by K. B. Owen
“I was wondering that myself,” Capshaw said. He pulled out his well-worn pencil nub and wad of paper, waiting expectantly.
Concordia went through it all, starting with the crowded stop. She described the jostling for position when the streetcar approached, then the chaos of the fist fight. “Miss Hamilton was pushed into the street as the car was pulling up. The conductor tried to stop. I pushed past some people, and sort of...rolled us out of the way,” she said, wincing and glancing ruefully at her sling. There had been no time for anything more graceful or lady-like.
Mrs. Wells made an involuntary tsking sound, and Capshaw gave a mighty sigh that Concordia understood all too well. You college ladies are so...impetuous. She could almost hear him saying it.
“Did you see who actually pushed her?” Capshaw asked.
Concordia shook her head.
“Can you describe the brawlers? Any distinguishing marks?” Capshaw asked.
“There were about a dozen men, but a range of ages. A few youths, but most were in their twenties, I’d say. There was even an older man. I thought he might have been a sailor once—oh!” she stopped. “I remember now—he had a tattoo. An anchor with a snake curled around it.”
Capshaw was scribbling furious notes. “Anything else?”
Concordia sank back against the pillow. “No. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Wells patted her arm. “Perhaps, when you are less fatigued, more details will come back to you.”
“What makes you think it was intentional?” Capshaw asked.
“Well,” Concordia said, thinking back, “no one else was knocked down, and Miss Hamilton was shoved hard enough to land in the street, rather than crumple to the ground where she stood.”
Capshaw stroked his mustache absent-mindedly. “Hmm. If deliberate, there are two possibilities: either someone had been following you both and, on impulse, took advantage of the chaos, or—” Capshaw hesitated.
“Or what?” Concordia prompted, leaning forward. By this point, Mrs. Wells had dropped her embroidery in her lap and leaned forward, too.
“—this was all planned ahead of time, and the brawl itself could have been staged to provide the opportunity to injure Miss Hamilton,” Capshaw continued.
Concordia shuddered. If so, the power of the Inner Circle was formidable. And this was a group that didn’t leave anything to chance. She met Capshaw’s eye. “Miss Hamilton had an appointment to see your Chief of Police today,” she said quietly.
Capshaw nodded. “Someone didn’t want that interview to take place.”
Mrs. Wells shifted restlessly in her seat. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this. Who’s behind it all?” She fixed her eye upon Capshaw. “And how is your chief involved?”
Concordia and Capshaw exchanged glances. Concordia sighed. “You may as well tell her.”
Capshaw eyed the row of beds. The two immediately adjacent to Concordia’s were empty. Satisfied that no one was close enough to overhear, he gave Mrs. Wells a quick, low-voiced account of what they suspected to be the Inner Circle’s involvement in Florence Willoughby’s death.
Concordia could tell that her mother, despite herself, was listening with increased fascination. Perhaps Concordia wasn’t the only member of the family who was drawn to unraveling a mystery.
“What did you say the organization was called?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“The Noble Order of the Black Scroll,” Capshaw said.
Mrs. Wells tapped a finger thoughtfully against her chin. “I’ve heard of the Black Scroll...let me see...oh, yes, Agatha Griffiths mentioned it.”
Concordia’s mouth hung open. “Mrs. Griffiths knows about the Black Scroll?”
Mrs. Wells nodded. “Except she was referring to the Daughters of the Black Scroll. It’s a ladies’ charitable club. Agatha’s a member, and she seemed pleased as punch to have recently convinced Lady Dunwick to join. She’s asked me to join, too, but I haven’t yet decided.”
Concordia was silent, thinking of the possibilities. The Daughters of the Black Scroll sounded like a sister organization. How closely connected were the two? Had Charlotte Crandall’s aunt joined it because her husband, Sir Anthony, was a Black Scroll member? Perhaps she and Charlotte could pay Lady Dunwick a visit.
Once she was out of the hospital, drat it.
Capshaw stood to leave. “I’ll get started on these leads right away.”
“So, you are embroiled in yet another police case,” her mother said, when they were alone. She shook her head. “It makes your teaching profession appear—dare I say it—remarkably lady-like by comparison. Can’t you just stick to teaching, dear? Why get involved in such unseemliness?”
Concordia didn’t bother to answer, nor did her mother seem to expect her to. But it reminded her of something else. “Does the school know what happened?”
Mrs. Wells smiled. “The hospital has one of those telephone contraptions, so I called your school and spoke with your lady principal…Miss Pomeroy? Yes, that’s the one. Lady Dunwick was right about telephone communication. All those crackles, pops, and assorted noises on the line are very disorienting. Certainly not an elegant way of conducting a conversation, but a great time-saver. It was all I could do to convince the woman to hold back your students, though. They were all set to cancel their play and tramp over here to visit you.”
“I’m glad they are going ahead with the play, but I’ll be sorry to miss it,” Concordia said.
“Miss Pomeroy said to tell you that Mrs. Isley and Miss Crandall have everything well in hand, and that the production will go splendidly.”
At that moment, they heard the rattle of dinner trays. The nurse came over with Concordia’s tray. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over.”
Mrs. Wells reluctantly disentangled herself and her belongings from the chair.
Concordia gave her mother a grateful look. “Thank you. For everything.”
Concordia passed a restless night. If the sounds of strangers moaning, staff moving about, and the occasional electric light switched on in the hallway weren’t enough to keep her awake, the discomfort of her injuries and her worry about Miss Hamilton were sufficient. She was relieved when she saw dawn tinting the windows.
That morning, another nurse changed her bandages, remade her wrinkled bed, and helped her wash her face and comb her hair. Concordia’s arm and shoulder were feeling much better, and she hoped to soon dispense with the sling entirely. Her head didn’t throb nearly as much, and her hip soreness had subsided enough that she could hobble across the room with only minor support. At her first opportunity—no matter what the hospital staff had to say about it—she would find Miss Hamilton and see for herself how the lady was doing.
Soon people streamed into the ward for visiting hours. Concordia’s mother was the first to arrive. She was soon followed by college infirmarian Hannah Jenkins, along with Charlotte Crandall, Ruby, and several students from Willow Cottage.
“Ooh, Miss Wells, you’re a hero!” one of the girls exclaimed, as Miss Jenkins checked Concordia’s bandages with a critical eye.
The infirmarian gave a satisfied grunt. “Everything should heal nicely.” She pointed to the sling. “I’d imagine you’ll only need that for another day.”
“I hope so,” Concordia said, “it’s quite a bother.”
“How are you feeling?” Charlotte Crandall asked. She placed a satchel at the foot of the bed. “Ruby and I packed some of your personal items, along with a couple of books from your bedside table.”
Concordia smiled her thanks at them both. “Did Miss Pomeroy assign you my classes?” she asked Charlotte.
The young lady nodded.
“Excellent,” Concordia said. “I cannot think of a better substitute.” Charlotte flushed.
“We missed you at the play, Miss Wells,” a senior said.
“How did it go?” Concordia asked.
“Splendidly, although Miss Stephens tripped over her cloak again.”
“You should have seen
how crowded the theater was,” another girl added. “There were people standing at the back and sides!”
Concordia could imagine. A former stage-actress, playing the lead in a college production? Perhaps missing that spectacle was a blessing in disguise.
“When are you coming back?” Ruby asked.
“Soon,” Concordia said. “Believe me, I don’t want to be away any longer than necessary.”
“Even when you return, you must recuperate,” Miss Jenkins warned. “You won’t be able to jump right into your normal routine, you know.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure she rests,” Ruby said firmly, giving Concordia a wink. Concordia was relieved to see the matron looking more like herself these days. She hoped they had seen the last of Johnny Hitchcock. Thankfully, President Langdon had insisted that Ruby remain in her position as cottage matron, and let the police deal with her long-lost husband.
The nurse soon came in to shoo them all out. Concordia touched Miss Jenkins’ elbow. “Do you think you could visit Miss Hamilton while you’re here? I can’t find anyone to tell me how she is today.”
Hannah Jenkins grinned. “I already have. I stopped by on our way in; I know the attendant on duty. Miss Hamilton’s condition is quite serious, so she’s in a private room. She’s not conscious yet. She seems to be breathing with ease, and no fever, thank goodness. I understand that is an improvement. They are hopeful that the danger of pneumonia has passed.”
Concordia expelled a breath. “Do you think you can convince the nurse to allow me to visit her?”
Miss Jenkins patted her arm. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Just as the nurse was growing apoplectic in her effort to clear out Concordia’s visitors, David Bradley walked in. Everyone crowded around Concordia’s bed as the nurse’s voice became more strident.
“Out, everyone! This is not a concert hall, if you please!” The nurse pointed to Concordia’s mother. “You may stay, but everyone else needs to go.” She turned to David Bradley. “You, too, young man.”
“But I just got here,” David pointed out.
“Besides,” Mrs. Wells cut through the hubbub, addressing the nurse, “he’s Miss Wells’ fiancé.”
All conversations stopped.
The students gaped at Concordia, who resisted the urge to pull the covers over her head.
Miss Jenkins stepped in. “All right, young ladies, you heard the nurse. It’s time to go.” She hustled them out the door before anyone had a chance to say another word. Miss Jenkins did, however, throw a puzzled look in Concordia’s direction as she left.
Concordia groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Even though David had privately agreed to a delay, there was no point to it now. Word would spread like wildfire throughout campus by the end of the day. Everyone would consider her as good as gone.
Mrs. Wells, hand to her mouth as if she could hold back the words, sank into a chair. “Oh, dear, I am so sorry.”
David waved a dismissive hand, and smiled briefly. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.” He pulled up another chair and took Concordia’s hand, his expression more somber. “I was alarmed to learn about your accident…or was it an accident? Is it connected to the note we found?”
“I don’t know,” Concordia said wearily.
“What note?” Mrs. Wells asked.
David cleared his throat and shifted uneasily as Concordia glared at him.
“Well?” Letitia Wells demanded.
When Concordia said nothing, David explained. “A note of warning was anonymously left in Concordia’s office. It told her to stop her inquiries...or end up like Rosen.”
Mrs. Wells gripped the arm of the chair, her knuckles white.
“David, get her a glass of water,” Concordia said. “Quickly. It’s all right, Mother. No one tried to hurt me.”
In a few moments, Mrs. Wells had regained her composure. “Perhaps no one actively tried to harm you, but an attempt was certainly made on Miss Hamilton’s life.”
David’s brow creased. “But how did you get hurt?”
Concordia related the bare bones of the incident in an attempt to make it sound less dangerous than it was. She didn’t want to upset David any further.
But it was too late for that. “You threw yourself directly into the path of the streetcar?” David asked incredulously. “You’re lucky you weren’t both killed. I know you greatly esteem Miss Hamilton, dear, but was that quite the prudent thing to do?”
Concordia’s eyes narrowed. “Would you have me wringing my hands at the curb, helplessly watching Penelope die?”
David scowled. Mrs. Wells interrupted in an attempt to smooth the waters. “I’m sure he meant nothing of the sort. David is merely concerned for your welfare.”
“I’m very tired.” Concordia closed her eyes. She didn’t open them again until after they left.
Although she truly was exhausted, the second night in her hospital bed was no better than the first. She knew what the problem was: she hadn’t yet been able to see Miss Hamilton.
Giving up on sleep, she decided to at least try for a quick peek into Miss Hamilton’s room to see the lady’s condition for herself. Penelope Hamilton’s sister would no doubt arrive tomorrow, but no one was with her now.
Slowly and quietly, Concordia swung her legs over the bed and felt around for her slippers. She hesitated, then slipped her arm out of the sling, experimentally flexing her arm and shoulder. Just a little stiff, but otherwise fine.
Staying close to the shadowy side of the corridor, Concordia quietly shuffled past the nurse rummaging in the supply closet, and at last found Miss Hamilton’s room along the far wing. She stepped inside.
Miss Hamilton looked so very still and fragile, head wrapped in an enormous bandage, the side of her face bruised, arm in a splint. Concordia’s heart constricted in her chest. In the dim light of the room, she could see Miss Hamilton’s gray-blond hair, tousled and loose around her shoulders. But she was breathing easily, her face relaxed. Concordia limped to the head of the bed. “Miss Hamilton,” she whispered.
The lady’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open. And yet, that seemed to be a good sign. Had Miss Hamilton recognized her voice?
Concordia heard footsteps approaching.
She knew she shouldn’t be here, so she retreated to the corner shadows. If the nurse didn’t come in, she could slip out after the woman passed by. If she did come in, well, Concordia would apologize and go back to bed with as much dignity as she could muster.
Drat. The figure was coming in.
Her heart leapt in her chest. It wasn’t the nurse.
The silhouette was much too wide, more like a barrel-chested man. Surely, the doctors didn’t attend to patients so late?
Concordia froze in place, hardly daring to breathe. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was amiss.
She waited.
As the figure came into the dim light of the bedside lamp, she recognized the scarred, balding head, the unkempt beard, and the missing ear lobe.
Johnny Hitchcock.
She sucked in a soft breath and groped toward the door. She must get help.
The man hesitated, turning toward the sound. Light glinted along the metal wire in his hand.
Concordia screamed.
The man growled and shoved her, hard, as he ran out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After a flurry of attendants rushed in to find a shaken Concordia struggling to get off the floor, she was taken to a private room and ordered to stay in bed until the police arrived.
Capshaw came quickly, hair mussed, shirt mis-buttoned, hat askew on his head. Concordia waited impatiently as she heard him go into Miss Hamilton’s room first.
Capshaw came to see her next, shaking his head in disbelief.
“How you manage to find trouble—even while recovering in a hospital—is beyond me, miss.” He regarded her pale face. “Are you well enough to give me an account? The sooner the better, if w
e have any hope of catching him.”
Concordia nodded. “It was Ruby’s husband, Lieutenant. Johnny Hitchcock.” She shuddered. “I’m sure of it.”
Capshaw muttered something under his breath, ran to the door, and spoke to the sergeant standing outside. After a moment, Concordia saw the man give a quick nod and leave.
“We’ll telegraph Hitchcock’s description to all the precinct night watches,” Capshaw said, coming back to stand beside her bed. “I’ll need to speak with Mrs. Hitchcock again. She may know other places he frequents. When I went looking for him last week, he hadn’t been seen at the Brass Spittoon in a while. But first, recount to me exactly what happened.”
Concordia told Capshaw about her worry for Miss Hamilton, and slipping into the lady’s room; then, the shadow in the hall, and Hitchcock at the bed holding the wire.
Capshaw nodded. “So Hitchcock murdered Florence Willoughby, and was attempting to use the same method on Miss Hamilton. Come to think of it, the man’s burly figure, grizzled beard, and rough manner of speech match the description Eli gave of the man returning to Florence’s room after the murder.”
“Hired by the Inner Circle,” Concordia said.
“That seems a safe assumption. And I’ve learned a few interesting things about Hitchcock in the meantime—” he broke off as Concordia shivered again. Capshaw gently tucked the blanket around her. “You’ve had quite a shock. Why don’t you rest now? We’ll talk again in the morning.”
Concordia swallowed. “What if he comes back...to try again?”
“Then we’ll have him, for sure,” Capshaw said grimly. “I have a patrolman posted at Miss Hamilton’s door. Oh, and you’ll be happy to learn the lady has opened her eyes.”
Concordia sat bolt upright in excitement. “She’s awake?”
“Indeed. The commotion roused her. While the doctor said he wouldn’t recommend screaming as a means of waking an unconscious person, it seems extraordinarily effective in this case.”
Concordia smiled weakly.
“I’ve been told we can speak with her tomorrow, if she continues to improve,” Capshaw said.