Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  “Exactly. There’s a fire escape in back of the building, but that would be a bold move in broad daylight. None of the neighbors saw anyone on it.”

  “And we’re assuming that Eli’s disappearance is connected to his mother’s death?”

  Capshaw shrugged. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “I understand from Concordia that the boy has gone off on his own before,” Miss Hamilton said.

  “That was early on,” Sophia said, “when he first came to us. He wasn’t accustomed to anything but the vagrant life. But then he began to follow the routine, and seemed happy here. We spoke to Eli about adopting him after our marriage, and he was most eager for that. There would have been no reason for him to simply vanish like this.”

  “And certainly not without his cat,” Concordia pointed out.

  Miss Hamilton was quiet for a few minutes, twirling her pencil in her hand, notepad in her lap. “Suppose he left voluntarily, but because he was afraid,” she said.

  “Afraid because he witnessed the murder? Or because his mother was dead?” Capshaw shook his head. “He would have come to us for help, not run away.”

  “But he’s just a child,” Concordia said. “Children don’t always think things through very clearly.”

  “The murderer could have taken him,” Sophia said, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

  Miss Hamilton frowned. “For what purpose? Because he was a witness? If so, why not just kill him, too? I doubt a man who murders a defenseless woman would scruple to kill a child.”

  Sophia blanched. Concordia reached over and patted her hand reassuringly as she shot Miss Hamilton a warning look. The woman had a habit of blunt speaking that could be disconcerting, to say the least.

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Hamilton said with a shrug. “Our best chance of finding the boy is to face facts squarely.”

  “The killer might have taken Eli for some other purpose. Information, perhaps,” Capshaw said. “The murderer could have been after something Florence knew or possessed. He may not have known that Eli’s acquaintance with her was recent.”

  “I’d like to see what you’ve uncovered, if you would, before you were taken off the case,” Miss Hamilton said. “Especially what you’ve learned about the victim.”

  “Of course. I’ve made you a copy of my notes.” Capshaw passed her a sheaf of papers.

  Everyone was quiet as Miss Hamilton skimmed the pages. She raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea the Willoughby family was so prominent. Interesting,” she murmured. “Is it fair to say that you believe the family pressured your superior to take you off the case?”

  “It’s a theory,” Capshaw said.

  “I’ve read Florence’s letter to Concordia,” Miss Hamilton said. “Perhaps they feared a scandal.”

  “But to interfere in the murder investigation of their own daughter,” Concordia protested, “that seems horribly cold-hearted.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Hamilton said.

  “But it is possible that Eli was kidnapped,” Sophia said, hands clenched.

  “While not impossible,” Miss Hamilton said, “it seems highly unlikely that Florence’s murderer could have carried a robust eleven-year-old boy down several flights of stairs and out the door without being noticed.”

  “Unless he’d been knocked unconscious,” Capshaw said. “But there’s still the issue of the locked door. Only a key can lock it from the outside; the landlady had the key, of course, and Florence’s key was in the room.”

  “That leaves the fire escape,” Sophia said.

  Concordia imagined the difficulty of someone climbing down with Eli in his arms.

  “If Eli left voluntarily, without anyone seeing him,” Concordia said, “where would he be now? In hiding somewhere?”

  “That’s my conjecture, although we can’t answer the why of it,” Miss Hamilton said.

  “Where do we start?” Sophia asked anxiously.

  “First, I’ll work on picking up Eli’s trail. I’ll need to learn more about him—favorite haunts, friends or family elsewhere, and so on.”

  “I can tell you some of Eli’s background,” Sophia said, “but the person you should really talk to is Martha Newcombe, who’s in charge of the settlement house. She and her staff interviewed him thoroughly when they first made arrangements for him, and have been living with him and working with him daily. I’ll send a note around, telling her to expect you.”

  Miss Hamilton nodded, then was silent for a long moment.

  “What is it?” Capshaw asked.

  “There’s one question I have to ask,” she said hesitantly, “and I don’t want to offend your sensibilities—”

  Sophia leaned forward. “If it can bring him back to us, by all means, ask.”

  “Very well. You say that Florence was planning to take Eli with her, forcing him to leave a place and people that he had grown attached to. Could the boy have killed her?”

  Her question was met with a stunned silence. Miss Hamilton waited, hands calmly folded in her lap.

  Concordia’s mind was reeling. Eli, though thin, was tall for his age. Florence had been a petite woman. If she’d been caught off guard, it was physically possible. She felt a little queasy.

  After a moment, Capshaw broke the quiet. “No,” he said firmly. “Had Florence been hit over the head, or smothered in her sleep, then I’d have to concede the possibility. But the woman was quickly—and expertly—garroted. Whoever did this has murdered before.”

  Concordia breathed a sigh of relief, even as a chill prickled the base of her neck.

  “Ah.” Miss Hamilton gave Capshaw a quick look. “Did you inquire about other garroting deaths in the area over the past few years?”

  Capshaw nodded. “I’d only gone back five years when I was taken off the case, but there were no incidents that I could find.”

  “Eli has been missing for nearly two weeks now,” Concordia said. “Surely the trail has grown cold?”

  Miss Hamilton smiled. “I’ll manage.”

  “You’ll have to be careful not to alert the police to your investigation,” Capshaw warned.

  “I’m more than familiar with that precaution, believe me.” She stood, along with the rest of them. “This will suffice, for now. I’ll look over your report more thoroughly this evening, Lieutenant. Please inform Miss Newcombe that I’ll see her at her earliest convenience in the morning. Try not to worry,” she added, looking at the white-faced Sophia. “I’ll find him.”

  As they were leaving DeLacey House, Capshaw came up to Concordia and murmured, “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course,” Concordia answered, checking her watch, “but I have to dress for dinner.” She looked ruefully at her bicycling outfit.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long,” Capshaw assured her. He glanced over at his wife.

  Sophia took the hint. “I wanted to say hello to Hannah Jenkins, anyway. Do you know where she’d be?”

  Concordia thought for a moment. “This time of day? I’d try the gymnasium, cleaning up the equipment.”

  With a wave, Sophia headed down the path.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Concordia asked, as they walked to the cottage.

  “I’d like you to accompany me while I question Ruby about this mystery man who asked for her,” he said. “I stopped by a few days ago, but she was too busy to talk. Policemen make some people nervous. Perhaps your presence would reassure her.”

  “She’ll likely be rounding up the girls to get them ready for dinner, but she should have a few minutes free.”

  Once inside Willow Cottage, Concordia removed her jacket and gloves. “Why don’t you take a seat in the parlor. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  A senior walked past. “Hello, Miss Wells. Oh, Lieutenant Capshaw, hello!” she exclaimed, no doubt recognizing him from his visits last year. “What are you doing here?”

  “Never mind,” Concordia scolded. Really, these girls had barnyard manners. “Have
you seen Ruby?”

  The girl nodded. “Does he want to see her?” she breathed excitedly. “Ooh, I’ll get her.” She strode down the hall, calling: “Ruby! A policeman to see you!”

  Concordia rolled her eyes at the flagrant lapse in decorum. Ruby would no doubt give the young lady a talking-to that would make her ears burn. She sat across from Capshaw to wait.

  The girl returned after a few minutes. “I could have sworn she was in the kitchen, right before you came in,” she said. “But I can’t find her anywhere. She must have stepped out.”

  Capshaw stood with a sigh. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Concordia nodded. “Right after breakfast is the best time. Nine o’clock?”

  Capshaw nodded and left.

  Concordia checked the mantel clock. Drat! She would have to hurry now.

  After she was dressed and had hustled the girls out the door, they found Ruby, alone, heading back from the dining hall.

  “Ruby! We’d wondered where you’d gotten to,” Concordia said.

  Ruby made a face and juggled a cloth-wrapped bowl in her hands. “I was gettin’ some broth for Miss Portnoy, who’s feeling poorly. We were all out.”

  Concordia frowned. “You should have sent one of the students to fetch it.”

  Ruby shrugged.

  “Oh, before I forget, you missed Lieutenant Capshaw just now.”

  “You don’t say?” Ruby exclaimed. She turned to look at the girls milling around, listening. “Well, I’d better let you get ’em to their suppers. I’ll be there in a little while.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘twas strange, ’twas passing strange,

  ‘Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful.

  Othello, I.iii

  Week 7, Instructor Calendar

  March 1898

  Concordia’s thoughts were most definitely elsewhere when she nearly bumped into the bursar on the path to Founder’s Hall. “Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr. Isley.”

  The man smiled and tipped his hat. “No harm done.”

  They fell into step together, or at least as much as Concordia could manage. The bursar, though shorter than most men, walked with a brisk, powerful stride. She struggled to keep up with him.

  “It was most kind of Mrs. Isley to invite me to your dinner function this week,” Concordia said politely, huffing a little to catch her breath.

  Isley gave her an apologetic glance and slowed his pace. “We are happy to have you, dear. Lily tells me that your young man will be joining us as well?”

  Your young man. Concordia suppressed a grimace. “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Be sure to tell him that our guest of honor will be Mr. Sanders, the Republican candidate for the state senate seat. The conversations are sure to be stimulating.”

  Concordia wasn’t so sure that stimulating was quite the word she would have used, but she kept that opinion to herself. “I understand your wife is just as involved in the campaign as you are,” Concordia said. “Quite commendable.” And unusual, she added silently.

  Isley nodded. “Alas, with no children to keep her occupied in the home, Lily involves herself in several charitable projects. But her involvement in politics came about when I made an early bid for the Republican seat—the ticket that Mr. Sanders is now running on. She was indispensable. In fact, Lily was most disappointed when I withdrew my name.”

  “Why did you withdraw?” Concordia asked.

  “Both Langdon and Maynard made direct appeals to me to step in as bursar, given the school’s financial straits at the time.”

  “We are certainly grateful that you did,” Concordia said.

  Isley inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Now that the school’s situation has vastly improved, I may consider a run in the next election.” He sighed.

  Concordia heard a tinge of regret in that sigh. It would be two more years before the next campaign, and who knew what could happen in the meanwhile? If Sanders won the seat this time and had a successful term of office, Isley would not have much of a chance against him later.

  “But you decided to throw in your support for Mr. Sanders?” she asked politely.

  “Well, we certainly were not going to support the Democrats.” Isley snorted in derision. “Sanders is far better than that scapegrace, Samuel Quint, who looks to win the Democratic primary next month. A pro-Silver man. It’s as plain as the nose on one’s face that bi-metallism caused the run on gold in the Panic of ‘93, along with an assortment of ills. We’ve barely climbed out of that hole.”

  “Ah,” was all Concordia could trust herself to say. The current economic issues held little appeal for her. If she were to pay attention to politics at all, it would be those of her favorite authors, many of them dead for more than a hundred years.

  They parted ways in the hall. Concordia was about to turn toward the stairwell to continue up to her third-floor office when she noticed the bursar hesitating at his door.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Isley?” She walked over to see. Isley was fingering his key ring and wearing a puzzled look. He glanced at the floor.

  “My key isn’t on the ring.”

  Concordia surveyed the floor, but didn’t see a dropped key. “Perhaps you should have Mr. Drew let you in for the time being.” She gestured to the custodian, rummaging in the broom closet nearby.

  Soon Mr. Drew had the key turned in the lock, and Isley impatiently flung open the door.

  He, Concordia, and the custodian stared, their mouths hanging open.

  “Saints preserve us!” the custodian whispered, eyes wide.

  President Langdon’s buggy took up the entirety of Isley’s office.

  Concordia rubbed her eyes and looked again, certain that it was some mad vision that would go away in a moment of clarity.

  But no—the buggy was here to stay. The other furniture in Isley’s room had been pushed against the walls, and the president’s shiny new buggy—his hard-won pride and joy—stood in the middle of the bursar’s office. Completely intact.

  “How? Wh-what? Why?” Isley sputtered.

  All good questions, in Concordia’s mind. There was no elevator in the building, and the doorway of Isley’s office was much too narrow to accommodate the conveyance. As they squeezed into the room for a better look, she ran a hand over the door and bent down to look underneath. Not a bolt or a screw loose.

  From its roof to its wheels and everything in between, the buggy had to have been disassembled in the coach house, its parts carried up the stairs and into the bursar’s office—after swiping Isley’s key, no doubt—and reassembled in his office. Quite a feat, and all done without getting caught.

  “Who would do this?” Isley demanded of no one in particular. He turned to the custodian. “Get President Langdon—quickly.” Mr. Drew scurried off.

  A laugh threatened to bubble out of Concordia as she grasped the absurdity of the situation. The vehicle was perfectly intact and undamaged, but someone now had to get it out of here, a problem dumped neatly into Isley’s lap by the pranksters.

  And Concordia knew exactly who they were.

  “You needn’t look so amused, Miss Wells,” Isley snapped.

  Concordia tried to keep a straight face. She turned as President Langdon hurried down the hall, accompanied by Dean Maynard. Both stopped dead in their tracks. “When Mr. Drew told me, I couldn’t believe it,” Langdon said slowly. The president passed a large hand over his graying beard, as he was wont to do when lost in thought.

  Behind them, a crowd had gathered outside the bursar’s door. Students in various states of awe and amusement were taking in the sight of the president’s buggy occupying all of Bursar Isley’s office.

  Miss Pomeroy came along next, shooing students from the door. She stopped and stared. “Oh. Oh, my.”

  “Who would do this?” Isley repeated, voice high-pitched with indignation.

  Langdon scratched at his beard again. “How do we get it out of here?”

  Concordia wondered how long it would
take someone to ask that question.

  Dean Maynard, standing beside Concordia, gave her an angry glance. “Did you have anything to do with this?” he demanded.

  Before Concordia could offer a retort, Miss Pomeroy spoke up. “What nonsense, dean! You don’t see Mr. Isley and President Langdon, who have every reason to be upset, making such outlandish accusations. Miss Wells is a respected faculty member, who would never stoop to such shenanigans.”

  Concordia, remembering a time last year when “shenanigans” were called for—unavoidable, even—remained silent.

  Langdon was inspecting the buggy. “It looks perfectly unharmed. A stunt like this requires a great deal of mechanical skill,” he mused aloud. “Could some of the Trinity boys have broken in and pulled this?”

  Concordia shook her head. Langdon was missing the point. The female students who had petitioned for a mechanical engineering certificate program at the college—a petition which had been rejected—had obviously pulled the prank to prove that they were as capable of such work as men, and wanted the chance to develop that talent. The fact that Langdon wasn’t able to conceive of the girls being the culprits demonstrated why the petition had failed. She remembered the words of Miss Lovelace.

  We will find a way.

  But she said nothing. The men would catch on, eventually. Perhaps after a few days of trying to maneuver around a full-size buggy. That should do the trick.

  She didn’t bother to suppress a grin this time.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Week 7, Instructor Calendar

  March 1898

  Concordia was nearly ready for the Isley dinner.

  She watched as Penelope tugged with the buttonhook, giving a little grunt of exertion. The new shoes were a bit stiff, but perfectly matched Concordia’s green silk dinner dress, so she wasn’t about to change them for her old broken-in black pumps. If only her corset weren’t so tight, she would be able to lean over and button them herself.