Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  “Then members of the Inner Circle—” Concordia began.

  “—need only invoke the rules of the brotherhood to get the cooperation of others, with no one the wiser. Those not in the Circle would believe the motives and actions to be as benevolent as their own, when that may be far from the case.”

  “Do we at least know the members of the Black Scroll?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Hamilton smiled. “Thanks to the conversation you overheard at Barton Isley’s dinner party, I had a start, but it has been slow-going. I’ve acquired a partial list of members, any of whom could also belong to the Inner Circle. You know some of these.” She ticked off a list on her gloved fingers. “Barton Isley, Sir Anthony Dunwick, Republican Candidate Sanders, Robert Flynn, Randolph Maynard, Police Chief Stiles, and several Willoughbys, Florence’s father and each of her three brothers. We know for sure that Isley is associated with the Inner Circle, and that Sir Anthony had been approached to join them. Based upon the jeweler’s information, we’re guessing that the Inner Circle is a very small group, consisting of six members, with a seventh on the way.”

  Concordia should not have been surprised by the list, but the idea of Robert Flynn being a Black Scroll member made her uneasy. Should she say something to her mother? Yet he struck her as an outsider, the Irishman with his quaint turns of phrase.

  Then she realized Miss Hamilton had skipped over something. “What do you mean, ‘jeweler’s information’?” Concordia asked.

  “Ah, yes, I forgot that part,” Miss Hamilton said. “I tracked down the jeweler’s shop where the cufflinks had been made. Five sets of cufflinks had been commissioned, along with the pin you’d found. Oh, and an additional cufflink set has just been ordered,” she added.

  “Sir Anthony,” Concordia said. So he had decided to join the Inner Circle, after all. She wondered what his niece, Charlotte Crandall, would think of that if she knew.

  “That seems a safe assumption, as is the notion that these were intended for Inner Circle members,” Miss Hamilton said.

  “But who ordered the jewelry? Barton Isley?” That didn’t seem consistent with the man’s frugal nature.

  Miss Hamilton shook her head. “Not Isley. Randolph Maynard.”

  “Our dean placed the order?” Concordia exclaimed, inadvertently raising her voice.

  Miss Hamilton made a shushing gesture. “The same.”

  Concordia felt a chill settle in her spine. With both Isley and Maynard as Inner Circle members, the school was sure to face yet another scandal. “Have you learned anything of the Circle’s current plans?” she asked.

  “Not yet, but it usually comes down to power and money. And now that they have explosives?” Miss Hamilton shuddered. “They are all the more dangerous.”

  “But how much did Florence know? How did she come by the dynamite wrapper?” Concordia asked. “One doesn’t leave that sort of thing lying around. It is dynamite, as you surmised?”

  “Yes indeed,” Miss Hamilton said. She pulled out a small notepad. “It’s the ‘Hercules’ brand of powder explosive, from the California Powder Company. As to how she got the wrapper, I’ve learned she was on intimate terms with someone in the Black Scroll, no doubt an Inner Circle member. She probably stumbled upon it by accident.”

  “‘Intimate terms’?” Concordia asked.

  “To put it bluntly, she had a lover. I haven’t learned his identity, but I know he’s a family friend of the Willoughbys. I wonder, though, if Rosen had learned who he was. Such a discovery might be what killed him. My source tells me Rosen was asking a lot of questions of the Willoughbys, with some trumped-up story about a feature article in the business pages of the Courant. I wish he’d been able to talk with you before he died.”

  Concordia couldn’t count how many times she’d wished that herself, but she stayed on topic. “Why did Florence take the wrapper? Was she going to the police with it?”

  Miss Hamilton shook her head. “She had ample opportunity to go to the authorities, but did not. Based on that and her letter to you, I suspect she was engaged in a dangerous little blackmail scheme.”

  Concordia remembered that part of Florence’s letter: I’ve secured enough money to leave the area and live comfortably abroad. She leaned forward. “But how would she know the significance of the explosives wrapper? Have you discovered what they plan to do with such a device?”

  Miss Hamilton’s eyes brightened in excitement. “I’ve researched recent cases involving the use of dynamite. One looks particularly promising. There was an explosion in Boston harbor several months ago, aboard the Gascogne, arrived from Le Havre. It was carrying high-priced Valenciennes lace and other valuable commodities. The case was never solved—even though the insurance company investigated. The company considered the policy owners possible suspects. They were eventually cleared, however. The cargo turned out to be much more valuable than the insured price for it. The incident was eventually attributed to anarchists, and quietly dropped.”

  Concordia raised an eyebrow. “Anarchists? Here?” She’d heard of isolated anarchist incidents, the most famous being the Haymarket riots in Chicago more than a decade ago, but it seemed more of a European phenomenon.

  Miss Hamilton shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t believe it either. They make a convenient scapegoat group. Anyone can write a dithering note and shift the blame upon anarchists.”

  “What do you think really happened?” Concordia asked.

  “The owners sustaining the loss are in the dry goods business, just like the Willoughbys. They are, in fact, the family’s biggest competition. The financial loss wasn’t substantial, especially since it was insured, but can you imagine the time involved to replace the goods? Who, then, would have the advantage of inventory?”

  “The Willoughbys,” Concordia answered.

  “Exactly. And there’s something else,” Miss Hamilton added quietly. “The harbor watchman who died in the blast? The explosion didn’t kill him. He’d been garroted.”

  Concordia shivered. “The same as Florence.”

  Miss Hamilton gave a slight nod. “It’s no coincidence. We’re looking for the same killer.”

  “But didn’t Lieutenant Capshaw investigate garroting murders in the area over the past several years and find nothing?”

  “True, but that’s not Capshaw’s fault,” Miss Hamilton said. “Initial reports merely said the guard died in the fire. The coroner’s corrected notation as to the manner of death was easy to miss. I’ve been looking specifically for incidents involving explosives—something we didn’t know about before now.”

  “So you think Florence connected the ship-board explosion and the wrapper she later found—among her paramour’s possessions, perhaps?—and on that evidence alone, she decided to blackmail her lover and his group?” Concordia couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

  “A paper scrap is hardly damning evidence, I grant you,” Miss Hamilton acknowledged. “However, the Inner Circle member she blackmailed may not have been sure what proof she actually had. Or perhaps that scrap was all she managed to conceal before her death, and other physical evidence she’d possessed was taken away by her killer.”

  “So the Inner Circle paid her, at least for a while, until they could figure out if she had told anyone else, what evidence she had, and where she’d hidden it.” Concordia shivered.

  Miss Hamilton nodded in agreement. “And no doubt planning to silence her, at a place and time that wouldn’t disrupt their own operations.”

  “But Florence must have suspected them,” Concordia said. “So she went into hiding.”

  “Stopping only to visit Eli,” Miss Hamilton added. “That delay to see the boy gave them the chance to find her.”

  To hide the tears that blurred her vision, Concordia took a sip of her tea, now gone cold. Her stomach clenched at the dangerous game the woman had gambled at, and lost—one that had nearly cost Eli his life, too.

  Miss Hamilton checked her watch. �
�I have to go. I’m interviewing the conductor at the train station again. I want to show him the cufflink design.”

  Concordia checked her own timepiece. “Oh! I have to be back in time to help with final preparations for tomorrow’s performance of Othello. We’re going in opposite directions, but at least we can keep each other company at the same corner.” She looked up at the sky, where gray clouds had swept in, blotting out the spring sunshine. “I hope the sky doesn’t open up in the meantime.”

  Waiting at the crowded stop, Concordia asked Miss Hamilton, “After interviewing the conductor, what’s your next step?”

  Since people hovered quite close to them—Miss Hamilton would have quite a time getting a seat on the downtown car with this crush—the lady leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I have an appointment tomorrow to speak to the chief of police, to inquire as to why he took Capshaw off the case.”

  Concordia’s eyes widened. “He won’t tell you anything,” she murmured back. “If he’s a Brother, he can’t.”

  “I know.” Miss Hamilton’s gray eyes took on a determined look. “But I have to try.”

  “Won’t that get the lieutenant in trouble?” Concordia protested.

  “He’s given me his blessing,” Miss Hamilton said. “He wants to get to the bottom of it as badly as the rest of us. But it’s most certainly a risk.”

  Concordia nodded, feeling miserable. Here was Capshaw, newly married and adopting Eli, and he could very well be dismissed—or worse—if the Inner Circle was alerted.

  “The chief’s the only link we have,” Miss Hamilton said, her jaw set in determination.

  The trolley for the downtown line was approaching, and people began to jostle one another for a front position. Concordia and Miss Hamilton hung back.

  “Hey! Outta my way, you,” growled one rough-and-tumble man to another, and swung a hairy elbow. Concordia caught a glimpse of a seaman’s anchor tattoo as the man caught another tough full in the face and bloodied his nose.

  Pandemonium erupted. Before they could move out of the way, Concordia and Penelope Hamilton were caught in a sea of knuckles and elbows. They held up their hands to protect their heads from the cross-blows as they tried to retreat to a safe distance. A woman screamed. People stumbled in their panic to get away. Concordia found herself separated from Miss Hamilton, who was swept into the thick of the chaos.

  The trolley continued to glide smoothly toward the corner, its driver ignorant of what was happening.

  “Stop it! Stop!” Concordia yelled, fending off stray blows as she struggled to close the gap and reach her friend.

  To her horror, just as the trolley was bearing down upon the corner, a shove—she couldn’t tell from whom, there were so many bodies—sent Miss Hamilton flying. The lady landed in the street, directly in the path of the trolley car, its driver now frantically applying the brake.

  Miss Hamilton lay motionless.

  “No!” Concordia screamed. Several women put their gloved hands to their mouths in terror. The men seemed oblivious to everyone except whomever they were pummeling.

  Concordia made a final push toward Miss Hamilton’s still figure in the street. She launched herself in one leaping tumble, snatching at the woman’s waist as her momentum rolled them into the middle of the dusty street. Concordia felt a painful snap of her shoulder as she landed on her side.

  The last thing Concordia remembered seeing before she blacked out was the grimy underside of the streetcar bumper, stopped at last, inches from her ear.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  This accident is not unlike my dream:

  Belief of it oppresses me already.

  Othello, I.i

  Week 11, Instructor Calendar

  May 1898

  Concordia awoke to the sound of rain pattering against unfamiliar windows. Why wasn’t she in her bed at Willow Cottage?

  Then she remembered. Miss Hamilton lying motionless in the street. The oncoming streetcar.

  “Miss Hamilton?” she called out, struggling to push herself into a sitting position, wincing. Drat. Her left arm and shoulder were immobilized in a sling and throbbed like the devil.

  She surveyed her surroundings, taking in the sight of two rows of iron-rail beds containing women in various stages of wakefulness. At the foot of each bed, clean, shiny pails were positioned on the linoleum flooring.

  Mercy. She was in a…hospital. She craned her neck to get a look at the other women in nearby beds. None of them was Miss Hamilton.

  “Concordia! Oh, thank heaven.” Mrs. Wells hurried over to her bedside. She was followed by a short, rotund man whom Concordia took to be the doctor.

  “Mother,” Concordia said, taking her hand and blinking back tears, “Where’s Penelope Hamilton?”

  “Who?” Mrs. Wells asked.

  The gentleman interrupted. “Do you mean your companion, the other lady who was injured?”

  Concordia nodded, wincing as her head ached.

  “I’m not in charge of her case,” the doctor said, “but I understand that her condition is considerably more serious. She’s on a different ward.”

  “More serious? Will she be all right?” Concordia asked anxiously.

  The doctor hesitated. “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t have the particulars to be able to say.”

  “Can I see her?” Concordia persisted, struggling to swing her legs to the floor.

  Mrs. Wells made a gesture of protest, and the doctor put out a gentle restraining hand. “The lady is being well cared-for, and there’s nothing you can do at the moment. I must insist that you stay in bed. You have significant injuries yourself: a blow to the head, a dislocated shoulder that has been set into place, and a good many scrapes and bruises.”

  Concordia’s mother paled and she gave him an anxious glance. “Will she be all right? When can I take her home?”

  The man shook his head. “I need to conduct my examination now. Mrs. Wells, why don’t you have a seat over there?”

  The doctor motioned to the nurse nearby. With the nurse’s help, the doctor poked, prodded, and listened. Finally, he straightened up as the nurse smoothed the covers and settled Concordia, pale and trembling, more comfortably.

  “I expect you’ll recover completely, miss,” the doctor said, putting his stethoscope back in his bag, “but you need to be off your feet for at least a week. You should be able to go home in a few days.”

  Concordia’s mother started. “A few days? Why not now?” she asked anxiously.

  The doctor smiled. “No doubt you share the widespread perception of hospitals as places for the poor, rife with infection, and to be avoided at all costs. Let me put your mind at rest, Mrs. Wells. Hartford Hospital employs a wide array of modern antiseptic procedures. Unlike many of the older hospitals, we are an institution already looking toward the twentieth century. We have the latest medical equipment and the best in professional staff. You need not fear leaving your daughter in our care.”

  Mrs. Wells gave the man a long look before giving a resigned nod.

  “Doctor,” Concordia asked, “could you find out about Miss Hamilton’s condition? She has no family in the area. I’m very worried about her.”

  The doctor frowned. “You are a most persistent young woman. Very well. I will inquire about the lady and be back shortly.”

  Concordia nodded her thanks and closed her eyes.

  She must have been asleep for a while, because the rain had stopped and the light from the windows was ebbing to dusk when she awoke. Her mother smiled.

  “I’m glad you got some rest, dear. Would you like a sip of water?” She held the glass for her as she drank. “Sophia stopped by while you were sleeping, but we didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Did I miss the doctor?” Concordia asked. Drat.

  “I have someone better.” Her mother gestured toward the corridor.

  Concordia smiled when she caught sight of the tall, thin figure of Lieutenant Capshaw, sporting his usual full head of wavy red hair and must
ache to match. “Lieutenant!”

  Capshaw bowed.

  The nurse pulled over another chair for the policeman. “You can’t stay long, mind,” she warned. “Miss Wells needs her rest.”

  Mrs. Wells pulled out her embroidery basket, making it clear she wasn’t going anywhere. Capshaw looked over at the lady uncertainly.

  Concordia knew there would be no budging her. “Mother, will you give me your word that you won’t repeat what we discuss?”

  Mrs. Wells pursed her lips in disapproval. “What are you involved in, Concordia? I understood your...entanglement... in the matter of the missing boy, but he’s been found now. What more is there for you to meddle in?”

  “Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it,” Concordia said. She had explained to her mother the basics of Eli’s disappearance, but nothing regarding the murders of Florence and Rosen, or the Black Scroll. “Stay if you must, but I can’t explain until later. Matters are too urgent now.”

  Mrs. Wells shook her head and resumed her needlework.

  Concordia turned to the policeman. “Have you seen Miss Hamilton yet?”

  Capshaw looked grim. “I wasn’t permitted to, in her current condition. She’s still unconscious, with a head injury, a fractured wrist, and several broken ribs. Even if she awakes, the doctors fear pneumonia.”

  Concordia felt her stomach clench. If she awakes. What would she do if Miss Hamilton didn’t pull through?

  She must not think of that.

  “Does she have any family?” Capshaw’s question broke into her thoughts.

  “The only family I know of is a sister in Chicago. I’ll give you her address,” Concordia said.

  Capshaw nodded. “Good. I’ll send her a telegram.”

  “Lieutenant...” Concordia began, with an anxious look over at her mother, placidly working at her linen, “I’m not sure it was an accident.”

  Mrs. Wells lifted her head and stared, mouth open.