by K. B. Owen
Capshaw’s eyes lit up with interest. “Ah, yes, that’s a possibility.”
Eli shrugged. “Well, it don’t matter. Someone noticed me.”
“I think Miss Hamilton’s point is that the man who tipped off the conductor may be the one you were following,” Capshaw said.
Concordia leaned forward excitedly. “Do you mean that, when the man noticed Eli was on his trail, he eluded him long enough to then turn around and follow the boy himself?”
Miss Hamilton nodded. “Quite clever, I must say.”
“And bold,” Capshaw added.
“So then, the man in fancy dress got me put in jail on purpose?” Eli asked. “Why?”
Capshaw tapped his pencil against his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps to allow him time to learn more about you, and whether you were actually a threat to him.”
Miss Hamilton nodded grimly. “It cannot be a coincidence that the boy was run down in the street, just when he was released from jail.”
Eli paled. “He’s tryin’ to kill me, too?”
Concordia winced at Miss Hamilton’s habit of plain speaking.
Capshaw placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re safe now. We won’t let anyone hurt you. But tells us the rest of it. What else do you remember, after you were released from jail?”
Eli grimaced. “I got away from that school mistress, and was tryin’ to figure out what to do next. Then I heard a loud clattering, and saw the cab, coming real fast. I tripped when I tried to get out of the way. The last thing I remember was the horse bein’ on top of me.” He shuddered. “When I woke up, my leg and head hurt a lot.” He pointed at Miss Hamilton. “She found me at Mrs. Jardin’s house.”
“The midwife,” Miss Hamilton clarified.
The boy nodded. “She took real good care of me, even though I don’t remember a lot of it.” He smothered a yawn.
“The poor child’s tuckered out,” Sophia said, stroking his hair. “What time is it?”
That reminded Concordia of Florence Willoughby’s letter. If something should happen to me, ask Eli to show you the gift I gave him. “Eli, do you still have the pocket watch from Florence?” After all he’d been through, chances were slim.
To Concordia’s surprise, the boy reached for his cap, set aside on the table. “I hid it in here.” He pulled it out of the lining and passed it over to Concordia.
“Is this the only thing she gave you?” she asked, turning it over in her hands.
Eli nodded.
It didn’t look remarkable, just a plain watch of brushed gold with a hinged cover. Judging by the nicks and scratches it was obviously old, perhaps passed down from a previous generation. She passed it along to David.
“How is this significant?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.
“Florence’s letter talked about the present she had given Eli.” Concordia tapped the watch. “She hinted that something was hidden in it.”
David pulled out his pocketknife. “I’ll take a look under the casing,” he said, walking over to the desk lamp.
Capshaw picked up his pencil once again. “Okay, one more thing, and then you can sleep,” he said to Eli. “Describe the men in as much detail as you can.”
When he was done, Eli curled up on the divan and promptly slept. Sophia covered him with a throw, and they all shifted to the other side of the room to talk.
“I wish he’d gotten a closer look at them, but this is a start.” Consulting his notebook, he read: “Two men. First—short, stout, gray hair, reddened neck, thick grayish whiskers, scruffy bowler hat, dressed in workmen’s clothes. Second—tall, slim, black morning coat, light striped trousers, top hat, dark hair heavily streaked with gray, and a graying, neatly-trimmed beard.”
Concordia shook her head. Those descriptions could apply to any number of men. How were they to find a killer only seen from the back, and at a distance, by a young boy?
But wait, the conductor saw the man, too—if they were going on the assumption that it was the same person. “Did the train conductor give you a description of the man who alerted him to Eli?” Concordia asked.
Miss Hamilton nodded. “It matches Eli’s. A middle-aged gentleman, with dark graying hair and close-trimmed beard. The man was seated, so the conductor isn’t sure how tall he was.”
“Any distinguishing facial features? What about the voice?” Capshaw asked.
She shook her head. “The conductor noticed nothing striking in his appearance. And the man merely slipped him a note and pointed to the washroom, where the boy was hidden. The conductor was under the impression the man had some throat ailment. And the conductor has long since tossed away the note. I asked.”
David Bradley rejoined the group, eyes alight with excitement.
“You’ve found something, Mr. Bradley?” Miss Hamilton asked.
David grinned. “I’ll say. Look at this.” He held out a small piece of what looked to be a brown paper wrapper, dirty and worn. “It was wedged beneath the back plate.”
Concordia watched over David’s shoulder as he smoothed it out. The print was barely visible: an image of what looked to be a muscular figure in a helmet, and the letters HERC on one line and DANGE below that.
David passed it to Miss Hamilton. “Do you know what it is?”
Miss Hamilton’s lips thinned in a somber line. “I recognize it.” She passed it to Capshaw. “It’s a fragment of an explosives wrapper. Dynamite.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
He that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.
Othello, III.iii
Week 9, Instructor Calendar
April 1898
Concordia was happy to return to the college after what had been a most disturbing week. The soothing chatter of high-spirited girls, catching up with one another about their adventures, was a welcome relief from recent events. She was looking forward to the familiar routine of classes, chapel, teas, and bicycle rides. Even play rehearsals didn’t seem so disagreeable.
Another bright spot came in the form of the newly-hired Charlotte Crandall, who would be living with them at Willow Cottage for the rest of the spring semester.
“I hope you don’t mind staying in student quarters,” Concordia said, as she helped Charlotte carry her suitcase up the steps. “We’re short on space everywhere.”
Charlotte surveyed the room. “It certainly brings back memories of when I was a freshie. I don’t mind. My instructor quarters at the boarding school weren’t much bigger, anyway.” She gave Concordia a hug. “It’s good to be back.”
Concordia smiled. She’d always admired the young lady, who had made many friends during her time at Hartford Women’s College with her charm, quick wit, and warm-hearted ways. Although she came from the wealthy Crandall family, Charlotte had been determined to make her own way. Concordia hoped the young lady would be offered a permanent position at the school. For the time being, it was wonderful to have the extra help at the cottage. Perhaps even Miss Smedley would come around under Miss Crandall’s influence.
Charlotte regarded Concordia closely. “Was your break not as restful as you’d hoped? You look a bit...tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Concordia shook her head. The less said about her spring recess, the better. “I suppose even a vacation can be exhausting.” She checked her watch. “Do you have everything you need? I have to be somewhere.”
“I’m fine,” Charlotte assured her.
Concordia hurried across the quadrangle toward her office, her thoughts returning to the alarming find inside Eli’s pocket watch. Florence had obviously hidden it there to keep it out of the hands of her pursuers. No doubt the explosives wrapper was the “scrap of paper” the killer had been sent back to recover when Eli was hiding under the bed. The why of Florence’s murder was becoming clearer, even if the who of it was not. Florence had associated with unscrupulous men and had possessed dangerous know
ledge. A disastrous combination.
The idea of the Black Scroll in possession of explosives made Concordia shudder. If the group was indeed responsible for the deaths of Florence Willoughby and Ben Rosen, along with the attempt on Eli’s life, then nothing good could come of them having weapons with broader destructive power.
Lieutenant Capshaw and Miss Hamilton had acted quickly upon that possibility, with Miss Hamilton leaving town the very next day for what Capshaw termed a “short trip.” Concordia hoped it would bring them answers soon.
“Is there a problem?” a peremptory voice called.
Concordia glanced up to see Randolph Maynard standing on the path, wearing an amused smile. “One more step and you would find yourself in the fountain, Miss Wells.”
She was, indeed, standing beside the fountain, having no idea how she got there.
Maynard glanced at his watch. “Are you attending the farce being perpetrated in Bursar Isley’s office? It’s almost two o’clock now.”
Concordia nodded.
“This should be amusing,” Maynard said derisively. “I have my doubts about the ability of these young ladies to dismantle the president’s buggy and restore it whole. They must have had help in pulling the prank. They won’t be getting any help today.”
Concordia straightened and met Maynard’s eye. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She hoped to see Maynard eat crow for dinner later.
Maisie Lovelace and her cohorts, clad in leather aprons to protect their shirtwaists and skirts from grease, were already crouched beside the vehicle, a litter of tools at their feet. At Mr.Isley’s office door,Concordia and Maynard joined the growing crowd of teachers who had come to watch, including Barton Isley, President Langdon, and Lady Principal Pomeroy. A newspaper reporter invited from the Courant peppered the girls with questions as they worked.
Concordia’s chest felt heavy at the sight of a different newspaperman. She would never again see Ben Rosen here, tipping back his bowler when introducing himself, scribbling notes with the tiny pencil that seemed swallowed up in his grip, or giving an impertinent wink when he had privileged information to share.
The girls conducted themselves with lady-like self-assurance, describing the intricacies of taking apart the vehicle as they worked. With such cramped quarters, the other students on campus had been restricted from coming in to watch, but Concordia could hear a chorus of shouts each time one of the girls brought a piece of machinery outside and laid it on the lawn.
Concordia stayed long enough to watch the smirks on the faces of Isley and Maynard fade, replaced first by incredulity, and then with a grudging respect. But it was time to get back to Willow Cottage. She had promised Lieutenant Capshaw a favor.
She touched President Langdon on the arm before leaving. “Thank you again,” she murmured.
He grinned. “It’s supposed to be beautiful weather this week. I’m looking forward to a nice, long drive.” He patted the vest pocket over his pear-shaped belly. “And the custodian has given me a list of items throughout the campus in need of mending. That should keep these young ladies busy through June.”
Back at Willow Cottage, Concordia tidied the parlor for Lieutenant Capshaw’s arrival, then went looking for Ruby. She had a plan to keep the housekeeper from slipping away from Capshaw this time. She grabbed the sewing basket on her way to the kitchen.
“Ruby?” Concordia called out.
““You need somethin’, miss?” Ruby asked, drying her hands on her apron.
Concordia smiled apologetically and gestured to the basket. “We have some mending that the girls don’t have quite the needle-skills to manage. Would you mind?”
The matron squinted over a puffed-sleeved shirtwaist Concordia extracted from the basket. With a sigh, Ruby retrieved her magnifying spectacles and perched them on her nose as she examined the tear. “Wot do they teach these girls at home? Ah well, I should have enough time b’fore dinner to take care o’ it.” She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out a spool of thread.
“Thank you,” Concordia said. Sewing was the one task she could count on to keep Ruby occupied and sitting still.
On her way down the hall to wait for Capshaw, she heard the faint snuffle of a girl crying. She followed the sound, climbing the stairs and stopping at Charlotte Crandall’s room. She hesitantly tapped on the door.
There was a brief silence. “Come in,” Charlotte called.
Concordia stopped in her tracks at the sight of a red-eyed Alison Smedley, kerchief to her nose, sitting across from Charlotte. That was fast, Concordia thought.
“Am I intruding?” Concordia asked from the doorway.
“Not at all,” Charlotte said. “I found Miss Smedley alone in her room, and we decided to have a cozy chat here. I was just about to make us some tea.” She passed the girl another handkerchief. “Things have not been going well for Alison lately.”
“Indeed?” Concordia sat on a stool. “What seems to be the problem?”
The girl gave her a skeptical look and sniffed. “I know you don’t care,” she said. “You like those other girls better. That scapegrace Maisie Lovelace and her crowd. The clever ones. But not me.”
“That’s not true,” Concordia said. “But I don’t approve of your behavior toward them, or your lack of effort in your own studies.”
“Ooh, those girls are infuriating. I cannot stand it!” Miss Smedley exclaimed. “They do something outrageously stupid, like putting the president’s buggy in the bursar’s office of all things, and now the whole campus is cheering them on, and they get their names in the newspaper.” She put her face in her handkerchief and sobbed again.
Concordia sat next to the girl, putting an arm around her shoulders. “There’s much more to it than it seems,” she said, her voice gentle, “but it’s pointless to compare yourself to others. Why worry about them? What do you want from your life? And how are you going to make that happen?”
“Alison, may I tell Miss Wells what you told me?” Charlotte asked.
The girl shrugged and wiped her eyes.
Charlotte turned to Concordia. “Alison is beginning to have doubts about the sort of life her parents have in mind for her, but she fears trying to do anything else. She thinks she would not be capable, or that her father would forbid it.”
Alison nodded miserably.
“Alison and I come from a similar upbringing,” Charlotte continued, with a half smile in the girl’s direction. “In fact, our families know each other. Our parents want us to become leaders within our social sphere, to be a help-meet for the man we will eventually marry, and further his career—in the parlors of genteel society, at least. I’m not saying that isn’t a laudable ambition, but it isn’t suited to every girl. To our families, the purpose of a women’s college is to make advantageous connections and to enhance our pedigree. No one back home expects us to apply ourselves to the mental rigor of college work–I doubt they imagine we are required to do rigorous work. They certainly don’t expect us to pursue a career after college.”
Concordia sat back and considered this in silence. That explained a great deal: the scorn, the aborted efforts, the desperate need for an attentive following.
“Miss Smedley,” Concordia said finally, “I know you are capable. I have seen glimpses of it. Why not explore your abilities? We can help, if you are willing to try.” She gestured to Charlotte. “I suggest you ask Miss Crandall how she came to be here now, as a teacher, a woman making her own way in the world. I think you’ll find it inspiring.”
She got up and left them to it.
Concordia was just in time to meet Capshaw as he stepped onto the porch. She quietly ushered him into the parlor and went to get Ruby.
“Would you mind coming out to the parlor for a moment?” Concordia asked, sticking her head in the kitchen. She turned and walked back down the hall before Ruby could ask why. With a puzzled crease of her brow, the matron put aside her work and followed.
Lieutenant Capshaw stood as the
y entered. “Mrs. Hitchcock.”
Concordia saw the raw panic flit across Ruby’s features before she suppressed it. Her shoulders slumped. “Lieuten’nt.”
“Would you sit, please?” Capshaw gestured to the settee.
Concordia closed the door and sat beside the trembling housekeeper. “It’s all right, Ruby,” she said. “Lieutenant Capshaw just wants to ask you a few questions.”
“I know what questions he has,” Ruby said, eyes blazing, “but I don’t have any answers for him.” She faced him squarely. “Don’t know why you’re pokin’ your nose here, anyhow.”
Capshaw raised an eyebrow. “An unsavory stranger wanders the grounds, and you don’t think that’s a problem? Aren’t you charged with the safety of your girls?”
Ruby kept her eyes on her shoes. “It’s been a while since then. Nobody’s been hurt,” she added defensively.
“Ruby,” Concordia said, “it’s clear you’re trying to protect this man. You know him, don’t you?”
Ruby shuddered and buried her face in her apron, sobbing.
Capshaw looked as if a live snake had slithered into the room. He cleared his throat and gave Concordia a beseeching look.
For the second time that day, Concordia found herself consoling a weeping female. “We want to help. Just tell us. Who is he?”
Ruby lifted a tear-streaked face. “My husband.”
Concordia’s mouth hung open. Husband?
Capshaw calmly pulled out his notepad and started to write. “I thought you were widowed, ma’am,” he said politely.
Ruby gritted her teeth and dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. “So did I. For the past thirty-four years, no less! I got a widow’s war pension, pitiful as it was. That cowardly, no-good excuse for a man let them think he was dead, along wi’ the dozens scattered on the battlefield. He switched the contents of his pockets and papers with another man who...” her voice faltered, “didn’ have much of a face left.”