by K. B. Owen
“But I don’t understand why you took the knife with you in the first place,” Concordia continued. Hardly an act to inspire romantic feeling.
Lucia Bellini gave Concordia an anguished look. “I knew, before he came. For Arthur and me, it would either be a new beginning for us, or an end. An end of my choosing.”
She shrugged in resignation. “It hardly matters, now. That night, I lost the child. Now I have nothing of Arthur left.”
And then she ran for the stairs.
Concordia, taken by surprise, was slower to respond. “Lucia!” she called after her. She could hear her on the steps—going up. Why up, if she was trying to escape?
Oh no.
Concordia sprinted up the stairs, breath heaving in gasps, desperate to catch up.
“Lucia! No!”
She heard a fading cry as she reached the uppermost stair. Concordia threw herself against the wall of the parapet, and looked down.
From the top of the tower, she stared down in horror at the broken shape illumined by a cold, indifferent moon. Arms, legs, head—all sprawled at impossible angles, like a ragdoll flung to the ground when a child tires of it. Concordia’s stomach lurched as the ground tilted and her head reeled.
The heavy stone balustrade felt rough under her hands, and she gripped it like a lifeline. She should go for help. But she couldn’t force her legs to move.
Taking deep breaths, Concordia steeled herself to look down again, desperate for an impossible sign of life.
There was nothing. Lucia Bellini was dead.
Epilogue
Summer Recess, June 1896
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…
V.v
A warm breeze fluttered the curtains of the French doors in the lady principal’s study, thrown open to reduce the stuffiness. Miss Hamilton quickly anchored the skittering papers, and turned back to her packing.
“Where will you go next, Miss Hamilton?” Concordia asked, as she crouched beside a low shelf, putting books in a box.
“I’ll stay with my sister in Chicago, until the agency has another assignment for me.”
Which no doubt would be soon, as Miss Hamilton was back in her employer’s good graces. She had, in fact, been awarded a bonus for successfully solving the murders of both Arthur Richter and Ruth Lyman. Despite the lady principal’s objections, Concordia had insisted that Miss Hamilton take sole credit.
“Wouldn’t the board of trustees offer to have you remain as our lady principal if you ask them?” Concordia could not imagine them refusing her anything, now.
Miss Hamilton smiled. “They already asked me to stay.”
“Oh.” Concordia, confused, turned back to the box.
“I considered it,” Miss Hamilton said. “Heaven knows the college has lost an extraordinary number of staff already. It will be a challenge to replace three trustees, a dean, bursar, lady principal, mathematics teacher, and history teacher—Miss Banning tells me that she has absolutely decided to retire—all at once.”
Concordia sighed. It would, indeed. The campus felt different already, now that summer was upon them and Dean Langdon had taken over as the college’s president.
“However,” Miss Hamilton went on, “the college will be the better for the changes, and it is time for me to move on.” She looked closely at Concordia. “I assume your decision is final as well?”
Concordia had been astonished when the Pinkerton Agency offered her employment. “We are impressed by your contributions to the investigation, as detailed in Miss Hamilton’s reports. Another lady operative of your talents would be of value to us,” the letter had said. Apparently, Miss Hamilton had not been reticent about Concordia’s role.
Thank heaven her mother would never learn of it.
“Oh, yes,” Concordia answered firmly. “I am a teacher, not a private detective. I have not the heart for that sort of work.” To elucidate a mystery was one thing, but to deal with the consequences once the tangle had unraveled itself was quite another.
Lieutenant Capshaw had questioned Concordia exhaustively after Miss Bellini’s death: when did she realize that Miss Bellini had murdered President Richter? What about the murder of the bursar—when did she know that Miss Bellini was responsible for that? How had she come to that conclusion? Why did she not contact the police with her suspicions, or at least wait for Miss Hamilton’s return, instead of confronting her herself? Capshaw had looked particularly disapproving when he asked that last question.
Concordia had tried to explain her thinking, but her reasons were based more upon impressions: the light in Miss Bellini’s eyes when she danced with Richter, the array of expensive ball gowns and jewelry she owned on a teacher’s salary, the depth of her anger the day after the ball, with her grim words—I will act. And after the play, when Concordia and Sophia were in the parlor of DeLacey House talking, Concordia was certain she heard the front door opening, and felt a draft of damp night air in the hallway. It must have been Miss Bellini, returning from the tower. Then there was the fact that only four people knew the existence of the dagger and where to find it: Miss Crandall, Miss Pomeroy, Miss Bellini, and herself.
“None of that was any sort of proof,” she had told Capshaw. “She was by nature an impetuous woman, ruled by strong emotions. I thought it necessary to surprise her, and provoke her to admit what she had done. But if I had told you my suspicions and I was wrong, I could have done irreparable harm.”
It takes many good deeds to build a good reputation, and only one bad one to lose it.
Splendid. Now she was thinking like Miss Banning.
“And I didn’t even know that Miss Bellini was involved in Miss Lyman’s death until I confronted her in the tower,” Concordia continued. “Even Miss Hamilton had assumed that Richter was responsible for the murder. He was the one who put Miss Lyman’s body in the pond to make the death seem a suicide. But Richter killing her didn’t make any sense, as Reynolds had pointed out: why kill the bursar, when she is the one getting the money? Her death would only complicate the embezzlement scheme. A heat-of-the-moment act was the better explanation. Miss Bellini had made several panicked decisions lately, including stabbing Richter.”
And, finally, jumping from the tower, she added to herself.
Even now, Concordia kept thinking of Miss Bellini, wondering whether more harm had been done by confronting her. If she had not been cornered, perhaps she would not have been so desperate as to take her own life.
But the woman had killed two people. She could not just walk away.
Further, Miss Lyman’s death would have remained a suicide, and Julian would have been tried for Arthur Richter’s murder. Despite all he had done, Concordia could not turn her back and allow him to be punished for such a heinous crime.
Not that Mr. Reynolds had many scruples. As soon as he’d had the chance, he jumped bail, sailing off to parts unknown with a wealthy widow of recent acquaintance. Concordia doubted if the authorities would apprehend them. But perhaps that was better than a lengthy, sensational courtroom trial. All of the other principals in the matter were dead. There was no avoiding the publicity, of course, but one could hope that the ill effects of the scandal would dissipate over time.
Strange as it might seem, Concordia missed Lucia Bellini. She had been a bright, vivacious, passionate person, bringing life and color to everything around her. In her day-to-day life, she had been kind. That was the woman Concordia was determined to remember.
Coming out of her reverie, Concordia looked over at Miss Hamilton, who was sliding the last of the boxes to the corner by the door. The sunlight caught the glints of silver in her blond hair, pulled back in its usual no-nonsense chignon, but she moved with the grace and ease of a younger woman. She wore a bolero cape-style traveling suit of brown and gold, its collar and lapels appliquéd in rows of soutach braid. It must have been a generous bonus, Concordia thought. Incongruously, she wondered where Miss Hamilton had packed her derringer.
Miss Hamilton�
��s derringer reminded Concordia of something else.
“Miss Hamilton,” Concordia asked, “why was Miss Crandall so interested in the dagger? Last week, she mentioned speaking to you about it, but then she had to run to catch her train.”
Concordia had been relieved when Charlotte Crandall managed to graduate without further mishap. The young lady decided to postpone her engagement to Mr. Blake, and planned to teach at a nearby girls’ boarding school in the fall.
Miss Hamilton gave the box a final shove with her foot before answering. “Miss Crandall suspects that the knife is a seventeenth-century European bodice dagger. It may be valuable. Which would certainly be a boon for the college,” she said.
“What is a bodice dagger?” Concordia asked in amazement.
Miss Hamilton chuckled. “They were actually common in Renaissance Europe, and were designed to be carried in either the bodice—which was quite a structured garment in those days—or the top of one’s boot. This one seems rather more ornamental than most. Perhaps it was carried by a lady of the upper class?” She shrugged. “Dean—pardon me, President—Langdon is having a curator friend examine it.”
“How on earth does Miss Crandall know of such things?” Concordia did not recall a course being offered in seventeenth century weaponry.
“Our dear Miss Banning often digresses in her curriculum plans, particularly when she is enthusiastic about her subject.”
“Amazing,” Concordia murmured.
“Well, that’s the last of it.” Miss Hamilton stood and brushed off her skirt. “And just in time,” she added, as they heard voices at the end of the hall.
To her surprise, Miss Hamilton reached over and hugged her. “I do hope that you will write. You must tell me of all the doings here.” She sighed and looked around the room. “I will miss this place. And all of you.”
Miss Hamilton opened the door at David Bradley’s knock. He was followed by a less-rumpled-than-usual Edward Langdon, his hair freshly parted and slicked back. He clutched an enormous flower bouquet, which he thrust toward Miss Hamilton.
“Th..these…are for you,” he stammered.
Concordia recognized the roses and brown-eyed susans from the garden at Sycamore House. She glanced at David, who winked back at her. He was looking cool and comfortable in an ecru suit of crash linen. She couldn’t help but notice that his clothes seemed to fit him better these days.
“We’ll be outside when you are ready,” Concordia said, steering David out.
“Your idea?” Concordia asked, with a glance at the fresh scratches and green stains on his hands.
David grinned. “One can never go wrong with flowers for a lady.”
They were waiting with the driver beside the carriage when Miss Hamilton came out to join them. Langdon, carrying her valise, set it down. Tight-lipped, he walked away without a word.
Miss Hamilton smiled ruefully as her gaze followed Langdon. “He tried to convince me to stay. He is disappointed that I’m not changing my mind.”
David consulted his watch. “Speaking of that, if you wish to catch your train, we should leave now.”
Fortunately, Union Depot was a block from the Capitol Building, barely two miles away, and they reached the station in good time.
Concordia typically found train stations to be unnerving and exhilarating at the same time, and today was no exception: hectic with the press of people, baggage, crying children, and porters; the good-bye waves and hearty handshakes; the thunderous vibrations beneath one’s feet, and the acrid smoke in the back of one’s throat. Many were traveling to new places; some of them, separated by distance, responsibilities, or finances, might never again see the loved ones waving good-bye to them as the train pulled away from the platform.
“All aboard the 2:10 for New York City!” the conductor announced, pacing up and down the platform. Miss Hamilton gave Concordia a slip of paper.
“Read it when you are home. Good-bye, dear.”
She gave them both a quick wave as the porter took her case and helped her up the step.
Concordia looked on with blurry eyes. “Good-bye, Miss Hamilton,” she whispered.
On the ride back to campus, David finally broke the silence.
“I saw Sophia Adams the other day.”
Concordia looked up. “Oh? How is she? I haven’t seen her in a few weeks. I understand she is quite busy these days.”
And no wonder. Sophia Adams had added another cause in her mission to improve women’s lives: educating them about venereal disease. She and several prominent doctors in the city were discussing the formation of a social hygiene association, modeled after those in Chicago and Philadelphia, to change behaviors and dispel misinformation. Concordia knew that, if anyone could do so, it would be Sophia Adams.
“She’s fine,” David answered. “Seems to be fully recovered.” He hesitated. “She told me that you had worked out who had attacked her, but she would not tell me anything else. She suggested that I ask you.” David’s brown eyes were full of curiosity.
Concordia sank back against the carriage cushions. Sophia had brought news of Judge Armstrong the last time she visited. His health and reason had rapidly deteriorated since Henry’s death. He was now in the constant care of nurses, and there was talk of moving him to a sanitorium.
Sophia had other news as well.
“Would you believe it?” Sophia had said, eyes dancing in amusement. “Doctor Westfield is moving to the Oklahoma Territory.”
Concordia gave a bark of laughter. “He’d make an unlikely cowboy.”
Sophia grinned. “Apparently a family member has a land claim. The boom towns always need doctors.”
“Let’s hope he provides better care to his patients out West,” Concordia retorted.
She was still angry at them—Judge Armstrong, Henry, Dr. Westfield—for neglecting a vulnerable woman in their care because of fear and pride. And then, there was Judge Armstrong’s despicable attack on Sophia.
Even so, Concordia’s desire for revenge had burned itself out. Revenge, or justice? The line between the two seemed to blur. There is a time when even justice brings harm.
She would never know Mary’s wishes. She had discovered the truth, and confronted the judge with it. Would Mary have been satisfied with that? Providence seemed to take the rest out of Concordia’s hands; she and Sophia agreed to leave it that way. Judge Armstrong was suffering the loss of his only son, and he might not survive the blow. Certainly, he was no longer a danger to anyone.
Concordia did share what she had learned about Mary’s death with her mother. She couldn’t bring herself to do so in person, though. She wrote her a letter, which Nathaniel offered to deliver. Mother had the right to know the truth behind Mary’s death, even though it was a painful truth. And her words in the garden during the dance still weighed heavily on Concordia: You always have to be so important, have to know things that others do not. I have always hated that.
Perhaps she was right. If so, Concordia had her own share in what was wrong between them.
So far, her mother had not responded to the letter. Was she so hurt and angry that she could not acknowledge what Concordia had gone through to finally get to the truth? The silence stung.
Concordia realized she had allowed her thoughts to wander, and that David was anxiously watching her. She looked over at him and smiled in apology.
“It’s a long story, David. Perhaps I will tell you someday.”
Back at Willow Cottage, Concordia had her own packing to finish. She planned to stay with Sophia at the settlement house during the rest of the summer recess.
There was a knock at her door, and Ruby poked her head in. “A visitor, miss.”
Puzzled, Concordia went to the parlor.
“Mother?”
Mrs. Wells was perched tentatively on the settee. She had changed out of her customary mourning clothes, and wore a plain white shirtwaist and simple skirt of dove gray.
To her surprise, her mother came eagerly f
orward, clasped Concordia by the arm—Mother’s hands were surprisingly strong, for all of their delicacy—and drew her over to the settee.
“Nathaniel gave me your letter. Your news was such a shock, it took me a while to accept what really happened.” Struggling to maintain her composure, she looked down and plucked at her skirt. “But at least I know. I wanted to thank you, Concordia, for all that you have done for Mary. For me.”
“Of course,” Concordia said, stiffly.
Calmer now, Mrs. Wells met her eyes. “There is something I wanted to ask of you.”
Concordia braced herself. What now?
“Will you stay with me during the summer recess? We have much to talk about.”
“We do?”
Mrs. Wells smoothed her skirt and sighed. “I don’t necessarily approve of your choice in life, Concordia. I have been trying to understand it better, but sometimes it just makes me shudder. Girls playing basketball in bloomers, studying ancient Greek, living communally in such casual quarters...”
She held up a hand to forestall Concordia’s protest. “But—I cannot deny that this seems to suit you. You are happy here. And for all their hoydenish ways, your girls are charming. They look up to you. So, perhaps I can become accustomed to the idea. I will try. Will you try, as well?”
She looked at Concordia expectantly.
Concordia hesitated, her throat tightening and nose prickling.
Finally, she nodded mutely, feeling as if she had recklessly plunged off a cliff.
After her mother left, Concordia composed herself with a cup of strong tea. The cottage was quiet and empty, with Ruby the only other occupant. She couldn’t believe she was missing the students already.
As she stood to resume her packing, the crackle in her pocket reminded her of Miss Hamilton’s note. Curious, she pulled it out.
* * *
My dear Concordia,
Since Frank died, I have always worked alone. This experience has taught me that I can rely upon a trustworthy few without sacrificing my self-sufficiency. I am grateful to you, for everything.