by Owen, K.
The day we had finally broken through to the tomb, I decided to return to it in the cooler dusk before losing the light. Upon taking a more careful look through the tomb I grew more excited. The writings on the walls, the treasures, the near-perfect condition of the sarcophagus! There was a heavy, movable interior wall with hand-holds on the outside. After much exertion, I was finally able to push it aside to find a secret inner chamber. But something must have fallen on me, because I don’t remember anything until the next morning when Adams and the others were pulling me out of the chamber. Thank heaven they found me.
I remember the next event clearly in my mind, however; Red stepped into the tomb. All of the anger and frustration I had felt became concentrated in one hard point of fury that I could not control. Lord help me, I lunged for the man’s throat, and before anyone could separate us, we knocked against a side wall that proved precarious. It collapsed and we brought down the entire roof of the tomb on top of us.
Fortunately, there were others outside who had escaped the collapse and could dig us out. I don’t remember much of the process. I kept fading in and out of consciousness. Somewhere in the chaos I lost one of the amulets from my pocket. I could only find one of them later.
Everyone was extricated, except for Red. A solid stone wall had come down upon his back and had him pinned. We did not have large enough winches or enough manpower to move it.
He was still alive, though. The workers were able to clear his head and upper body and revive him. At the sight of me he consigned me to the bowels of hell and heaped invectives upon me that will scar my soul forever.
We had no choice but to leave him and go back to Cairo for help. We left some members of our party behind to care for him, along with all of the supplies we could spare, but it seems doubtful that we will get help to him in time. I am leaving a man behind to die, and it is my fault.
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30 November 1873
I have been treated and released from the hospital here in Cairo. I am finally well enough to make the long voyage home.
Red did not die out in the desert, but I don’t know how fortunate that is, as he is crippled forever. He was rescued by a caravan traveling in the area. They had ropes, pulleys, and a few strong elephants to free him. Red came to the hospital just as I was leaving it, his wife and his pretty little daughter hurrying to his side. I slunk away before they could see me. I am ashamed.
Mariette has still not returned from his trip and now I think, why should I report anything? Red is a broken man, through my fault; do I really want to visit more misery upon him and his family?
As far as the tomb’s discovery, I am disenchanted with the pursuit of glory and accolades. Let others discover Egypt’s secrets. The workers have been paid and have moved on to other employment. The tomb is collapsed beyond recovery.
Let the sands cover the tomb, perhaps for another thousand years. Adams doesn’t care; he, too, has lost his enthusiasm for the hunt. But I’m sure he will buy the collection of artifacts I have accumulated over my career. I will sell them all, except for the amulet. It is a reminder of my failure. I wonder if the other will ever be found.
Once I have disposed of my artifacts, however, I will probably sever my association with Adams. There is a part of me that distrusts him now. I wonder how I came to be struck on the head that night in the tomb, and how Red was able to leave the boat and find the site. Where were the men we left to keep watch over Red? Adams’ men.
Tomorrow we sail on a trans-Atlantic steamer for home. I miss my wife and little girls.
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Once she had finished reading, Concordia put her head in her hands. It seemed impossible that the journal she just read could have come from the man she’d adored. The Randolph Wells she’d known had been a mild-mannered scholar, content to aspire to no other ambition than successfully completing an obscure translation, and debating key points of philosophy with other scholars. She had never seen him angry or lacking self-control.
But this man, on these pages? Arrogant, devious, quick to anger? Riddled with guilt at the end, yes, but was that enough? His actions had caused a man great pain, and consigned him to a life as a cripple. And what of Red’s wife and his “pretty little daughter?” What had happened to them? Had they been reduced to a life of deprivation and want?
Concordia looked up. Miss Phillips was watching her quietly, a look of pity on her face.
“Now we know why he abandoned Egyptology,” Concordia said. “He couldn’t bear the guilt, the reminders of what he had done.”
“It explains other things, too, such as how the amulets became separated,” Miss Phillips said. “The one you have – is it safe?”
Concordia took it out of a deep skirt pocket. “I’ve been carrying it with me for lack of a more secure place for it.”
“I would lock it away in a vault somewhere, if I were you,” Miss Phillips said. She shivered. “Maybe it is cursed, as Madame Durand says.”
“What about the other one, which my father lost – somewhere in the rubble of the collapsed tomb, I suppose? How did Colonel Adams get it?”
“I don’t know,” Miss Phillips said. “Perhaps one of the workers found it after your father and Colonel Adams had gone for help and pocketed it? And later sold it to the colonel? And who has it now...Miss Grant’s attacker, I suppose?”
“That seems reasonable to assume. We know it can’t be Red, at least not directly,” Concordia said. “If he’s even still alive. More than twenty years have passed. With someone crippled that badly, no matter how strong he was originally –”
She stopped.
“You’ve figured out something,” Miss Phillips said. “What is it?”
Concordia stood, gathering the papers. “I must see Lieutenant Capshaw – at once.”
Chapter 28
Thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
III, iv.
Week 12, Instructor Calendar
December 1896
“Miss Wells, I cannot allow you to do this,” Capshaw said vehemently. “Do you realize how dangerous he is? Colonel Adams is dead, and Miss Grant is in the hospital -”
“I must, lieutenant,” Concordia interrupted. “You’ve read the journal entries. You know what happened – as a result of my father’s actions.”
They were gathered in the Adams’ parlor. It had taken Concordia a while to track down the lieutenant. She had finally found him here, with Sophia. He seemed to visit quite often, but she had no time right now to consider the significance of that.
Capshaw spoke softly, and put a hand on Concordia’s arm. “Listen to me. It is not your fault. These events had nothing to do with you. Will you just let my men pick him up? You can talk to him down at the station.”
Concordia shook her head. She knew now why her father had given her the amulet and the journal. So that she could somehow make up for the wrong he had done and make things right. He could not have anticipated these events, but he wanted her to be prepared if the time should come. Which it had.
The readiness is all.
“I want to talk to Dean Pierce first, alone, before you arrest him, lieutenant.”
Capshaw turned toward Sophia. “Can you talk some sense into her, please?”
Sophia smiled. “You obviously don’t know Concordia very well.” Nevertheless, she did pull Concordia over to the settee and sat her down.
“Concordia. You think your father gave you his journal and amulet so that you could redress the wrongs he had done. Can I tell you what I think? I think he wanted to warn you, because he knew that Red was an unscrupulous man who could cause harm to you someday.”
“But Augustus Pierce is in a wheelchair!” Concordia exclaimed.
“Yes, and what has he done?” Sophia asked. “He has killed…my father, and strangled your lady principal –”
“I could be wrong about that. The man is a cripple,” Concordia said.
> Capshaw interrupted, his expression was gloomy with regret. “No, I think you’re right, Miss Wells. Which means I was following the wrong thread in suspecting Mr. Harrison. Harrison’s account of his whereabouts wasn’t the only story we couldn’t corroborate. During the time in question, the dean’s account of his movements could not be substantiated, either.”
He sighed and shook his head. “But I hadn’t pursued it because I’d ruled out a man in a wheelchair. I should have realized that with sufficient hand and arm strength and the opportune angle it was possible. Besides, no one knows the extent of his disability, if he can stand or even perhaps walk. As far as the murder of Colonel Adams, I’ll have to go back and check Pierce’s whereabouts on the night the colonel was shot.”
“And with a gun, Pierce needed no strength at all,” Sophia added. “But if it was him, and he truly is dependent upon that chair, he would have needed help to get into our house that night. An accomplice.”
“We’ll look into that as well,” Capshaw said. He turned to Concordia. “If Pierce is the culprit we seek for both crimes, then this is a bold and desperate man you wish to confront.”
“He won’t have a gun at Sycamore House,” Concordia said. “And there are too many other people around. I’ll be perfectly safe.” She looked over at the grim-faced Capshaw. “We have more of a chance to get him to talk if I’m alone with him. Besides, he won’t hurt me, not if he wants the second amulet. I’m the only one who can get it for him. He must know that.”
“Perhaps, but there is something more I wanted to say, Concordia,” Sophia broke in. “You think your father did some terrible wrong to Pierce. But look at the circumstances. What is Randolph Wells really guilty of? Employing subterfuge to get around a very cunning man and protect a country’s treasures. Lunging at him in the heat of anger. In such a situation, how many other men would have done the same? No man is the paragon of virtue that you have built your father to be over all these years.”
Concordia looked down at her lap in silence as Sophia’s words hit a little too close to home.
“What happened was a tragic accident,” Sophia continued. “Pierce’s injury was not of your father’s creation. Your father, too, was injured and had to get to a hospital. He had no choice but to leave Pierce, yet he did not leave him without providing what care was possible.”
Concordia finally looked up. “I understand what you say, Sophia, but I must do it my way.”
Capshaw frowned. “I keep forgetting how stubborn you college ladies can be. Very well. We’ll do it your way, but with a few precautions in place. Agreed?”
Chapter 29
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
I, v.
Week 12, Instructor Calendar
December 1896
The day was overcast and blustery, scuttling dried leaves against the curb as the driver handed Concordia into the Adams’ carriage for the ride back to the college. She wrapped her jacket more tightly around herself and shivered from more than the cold.
How could she get the dean to confess to what he had done? What if he denied it all? She had no proof, although Capshaw may be able to confirm the man’s identity through replies to his telegrams. But what would that prove? Only that Dean Pierce was actually the man named “Red” in her father’s journals, and had been associated with him long ago. The rest of it, what Concordia surmised to be Pierce’s single-minded pursuit of the amulets – so single-minded that he was willing to kill to get them – was just conjecture on her part.
And why did Pierce want them so badly? What made them so valuable? None of the experts who examined the one from Colonel Adams considered it a priceless artifact. She was missing something.
One thing was certain: Pierce now knew that she had the other amulet. She should be able to use that for leverage.
Once back at campus, Concordia hurried to her rooms to change before going to see Pierce. Ruby stopped her on her way back out.
“Have you seen the boy, miss?” she asked, looking troubled.
“Eli? No. Why?”
“I’ve been looking for him, to see if he wanted any of the chicken dumpling soup I just made, and to take some of it over to Miss Phillips. No one’s seen him all day.”
Concordia felt uneasy. First the cat, now the boy. Something was wrong here. But she had no time to spare for the problem now. She had to hope that he was simply out looking for his pet. “When I get back, we’ll make more inquiries,” she said, in as reassuring of a tone as she could muster.
With that, she closed the front door behind her and headed over to Sycamore House.
The maid answering the door put Concordia in the front parlor while she went to check on the dean. She returned moments later. “Mr. Pierce said he can join you in twenty minutes. Can you wait, miss?”
Concordia nodded, and settled herself into a chair. The floor-length curtains in front of the deep windows were closed against the draughts and there was a robust fire burning. The room was comfortable enough.
Per Capshaw’s instructions, however, Concordia opened one of the windows a few inches.
President Langdon, passing through the hall on his way out, stuck his head in the parlor when he saw a visitor.
“Ah, Miss Wells! For a moment I thought you were Madame Durand. Good to see you, my dear.” He looked around at the empty room. “For whom are you waiting?”
Strange that Langdon would have mistaken her for Madame since they looked nothing alike, Concordia thought. “I’m here to see the dean,” she answered, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.
The president, however, took note of that and sat down beside her. “Something’s wrong. Tell me what’s going on.”
Her composure crumbling at last, Concordia cried, burying her face into the lapels of his jacket.
It’s not usually considered part of a president’s duties to have his faculty members sobbing on his shoulder, but Langdon took it in stride. “There, there, my dear,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief.
Concordia took a deep breath to recover her composure. Mercy, she seemed to be making a habit lately of crying upon men’s shoulders in parlors.
“Why don’t you tell me about it.” Langdon encouraged.
So she did – telling him about her father’s past she’d known nothing about, the disillusion she felt about the man she’d idolized, the connection of the amulets to the murder of Colonel Adams and the attack upon the lady principal, and the real identity of her father’s associate: Dean Pierce.
“I am here to ap-apologize for what my father had done to him, and to give him the amulet left to me, if only he would turn himself in. I would rather not have him dragged away by the police,” she said.
Langdon’s expression had turned into an angry scowl during Concordia’s account. “Our dean did this? I would drag him to police headquarters myself. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Haven’t you learned anything from last year’s incident, that you shouldn’t go rushing off alone?”
“I only figured it out today. I have no proof,” Concordia answered. “Lieutenant Capshaw is waiting outside to arrest him if I can get him to confess, so I’m not really alone. I’m sorry, Mr. Langdon,” she added meekly.
“Still, I don’t like it. Let the police do their jobs,” Langdon protested.
Concordia gave one last sniffle and put the handkerchief in her pocket. “You’re right. I’m terribly impulsive that way, wanting to do this completely on my own. But Pierce trusts me, and I think I can surprise him enough and coax him to confess. However, if he denies everything, I have no proof, merely suspicion. Nonetheless, I have to try.”
Langdon sighed and patted her arm. “Very well.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully as he looked around the room. “But I propose we amend the plan slightly.”
Concordia nodded as Langdon explained his idea.
Dean Pierce wheeled himself into the room with the ease of practice and powerful hands. Concordia was standing by the fireplace. The man l
ooked as amiable as ever. There wasn’t a trace of the anger Concordia had seen in the dining hall a few weeks ago, the day Miss Grant was attacked and left for dead. But she knew it was there, just under the surface. The red-flushed, apoplectic look of a man with a quick temper. His red hair was gone, but the rest remained.
“What can I do for you, dear?” he asked, as he motioned her to sit. She perched nervously on the settee.
“I have made some unpleasant discoveries that I came to discuss with you.”
He looked puzzled.
“Miss Phillips has finished transcribing the shorthand from my father’s journal entries. About my father’s last expedition in Egypt,” she added carefully.
The dean’s eyes flickered, but that was all.
“I know who you really are, Mr. Pierce – or shall I call you ‘Red?” Concordia said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know that you hated my father, and the colonel, for thwarting you all those years ago. They deprived you of your plunder. And, of course, the tragic accident that crippled you was the worst blow of all. But why kill Colonel Adams? Was it because my father was dead and out of reach of your revenge? Or because you thought the colonel had the amulet, and you didn’t believe him when he denied it?
“And then there’s the lady principal,” Concordia went on, when Pierce stayed silent. “She had nothing to do with those incidents so long ago. But you found out, somehow, that she had stolen the amulet. Did she surprise you in her quarters when you were searching for it? Is that why you attacked her?”
Dean Pierce was quiet for a long while. Concordia waited.
He sighed, wheeling himself closer, so that their knees were nearly touching. “Concordia. Yes, your father and I were in business together, and I was called ‘Red’ back in those days. But I am innocent of what you accuse me. I never killed Adams – much as I would have dearly wanted to at one time, after he had double-crossed me. And you must believe me; I didn’t touch a hair on our lady principal’s head.”