by K. B. Owen
Concordia noted the glints of silver in Penelope’s braided coronet as the woman bent over the shoe. Since Miss Hamilton moved with the grace and ease of a much younger woman, these little reminders of the lady’s actual age were a continual surprise.
“There!” Miss Hamilton said in satisfaction, handing back the hook.
“Have you made any progress in your search for Eli?” Concordia asked, her voice tinged with hope.
“Some,” Miss Hamilton said. “One of the newsies who works the corner of Pearl and Asylum, in front of the druggist’s, thought it was Eli he saw that afternoon. He was running as if he were chasing something, the boy said.”
Concordia leaned forward in excitement. “If true, then Eli left the boarding house under his own power, rather than being kidnapped, or—” She couldn’t complete the sentence, not wanting to think about the or.
Miss Hamilton nodded. “It negates my original idea that Eli ran away in fright. As wild as it may seem, he could have been chasing the killer. But if that’s the case, why not simply call the police?”
“Eli tries to avoid policemen as much as possible,” Concordia said. “Before he lived at the settlement house, he had a number of sad experiences with them, when he was caught stealing food and sleeping in abandoned houses. Capshaw is the only policeman he’s ever trusted. But I wonder why Eli didn’t go to Capshaw with anything he might have known.”
Miss Hamilton shook her head. “Having never had children of my own, I cannot pretend to understand them. But I’m pursuing the lead further. I’ve also learned more about the Willoughbys. That’s why I wanted to intercept you on your way to the Isleys’ dinner. There’s something I want you to do for me.”
Concordia gestured to a chair. “We don’t have much time. David will be picking me up soon. How can I help?”
“Let me tell you first what I found out. Did you know that the Willoughbys are closely associated with Mr. and Mrs. Isley?”
Concordia shook her head. “I know very little about any of them. Is it important?”
“I’ll let you decide for yourself. First of all, they share the same solicitor, a man named Flynn—”
“Robert Flynn? The Irishman?” Concordia interrupted.
“You know him?”
“He and my mother have been spending a lot of time together lately.”
“Indeed?” Miss Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “That may be useful later.”
“Perhaps.” Concordia certainly didn’t want her mother involved in the case.
Miss Hamilton dug out her notepad and glanced at it briefly. “They have a financial connection as well. Barton Isley acted as consultant to the Willoughbys before his retirement from investment banking. He may yet serve them in that capacity, at least informally. Both families are invested in copper mines in Rhodesia.”
“What does this have to do with tonight’s dinner?” Concordia asked.
“I’m getting to that. There’s also a political connection between the families. The Isleys are quite involved in Republican politics at the state level—”
Concordia nodded, remembering her conversation with Mr. Isley.
“—and the Willoughbys and Isleys support the same local senate candidate—”
“Mr. Sanders,” Concordia supplied.
“Correct. He’s the guest of honor at tonight’s dinner party,” Miss Hamilton continued. “I read in the society section that several Willoughbys are expected to be in attendance tonight.”
Concordia smiled briefly at the thought of Penelope Hamilton scouring the society pages.
“There’s one more thing, and it’s the most interesting item of all,” Miss Hamilton went on. “I’ve learned from a trusted source that several of the Willoughby men belong to a secret society.”
Concordia’s mouth dropped open. “You mean, Freemasons or something of the sort? That seems somewhat...medieval, doesn’t it?”
“Rather cloak-and-dagger, yes,” Miss Hamilton said. “I haven’t been able to learn as much as I’d like. I do know that it’s called the Fraternal Order of the Black Scroll.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Concordia said.
“Nor would you be likely to. It was formed ten years ago as an organization of secret philanthropy; its membership is that of men in the legal, financial, and law enforcement professions. But I don’t know anything about the membership size, who besides the Willoughbys belong to it, what its mission and code of conduct currently are, or the breadth of its influence. Given your bursar’s close affiliation with the Willoughbys, however, it’s likely that Isley is a member.”
“But how would Florence be involved?” Concordia objected. “As a woman, she couldn’t possibly belong to such an organization. Isn’t it rather far-fetched to assume the group has anything to do with her death? You said it was philanthropic.”
Miss Hamilton shook her head. “I said it started as philanthropic. I need to learn more about its current agenda. And although Florence did not belong to the organization, she lived in a household with family members who did. She also could have had acquaintances, friends, even a paramour associated with the Black Scroll. With that degree of familiarity, people don’t always keep secrets they are expected to.”
Concordia eyes widened as something occurred to her. “If the Black Scroll membership includes men in law enforcement, could it be behind the removal of Capshaw from Florence’s murder investigation?”
Miss Hamilton grimaced. “A disturbing thought, is it not? We must learn more. Some of the most socially and politically influential people will be together at the Isleys tonight. It is a unique opportunity for you to listen in on conversations.”
“You want me to spy on the dinner guests?” Concordia asked incredulously. “That seems to be more along your line.”
“I was not invited to the party, you were.” Miss Hamilton hesitated. “But for heaven’s sake, be careful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop,
Not to outsport discretion.
Othello, II.iii
Week 7, Instructor Calendar
March 1898
Concordia alighted from the carriage, David at her elbow to steady her. The Isleys’ residence was an elegant structure, with deep-set gables and grand white columns set at intervals along the porch. Concordia admired the freshly-painted, crisp-white gingerbread molding that adorned the wraparound porch and railings and tall urns of clipped topiary flanking the granite steps. The décor had been enhanced with festive Chinese lanterns strung between the balusters and be-ribboned vasesof red tulips. Music from a string quartet drifted through the windows.
This was only a dinner? Concordia wondered how Lily managed to get her parsimonious husband to go along with such an expense.
She and David exchanged glances. “Impressive,” he said, his dimples widening in a boyish grin. “Perhaps the college’s young ladies had a hand in decorating the bursar’s house.”
Concordia smiled. The students did indeed have a flair for ostentation when it came to social occasions. From what she had seen of Lily Isley, they had that in common.
She took a deep breath as they approached the front door. How could she best gather information for Miss Hamilton? She had little skill in subterfuge. Her knees felt a little wobbly and she tightened her hand on David’s arm.
David glanced at her in concern. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Concordia said, with a weak laugh. “I suppose I’m a bit intimidated by the grandeur.”
“Don’t worry,” David murmured, “I’ve seen you at this sort of thing before. You can hold your own with any of them.”
Concordia doubted if he would be as encouraging if he knew what she was really here for. But it wouldn’t do to tell him. Not at all. He had grown quite protective, and she knew her past involvements had worried him greatly. It was touching...and inconvenient.
A maid greeted them and took Concordia’s wr
ap and David’s hat. “The missus is receiving in the Molière Room.” In response to their blank stares, she smiled. “That ’ud be the conservatory. At the end of the hall, on your left. Mrs. Isley likes ta name the rooms after famous playwrights, you see.”
“Charming,” Concordia murmured, as they made their way through the throng. They passed the drawing room—she wondered briefly what Lily had named it—where the musicians played. Some guests had gathered there to listen. One of the taller gentlemen seemed familiar from the back. As he turned in profile, Concordia recognized Randolph Maynard. What was he doing here? Isley and Maynard didn’t strike her as particularly chummy. She hurried on before he saw her, although she knew it would be impossible to avoid him all evening. No doubt she would be on the receiving end of a scowl and perhaps a barbed remark about neglecting her school duties while frittering her time at a party.
“Ah, there you are, my dear Concordia!” Mrs. Isley cried, as they entered the Molière Room. She was dressed in a satin gown of pale blue, the bodice low-cut, tightly corseted, and liberally trimmed in spangled jet beads that glinted in the light. The effect was striking, but Concordia wondered how the woman was able to breathe.
“And you must be Mr. Bradley. I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Lily continued, winking at Concordia.
David raised a questioning eyebrow as he bowed over Mrs. Isley’s gloved hand. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Isley.”
“Dinner will be served shortly, but please, help yourselves to hors d’oeuvres.” Lily gestured to a heavily-laden buffet table in front of the tall conservatory windows, then turned to greet more newcomers.
This could be dinner in itself, Concordia thought, looking over the lavish offerings of foie gras, fried oyster sandwiches, marinated champignons, and deviled eggs. And she couldn’t see the rest of the table. As Concordia’s corset was already too tight for her liking, she declined the food. She wasn’t sure she would make it through dinner. She did, however, accept the lemonade David offered. The room was getting warm.
Concordia stepped back to make room at the buffet for other guests, when she heard an oomph behind her and felt a painful step on her ankle. She swayed and gripped her sloshing cup.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” She heard a familiar male voice say. It was Barton Isley, who reached out a hand to steady her. “So nice to see you, Miss Wells, though we do keep bumping into one another. You are unharmed, I hope?”
Concordia nodded.
Isley’s eyes lit up when he saw David. “Ah, you must be Mr. Bradley. So good of you to come, sir.”
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
“Barton.” A man Concordia didn’t recognize came up beside them and touched Mr. Isley on the arm. “Can I speak with you a moment?”
“Of course. But first, may I present Miss Concordia Wells and Mr. David Bradley, two of our instructors at the college? Miss Wells, Mr. Bradley, this is a very good friend of mine, Sir Anthony Dunwick.”
The man bowed. Though of advanced years, he had a trim, dapper figure, and twinkling eyes. “My pleasure.” Then, in an aside to Isley, he said, “the others are waiting in the Cowper Room.”
Isley’s forehead creased briefly. He turned back to Concordia. “If you will excuse me?”
David and Concordia watched them turn down the hall. “That seemed terribly urgent for a relaxed dinner party,” Concordia said thoughtfully. She wondered about what might be going on in the Cowper Room.
David shrugged. “I noticed the arrival of Mr. Sanders, the guest of honor. Everything is urgent to politicians.” He smiled at her in a way that brought a flush to her cheeks.
But she had to keep her mind on the task at hand, and now was the time. “Can you excuse me? I believe I spilled some of the lemonade on my dress. I’d like to tend to it before the dinner bell.”
She turned toward the hall, waiting until she was out of sight of the conservatory before going in search of the Cowper Room, where this urgent meeting was being held. Could Sanders be part of it, too? Perhaps she could linger nearby, and catch some of what was being said—and who was doing the talking—without being noticed.
After a murmured inquiry to one of the staff, she learned that the Cowper Room was in fact the library, which thankfully was tucked into a quiet side corridor away from the festivities. Before putting her ear to the keyhole, she made sure the hall was empty. Anyone who happened along would find it bizarre to see her in such an undignified position.
Concordia hunched over and put her ear to the keyhole.
Drat. The voices were muffled.
She straightened. There had to be another way.
On such a temperate evening, the library window was sure to be open. The side porch just beneath would make an ideal place to listen. But how to get outside? The front door wasn’t feasible. She would encounter any number of guests by that route.
Footsteps alerted her to someone approaching. She shouldn’t be caught here. She slipped farther down the hallway to another paneled door. Taking a breath for courage, she turned the knob and slipped inside.
The room was mercifully empty. In the dim light of a single desk lamp, she recognized it as Barton Isley’s study. The brown leather chairs, dark wood paneling, and faint odor of cigars made this unmistakably a gentleman’s domain.
Concordia’s heart sank when she realized that the only other means of egress was a small window. Mercy. She’d thought her window-clambering days were over.
There was no help for it. She had to hear what was going on.
Having successfully climbed through the study window with only a small tear in her hem—easily accounted for if it were noticed—she stepped into the gloom of the side porch. The glow through the partly-drawn drapes of the library window helped guide her as she quietly groped along. She couldn’t see inside, but at least now she could hear. She crouched below the window on the slatted wood floor, taking care not to creak the boards.
“...don’t see why you are hesitant, Sir Anthony. Joining our little group would be a significant step in your career.” It was Barton Isley’s voice, quite close to the window. Concordia huddled further into the shadows.
“I am flattered, but how does the Inner Circle differ from the general membership I have in the brotherhood? And why must it remain secret from our fellows?” she heard Sir Anthony say.
Concordia’s eyes widened. The Inner Circle. What was that?
“The brotherhood is an admirable group, but it has become quite large and cumbersome,” said another man. Concordia didn’t recognize the voice. “It is difficult to get things done in an expeditious manner. Far too many disagreements, debates, counter-proposals, votes, and re-votes. We few are men of action, and decided to band together for special projects.”
“But why the secrecy?” Sir Anthony persisted.
“You know how touchy some of these fellows are,” Isley said. “Many of them are used to getting their own way, and enjoy a certain amount of status in their particular sphere. Being excluded from our group would feel like a snub.”
“What would you want from me, should I join?” Sir Anthony asked.
Holding her breath, Concordia waited for the answer.
Unfortunately, the reply came from the far side of the room. All she heard was a low murmur.
A bell broke through the background noise. Concordia nearly fell over. Land sakes, why did those frightful things have to be so loud? She’d better not be caught lingering on the porch, where she had no reason to be. She dearly wanted a look at who was in that meeting. Sanders, perhaps?
If she stood just along the end of the hall at the entrance to the dining room, she’d have a good view when the room cleared. And it would look as if she had been there all the while. She wanted to at least have a few names to give Miss Hamilton, regarding this “Inner Circle.”
She slipped back into the house and lingered in the main hall, trying to blend in with the line of people heading for the Shakespeare Room, otherwise known as the d
ining room. She glanced back at the corridor that led to the library. The occupants should be coming out at any moment.
David saw her and made his way over. “Concordia, at last. I’ve been waiting for you so we can find our seats.”
Of course, he was too well-mannered to ask “what took you so long?” but his expression spoke volumes. And now he was blocking her view. Drat. Concordia resisted the impulse to stand on tiptoe and peek over his shoulder. She had no conceivable explanation for such conduct. She merely gritted her teeth and took note of the guests ahead of her. At least she could eliminate those who had not been in the meeting. The problem was, she didn’t know half of these people. How would she remember them later?
“You seem preoccupied,” David said, helping her into her chair.
“I’m just hungry,” Concordia lied, looking around.
As her luck would have it, her seat faced away from the entrance. She couldn’t take note of anyone who was seated late without swiveling her head like an owl. With the jumble of serving staff and guests thronging around, Concordia had to give it up as hopeless.
As the dishes were served, she thought back to what she had overheard. Miss Hamilton hadn’t mentioned an Inner Circle. The group didn’t seem nefarious, but a secret within another secret was enough to warrant caution. Who else besides Isley and Sir Anthony were involved? She’d heard two other voices, but there could have been more.
She glanced across the dining room at the man she now knew to be Mr. Sanders, seated at the main table. He spoke with great animation to a man she didn’t recognize. From this distance, his voice didn’t sound like anyone she’d heard in the library.
David interrupted her thoughts. “More asparagus?” She shook her head. He lowered his voice. “You’ve been unusually quiet tonight. Is something wrong?”
Concordia smiled. “I’m a bit overwhelmed by talk of politics. I’ve never paid much attention to the subject, I’m afraid. I know so little of who these men are, how they are associated, and why they are here.”