cause her harm!” Langdon protested. “But—yes, I did search her study,” he grudgingly admitted. “I wanted to know what she was doing. I followed her to the Hall that night for the same reason.”

  Langdon continued, turning to the lady principal. “I was convinced that someone had involved you in something sordid. I was trying to discover who. I wanted to protect you.”

  “I can look after myself quite well, thank you,” Miss Hamilton said frostily. She opened the book. “But I am curious about who you thought was corrupting me. These entries, here—and these false entries, here,” she said, pointing to different pages, “are each in Bursar Lyman’s hand.” She continued scanning several pages in silence.

  “She also uses initials, A.R.—Arthur Richter—for several payouts on one side of the ledger,” Miss Hamilton mused aloud, “and numerous vendors listed here that I don’t recognize. I’ll have to check the official books against this one.”

  “How will you do so without President Richter finding out?” Concordia said.

  Miss Hamilton gave a small smile. “I’ll manage.”

  “How did Miss Lyman’s secret ledger come to be hidden in Miss Banning’s office?” Dean Langdon asked.

  “I can imagine two possibilities: either the bursar herself hid it from her accomplice—let’s be blunt here, I believe that person to be President Richter—or, Richter found the ledger after Miss Lyman’s death, and hid it in Margaret Banning’s office. Either way, it was the perfect hiding place. It never occurred to me to look for it there, and I’ve been hunting for months. And if Richter indeed was the one who hid it there, I can only imagine that he anticipated his office would be searched. That suggests there is another confederate in this scheme that he was hiding it from.”

  Concordia listened with a strange feeling of detachment. Why was she not shocked by Arthur Richter being a crook? Too many things were happening at once. She needed time to think.

  But first, she had another question for the dean. “I overheard part of your argument with President Richter the night of the fire,” Concordia said. “Were you accusing him of misappropriating funds?”

  Miss Hamilton looked surprised. Langdon flushed.

  “We did, indeed, have words that night,” he admitted. “I was trying to warn him to stop, without bluntly saying so. I long suspected that college accounts were being misused, but I couldn’t be sure if Arthur was to blame. Several people, including the bursar and myself, have had a hand in directing the different accounts payable over the last few years. The accounts became horribly muddled when the college’s investments lost money during the crash of ’93, and we were forced to shift funds quickly from one place to another in order to cover our immediate expenses. No one kept a careful accounting during that period. The bursar claimed that she tried, but obviously she was lying to us.”

  “But during that conversation, President Richter accused you of something as well, Mr. Langdon,” Concordia persisted.

  The dean flushed. “Arthur saw me coming out of DeLacey House, after I had searched Miss Hamilton’s study. When she reported the incident to him, he put it all together. He then suspected me of having searched his office, too, and leaving the threatening note. Which I did not do,” Langdon said vehemently.

  He hesitated, as if about to say something else.

  “What is it, Edward?” Miss Hamilton prompted.

  “It was the fire that worried me exceedingly,” he continued. “That was the real reason I confronted him that night. Lord help me, I have wondered if he was somehow involved in that. That was also why I raised the topic of the fire so –prominently—during the dance supper. I was hoping to spur a reaction from him.”

  Miss Hamilton looked startled. “Arthur Richter! Involved in the fire? Whyever would you suspect him?”

  Langdon rubbed the back of his neck in distraction. “He did not attend the basketball game until much later, and then he seemed quite agitated. It was only a short time after he arrived that we all heard the fire bell.”

  Chapter 47

  Week 17, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  “Here, this may help,” a soothing voice said.

  Concordia, lost in thought, looked up to see Mr. Bradley holding the cup of tea that she had ordered. She gave him a wan smile as she took it.

  “Do you work for Mrs. Gilly now?” she teased half-heartedly.

  He smiled and sat down. “She has her hands full with patrons inside the shop. I thought I’d expedite things.”

  At Mr. Bradley’s insistence, they had gone to the Canton Tea Shop, several blocks from Hartford Women’s College. “You need to get away from the school for a little while,” he had told her.

  With so much still to do, Concordia had resisted at first, but now she was glad she had given in. She hadn’t been here in years. The shop offered a vast array of teas from around the world, and Mrs. Gilly, the proprietress, baked the most divine lemon tarts she had ever tasted. The tea shop was especially pleasant this time of year, when one could sit outside beneath the brightly-striped awning, as they were doing now, and watch passersby.

  They drank their tea in appreciative silence, Mr. Bradley casting frequent glances her way.

  Concordia felt some of the tension draining away. He looked on, nodding in approval.

  “Much better. You were looking rather pale,” he said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Concordia hesitated. She had to be careful not to give away Miss Hamilton’s identity.

  “Mr. Bradley, I don’t know where to begin. There is so much happening.”

  He leaned forward. “You can begin by calling me David. That’s so much better, don’t you think? Easier to confide in someone named ‘David.’ I’ve had considerable experience with the name—I know what I’m talking about.”

  A laugh bubbled out of Concordia. He certainly knew how to raise her spirits.

  He gave her time, gazing idly around him.

  Finally, she dropped her voice and leaned closer. “A ledger has been found, hidden in Miss Banning’s office.”

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Not hidden by Miss Banning, I gather?”

  Concordia rolled her eyes. “Do be serious, David!”

  He smiled to himself.

  “How is this ledger significant?” he asked.

  “Miss Hamilton says that it reveals the individuals behind the misappropriation of college funds.”

  “Did she tell you who they were?” David asked.

  Concordia hesitated. �
�I cannot say.”

  To her surprise, he did not push the question. Perhaps he had already guessed. “What happens now?”

  “Miss Hamilton is checking further, gathering more proof. Apparently she doesn’t believe that the ledger alone is sufficient evidence. It won’t be long, though, before she will present the information to the board of trustees.”

  “Should not President Richter fill that role? After all, he has been at the college much longer. He would have more credibility with the board. He’s also a man,” he added, as an afterthought.

  Concordia frowned. Why did gentlemen so readily believe that they were the only persons capable of understanding financial matters? How did a pair of trousers imbue one with worldly experience? She would dearly love to argue the point, but she could not tell him that President Richter was one of the guilty party, and that Miss Hamilton, as an investigating detective, carried far more credibility than any of the male administrators.

  There was a long silence. Concordia heard rustling sounds behind her; birds often foraged for pastry crumbs along the open windowsill.

  “That is something that’s already been arranged,” she finally answered.

  “But it is not the ledger that troubles you,” David challenged.

  She was silent for a few moments, twisting her napkin in her lap.

  “You’re right. It is something else altogether,” she said finally. “Dean Langdon believes that President Richter may have had something to do with the fire.”

  David shook his head in disbelief. “Surely not!”

  “Well, according to Mr. Langdon, the president didn’t arrive at the senior-junior basketball game that day until quite late. The fire bell sounded shortly thereafter, he said.”

  “He could be mistaken,” David said dismissively.

  “Perhaps,” Concordia acknowledged. Tears started down her face. “But don’t you see? Even if President Richter did not set the fire, he had to have been outside the gymnasium building when we were all shouting for help; he may have been outside even while I was scrambling down the vines. How could he not see, or hear, any of that? Founder’s Hall sits atop a hill, clearly visible from the gymnasium. Why did he not help? He and my father were close friends. I used to adore him as a child.”