by K. B. Owen
Concordia handed her the stack and left her to it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
’tis in ourselves that we are thus
or thus.
Othello, I.iii
Week 6, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
The day dawned crisp and clear, with not as much chill as last week. The trees had begun to plump with buds and the grass was changing over from its winter brown to a tender green. A perfect day for a bicycle ride. Perhaps it would be a welcome respite from the endless worry about Eli. Certainly the fresh air would do her good.
Concordia was the faculty sponsor for the college’s bicycling club, but it had been months since she and her fellow club members had enjoyed weather temperate enough for an excursion. She sent notes around to the girls, telling them to meet her at the quadrangle at one o’clock. That should afford them ample time for their excursion as well as dressing for dinner. She didn’t want to incur Maynard’s wrath again, or to get Miss Pomeroy in further trouble.
In the meantime, she sat down to re-read Othello. Despite her preoccupation, she was soon caught up in the story: a betrayed father, a cunning villain, a jealous new husband, an innocent young wife, unaware of the slaughter to which she was being led. The spectator could see it all, the net slowly closing around the principals of the piece, helpless to do anything except watch....
Concordia tossed it aside before she finished. The smothering of Desdemona called to mind the all-too-recent image of Florence Willoughby, flung across the bed like a discarded rag doll, the mark from a garrote wire around her neck.
Oh, where was Eli? Had he seen something? Had the murderer kidnapped him, or worse, killed him and hidden his body? But that made no sense; why hide a second killing? Concordia clung to that bit of logic, hoping Eli was still alive. She also hoped that Miss Hamilton would reply to her letter soon, and take on the investigation. It had been nearly a week since Concordia had sent it, with no word yet.
The mantel clock struck the three-quarter-hour.
Mercy! She’d better hurry. Concordia pulled out her bicycling outfit and gave it a good shake. She should have given it time yesterday to air out. It smelled strongly of mothballs. Planning ahead was not her strong suit.
She felt the familiar rush of anticipation as she put it on—the leggings, shortened over-skirt, blouse and vest. She glanced in the mirror as she tucked her hair under the matching cap. It did show a bit more leg than people were accustomed to seeing.
She wrangled her machine from the shed—never an easy task, as the bicycle was quite heavy—and set out for the quadrangle.
Four girls waited impatiently as Concordia braked in front of the fountain.
“Isn’t this a beautiful day, Miss Wells?” Maisie Lovelace said eagerly.
Concordia smiled. “Indeed it is.”
“Shall we take the path over to the old railroad line?” Miss Lovelace asked.
Concordia shook her head. “That might be too arduous for our first ride in months. After a few more excursions we could try it. We’ll stay on the sheep tracks down to there—” she pointed to the stream, below Rook’s Hill “—and circle back, behind the pond. That should be an hour’s ride, more than enough for today. Miss Lovelace, will you lead us?”
The girl grinned broadly.
It felt wonderful to be riding again. Concordia delighted in the sensation of the breeze on her face, the smell of damp earth and new growth, and the hush that settles upon a group engaged in a physical task. For a long while, there was just the huffing of breath and the whirring of gears.
Concordia felt her mind drift as she pedaled in rhythm with the girls. They were about to crest the hill. This was the part she loved, where one could feel the tug of gravity in the spine, pulling one down faster, faster, before touching the brakes.
As pleasant as the ride was, her thoughts drifted back to her letter to Miss Hamilton. Why hadn’t she heard anything? Concordia had a sinking feeling—more than the rush of her machine down the slope—that Miss Hamilton was not in Chicago, but away on a case. If so, what would they do?
“Watch out,” Miss Lovelace called out, as they got to the bottom. “This part’s quite boggy.”
As they successfully maneuvered around the obstacle, Concordia felt the gear slip under her pedal. “Oh, dear.” She jumped off the bicycle as the others braked to a stop.
“What is it?” Miss Lovelace asked.
Concordia struggled with the slippery, muddy chain. “I’m having trouble getting the chain to engage with the gear teeth.”
Heedless of her skirts in the damp grass, the girl knelt down for a better look. “Ah. I have just the thing.” She ran off to grab a pouch from her basket.
“What’s that?” Concordia asked, as the other girls crowded around.
“My tool kit,” Miss Lovelace said nonchalantly. “My uncle owns a clock-maker’s shop. He had some spare tools he was willing to lend me. I thought they would come in handy on long rides.”
“How resourceful,” Concordia murmured, watching the young lady wield the pliers with ease. “What is it you’re doing?”
“A link…is…bent. It must have happened as the chain slipped off.” The young lady grunted with the exertion, not looking up from her work. “It’s close to coming apart. Beth, would you mind?” She gestured to the pouch. “The spool of wire, if you please.”
Another girl rummaged around and passed the wire over.
“I’ve bent it back in place, Miss Wells, and the wire should hold it together for the return trip,” Miss Lovelace explained, standing up and pulling out a rag from her kit to clean her hands. “I’m afraid you’ll need a machine shop repair, though.”
Concordia was impressed. “Thank you, dear. Did you learn this from your uncle?”
The girl nodded, gesturing to two other girls. “His shop is where we made the sled, too. We love making and fixing mechanical things. In fact, there are several of us here at the school who want to study engineering. But it isn’t offered here, or at any women’s colleges. We want President Langdon to start one.”
“Really?” Concordia said in surprise. “You understand that such a move requires approval by the board of trustees, and a faculty sponsor?” Not a light-hearted undertaking. Of course, these young ladies had certainly demonstrated a knack for such pursuits. The sled must have been difficult to make.
“Professor Merriwether agreed to be our sponsor,” Miss Lovelace said. “He’s already spoken to the president, twice. But Mr. Langdon says such a course of study isn’t suitable for young ladies.” The other girls gave glum nods.
“Mr. Isley is dead set against it, too,” someone else chimed in. “In fact, we think he’s the one who convinced the president to reject our petition. Professor Merriwether had been sure he could get President Langdon to agree.”
Concordia suspected the bursar’s motive was more about finances than propriety. No doubt instituting such a program would be costly. “I suppose the dean was against the plan as well?”
The girls shrugged. Apparently, Maynard had not made known his opinions on the subject. Concordia found that surprising, as he didn’t hold back his views in other matters. She winced, remembering the meeting in Miss Pomeroy’s office.
“I’m sorry. I suppose there’s nothing more to do about it this year,” Concordia said.
Miss Lovelace thrust out a stubborn chin. “We’ll think of something.”
The group headed back around the pond, keeping to a slower pace so as to not risk breaking Concordia’s chain.
They had just rounded the bend and were approaching the benches when Concordia braked to a sudden stop, her knees weak with relief.
There, just under the willow that overhung the pond, Penelope Hamilton stood, watching their approach. Everything about the lady spoke of elegance, directness of purpose, and action: the sleek blond hair, coiled in a braided coronet under a jaunty carmine hat that matched her suit; the upright posture; the strong jaw-line; the no-nons
ense piercing gray eyes that missed little.
During much of Miss Hamilton’s time as lady principal at Hartford Women’s College, Concordia had found her remote and intimidating. Now, having come to know her better, she found her decisiveness reassuring.
Concordia had never been so happy to see anyone in her life.
“That’s all for today,” Concordia called to the girls, as she rushed to embrace her friend.
“Penelope!” Concordia cried. “I’m ever so glad to see you. Surprised, too. When I didn’t receive a reply, I worried I’d missed you.”
Miss Hamilton smiled. “It’s good to be back here again, even if the circumstances are distressing.” She looked closely at Concordia. “Quite distressing.”
Conocordia swallowed. “Yes, we’re worried about Eli.”
Miss Hamilton took Concordia’s arm. “Why don’t we have a cup of tea and talk about it? I’ve already spoken with Miss Pomeroy. She’s given me guest quarters at DeLacey House.”
Concordia stopped. Drat, she’d forgotten to ask Miss Pomeroy’s permission to invite a guest. “Does she know that I asked you to come?”
Miss Hamilton smiled. “You must know I would be more circumspect than that. I am merely visiting a niece who has just had a baby, but it turns out they don’t have enough room for me. There didn’t seem to be a problem with me staying here.” She glanced at Concordia. “What is it that worries you?”
“Dean Maynard has been—difficult,” Concordia said, wincing. “All of this business with Florence and Eli, and Sophia’s wedding before that, has taken me away from campus a few too many times for his liking. He’s been pressuring Miss Pomeroy to enforce strict rules for the staff. Especially me. But that isn’t the worst of it.”
She told Miss Hamilton about the gossip Maynard had heard regarding her “lady sleuthing.”
Miss Hamilton snorted. “It’s fortunate that he never learned about the time you prowled Founder’s Hall at one o’clock in the morning in your night dress.”
Concordia blushed.
“So Maynard suspects you are once again engaged in detecting?” Miss Hamilton asked.
Concordia nodded. “That’s why it’s imperative he not know who you really are and why you’re here.”
They had reached the door of DeLacey House, set along a deep, flagstone porch that later in the spring would sport well-worn rocking chairs and planters of bright geraniums. Miss Hamilton reached for her guest key, but hesitated.
“Concordia,” she said softly, “you are involved in this, you know. I’m going to need your help if we are to succeed. And yes, it requires detecting. The choice is ultimately yours to make.”
Concordia met her steady gaze. She hadn’t wanted to admit that she was involved, yet again. When a lady engaged in such inquiries, it was deemed unseemly or, as Lieutenant Capshaw termed it, meddling. Yet forces beyond her control seemed to carry her repeatedly to this juncture.
As Miss Hamilton was making plain, she did have a choice: bystander, or participant?
Concordia gave a small smile. “Count me in.”
The guest rooms weren’t as large as those Miss Hamilton occupied in the days when she was lady principal, of course, but they were nonetheless quite comfortable. Two cozy upholstered chairs flanked a hearth, where a fire had already been lit, more to dispel the damp than for warmth. Soon they were ensconced in front of a tray laden with fragrant tea and muffins.
Concordia felt herself relax in a way that she had not in the past few weeks. Miss Hamilton would solve the mystery and dispel the cloud that seemed to hang over them all. Concordia had every confidence of that. After all, the lady had once discovered an embezzler in their midst and solved multiple murders that had plagued the school, had she not? Concordia hoped that Capshaw was coming around to Miss Hamilton’s involvement in the case.
As if reading her mind, Penelope said, “I’ve already sent word to the lieutenant. He and Sophia will be joining us soon. In the meantime, I want you to catch me up on what you know.”
Concordia fished in her pocket for Florence’s letter, which she’d taken to carrying around and re-reading for a clue she might have missed. “I found this in my stack of mail last week. I’ve already shown it to the lieutenant. She wrote it the day before she died.”
Miss Hamilton read it through with great interest. “So, there had been an attempt on her life before. And she knew who was behind it. How exasperating that she didn’t name them here.”
“She was a very cautious woman. I doubt she trusted me with that information. However, her postscript points to some sort of clue in what she gave Eli,” Concordia said. “It was a pocket watch, as I remember.”
“Did you get a good look at it?”
Concordia shook her head. “I didn’t pay much attention. It seemed to be an ordinary watch. Not unusual at all.”
“And I assume the watch is with Eli? It wasn’t found in his belongings at the settlement house?”
“You’ll have to ask Sophia. She planned to search his belongings herself,” Concordia said.
“You said in your letter that the Capshaws wish to adopt the boy, correct?” Miss Hamilton asked.
“Yes, they were waiting until they returned from their honeymoon.”
“But it was at the wedding that Florence turned up?”
Concordia nodded. “Although she didn’t come forward and claim she was Eli’s mother until after they’d left on their trip.”
“I see.” Miss Hamilton tapped a lip thoughtfully. “What were your impressions of the woman?” She sat back and took a sip of her tea.
“Deeply suspicious, unwilling to volunteer any more information than necessary,” Concordia began, thinking back to her only encounter. “Awkward with Eli, but that’s understandable given the circumstances. She seemed under great tension. Well-spoken, though plainly dressed. That part was a surprise to me, until I read her letter. Based on Eli’s own account of his childhood, I assumed the mother was a servant who’d gotten herself in trouble.”
“Women of all stations can get into trouble,” Penelope Hamilton pointed out.
Concordia nodded ruefully. “Yes, I can see that.”
“In your letter,” Miss Hamilton said, “you recounted finding Florence dead in her room at the boarding house.”
Concordia took a deep breath. “She’d been...strangled. The Capshaws and I went over there to try talking Florence out of taking Eli.”
“And you said the boy’s cat bolted out of the room when you opened the door?”
“That’s what has me worried. Eli adores the animal. He rarely goes anywhere without it. I cannot imagine him willingly leaving it behind.”
“And no one has seen anything of the boy since?” Miss Hamilton asked.
Concordia shook her head mutely.
Miss Hamilton gave her a keen glance. “You are very fond of this child.”
Concordia sipped her tea to fight down the lump in her throat. “It’s so absurd, I know. Children usually scare the tar out of me. I simply don’t understand them. But Eli and I...well, you know what we had been through together, last year. I’d written to you about all that.”
Miss Hamilton nodded. “That’s a powerful bonding experience. He sounds like an extraordinary child.”
“He is.”
Concordia kept her gaze at her lap, trying not to cry. She’d tolerate a litter of raggedy cats just to see Eli again.
“Setting aside the presence of the cat, is there any chance that Eli could have left voluntarily?” Miss Hamilton asked.
Concordia thought about that. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but to be gone this long, without any word...I’m just so worried that he’s—”
There was a knock at the door, and Sophia and Capshaw came in. Once additional chairs were brought in and more tea sent for, the four of them sat facing each other.
“So, Lieutenant, it’s nice to see you again,” Miss Hamilton commented. “Allow me to express my best wishes on the occasion of your
marriage.”
She got wan smiles in return.
“Tell me how I can help,” Miss Hamilton went on. “I am at your disposal, and not due back for some time.”
Capshaw’s face contorted into what passed for a grateful look, although Concordia knew he struggled with a bit of wounded pride. Years ago when they first worked together on a case, Capshaw had been the official arm of the police force, with Miss Hamilton dependent upon what he decided to share with her. Now the power balance had shifted, with Penelope doing the favors.
“Tell me more about your investigation, before the chief took you off the case,” Miss Hamilton said. “Perhaps there is some information you had uncovered which was making someone nervous.”
Capshaw cleared his throat. “After examining the scene, talking with the coroner, and interviewing witnesses, we had very little to go on. Miss Willoughby had no visitors that day except Eli. But then he left around one o’clock—the maid saw him on his way out. No one saw Eli return.”
“And how long had Florence Willoughby been dead before you found her—at three in the afternoon, I believe?” Miss Hamilton asked.
Capshaw nodded. “Close to that time.” He explained the locked door, the repeated knocks, the maid who was sure Florence hadn’t gone out. The discovery of Rose.
“I see. Did you establish who in the household had last seen Florence alive, and when?”
“It was mid-morning. The maid said Florence came to the kitchen for a headache powder, and said she was going to lie down,” Capshaw said.
“And Eli was her only visitor?” Miss Hamilton asked.
“As far as anyone knows, but I had been looking into the possibility of a stranger slipping in unnoticed. It’s possible—the back kitchen door isn’t locked during the day. But there are so many people bustling around the kitchen that it doesn’t seem feasible.”
Miss Hamilton tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I know what you mean: butcher’s boy, vegetable seller, milk man, cook, servants...not to mention the boarders who might stop in to make special requests. But, no matter how difficult to accomplish, we know that she had to have been killed between one o’clock and, say, a quarter to three.”