by Owen, K.
She’d heard of the troubles that other colleges suffered on Halloween, including the pranks at Lafayette College a few years back, where the boys poured molten lead in the keyholes of the chapel doors and smeared the pews with molasses. The administration at Hartford Women’s College would not take kindly to any monkeyshines this year in light of what had already been going on.
Concordia hadn’t the heart to get involved in the excitement. She wasn’t sure she would bother going to the ball in costume. She would act as chaperone, of course, as was expected of all of the women faculty. But Sophia’s imprisonment and the lack of progress Concordia had made in finding an answer still weighed heavily on her. How was she going to find the truth? And with Amelia away, what else could she do? Should she sneak out again and go back to the Adams’ house, perhaps this time to speak with Mrs. Adams? But Concordia was nearly caught last time; she would be summarily dismissed if she tried it again and failed to evade Miss Grant’s watchful network of spies.
The strain of having to deal with the lady principal, on top of everything else, was taking its toll on her spirit. She felt so tired.
After her Romantic Age class she went to her office to grade student themes. The slanting stacks of paper littering her desk was daunting, but she determinedly sat down to work.
By the fourth theme she was struggling to keep her eyes open. The scent of lemon wax in the stuffy air, the drone of a fly trapped in the windowsill, the scattering of dust motes as they drifted lazily along the arc of light….
She shook herself awake. A bracing dose of fresh air was in order. Certainly, the Romantic poets would approve:
There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more...
She headed for Rook’s Hill, on the eastern side of the campus grounds. There was a little time before Mr. Harrison expected her at their first rehearsal this afternoon. The roles had been assigned, and the costumes and sets were underway. Perhaps they could be ready before the Christmas recess.
She huffed a bit in climbing the slope. Deep breaths of crisp air, mingled with the scent of fallen leaves, lifted her mood. The view was worth it: the heavily-wooded side of campus was still a lovely-but-thinned sweep of burnt oranges and reds and golds. People walking about below her were part of an indifferent landscape, rather than impetuous students to be responsible for, troubled friends who needed rescuing, or difficult administrators to appease.
As she completed the circuit, descending the hill and passing by the pond, the chilled, constricted lump of worry that had been plaguing her began to soften and ease. She deliberately put aside her worry about Sophia for just a little while longer and sat.
Her solitude was soon disturbed by the sound of Dean Pierce’s wheelchair along the sidewalk, crunching dried leaves in its wake. “Hello, Miss Wells!” he called out. “Getting some air?”
“It was just what I needed,” Concordia answered. The dean seemed never to be in a black mood, she thought, noting his relaxed expression and bright eyes. No lines creased the smooth, bald head, stiffened the shoulders, or tightened the hands. Pierce was more at peace with his lot than some of the more fortunate people she knew.
“I understand you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. That was quick work, saving the boy – Eli, is it? What a tragedy that would have been.”
Concordia nodded. “But Miss Grant was rather harsh on the students. It wasn’t their fault, really. Eli can’t even read a ‘Wet Paint’ sign.”
“You’ve had a little bit of trouble over the boy, too, I understand,” he said.
Concordia gave a hollow laugh. “You heard, of course. Miss Grant has restricted me to campus for ‘overstepping my authority’.”
She looked down at her lap, absent-mindedly plucking off a leaf that landed there.
Peering closely at Concordia, Pierce said, “But there seems to be more on your mind than student pranks or Miss Grant. Can I help?”
Concordia looked up the path, which was empty of students. With this rare opportunity for privacy afforded her, she confided her dilemma about Sophia to the dean. Actually, it all came out in a flood, as if held back too long. Perhaps it was too great of a burden to carry without sharing it, or perhaps she felt more relaxed after her walk. Whatever the reason, Concordia told him a good deal of it: the murder of Colonel Adams, the missing items, Amelia’s mutism, Sophia’s confession, the gaps and inconsistencies in the stories, and Concordia’s recent talk with the servants – although she hoped the dean wouldn’t realize that the visit had occurred after Miss Grant restricted her to campus.
Pierce listened attentively, then thought a while before he spoke. “You do appear to be at an impasse. The police have a self-confessed culprit, so – not to distress you further, my dear, but one must face reality – they will not be looking farther afield for another suspect. And you have already interviewed the staff and gotten nowhere. That leaves Mrs. Adams, but you have no official authority to be questioning anyone, and no personal relationship with the woman, correct? So you may not get anywhere in that regard.”
He was quiet for a while longer. “Perhaps you need to know more about the colonel himself. If we are to assume that your friend is innocent, then it must be someone with a grudge against him, yes?”
“True. But how would I learn more about him? As you said, I have no official authority to talk with anyone about Colonel Adams. I considered asking the lawyer about the colonel’s will, but I doubt he would break confidentiality to talk to me.”
Dean Pierce was a quick-witted man. He gave Concordia a sharp look. “So, you suspect the widow? Isn’t that a bit of a cliché, Miss Wells? A younger woman marrying an older man for his money, then killing him to inherit? Sounds like one of those penny dreadfuls our young ladies like to read.”
“Maybe it’s a cliché for a reason,” Concordia retorted. She felt a little silly considering the possibility in the first place. She knew she was grasping at straws.
“I suppose,” the dean answered, “but perhaps there’s another approach.” He hesitated.
“What approach?” Concordia asked.
“You said that some of the colonel’s Egyptian relics – ones that he didn’t donate to our exhibit – were missing from his study. Although it’s possible that they were sold before the colonel’s death, the police haven’t found any proof of that, correct?”
Concordia nodded.
“So perhaps someone knowledgeable about these artifacts is involved. Colonel Adams associated with such individuals, I understand. Perhaps someone was after these items, and the Colonel merely got in the way?”
“But how would I –” Concordia stopped. Her father. He and the colonel had been partners. The Adams’ cook, Mrs. Lewis, had also mentioned it.
Dean Pierce, a slight smile touching his lips, watched Concordia making the connections. “Yes! You already have the means to learn more about the colonel’s past, and how his dealings in Egyptian relics might be connected now. Your father’s own past is intertwined in his.”
“How did you know about my father?” Concordia asked.
Pierce cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I hate to admit to listening to scuttlebutt, but you understand how rampant gossip is on a college campus.”
“I see,” Concordia said. Heaven only knows what other gossip about her had been bandied about. She pushed that thought aside for the moment. “But I know very little of my father’s work as an Egyptian scholar, and nothing about his business relationship with Colonel Adams.”
“Are there no papers of your father’s that you could look through? Any close family members?” Pierce suggested.
“Well…I could ask my mother,” Concordia said. She didn’t relish such a conversation. Their relationship was not as close as could be desired, and for some reason the subject of Papa
was a touchy one. But for Sophia’s sake, she would do it.
“There you go,” Pierce said. “Ask your mother and see if you can find any relevant family papers.”
“There’s just one problem with that,” Concordia said. “Miss Grant’s restriction, remember?”
Dean Pierce nodded sympathetically. “I think I can prevail upon Miss Grant to set that aside. I’ll speak with her today.” He winked. “We can’t have our professors slipping through fences, now, can we?”
Concordia started. For a man confined to a wheelchair, the dean seemed to know everything that went on.
Concordia checked her watch. “I have to get to rehearsal. Thank you, dean, for your help.”
He patted her hand. “Anytime, my dear. A fascinating little puzzle, I must say. You’ll solve it. Would you mind telling me what you find? You have my curiosity piqued.”
Concordia’s conversation with Dean Pierce, though enlightening, had made her late for play practice. She hurried over to the auditorium, where the students were already assembled and being addressed by Mr. Harrison.
Charles Harrison made a great show of checking his watch and grimacing, although he said nothing. Concordia knew the very precise mathematics teacher was punctual in the extreme, while she was…not.
“Miss Wells, if you would be so good as to work with our Hamlet here. Miss Rhodes.” He pointed to the tall, gangly senior standing beside the curtain, who giggled at the mention of her name. “I shall be planning the choreography for the final scene.”
“Don’t you need Hamlet for your choreography?” Concordia asked.
“I have a stand-in for the job. Once I have the movements worked out, we can teach it to her later. For now, she needs to work on her lines.” He looked over at Miss Rhodes in exasperation. “You must apply yourself, young lady. Focus!”
Suitably chastened, Miss Rhodes followed Concordia to the far side of the stage, while Mr. Harrison issued mock-armaments and proceeded to shuffle bodies around.
Concordia pulled out her copy of Hamlet. “Let’s see what you know so far. What part are you working on, Miss Rhodes?”
“Act One, scene two,” the girl muttered.
“That’s all?” Concordia said. Oh, dear. They had a lot of work ahead of them.
“All right. This is the scene where Horatio tells Hamlet that he saw the ghost of the king, Hamlet’s father. Hamlet has made the decision to stand watch with him tonight, to try and speak with him. I’ll read Horatio’s part. Ready?”
Miss Rhodes nodded.
“’My lord, I think I saw him yesternight,…the king, your father,’” Concordia began. Miss Rhodes responded hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as the scene progressed.
“’… If it assume my noble father’s person,
I’ll speak to it though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace –’”
Miss Rhodes stopped as Concordia abruptly dropped her book.
“I beg your pardon,” Concordia said, stooping to pick it up. Her hands shook and her mind raced, back to her conversation with Dean Pierce, and even further back, to the séance with Madame Durand. Could ghosts really exist? Was her father trying to communicate with her, just as Hamlet’s father had in the play?
She shook off the feeling but resolved to talk to her mother. Tomorrow.
“Let us proceed,” she said, opening the book again.
Finally they stopped for the evening. It was getting close to curfew, otherwise known as the “ten o’clock rule,” when all students were supposed to be in bed with their lights out.
As Concordia helped Mr. Harrison stow the props in the storage chest, she noticed something was missing.
“Mr. Harrison, do you know what happened to the queen’s diadem? I don’t see it.” She pulled out the rest of the trunk’s contents, just to be sure.
Mr. Harrison came over to look. “I didn’t notice, really,” he said. “I was focused on whether we had enough swords, and they were at the top. When did you last see it?”
“Two days ago, when I first checked through to see what we could use. These are left over from last year’s play. I know I should have checked earlier, but I’ve been…busy.” In fact, Concordia received quite a scolding from the lady principal when she went to her for the key to the chest.
“Is it valuable?” Harrison asked, frowning.
“No-o, I don’t think so. I suppose we could make another.” And that had better be soon. Drat. She sighed. “I hope Miss Grant won’t hold me responsible. At her request, I just turned in an inventory of the trunk’s contents, with the diadem on it.” It would be just her luck if the lady principal came and checked before they had a replacement made.
“Really?” Mr. Harrison looked more concerned than Concordia would have expected. The man didn’t strike her as all that compassionate. “I’ll ask the custodian,” he offered. “His son is very handy with metalwork. I’m sure he could make a replacement.”
“Thank you,” Concordia said, relieved though a bit puzzled by the generous offer from a man who barely seemed to tolerate her presence. But then again, joining forces against the lady principal made for unlikely allies.
Chapter 15
Do not forever with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
I.ii
Week 6, Instructor Calendar
October 1896
Concordia awoke to the sound of rain beating against the windows. The walk to chapel was going to be miserable. And after chapel, the trolley ride to her mother’s house would be even worse. But there was no help for it.
Even if Concordia didn’t learn enough in her visit to her mother to catch the real killer, perhaps she could find sufficient evidence to convince Sophia to retract her confession and give Capshaw an additional lead to pursue. Thank goodness the dean had managed to coax Miss Grant into lifting the off-campus restriction. Concordia would have been a muddy mess crawling between a fence today.
After chapel, Concordia didn’t bother to change into a dry skirt and stockings – she would only get wet again. It was Saturday, so she had no classes or responsibilities until dinner, and her absence even then was permissible. The students were engaged in quiet activities and housework in the cottage. Ruby shooed her out.
“Don’t you worry about the girls,” she said, “I can handle ‘em. You just go and have your visit, though it’s a shame to travel in such a downpour.”
At the Wells’ home, the housekeeper opened the door to a bedraggled young lady she barely recognized - hat plastered to hair, hair plastered to head, skirts sodden and dripping.
“Miss Concordia!” she exclaimed, opening the door wider. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We could have sent someone to get you.”
Concordia had debated that point but thought it best to catch her mother unexpectedly. “It’s fine, Mrs. Houston. I just need to dry out a bit.”
“Why don’t you go up to your old room. I’m sure there are some clothes of yours still in the wardrobe. Then I’ll get these dried proper before you have to go back. I’ll tell your mother you’re here.” She turned toward the kitchen, shaking her head and muttering, “Young ladies these days; so harum-scarum…catch her death of cold. Not even that ferr-eigner, Madame Doo-rand, is coming out in the cold and wet today…”
Concordia interrupted the housekeeper in mid-mutter. “Did you say ‘Madame Durand’? Was she supposed to come here today?”
Mrs. Houston pressed Concordia’s damp jacket against her chest in a protective gesture and shivered. “The woman gives me the creeps, she does. She’s been a reg’lar here, doing ‘readings’ and ‘consultations’ a couple o’ times in the past week, burning stuff that leaves a stink like a bordello. Yer mother asked her to come, can you believe it? You’d think she had no more sense than a lump o’ sugar. But ever since Miss Mary died, she’s not like herself anymore.” She sighed.
This was alarming news, indeed. Concordia felt a familiar s
urge of anger toward Madame Durand, exploiting the grief of others for her own gain. She was going to have to try and make her mother see reason.
Thanking the housekeeper, she hurried upstairs to change.
The parlor looked much the same as Concordia remembered, except for the new drapes and rug. It was a decidedly formal space for visitors. The stiff arm chairs with their ornately-turned legs, the regimental arrangement of portraits along the far wall, and the matching, evenly-spaced candlesticks on the mantel spoke of her mother’s love of order.
The one disruption to the primness of the atmosphere, however, was a large glass bowl on top of the piano, generously filled with orange chrysanthemums that seemed to glow in the light. Mrs. Houston’s doing, Concordia guessed.
Mrs. Wells stood beside the parlor fire.
“Mother, how have you been? It’s good to see you.” Concordia could tell she was angry. She hadn’t approached Concordia or even clasped her hand in greeting. This did not bode well for their talk.
Mrs. Wells gestured to the other chair and stiffly seated herself. “And you as well. Except for seeing you at Madame Durand’s college demonstration, I haven’t seen or heard from you since the term started. Are you that busy that you could not visit or write?”
Concordia flushed at the reprimand. She looked at her hands in her lap. “I know. Since Mary died, I know we’ve been…trying…to get along, but I feel as if I’m always waiting for you to criticize my work.”
Mrs. Wells narrowed her eyes. “You are not quite the woman of the world you make yourself out to be if you cannot take a little criticism, particularly when it is for your own welfare. A child should heed her parent. I have greater knowledge of the ways of the world – even without a fancy college degree. I want you to be guided by my experience of how the world works for women.”