by K. B. Owen
“What about Henry?” Concordia asked. “Did he know there was a chance to save his wife?”
The doctor looked down at his shoes in silence.
Concordia remembered what Annie had told her about that final meeting, when Dr. Samuels had stormed out in anger. All of them had been there. Henry too.
She blinked back the hot tears that stung her eyes. “You have much to answer for. All of you,” she said, through clenched teeth.
She was interrupted by another knock on the door.
“Miss Wells, are you in there?” a high-pitched voice asked.
Concordia opened the door to a flushed and exuberant Miss Pomeroy. “Ooh, Miss Wells, we have been looking for you! You must come! The play is a rousing success!”
Concordia attempted a smile, then gestured behind her. “Judge Armstrong has taken ill. Can you call for his carriage, Miss Pomeroy? I will be right with you.”
After Miss Pomeroy left, Concordia touched Nathaniel Young’s shoulder. “Are you well enough to make sure that they return to the Armstrong house—and stay there for the time being?”
The man’s composure was returning. He nodded. “Yes. I can manage.”
Concordia turned to look once more at Judge Armstrong.
“I must consider what I will do—what Mary would want of me.”
With that, Concordia turned on her heel and walked out.
Chapter 49
Week 17, Instructor Calendar, May 1896
The night is long that never finds the day.
IV.iii
“Sophie, you were wonderful!”
Sophia grinned. “I was a bit nervous, I must say. Fortunately, I didn’t have any lines.” She resumed rubbing the last of the stage paint from her neck with a piece of old flannel. “And Miss Pomeroy outdid herself in making me look ghastly.”
The two had slipped away from the cast party and were settled in front of a cozy parlor fire in DeLacey House, where Sophia had a guest room for the night. She would return to the settlement house, and her charity work, tomorrow.
“You should have nothing more to fear from Judge Armstrong, now that the truth has been exposed,” Concordia said. She had already recounted to Sophia what had happened after her stage exit.
“But Concordia, there is something that I don’t understand,” Sophia said.
Concordia suddenly stood up and went over to the parlor door, looking at Sophia and putting her finger to her lips. Eyes wide, Sophia remained quiet, waiting.
Carefully, Concordia opened the parlor door and peered into the hallway. Empty. The air felt damp out here, but that was all. Shaking her head, she closed the door and returned to the fire.
“What was it?” Sophia asked.
“Nothing. My nerves must be on edge. I thought I had heard someone in the hallway.” Concordia took off her glasses and wearily rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Sophie—what were you saying?”
“I was about to say that I cannot understand why Judge Armstrong would want to harm me. How could he know that I understood the true nature of Mary’s illness? Although my memory is still hazy, I’m certain that I would not be foolish enough to tell him what I knew without proof.”
Concordia had wondered about this, too, but then had remembered something about the day of the rally.
“I think I can guess. During the post-rally reception, you spoke with Miss Hamilton about forming a junior suffrage league, and you said”—Concordia closed her eyes, and quoted, “’Women are being exploited every day; their health and even their reason are suffering as a result.’ The judge heard you. He looked quite startled, in fact.”
Sophia sighed. “I wish I could remember. But even so, that doesn’t seem sufficient reason to assume I knew about Mary.”
“I think we should keep in mind that this is a man for whom power and status are all,” Concordia said. “Such a secret, once revealed, would create a dreadful scandal. It would ruin all that he holds dear. His beloved son is dying from the same disease that killed Mary. The stress of it seems to have unbalanced him, so that even such an innocuous comment could have prompted him to violence. He obviously feared what you knew. ”
Sophia shook her head. “So what do we do now?”
Concordia stared at the fire. There is a time when even justice brings harm. Miss Banning’s warning rung in her ears.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know,” she murmured.
Concordia was still thinking over the question as she hurried back to Willow Cottage. A storm had been threatening all evening, and now the wind and rain had begun in earnest. The campus grounds were empty of students and visitors so long after midnight. Concordia wished that she had not stayed out late talking.
With her rain hood over her head, and bent over against the gusting rain, she nearly missed it: off to her left, a flickering glow. She stopped. It was coming from the bell tower, its door ajar.
Concordia frowned. No one should be in there at this hour. She and the cast had agreed that it was too late tonight, and they all were too tired, to put away the props that would be stored there. That task was left for later. She hesitated, preferring the comfort of her bed, but redirected her steps to investigate.
The lantern, still lit but sputtering, was lying on its side as she pulled the door wider. Concordia picked it up and the flame sprang back to life. She pushed straggling wet strands of hair from her face to look at it closely. Its glass was cracked—had someone dropped it where it lay, or had it somehow been knocked over?
She held the lantern over her head, trying to see up the narrow, winding stairs of the tower. The light could not penetrate very far into the blackness. Reluctantly, she picked up her already-sodden skirts and proceeded to climb.
The space within the staircase had the distinct chill of damp stone. Concordia once again experienced the uncomfortable sensation of walls closing around her, as if she were being enclosed in a tomb. She shivered. She could hear the rain, falling more heavily now, beating against the outer walls of the tower. Still she climbed, carefully stepping over the crumbling stair that she and Miss Crandall had found when they had last visited the tower; past the storeroom, which she briefly checked—no one in there; past the lookout window halfway up the stairs—no one out-of-doors; then, up to the belfry, whose bell had been taken down long ago, where she stopped to catch her breath. She was nearly to the top of the tower. She had seen no one. She felt on a fool’s errand; who would come up here without the lantern? Yet something felt wrong. She would check the open parapet at the top, just to be thorough. But she needed to rest a moment; her legs felt like lead.
Concordia set the lantern on the floor and wearily propped herself on a low beam, sitting as far from the belfry’s open sides as she could; the rain was blowing in with steady force now. Her gaze idly followed the beam of light cast by the lantern on the floor.
She saw a foot.
Her heart in her mouth, she grabbed the lantern and rushed over to find a figure in a heap behind the gear apparatus. The lamp sputtered—drat!—its kerosene running low. She held it over the form.
President Richter stared back at Concordia, hands clenched around a red lacquer knife hilt protruding from his chest.
The lantern flared briefly, and went out.
The scream ringing in Concordia’s ears seemed to come from a voice other than her own. She flung herself headlong down the twisting stairs, stumbling on her skirts, scraping her hands as she caught herself on the walls to keep from falling, finally making it to the front door, and out.
And into the arms of a startled Nathaniel Young, who caught her as she staggered.
“Concordia! Was that you screaming?”
“Oh, Nathaniel, you must help me!” Concordia gasped. “I just…it’s President Richter…he’s….” She gulped down a sob.
“Steady there,” he said, rubbing her shoulders as she gave an involuntary shudder. The rain was drenching them both.
“We need help—and lamps,” Conc
ordia said, pulling herself away from his grip. “I fear he’s—he’s dead, but my lantern went out before I could be sure.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Why—are you here?”
Nathaniel Young looked grim. “I just came from the Armstrongs. It’s Henry. He’s dead, Concordia.”
The second shock was too much for her, and he just had time to catch her as she fainted.
Chapter 50
Week 18, Instructor Calendar, June 1896
I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun,
And wish th’ estate o’ the world were now undone.
V.v
The blackness thinned. She heard voices, one raised sharply, others a murmur.
Where was she?
She felt a drowsy warmth, and would have drifted asleep if not for the uncomfortably hard plank she seemed to be lying upon. She turned and banged her head. It was a pew.
“Ow,” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her forehead. An overcoat slid to the floor.
Everything looked blurry.
Oh. She groped for her spectacles, finally finding them tucked in her skirt pocket, and put them on. Much better.
The rain had cleared, and the weak light of early dawn was just starting to touch the windows. But what was she doing in the chapel?
Then it came back to her. The tower. President Richter.
Concordia!” Julian Reynolds exclaimed. He hurried over. Nathaniel Young and a policeman, standing in the nave, turned. Concordia recognized the gaunt form and bright red hair of her old friend Lieutenant Capshaw.
“Thank goodness,” Julian breathed, taking her hand and sitting beside her. “I was so worried about you. How do you feel?”
“I’m still a bit light in the head,” Concordia answered, giving him a wan smile, “but I’ll be all right. What are you doing here?”
Before Julian could answer, Lieutenant Capshaw approached them.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, miss.”
She looked up at the policeman. “President Richter is—dead?”
The lieutenant nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Concordia shuddered. So the president had not fled.
Julian put a protective arm around her shoulders.
Capshaw reached for the water pitcher and glass that had been provided. “Here, miss, drink this—you’ll feel better.”
“Now,” Capshaw said, when she handed back the empty glass, “I have some questions for you, Miss Wells, as you might imagine.” Did he sound faintly disapproving, or was it merely her imagination?
Concordia looked over to where Nathaniel Young was standing and watching. “May I speak with Mr. Young first? It will take me only a moment.”
“After my questions, please,” Capshaw said firmly.
Concordia did not have the strength to argue. “Very well, lieutenant.” She sat up straighter and smoothed her skirt.
“What brought you to the tower? What time was it?”
She hesitated. “It was absurdly late, I remember. I’m not certain of the exact time. Two this morning? Three? Miss Adams and I were talking into the late hours, and then I left her at DeLacey House—”
“Miss Adams?” he interrupted, startled. “She is awake? Why was I not informed of this?”
“Oh!” Concordia had forgotten about their little deception. “It was…recent. There has been so much going on. I’m sorry, lieutenant,” she said feebly.
Capshaw gave her a stern look. “We will discuss the matter at length later. In the meantime, continue with your story, please.”
“Let me see…oh yes. As I was walking home, I noticed a light coming from the tower. The door was open. I thought it was odd, so I crossed the quadrangle to see what was going on.”
“You went to see what was going on,” Lieutenant Capshaw echoed. He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Miss Wells. I have dealt with a fair number of young ladies in my years with the city, but never have I encountered one with such insatiable curiosity, or an aptitude for discovering trouble. You placed yourself in a dangerous position, miss, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Julian, sitting next to Concordia on the pew, patted her hand. “You see, my dear? You take too much upon yourself. It would have been more prudent to get help.”
Concordia gave an unbecoming snort. “You would have me awaken Mr. Langdon, perhaps, in the wee morning hours because of an overturned lantern? Sometimes expediency must supersede prudence. Had I not investigated, who knows how much longer President Richter would have lay there, his whereabouts unknown.”
She turned to the policeman. “Except for the parapet above the belfry, I climbed the entire staircase, lieutenant. I can tell you for certain that no one else was there.”
“Anything else?” Capshaw asked.
Concordia thought. “Well—the knife. I only caught a glimpse of it before my lantern went out, but I believe I’ve seen it before.”
“Where, Miss Wells?”
“In the store room of the tower. Amid the props. We were going to use it for our play, but I deemed it too sharp to be handled safely, so we used another dagger instead.”
Capshaw made a tsk, tsk noise of disapproval under his breath. “How many daggers does one find lying about a ladies’ college?” he asked of no one in particular. “Never mind. So, Miss Wells, you believe that the murderer retrieved the weapon from the store room first, in preparation for murdering President Richter?”
“How would I know that?” Concordia snapped, her mind reeling. That could not be the correct conclusion to draw, for Miss Crandall was the only other person besides Concordia who had known of the red-handled dagger. The idea that Charlotte Crandall could be mixed up in the murder was ludicrous.
“I could be wrong, Lieutenant. The knife I’m thinking of has a circle of rhinestones around the base of the handle.”
Lieutenant Capshaw scribbled a note on his paper. “Very well, miss. Not to be indelicate, but there was a great deal of blood around the hilt, so I did not see any stones. I will take a close look at the knife at my next opportunity.”
He beckoned to Nathaniel, who drew closer to the group. “Mr. Young, you say that you heard Miss Wells scream?”
“I did not know who it was at the time, but, yes, I was on the grounds, heading to Willow Cottage, when I heard a lady scream,” Nathaniel said. “I ran to the tower, and had just reached it when Miss Wells burst through the door.”
Capshaw was murmuring to himself as he wrote. “I’ll never understand college people. Walking about in the rain; clambering out of windows; out in the wee hours, when decent people are in bed….”
He finished his notes, and looked intently at Young. “Why were you visiting Willow Cottage so late, Mr. Young? It seems a curious hour to pay a call upon a young lady.”
Nathaniel flushed an angry red.
“I had an urgent family matter to discuss with Miss Wells,” he answered curtly.
“And the nature of that ‘urgent family matter’, if I may ask, Mr. Young?”
“No, you may not ask, sir.”
They were interrupted by sounds of a horse’s hooves outside and the jingling of a harness.
“What on earth…?” Concordia said. Horses didn’t typically come trotting up to the chapel.
Capshaw walked over to a window and looked out. “I will have more questions for you later. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and abruptly left.
Puzzled, Concordia went to one of the side windows. Outside, a horse and dray had pulled up to the tower. The dean and lady principal were outside, talking with Lieutenant Capshaw. They looked expectantly at the tower door, as two uniformed men emerged, carrying a heavily-shrouded form. Concordia turned away.
“They’ve come for President Richter,” was all she could manage to say.
Nathaniel and Julian stayed with Concordia throughout the morning, until Capshaw had no more need of her. Once at the door of Willow Cottage, however, Nathaniel sent the hovering Julian on his way.
“Thanks, Reyno
lds, dear fellow, but Concordia and I have family matters to discuss. I’m sure you have affairs of your own to attend to. Good-bye.”
Concordia suppressed a laugh at the look on Julian’s face as Nathaniel closed the door on him. “I wish I could manage that,” she said. But she felt sorry for him, too. After all, Julian had only wanted to help.
“I don’t doubt it,” he answered. “He’s an agreeable fellow, and certainly useful in an emergency, but he can be most persistent.”
“What was Julian doing at the chapel to begin with? Was this last night?” she asked.
Nathaniel pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I did think it odd. After you fainted, I carried you to the closest shelter from the rain—the chapel—and when I went back out to get help, I found him standing there, just outside the door. He said that he was bunking in Sycamore House after the play, and noticed a light through his window. Apparently he was concerned that something was amiss.”
“Hmm.” Concordia didn’t know what to think of that.
“Actually, it was providential that he was on hand,” Nathaniel said. “I didn’t want to leave you alone to get help, so he offered to stay with you, and also to keep an eye on the tower entrance, in case…” his voice trailed off. Would the murderer really have returned to the scene of the crime, as they did in the mystery stories?
Concordia suppressed a yawn.
Nathaniel steered her into the parlor and sat her down on the chaise. “I’m going to get your housekeeper to fix us some good strong tea before you fall asleep on your feet. We have to talk.”
But the ever sharp-eyed Ruby had already put the kettle on the stove, and proceeded to fuss over them both until they were settled comfortably in the parlor with their tea. She left them to talk in private, closing the door quietly behind her.