by K. B. Owen
“Now? Why not wait for Aaron, and go together to break the news to the child?” Sophia asked.
Concordia shook her head. The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she became. Why was Eli’s cat in the room with the dead woman? Something was wrong, and she had a strong feeling that Eli was about to get caught up in it. “I want to make sure he’s safe.”
Sophia gave her a wide-eyed look. “The cat. This is somehow connected to Eli,” she whispered.
“I don’t know, but sitting here isn’t going to find that out for us,” Concordia pointed out.
“You’re right,” Sophia said, with a decisive tilt of her chin. “Let’s go.”
After scribbling a note for Capshaw and leaving it with a puzzled Mrs. Hofferman, Sophia and Concordia made the brisk walk to Hartford Settlement House.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Week 5, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
“Miss Adams! Er, I mean, Mrs. Capshaw—it’s so nice to see you back,” the girl at the front desk said eagerly. “I know Martha will be glad. Did you have a nice trip?”
“Can you get Martha for me? And Eli, too?” Sophia said, urgency in her voice. There wasn’t time for pleasantries.
The puzzled girl hesitated, then hurried down the corridor.
It seemed an agony of waiting before the girl located Martha, who greeted Sophia with an enthusiastic hug. “Welcome back!” She turned to Concordia. “So good to see you, too, dear. Now we can take care of that little problem—”
“Unfortunately, Martha, Mrs. Tooey is dead,” Concordia interrupted. “We went to the boarding house to speak with her about Eli, but found her…strangled.”
Martha paled and put her hands to her bosom. “Dear heaven.”
“Here, sit down.” Concordia helped Martha onto a hall bench.
“I’m all right,” Martha said, taking a deep breath. “But how horrible. Do they know who did it?”
“It’s early yet,” Sophia said. “Aaron’s investigating now.”
“That poor woman,” Martha murmured to herself. “I suppose we should tell Eli. As distressing as the death might be to the child, at least he’ll have some peace of mind in knowing he isn’t going away with her.” She stood and gestured to the girl at the desk. “Can you fetch Eli?” She checked her lapel watch. “Let me think...he should be in carpentry class. We’ll wait in my office.” She nodded to the girl, who took off.
“We’ll be more comfortable—and private—in here,” Martha said, with a quick glance at the cleaning woman who had just entered the hall with mop and bucket.
Once they were settled, Concordia asked, “Had Eli seen Florence at all this week?”
Martha’s brow puckered in thought. “I don’t believe so,” she said, “but that boy comes and goes at will, more than I’m happy with. Even after a year of our care—and our rules—he can’t seem to shake his harum-scarum habit of just going where the mood strikes. He hears about a job delivering extra papers, or taking over a shoelace stand for a sick boy, and he’s on it like a flash. Not that I don’t admire his hard-working, entrepreneurial spirit, but his studies are erratic, and he seems quite restless. Lately, I’ve attributed that to the stress of having a mother he never knew come back to fetch him.” She sighed.
Concordia sympathized. Managing wayward children and unstable families on a thin budget was no easy task. Funds, room, and time were all out of favor in such an endeavor.
The girl came back. “Master Bernard says Eli never showed up, miss.”
Concordia sucked in a sharp breath. “Has anyone seen him today? It’s very important we find him.”
The girl pursed her lips and thought. “I can ask Madge. She was at the front desk early this morning, and might a’ seen him.”
“Ask everyone,” Sophia urged. She had paled again. Concordia wished she had smelling salts.
“Yes, miss,” the girl said, and ran out the door.
The three women looked at each other. What could they do now?
Their unspoken thought was answered when there was a brief knock and Capshaw walked in, red-faced. “I thought I told you both to stay put,” he growled at Sophia and Concordia. “I don’t need to walk all over creation to find you.”
“But we left word as to where we would be,” Sophia said in mock-meekness, earning her a sharp glance from her husband.
Maloney came in and stood by the door, waiting.
“What did you learn?” Sophia asked.
Capshaw shook his head. “Not much. She was strangled with a garroting wire.” He ran a distracted hand over his head, making tufts of red hair stand on end. Concordia was reminded of a Pomeranian with its hackles raised. He turned to Martha. “Where’s Eli?”
“We’re looking for him,” Martha said.
“The presence of his cat in the room can only mean that he was there recently,” Capshaw said. “More worrisome is that he left without the animal.”
“What does it mean? Do you think he witnessed the murder?” Concordia asked. She stood, too restless to sit.
“I don’t know, but I want to find Eli and be assured he’s safe.” Capshaw fingered his mustache. “I have a bad feeling about this. Whatever this woman’s past, her attempt to take Eli with her seems to have spurred someone to act.”
“So Eli could have been taken by whoever killed Florence,” Sophia said in despair.
The girl from the front desk came in at that moment.
“Ma’am,” the girl said nervously, “no one’s seen ’im since this morning. And no one knows where he was going. Should I keep asking?”
“Yes, dear,” Martha said. “It’s urgent that we find him.”
Capshaw turned to Maloney. “Check the grocer’s, the women’s college, and the newspaper stand on Main and Church. Those are his usual places to earn a nickel. Take a couple of patrolmen to help you search. Also check the infirmaries nearby, just in case. The boy is about so high—” he held his hand up to chest-level “—black curly hair, pale complexion, freckles. Thin.” He turned to Martha. “Do you know what clothes he was wearing this morning?”
Martha mutely shook her head.
“Ah, well, that should be enough to start. Find him, sergeant,” he said to Mahoney. “I’m personally counting upon you.”
With a quick nod, Maloney left.
CHAPTER TWELVE
What, in your own part, can you say to this?
Othello, I.iii
Week 5, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
Not even the busy routine of campus life was enough over the next few days to distract Concordia from her worry over Eli. Sophia sent her daily messages, but there was little news to report.
Concordia tried pushing her fears to the back of her mind as she spent the evening grading student essays on Paradise Lost. She clucked her tongue at some of the silliest opening sentences that she had seen in a long while.
Milton was a blind poet, which made it quite difficult to write Paradise Lost, even though he asked for sight in the beginning of the story.
Paradise Lost is about Satan being happy in hell, and trying to get Adam and Eve to join him. He does so through the weaker of the two, Eve.
Really? Concordia rolled her eyes. These ninny answers came from the young ladies of Miss Smedley’s social set, who had apparently taken her cue in neglecting their work.
Concordia re-read the all-too-brief entirety of Miss Smedley’s essay:
The most compelling character in Paradise Lost is that of Satan, which I hardly think was Milton’s intention. It’s as if the allure of evil was too great even for the author himself. After Adam and Eve ate the apple and Satan was banished, the story ceased to be interesting. I stopped reading after that.
Miss Smedley had an intriguing idea, but Concordia was disappointed that she simply gave up and didn’t finish. If the girl only applied herself, she would be a promising student. But Miss Smedley’s enthusiasm for the pages of Harper’s fashion plates did not exte
nd to the pages of Milton or Chaucer.
Concordia took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. Time for a tea break. She pulled out her pot and headed to the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. Where was Ruby? Concordia frowned over the dirty cups and spoons in the sink. Ruby could not abide unwashed dishes. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well?
Concordia pulled an apron from the hook. At least she could wash up and tidy the kitchen, then check on Ruby afterward.
She had just dried her hands when the kitchen door opened and Ruby slipped in quietly.
“Oh!” Ruby jumped. “You scared me to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Concordia said, filling the kettle and putting it on the stove. “I thought you were lying down.”
Ruby took off her coat and hung it up behind the door. “Uh, well…I thought I heard a couple o’ tomcats tussling outside.”
“Oh?” Concordia hadn’t heard anything. She’d been in the kitchen for at least ten minutes. How long does it take to look outside?
But Concordia wasn’t responsible for the matron, and had no right to pry. Instead, she reached for the tea canister and said nothing more.
Ruby turned toward the sink. “Let me jes’ finish these—oh! Did you wash the dishes?” She flushed. “Thank you, miss.”
“No trouble. I’d better get back,” Concordia said, clutching her now-full teapot. “I have more grading to do.”
As Concordia headed back to her rooms, she wondered what the matron had really been up to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Week 5, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
“So will I turn her virtue into pitch, and out of her own goodness make the net that shall enmesh them all.”
“Very good,” Concordia said, reading along from her copy, “now, I want you to look at the last eight lines of that speech, and recite them aloud. With feeling.”
As the student performed the lines, Concordia fumed. Where was Mrs. Isley? She was supposed to be in charge of the play, particularly these time-consuming auditions.
It seemed as if everyone wanted to be Iago. There were a fair number of seniors to get through yet, and Concordia didn’t want the decision to be hers alone. She had a feeling that, although Mrs. Isley liked to be in charge, she wasn’t over-fond of putting in the time involved.
They were nearly finished when Mrs. Isley arrived.
“My dears! Oh, how sorry I am to be late!” Lily Isley sashayed in on a cloud of rose-water scent that made Concordia sneeze.
“Concordia, you’d better mind that cold before it becomes something more serious,” Lily advised, taking a step back, “we don’t want to infect the players, now, do we?”
“Certainly not,” Concordia answered through gritted teeth.
“So, how are these charming young ladies faring? Have we found any dramatic prodigies yet?” Mrs. Isley paced up and down the apron of the stage, looking over the girls, who tittered nervously. “My, my, such fresh young faces! We will have our work cut out for us with stage makeup, to make them look battle-weary...or evil.”
Concordia motioned toward her clipboard. “I’ve seen several promising students, Mrs. Isley….”
“Wonderful!” Lily came over to look.
“I was thinking that these three—” Concordia pointed to several names and nodded toward the girls “—would make good candidates for Iago.”
Lily clucked her tongue and glanced over the assembled girls. “Oh, my dear, they simply do not have the look! No, no, they won’t do at all.”
“We can adjust the look; isn’t it more important that they can act?” Concordia said, working to keep the sarcasm from her voice. How long had it been since Lily had performed in the theater, anyway?
Lily gave Concordia a pitying glance, and turned toward the door, where Millie Carver, one of the quieter seniors, stood. Concordia hadn’t even auditioned Miss Carver, as that young lady had made clear her contribution to the play would be set design. She was merely waiting for her roommate to be finished so they could join their study group at the library. Now Lily was pulling the poor girl to the center of the stage and thrusting a script in her hands.
“Read this passage, dear; I think you would be a perfect Iago,” Mrs. Isley cooed.
A bewildered Miss Carver gave Concordia a pleading look. “M-m-miss....”
“Mrs. Isley,” Concordia said sharply. “This senior is already assigned. Pick one of the young ladies who has auditioned for the part, if you please.”
Lily Isley pouted and waved a dismissive hand. Concordia held out her clipboard, but Lily ignored it. “You,” she said, pointing to a short, dark-browed girl in the back, “read this passage aloud.”
When the young lady complied, Concordia was astonished. How had she missed this girl? “I don’t recall you signing up to audition for Iago.”
“No miss,” came the soft answer, “I saw how many girls wanted the part, so I wasn’t going to try for it.”
Not exactly a go-getter in life, Concordia thought, which was ironic for this particular character, but the student certainly had something that carried from the stage. Once it was coaxed out of her.
Mrs. Isley beamed. “Congratulations...Miss Stephens, is it? You are our new Iago.” A chorus of disappointed sighs followed this pronouncement.
“Not to worry, lambs!” Lily called to the other girls. “We need everyone’s contribution to make the play a success. Miss Wells here will find a meaningful job for each of you.”
Miss Wells will find a job for each of you? Splendid. So much for a lighter work load.
Concordia rummaged among the scripts. She passed one to Miss Stephens. “It’s a significant part to learn,” she warned. “You should get started on it right away.” The girl nodded delightedly and left, clutching the script.
Lily wrapped herself in her fox fur and picked up her reticule. “I must go; I have an appointment. Oh! I almost forgot. I’m giving a dinner party in two weeks’ time. It’s a small affair; no more than forty guests. It’s in honor of Mr. Sanders—he’s the Republican candidate for the state senate seat, you know. I was hoping you could come, my dear. And bring that young man of yours...Mr. Bradley, isn’t it?”
Concordia nodded stiffly. That young man of yours, indeed. She was hardly a debutante, but rather a staid older woman of twenty-nine. Practically on the shelf, as they say. Sometimes being “on the shelf” suited her just fine.
“I cannot speak for Mr. Bradley, but I’ll ask him, if you’d like,” Concordia said. A small dinner party of forty people? Mercy.
“Wonderful!” Lily beamed. “I’ll have the invitations sent ’round to you.”
After Mrs. Isley left, Concordia made short work of the remaining senior assignments, tidied the auditorium, and locked the door behind her. The early March skyline had long since faded to black, the cold making itself felt through her wool coat. She shivered as the wind picked up around the quadrangle. No one was out on the grounds at this hour. She’d better hurry; there wasn’t much time before lights out. She pulled her coat closer and started at a brisk pace for Willow Cottage, her boot heels ringing upon the cold stones.
She was just about to step onto the shrubbery-lined path to the cottages when she saw something move in the distance. She turned. The bracketed lights of the Memorial Chapel doors illuminated the outline of a slim man. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the same youth she had seen last month on Rook’s Hill.
Could one of the girls be involved with the young man, setting up trysts after hours?
Concordia’s lips thinned in a stern line. Not if she had anything to say about it. She hastened toward the chapel, but by the time she reached it the man was gone.
Concordia gritted her teeth in frustration and turned toward the gatekeeper’s cottage. At least she could inform Clyde of their unauthorized visitor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Week 5, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
The next afternoon, Concordi
a stared in dismay at the pile of mail taking over her desk. How long had it been there—a week? She’d neglected it terribly.
Her thoughts returned to Eli as she worked to clear her desk. Would they be able to find him and learn the truth about Florence’s murder? She trusted Capshaw’s ability, but each passing day without progress increased her worry.
Concordia sifted through the pile of envelopes, throwing away the advertising circulars (“Our 57-cent Princess Hair Tonic Restorer!”), opening the department store bill (she was nearly finished paying for those winter boots), and finally reaching the bottom of the stack.
She picked up a plain white envelope. The hand was unfamiliar, with no return direction upon it. Concordia slit it open and glanced at the signature. Florence Tooey. Her heart beat faster. Also within the envelope was a tiny, locket-sized picture of what Concordia assumed to be the woman in her younger days. As small as it was, she could make out Eli’s features in the large, luminous eyes of the mother.
Settling herself in the chair, Concordia started back at the beginning.
Dear Miss Wells,
I hope you’ll pardon the presumption of my engaging in a personal correspondence. I know that you care about Eli, so I’m using this as an excuse for imposing upon you. I hope I have been able to persuade you by this point that I really am his mother, although I could see you didn’t believe the tissue of lies I thought I was so clever in creating. I will share some of the real story with you now, in hopes that you will do something for me.
The child’s birth was under less than ideal circumstances. I was very young, and unmarried. I come from a respected family. My parents acted in the best way they knew to protect me from ruin, sending me away to have the baby and arranging to have him cared for by a former servant. For a goodly sum, the woman and her mother were willing to raise him and keep his parentage a secret.