by K. B. Owen
Or was he murdered for the sake of vengeance? But that didn’t narrow the field. Had he not wronged them all?
She fell asleep, her dreams alternating between couples, waltzing along ballroom floors, and murderers, knives held aloft, waiting in the shadows.
Chapter 55
Week 18, Instructor Calendar, June 1896
Thou sure and firm-set earth
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabouts.
II.i
Concordia went through the next day in a state of distraction. She was aware of saying goodbye to students, some of them facing a several-days-long train ride home, and of helping Ruby air out mattresses and beat rugs, but she felt as if she were sleep-walking through most of it.
The last task of the afternoon jolted her out of her reverie. She had to brace herself to approach the tower again, Miss Crandall and Miss Pomeroy in tow, as they packed away the last boxes of stage props in the storage room.
“I’m fine, really,” Concordia insisted, after catching the two exchanging anxious glances. “Let’s get this finished before we lose the light.”
They sorted the items into orderly piles, to make the task easier next year. Concordia stiffened when she pulled out the black-handled dagger.
“I’ll put that away, Miss Wells,” Charlotte Crandall quickly offered. Concordia passed it over.
“Where is that other dagger you were describing, Miss Crandall?” Miss Pomeroy asked. “I’d like to take a look at it.”
Concordia stared at Miss Pomeroy in disbelief. How could she not know that was the weapon Richter had been killed with? News of it had circulated widely enough. Gertrude Pomeroy needed to get her nose out of her books.
But the tactless question made one thing clear to Concordia. We should have been paying more attention to the dagger.
With a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach, she realized she knew who the murderer was. And that she had to do something about it.
After supper, Concordia sought out the messenger boy, who was settled under a tree, cheerfully tucking into the last of his meal. As she approached, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and awkwardly brushed crumbs from a particularly grubby pair of knee pants.
“Ev’nin, miss.”
“Good evening, Sam,” Concordia said. “I have an errand for you.” She held out two envelopes. “Can you deliver these for me? After you’ve finished, of course,” she added politely.
The boy glanced down at the envelopes. “But, miss, the lady princ’pl i’nt back yet from town.”
“Oh!” Concordia said, startled. “Do you know when she is expected?”
“Not sure, but I ‘spect it’ll be soon. I heard one of the teachers say she’s s’posed to be back already.” Sam gulped the rest of his sandwich.
“I suppose you will have to leave it for her at DeLacey House then, but be sure to deliver the other letter personally. It’s quite important. And you needn’t say who it’s from; it’s a…surprise.” She gave the boy a coin.
He grinned. “Right away, miss.”
As the evening hours went by, Concordia waited in her quarters, pacing restlessly between the mantel clock at one end and the French doors at the other. She had tried to read, but couldn’t focus upon the words. Instead, she reviewed the pieces of the puzzle, looking for contradictions or flaws in her thinking. Most of it fit together. But there were some things that she didn’t understand, and these gaps troubled her. What if she were wrong?
Concordia started when the clock sounded its tinny chime in the quiet of the cottage. Where was Miss Hamilton? She should have read the note and been here by now. Concordia felt the first stirrings of doubt. Did she really consider herself capable of setting a trap for a murderer? Was this the consequence of spending too much time in the company of a detective, like the contagion one risks in a measles ward?
But Concordia knew that Miss Hamilton was wrong about Julian murdering Arthur Richter. The real culprit was still free. This was the only way she could think to catch the killer. She was hoping she didn’t have to do so alone.
She looked at her watch. Ten-thirty. She couldn’t wait any longer. With a last wistful look at the safety of her room, Concordia grabbed her lantern and slipped out of the cottage into the foggy darkness.
The night air felt clammy as she hurried to the bell tower. Once she was at the massive iron-hinged oak door, Concordia struck a match, carefully shielding the flame, and lit her lantern. She slipped inside.
The humidity of the outside air was magnified ten-fold within the dank stairwell. Concordia was loath to touch the dripping stones. She wished again that Miss Hamilton were here, even to dissuade her from carrying out her plan.
Concordia went all the way to the top this time. She crouched behind the parapet and looked out. The fog was lifting, and the moon cast a clear light across the grounds.
No one coming yet. But she stayed where she was, watching.
After what seemed an agony of waiting, she saw a figure hurrying across the quadrangle. Her breath caught. Perhaps it was Miss Hamilton, after all?
But no—the form did not have Miss Hamilton’s long strides. Concordia’s heart sank. She descended the flight of stairs to the belfry, tucked herself behind a buttress, shuttered her lantern, and waited.
She heard the creak of the door below, and then footsteps, cautiously, softly, up and up. The figure stopped at the belfry and approached—closer, closer.
In a swift movement, Concordia stepped out, directing the full light of her lantern upon the figure. It was, indeed, the person she had been waiting for.
“Hello, Lucia,” Concordia said.
Chapter 56
Week 18, Instructor Calendar, June 1896
We fail?
But screw your courage to the sticking place
And we’ll not fail.
I.vii
Lucia Bellini shaded her eyes and swung her own lamp in Concordia’s direction. She was wearing a dark dress, bare of ornamentation. Her olive complexion was sallow in the lamplight, and her black hair was pulled back tightly at the nape of her neck. Concordia was surprised to see that her right hand was clumsily bandaged. Miss Bellini’s lantern quavered, throwing bobbing shadows about the room.
“Concordia?” she answered tentatively. “It is you?” Her other hand curled around the slip of paper that Concordia had sent earlier.
The words on the paper, so carefully composed, were etched in Concordia’s mind: I know you were responsible. Come to the belfry at eleven tonight. We must talk.
“Yes, Lucia, I figured it out,” Concordia said, trying to keep her own voice steady. “You killed Arthur Richter.”
Miss Bellini sagged against the wall and Concordia stepped forward to help her.
“No!” She said, dark eyes blazing, and groped for the cross beam to sit upon.
Concordia retreated, but said, gently, “You have been under a great deal of strain, more than any woman should have to bear. Won’t you tell me about it?”
Miss Bellini gave a hollow laugh. “Signorina Wells, I am merely responding to a—what do you say?—ah, yes, cryptic—note, anonymously written. Curiosity would be natural, would it not? Especially when I am being accused of something, no?”
The woman had nerves of steel. This wasn’t going well, Concordia thought. What could she say to get Miss Bellini to tell the truth? She had hoped that confronting her in the tower, beside the very spot Richter died, would be enough. Obviously Concordia’s knowledge of criminal behavior was woefully lacking.
Lucia Bellini flushed with triumph. “See? This is absurd. How could I—and why would I—murder that poor man? Surely a pazzo—madman—has done this.”
Concordia nodded thoughtfully. “I do think that President Richter’s killer was quite desperate—perhaps unstable. Shall I tell you what I think happened?”
Miss Bellini gave a theatrical sigh. “If you insist, signorina.”
“Very well. Call it intuition, if you will, but there have been little hints—glances, gestures, the way you and Arthur Richter danced together—that I did not realize the meaning of at the time. But later, after some reflection, it all made sense. The two of you were much closer than merely two professionals working together, weren’t you? You were… lovers. And then something must have happened. During the ball? Or after? Your entire demeanor changed. When I came to return your dress, you were angry, vengeful, and determined to act. How had you been betrayed, Lucia? What had he done?”
But Miss Bellini shook her head, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“I think I know, at least some of it,” Concordia went on. “Julian Reynolds—who is now in police custody for conspiring with Richter and the bursar to steal college funds—said there was someone else the president was giving money to, although he did not know who. It was you, Lucia, wasn’t it? Your family trouble back in Italy—money trouble? But then he got frightened, and refused to give you more.”
There was one person who could have helped me—who promised to help me—but it was all empty words. He will not. Miss Bellini’s tormented words came back to Concordia.
Miss Bellini’s eyes flashed with the old anger.
Concordia waited for her to speak, but when she stayed silent, continued. “He was worried about being caught. Miss Lyman’s death, with a successor as bursar, would make it impossible to steal more.”
Impossible to steal more. The methodical, rational college president would never have killed Miss Lyman. Her death essentially cut off his funds. Unless…Concordia sucked in her breath.
“Miss Lyman threatened to turn herself in, didn’t she?” Concordia asked. “Along with Richter and Reynolds. She was tired of being blackmailed, and forced to steal from the college she loved.”
Miss Bellini tossed her head, dark eyes glittering in the light. “You are guessing, are you not? You have no proof we learned what she was planning.”
“Ah, I see. You discovered her plan. How? Did you catch her in the act of writing her confession? Or did she confide in you, not knowing that you and Richter were lovers? Did you bash her over the head when her back was turned, this woman who sought you out for help? Did you then run to Richter to clean up your mess?”
Lucia Bellini’s face contorted in hatred, although she said nothing. But Concordia was sure she was right. She could picture Miss Bellini, in a panic, hitting the woman, leaving her where she lay, and seeking out Richter for rescue. Then Richter would have had to improvise, carrying the body to the pond in the middle of the night, in the process striking his forehead and losing his shoe in the dark, and getting laryngitis from exposure to the icy pond. Discarding the single shoe, which later made its way into the school’s collection of props.
“I don’t think proof will be a problem. A ledger has been discovered,” Concordia said. “Miss Lyman—already under duress to misappropriate college funds—made careful entries in it, implicating Richter and Reynolds. I’m sure the police will be able to prove your complicity, given time.” That was a guess, but Concordia had faith in Capshaw’s abilities.
“But it’s no wonder Richter had to stop taking money,” Concordia continued. “There were too many incidents, too much police presence at the college. Questions were being asked. Someone had been searching his office. You. You also left the threatening note on his door, to shift the blame toward the student pranksters. Were you looking for the ledger when you searched the president’s office?”
Lucia Bellini hissed through gritted teeth. “Yes! I searched his office. Arthur had told me he had Miss Lyman’s ledger, safe. But he no longer trusted me; he would not tell me where it was hidden. I wanted to go through the book, work out how it was done. All was not lost! Could we not have continued with the plan?”
She stood up, agitated, and began to pace in front of Concordia. “But—ah!—I found nothing. I was… arrabiata—angry! I tore the room apart. And then, someone was coming, so I left quickly. I did not see who it was. Afterward I thought, what might Arthur do if someone threatened him? Perhaps I could gain control that way. I went back and put the note on the door.”
“Did that work?” Concordia asked. Richter had probably suspected, at first, that the note was Julian’s, which would have put them at each others’ throats for a time.
Miss Bellini grimaced. “For a little while, yes. He looked to me for support, said he admired my strength. He said he would help me, no matter what. Bah! Men! Never can they keep their promises.”
“What happened to change his mind?”
“At the dance—oh, I was so happy then!—later that night, afterward, he was worried, distracted. Something about Margaret Banning’s return. He kept talking about her. But he was making no sense. He said he did not dare take more from the college. It was over.”
Concordia remembered the dance, and Miss Banning’s announcement of her return. No doubt the news had unnerved Richter. His hiding place for the ledger—Miss Banning’s office—was no longer secure. He knew that, if he couldn’t get to the ledger first, Miss Banning was bound to find it. Which she had.
“Why did you kill him, Lucia? Was it merely for spite, because you could no longer get what you wanted? Or did you worry that he would reveal that you killed Miss Lyman, and lay the blame upon you for everything?” Concordia was reluctant to be deliberately cruel, but she needed to keep Miss Bellini talking.
Where was Miss Hamilton?
The barb had its intended effect. Miss Bellini stepped closer, face contorted, releasing a stream of foreign invectives that Concordia was glad she didn’t understand. She resisted the urge to shrink back.
“You,” Miss Bellini pointed a finger accusingly at Concordia, “stand there and judge me? You understand nothing. It was an accident. I did not mean…to kill her. Arthur did not blame me for that.”
“So why kill him?” Concordia asked. There was something here she was missing, something crucial. But what? She had to be careful not to provoke Miss Bellini beyond endurance. Help was too far away.
But Lucia Bellini shook her head stubbornly, glaring at her.
Concordia frantically thought back to what she knew of the woman’s personal life. It was precious little. The day she had returned Miss Bellini’s gown stood out in her mind, certainly. Lucia had been distraught, talking almost to herself.
I will act. He must know.
Know what?
The missing piece came to her at last. Concordia looked intently at Miss Bellini.
“Lucia, you are…with child, are you not? Arthur’s child.”
Miss Bellini heaved a deep sigh, as if a burden had been eased from her shoulders. Concordia waited. Night creatures rustled between the beams.
“Yes, it is time, perhaps,” Miss Bellini said. She looked at Concordia. “And we are friends, yes? I can tell you.”
“Tell me,” Concordia said.
“You were right about us. I loved him,” she said. “Even when he failed me, I loved him still. By the time of the dance, I knew that I was carrying his child, but to tell him—I was afraid. If I did nothing, I would be ruined, my career gone.”
“So you had to act,” Concordia prompted.
Miss Bellini nodded. “If he would marry me, would that not solve the problem? We could move away from here, start at another college, where the gossip could not reach. I would be a good wife to him. And I could bring my mother and aunt here to live with us, and they would have a better life.”
“So you arranged to meet him here. Why here, in the tower?” Concordia had been puzzled by this.
Miss Bellini smiled. “It was here that Arthur first kissed me. It seemed—romantic. Perhaps it would soften his feelings, and remind him of the old days, before the worry about money.”
“But it didn’t happen that way,” Concordia guessed.
Miss Bellini’s smile was gone. Her face hardened. “No. I didn’t recognize him. He was cruel. Hateful things he said to me, when I told him
about his child! Laughed in my face, said it was my own fault. I was nothing but trouble, damaged goods, and the product of all that he hated about educated women. Can you imagine that? He, president of a women’s college, hating educated women?”
She drew a ragged breath. “A respectable wife would never carry on the way I do, he tells me. Headstrong. Willful. Like a man. A man, he says!” She began to weep.
“What happened then, Lucia?” Concordia asked, a spasm of pity tugging at her.
“I stabbed him,” Miss Bellini answered fiercely.
“With the knife from the store room downstairs,” Concordia said, feeling a little sick at the memory of Richter’s lifeless body. She struggled to maintain her composure. She needed to stall for time, not faint dead away.
“You found out about the dagger from Miss Crandall,” Concordia said, remembering Miss Pomeroy’s question: Where is that other dagger you were describing, Miss Crandall? Miss Bellini had been part of the conversation with Charlotte Crandall and Miss Pomeroy. Concordia had seen the three of them together by the fountain, looking over a piece of paper.
“Yes.” Miss Bellini gave a puzzled shrug. “She thought it belonged to Miss Pomeroy or me—she even drew a sketch of it. Why would she care? I do not know.”
Concordia didn’t understand that, either, but she ignored it for the time being. She gestured to Miss Bellini’s bandage. “How did you injure yourself?”
Lucia Bellini looked at her hand. “The knife, it was very sharp. Arthur tried to get it away from me, and it slipped in my hand. I managed to pick it up again before he lunged at me. We both fell, and the knife—” she faltered, “was thrust into his chest.”
“You had your shawl in your hands during the recent meeting. You needed to hide your injury,” Concordia said, almost to herself. Miss Bellini nodded.