Dangerous and Unseemly

by K. B. Owen

  Young drew a deep breath.

  “It was unforgivable of me to have shocked you so, Concordia. I should never have blurted out the news of Henry’s death.”

  “What happened at the Armstrong house, Nathaniel?” she asked, gripping her cup more tightly. Nothing he could tell her would shock her now.

  “After we left you at the theater last night, I rode in the judge’s carriage, as you know, with the doctor accompanying us, back to the Armstrong house,” he began. “The house was in an uproar when we arrived. Henry had been found dead in the library. The staff was at sixes and sevens, unsure of what to do. It took quite a while to sort everything out.”

  “What caused his death?” she could barely whisper the question, but she had to know.

  Nathaniel seemed lost in his own thoughts, and was staring into the fire. Finally, he spoke. “Henry Armstrong was suffering from a terrible guilt, leading an intolerable existence,” he mused aloud. “I see that, now.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Concordia said firmly.

  He looked at her. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “Henry killed himself, Concordia. He used one of the judge’s pistols and shot himself in the head.”

  The truth was brutal, but not a surprise. She blinked.

  “Thank you, Nathaniel,” she said simply. She stood. “I need to be alone now.”

  Concordia fell into bed soon after, fully clothed, and slept.

  Chapter 51

  Week 18, Instructor Calendar, June 1896

  “You took a considerable chance, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton said, as she and Concordia sat in the drawing room of DeLacey House later that day. News of President Richter’s death had made its way through the college. With final examinations nearly finished, some students had already left campus for the summer, so the ripples of shock over the news would take some time to fully spread.

  Why did everyone keep telling her that she was taking too many risks, Concordia thought wearily. And Miss Hamilton, of all people. “I didn’t consider it dangerous at the time. Last night, it seemed as if we had solved many of the mysteries: the murder of Miss Lyman, the attack on Sophia, the intruder in Founder’s Hall, the search of your rooms, and the prank in the chapel. And you achieved your objective of discovering those responsible for the missing funds.”

  “It is never wise to be overconfident, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton said reprovingly. “I am still not convinced that the scheme was confined to President Richter and the bursar. In fact, there are still a great many things we do not know: who set the fire in Founder’s Hall, or who searched the president’s office and left a threatening note on his door. And now, of course, we have a murder to solve.”

  To Concordia, it seemed like pulling on an inconsequential thread, only to find other threads coming unraveled, until the fabric falls apart. For every answer they found, more questions sprang up to take their place. And now, Richter’s murder superseded them all.

  “We have a murder to solve? Should not the police perform that task?” Concordia asked skeptically.

  “I don’t think they would object to a little help,” Miss Hamilton answered.

  Concordia wasn’t so sure. Lieutenant Capshaw seemed the prickly sort.

  “I grant you that I will need to step carefully,” Miss Hamilton admitted. “Lieutenant Capshaw would not allow me to look through Richter’s belongings, but he did confirm my suspicion that Richter was preparing to flee. All he would tell me was that Richter’s suitcases were packed, and he was carrying a significant amount of cash on his person. I feel as if we are very close to an answer.”

  “Did you tell him about Miss Lyman?” Concordia asked. “That he had most likely murdered her, and made it look like a suicide?”

  The lady principal nodded. “Lieutenant Capshaw merely said he would share my theory with the detective originally in charge of investigating Miss Lyman’s death. But he didn’t seem terribly shocked by the news. Most likely, Richter’s murder automatically calls into question any death on campus.”

  Concordia bit her lip. Perhaps, given Capshaw’s comments about “college people,” he assumes the college is a den of iniquity. It had certainly seemed so lately.

  Miss Hamilton continued. “I must admit that, professionally, it is quite embarrassing to have a murder happen right under one’s nose. Especially when the victim was about to be charged with embezzlement and the possible murder of another! It reflects badly upon me, and other women detectives.”

  “But why women detectives particularly?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Hamilton sighed. “We are under a special sort of scrutiny, by agencies and potential clients. Assignments such as this are rare. It was a bold move on my employer’s part, and it took quite a bit of doing. Most of the time, women in my position are used as mere spies, because we can go places where men cannot. Once we have gathered the needed information, the men take over the case. They do not believe us capable.”

  “But it was not your fault that President Richter was murdered!” Concordia exclaimed. “You accomplished what you were sent here to do. You were not hired to guard Arthur Richter.”

  “Fair or not,” Miss Hamilton said, her hazel eyes narrowing stubbornly, “the only way that I can redeem my professional reputation is to find his murderer.”

  “You shouldn’t do it alone,” Concordia said. “I want to help.” She could not bear the thought of Miss Hamilton facing her employer in disgrace.

  Miss Hamilton shook her head. “I think this is best left to me.”

  “Do you have any ideas about who is responsible?” Concordia asked, deciding not to argue the point for now.

  “It seems reasonable to assume that whoever murdered President Richter was his partner in the embezzlement scheme, and killed him to prevent discovery. The murder could have been provoked by Richter’s plans to leave,” Miss Hamilton said.

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Concordia said. “And some of the earlier incidents, such as the fire and the president’s office being searched, could be explained by the presence of another confederate, besides Miss Lyman. If that person suspected a ledger had been kept, he would have been desperate to obtain it, and searched Richter’s office.”

  “But it does not explain the threatening note on Richter’s office door,” Miss Hamilton pointed out. “Why would such a man—or a woman, I suppose, is a possibility—searching in secrecy, put the world on notice that something was amiss? And why did he not take the money Richter was carrying before he fled the murder scene?”

  “You have a point,” Concordia said. “But there’s something else I don’t understand. Why would Miss Lyman have kept a ledger of this sort to begin with, something that would incriminate her and her cohorts if it were found? And how did you know about it?”

  “I wasn’t sure of its existence at first,” Miss Hamilton admitted, “but in my experience, there are several reasons why embezzlers do this. Some assuage their consciences by convincing themselves that they will pay back the money, and so they need to keep a record of it. Others are collaborating with another party, and wish to protect themselves with a little blackmail. Still others concoct such an elaborate system of moving funds between accounts in order to avoid detection that they require a written record of it.”

  “Oh,” was all Concordia could manage to say. What a sordid world Miss Hamilton navigated.

  They were both quiet for a while.

  “I believe I know a way to bring the murderer out of hiding,” Miss Hamilton said. She looked at Concordia thoughtfully. “Perhaps, Miss Wells, you are right: I could use your help. I have to warn you, however; there is some risk.”

  Concordia, the image of President Richter’s open, unseeing eyes ever-present in her mind, didn’t hesitate. “What do you need me to do?”

  Chapter 52

  Week 18, Instructor Calendar, June 1896

  By the pricking of my thumbs,

  Something wicked this way comes.

  IV.i

  The
dining hall of Sycamore House was full once again with administrators, staff, and trustees, but Concordia managed to secure a chair next to Margaret Banning before the meeting began. Despite the warmth of the evening, Miss Banning was dressed in her usual layers of petticoats, dress, shawls and cap, perched askew. Tufts of orange cat hair clung to the folds of her skirt.

  “Good evening, Miss Banning.”

  The lady looked at Concordia over the rim of her glasses, keen eyes bright with interest. “Humph. I can’t see what’s good about it, young miss,” was the tart response. “I hear you’re the one who found the president. Is it true?”

  Miss Banning certainly got right to the point. Her voice, as usual, was rather louder than it should be. Several heads turned their way.

  “Yes, unfortunately, it was I who found him,” Concordia answered. She looked around the room. David Bradley was here—she caught his eye and smiled to him—and Julian, who frowned when he noticed the interchange. Nathaniel, looking tired and subdued, was talking with several other trustees. Miss Bellini, pale-faced and quivering, had buried her hands in her crumpled shawl, and stared down at her lap.

  Miss Banning gave her a poke and leaned closer conspiratorially, although her voice wasn’t any lower. “So, do you think he was killed because of the ledger we found?”

  Concordia made a frantic hushing gesture as even more heads turned their way. “Please, Miss Banning! The ledger is safely locked away in Miss Hamilton’s desk. No one else is supposed to know about it!”

  In her excitement, Concordia realized that her own voice had also gotten louder than it should. She flushed in embarrassment, and noticed that most of the eavesdroppers politely turned their heads away, trying not to appear to overlisten. Good.

  “No need to get into a snit,” Miss Banning shot back. “I can keep a confidence as well as anybody.”

  Soon Miss Hamilton and Dean Langdon arrived, each wearing somber black, although the dean’s suit looked a trifle dusty.

  Miss Hamilton cleared her throat as the room settled down. “We have contacted President Richter’s family—he has a brother in New Hampshire—and they will make the funeral arrangements. There is a family plot in Nashua, apparently.”

  “Surely, we should do something here at the college to honor his memory?” Miss Pomeroy protested.

  Miss Hamilton made a face that would pass for distress, though Concordia knew that the lady principal held President Richter in little esteem at this point.

  “Naturally,” Miss Hamilton answered. “A memorial service will be held in the college’s chapel on Saturday. Dean Langdon is making those arrangements.” She looked at Langdon, who nodded.

  “I will share the details with everyone as soon as possible,” he promised.

  “On a related topic,” Miss Hamilton said, “you are all no doubt aware that I am serving as the acting president of the college until a replacement is appointed. In that capacity, I must go into town tomorrow to fulfill certain obligations. I will return in the evening. Dean Langdon will be in charge during my absence.”

  It was ironic, Concordia thought, that President Richter, who staunchly believed women should have a limited role in public life, and who also believed that the purpose of a women’s college was to prepare girls to better fulfill their domestic responsibilities, would by his death place a woman in charge of Hartford Women’s College, if only temporarily.

  The next day, as Concordia waited in Miss Hamilton’s study, she thought back on the meeting. Miss Hamilton had handled herself well. She was, after all, navigating dangerous territory, with an ongoing police inquiry and the college’s reputation at stake. The lady principal had been careful not to mention Miss Lyman’s death, the ledger, or her suspicions of President Richter, and blithely ignored questions which strayed into that territory.

  Concordia’s thoughts were interrupted by a creaking floorboard outside Miss Hamilton’s door. She quickly ducked behind the sofa. She heard the jingle of housekeeping keys and the swish of the maid’s skirts, diminishing as the girl continued down the hall. Concordia breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Miss Hamilton,” Concordia whispered to the figure coming out from behind the window curtains, “I feel ridiculous.”

  Miss Hamilton crossed the room in quick, long strides, cracked open the door, peeked down the hallway, and closed it again. “It is quite necessary, Miss Wells, I assure you. You have played your part beautifully. You are quite sure that you and Miss Banning were overheard before the meeting started?”

  Concordia nodded.

  “Well, then, the guilty party will know I have the ledger here,” she pointed to the desk drawer where she had secreted the book, “and now he believes that I am gone for the day. We haven’t much longer to wait.”

  Miss Hamilton looked soberly at Concordia, putting a hand on her shoulder. “This may be difficult for you. Are you certain that you do not want to leave it to me?”

  Concordia was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  Miss Hamilton shook her head. “Never mind. Remember, wait for me to come out from hiding first. I want to give the culprit a chance to incriminate himself, so that there is no doubt. And under no circumstances,” she added sternly, “are you to make a sound until I do, no matter what you see or hear.”

  “Yes, Miss Hamilton,” Concordia promised.

  They didn’t have long to wait.

  When the floorboards in the hallway creaked again, Miss Hamilton and Concordia resumed their hiding places. Concordia’s heart was hammering in her chest but she stayed absolutely still, taking only quiet, short, shallow breaths. After some scraping and fumbling noises, she heard the knob turn and the door swing open.

  The silence seemed to scream in her ears, as she strained to hear the next sound, wondering what was happening. She could see nothing yet from her position. Was she really in the room with a murderer? What if he changed his mind, and left, and they could prove nothing?

  She heard the faint creak of shoe leather, but the footsteps themselves were muffled by the Persian rug. From under the settee, she could see shoes now, and the bottom of trouser cuffs. A man, then. The shoes were carefully polished, and the cuffs had a beautiful crease to them. The sight gave Concordia a vague feeling of uneasiness.

  She could hear the man opening and closing desk drawers now. After a pause, there was a wrenching sound, and the splintering of wood. He had broken open the locked drawer. Concordia realized that Miss Hamilton had deliberately made it more difficult to get to the ledger, in order to avoid arousing suspicion of the very trap that was set. Unfortunately, she had to sacrifice her antique desk to do so.

  Concordia heard a sigh of satisfaction. He must have it by now. Her guess was confirmed when she heard the quick turning of pages.

  When was Miss Hamilton going to come out and confront him? Hadn’t it been long enough? The suspense was killing her.

  And yet, that uneasy feeling persisted.

  Finally, there was the swish of fabric, and then the steely voice of Miss Hamilton.

  “Set that down, sir, if you please.”

  When Concordia jumped out of her hiding place, the first startling sight to meet her eyes was that of Miss Hamilton by the window—holding a derringer, of all things. She had never seen a woman wield a pistol before.

  Then she saw the man.

  For the second time in as many days, she felt she was going to faint. She gripped the back of the sofa for support.

  “Julian!” she cried.

  Chapter 53

  Week 18, Instructor Calendar, June 1896

  What, can the devil speak true?

  I.iii

  Julian Reynolds stared back at Concordia in dismay. No one spoke for a moment. Then he broke the silence.

  “Concordia, please, let me explain,” he pleaded.

  Miss Hamilton, still holding the derringer, gestured to a nearby chair. “Be seated, Mr. Reynolds. We have much to discuss before the police arrive.”

  At the mention of
“police,” Julian paled. He sank into the chair, and put his head in his hands.

  Miss Hamilton looked at Concordia, who was struggling for composure. “I told you this would be difficult,” she said softly. “Step into the hall if you please, Miss Wells. The housekeeper should be awaiting our instructions.”

  As Concordia opened the door to the hallway, she heard Julian say, “This was all a trap?”

  Just as Miss Hamilton had said, the housekeeper was standing at the end of the hallway, waiting. She looked expectantly as Concordia approached.

  “Shall I git the policeman now, miss, like Miss Ham’lton said ta do?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Concordia said, “and hurry, please.” She didn’t want to spend any more time with the man than was necessary, but she had some questions. She went back into Miss Hamilton’s room.

  “Ah, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton said as Concordia returned. She was now seated comfortably in an armchair across from Julian Reynolds, ledger and pistol resting in her lap. “Do sit down.”

  Except for the weapon, the scene looked oddly like a cozy fireside chat, Concordia thought, choosing a seat close to Miss Hamilton. That lady was leaning back in her chair, her expression strangely serene. Julian’s composure had returned, Concordia could see, although his handsome face was a guarded mask and he sat warily. His gaze rested on the gun in Miss Hamilton’s lap.

  “Is that really necessary, Miss Hamilton?” he protested. “You treat me as a common criminal. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Oh?” Miss Hamilton said contemptuously. “I have nothing to fear from President Richter’s murderer? What kind of fool you take me for, Mr. Reynolds?”