Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  Charlotte gave her a long look. Satisfied, she continued walking.

  “Do you think your uncle will join the Inner Circle, under these circumstances?” Concordia asked, after a few minutes’ silence.

  Charlotte shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

  “I don’t think the Inner Circle will be content with performing a favor for your uncle and not getting something in return,” Concordia said carefully.

  Charlotte looked at her with widened eyes. “So when he refuses their offer of membership, what will they do?”

  “I wish I knew,” Concordia said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The first man on Miss Hamilton’s list, Alan Goff, only took Capshaw a few days to find. It was a simple matter of learning the fellow’s favorite watering hole and keeping watch. Capshaw supposed that a businessman such as Goff would want it to be easy for customers to seek him out. If he had supplied Hitchcock with bomb-making materials, then a little bribery might loosen his tongue.

  Capshaw’s hopes were dashed, however, when he walked into the saloon on the fourth day and Goff was pointed out to him.

  Alan Goff’s blank stare and shuffling gait belied the reputation of a man who was supposedly an explosives dealer in the criminal underworld.

  “That’s Goff?” Capshaw asked in disbelief.

  The bartender nodded. “Sad now, in’t it? Right as rain a month ago, then has a few too many, falls down drunk, hits his head. Hasn’t been the same since. He just come back after weeks a’bed.” He glanced at the clock on the shelf. “It’s gettin’ late. I expect his missus will come for ’im soon.”

  Capshaw walked back to Mrs. Murtry’s boardinghouse. He was accustomed to dead ends in an investigation, but the stakes here were as high as they had ever been. If Goff had been the supplier, the link to Hitchcock was lost.

  There was yet a chance: Artie Lindquist, the other supplier on Miss Hamilton’s list. She had thought him less likely, however.

  “He has a smaller operation going,” she had said. “He was trained in munitions during the war, so his knowledge is extensive, but everyone knows Goff has the better prices. Goff has more contacts than Lindquist.”

  “How do you know so much about him?” Capshaw had asked.

  Miss Hamilton smiled to herself. “When my husband was alive, he and Artie were friends. Of sorts.”

  Capshaw prayed the second man hadn’t had an accident, too.

  It took Capshaw the rest of the week to find Lindquist, a cautious fellow of reclusive habits. That certainly seemed the case when Capshaw set up a meeting with him.

  The location was an abandoned storage shed along the docks. Capshaw, arriving alone for his midnight appointment as instructed, prayed he wasn’t walking into a trap. At least Lindquist had no way of knowing Capshaw was a policeman. Otherwise, his life wouldn’t be worth a nickel. As far as Lindquist knew, Capshaw was the agent of a prospective customer.

  Nevertheless, Capshaw looked over his shoulder as he approached the shed, nervously fingering the weighted pocketknife in his jacket. Mercifully, no one waited in the shadows.

  Capshaw knocked quietly on the rough door and opened it at the sound of a voice.

  Artie Lindquist was seated deep in the shadows, behind a long counter once used to clean fish. Even after years of disuse, the smell lingered. As far as Capshaw could see, the man was alone. Another stool had been provided. An oil lamp was positioned behind Lindquist, glaring in Capshaw’s eyes and obscuring the man’s face. All that Capshaw could make out was a grimy peacoat and a dark scarf muffling him up to his chin, even though the night was temperate.

  “You have something for me,” Lindquist said, once Capshaw was seated. His voice held the wheezy strain of damaged lungs.

  Capshaw passed over a slim, paper-wrapped packet. Lindquist opened it and counted the money. Capshaw suppressed a gasp of surprise at the sight of the man’s right hand. Gloved though it was, he could see thick burn scars, puckered and twisted, extending past the wrist. So Lindquist’s choice to remain in shadow was not just a desire for anonymity.

  The man noticed Capshaw’s glance. He gave a hoarse laugh as he pulled down his sleeve and pocketed the bills. “Let us just say that I no longer deal in nitroglycerin. You’ll have to look elsewhere if that’s what you want. But a little friendly advice: don’t make your own at home.” He tucked his hand back under the table.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  Lindquist sat back. “So now that I have your down payment, let us talk about what you want me to get. Timers, blasting caps? Iron casings? Phosphorous?”

  Capshaw shook his head. “Information. I need to locate a certain person who may have been a customer of yours.”

  Lindquist was silent for a long moment, looking at Capshaw carefully. “You are police, then.” He stood and pointed to the door. “If you leave now, I will let you live.”

  “No, wait!” Capshaw exclaimed, standing up and leaning over the counter. “I’m not trying to interfere with your...operations. I’m only here because Penelope Hamilton told me you could help. We must stop a ruthless group of men, before they cause more harm.”

  Lindquist hesitated. “Did you say ‘Penelope Hamilton’?”

  Capshaw nodded.

  Lindquist sighed and sat back down. “I haven’t heard that name in years.” He regarded Capshaw with penetrating eyes. “Did she tell you anything about us?”

  “Merely that you and her husband had been friends.”

  “That is true. It was more of a friendly rivalry, he and I. The private detective and the criminal. A strange alliance, is it not?” Lindquist shook his head over the memory. “And Pen. So smart. And brave. She worked a few cases with her husband back then. She even saved my life. I wouldn’t have survived this—” he touched his face in shadow “—if she hadn’t pulled me from the fire in my workshop, years ago. I owe her a great deal.”

  “You can repay that debt,” Capshaw said. “Miss Hamilton was grievously harmed by the same people I’m looking for.”

  Lindquist started. “How bad are her injuries? Will she survive?”

  Capshaw could hear the anxiety in the man’s voice. “She will, if she isn’t harmed further. But a man tried to attack her in her hospital bed the other night, and he’s the one I’m after. Have you ever had dealings with someone named Hitchcock? Johnny Hitchcock.”

  Lindquist hesitated, then pulled out a small leather notebook.

  Capshaw waited. The only sound in the room was the turning of pages.

  Lindquist marked an entry with his finger, then looked up at Capshaw. “Before I tell you, I want your assurance that no one will know I gave you this information. I will lose my other customers. And if you capture this man, you must promise that the police will not then come after me.”

  As dearly as Capshaw wanted to put a stop to Lindquist and the dangerous materials he peddled, he knew it was a battle that would have to wait for another day.

  “I can promise you this,” Capshaw said. “I will never speak your name in connection with this case to any police or court official. If I do capture Hitchcock, no one else but Miss Hamilton will know that it happened through your help. But—I cannot promise anything about your involvement in future cases.”

  Lindquist hesitated, then shrugged. “It seems I have made yet another uneasy alliance with law enforcement. Just like the old days. Very well.” He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and closed the book. “I met with Hitchcock on two occasions. He needed better fuses than the cheap stuff Goff foists on his customers. Half of them don’t hold a burn and fizzle out partway through.” His lips twisted in a distorted smile. “You get what you pay for.”

  “When was this?”

  “Our last meeting was a week ago,” Lindquist said. He passed the paper over. “This is where I had them delivered. He said he couldn’t show his face in public to pick them up.”

  Capshaw imagined not, since that was just after the aborted attack at the hosp
ital, and the entire Hartford police force was searching for the man. “When were the fuses delivered?”

  “Yesterday.” Lindquist stood. “If that is all, I must be going.”

  Capshaw held up a hand. “There’s one more thing.” He took another envelope of money out of his pocket and handed it to Lindquist, who raised a puzzled eyebrow.

  “What’s this for?” Lindquist asked. He thumbed through it and started counting. “It’s quite a sum.”

  “I need to learn how to defuse a bomb, should I encounter one.”

  “You want me to teach you?” Lindquist asked incredulously.

  “Who better?” Capshaw asked.

  Lindquist was quiet for a moment. He counted the bills again. “You are an intriguing man. And a brave one. All right, I’ll teach you. Just the basics, mind. I assume it’s Hitchcock’s bombs you want to know about? Well, it just might work.”

  After arranging to meet the next night for his first “lesson,” Capshaw left. He took a cab directly to Maloney’s lodgings.

  A grumpy, disheveled Maloney answered the door. His brow cleared at the sight of Capshaw. “Lieutenant!” he cried. “What on earth are you doin’ here at this time o’ night?” He opened the door wider and let him in.

  “I’m sorry for the late hour, but I know where you can find Hitchcock,” Capshaw said. He handed him the paper Lindquist had given him. “Since I’m off the force, you’ll have to make the arrest.”

  Maloney grinned. “It’ll be a pleasure. I’ll have to come up with a story about how I found him, though.” He peered closely at Capshaw. “I assume I shouldn’t ask how you got this.”

  Capshaw shook his head. “I promised my source he would remain anonymous. Good luck, sergeant.” He pulled open the door to let himself out. “I’m staying at Widow Murtry’s. Send me word when you have him, will you?”

  Maloney was already dashing up the stairs as Capshaw closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  This is the night

  That either makes me or fordoes me quite.

  Othello, V.i

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar

  May 1898

  “Nonsense, you look wonderful,” Charlotte insisted, pinning the last stray tendrils of Concordia’s hair under the silver netted hair covering. “I knew the gown would fit you once we hemmed it.”

  “Once Ruby hemmed it,” Concordia said, thinking about how hard the house matron had worked on such short notice. “That woman’s a treasure.”

  The gown Charlotte had lent her was certainly lovely, with its crossed bodice of black velvet accenting the shimmering fabric of pearl-gray satin. The cap sleeves were trimmed with more narrow bands of velvet, and the deeply-pleated sides of the skirt caused the skirt to drape in graceful folds and enabled greater freedom of movement. It was a bit tight, of course. Charlotte was slimmer than she, but the corset was doing its job. Concordia had given up trying to take deep breaths.

  Concordia made a face at her reflection. The gown showed a more ample expanse of pale bosom than she was accustomed to. Still, the color suited her, deepening her green eyes and softening her freckled complexion. Not that it would matter much once her mask was in place.

  She stepped back to inspect Charlotte’s gown, a high-necked creation of midnight blue, trimmed at waist and hem with sheer ivory scarves, shirred several rows deep. “What a lovely gown.”

  Charlotte flushed. “It was a graduation gift from Aunt Susan. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see me in it.”

  “Do you have our masks?” Concordia asked anxiously. The thought of this being a masquerade ball was both worrisome and reassuring. She was comforted by the thought that her eye expressions would be difficult to read, but it would be equally difficult to establish the identities and temperaments of the men in the room.

  Charlotte nodded, fished in her reticule, and passed her a domino mask of black silk, ornamented at the temples with tiny pearls. She checked the mantel clock. “Aunt Susan’s carriage will be at the gate soon.”

  Concordia collected her wrap and reticule. “Ready.”

  Charlotte paused, listening. “It sounds like everyone is settling down for the night. How strange to be going out at this hour.”

  “Don’t worry. I made sure Miss Pomeroy approved our outing,” Concordia said. She put a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Thank you,” she added quietly. “For all of your help. This has been a trying time. It feels good to have an ally.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Whatever you need, miss.”

  They collected their wraps and walked to the front gate.

  The drive to Dean Maynard’s country home in Cottage Grove was a pleasant one.

  They passed a number of stately houses, refurbished from modest farmhouse structures. Nearly all of them were closed up until the summer season.

  At last they pulled up to the Maynard house. The surrounding property had retained some of its dairy farm origins, with a silo, barn, and split-rail fencing, but the house itself had been rebuilt in a grander style, with a deep, white columned porch and asymmetrically-proportioned high-peaked gables of Windsor blue.

  Festive Chinese lanterns were strung along the portico, and every window glowed. Band music drifted faintly through the open door as they alighted from the carriage. Concordia and Charlotte exchanged glances as they straightened their trains and settled their wraps over their shoulders.

  Lady Dunwick caught the glance. “No need for worry,” she said cheerfully, “I’m sure there will be no problem.” The diminutive lady took Sir Anthony’s extended arm and led the way.

  They were among the last to arrive, which proved fortuitous. The maid gave the Dunwick invitation barely a glance as she greeted them and took the ladies’ wraps. Concordia settled the mask more firmly across her eyes and cheekbones, tying it securely behind her head. She had to avoid Isley and Maynard. There would be no explaining her presence. Her conspicuous red hair was covered by the silver netting of her hairpiece so that she could better blend in with the crush of people, but Maynard in particular had a sharp eye. But the worst that could happen, she reminded herself, was that she would be shown the door.

  As the Dunwicks toured the room and made polite introductions, Concordia recognized a number of men, including a law professor from Trinity, the mayor, the state’s prosecutor, and several friends of her mother’s.

  Conversation within the groups was kept to light topics and generalities, and it was easy to disconnect from the talk of one group and engage in another. None of the men had elected to attend in costume; the dinner jacket, pleated shirt, and dress trousers seemed the standard uniform of the evening, though each gentleman sported the same black velvet mask across his eyes. On some, the mask looked quite dashing; on others, absurd. One man fussed with it as it crept up his forehead.

  Concordia tried to memorize the names and details of the men unfamiliar to her: hair, hands, figure, build, voice. She hoped it would be enough for Capshaw and Miss Hamilton to learn more about these men, and determine who belonged to the Inner Circle. She had hoped there might be a conversation she could eavesdrop upon regarding the Inner Circle, but perhaps such a large gathering made that unlikely.

  The one man she dreaded seeing was Randolph Maynard, but there was no sign of him. Strange. The man was hosting a party in his own house, but wasn’t in attendance? The Isleys were instead acting as hosts, circulating among the groups and making sure guests were well-provisioned with punch and lemonade. She had avoided them so far, but she found such maneuvering an exhausting exercise, on top of making endless small talk about the weather or the rising cost of silk.

  Once, across the room, Concordia spotted Barton Isley standing beside his wife. Lily was animatedly recounting a story that, by the looks of it, had their group in stitches. The lady was dressed in an Arabian costume of turquoise and tangerine, her flowing skirts affixed to a low-hipped sequined belt, and gauze veil crowned with a simple gold circlet. She must be Scheherazade, Concordia guessed, th
e Persian queen who seduced a king with her tales. How appropriate. Concordia made sure Lady Dunwick steered clear of that group.

  As they circulated among the crowd, Concordia wasn’t so sure that she and Charlotte were as readily accepted as Lady Dunwick had claimed. The female attendees seemed to take the extra guests in stride, perhaps concluding that Lady Dunwick was trying to find a marriage prospect for Charlotte. However, Concordia noticed a few of the men, behind their masks, raise an eyebrow when they were introduced. All had been polite, but she felt uneasy when she caught sight of several men beside the terrace murmuring and glancing their way.

  “Excuse us,” Concordia said to Lady Dunwick, and maneuvered Charlotte over to a quiet corner beside a potted plant.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked, fiddling with her fan.

  “I don’t think we’re as welcome as your aunt assumed,” Concordia said, pointing discreetly with her own fan toward the terrace. “We may have to leave sooner than anticipated.”

  “But you haven’t seen everyone yet,” Charlotte protested. “There are a number of men in the billiard room. We should wait until supper, at least. Then we’ll all be in the same place.”

  “You’re right, of course. But it’s nerve-wracking, this worry about being recognized by the Isleys,” Concordia said.

  “Your hair is wonderfully obscured by your head covering,” Charlotte said. “It should be all right. And what’s the worst that could happen, in the middle of a crowded hall? We’d be asked to leave.”

  Concordia reluctantly followed Charlotte back to the Dunwicks, trying to shake off this feeling of unease.

  Later, she wished she had listened to her instincts.

  Concordia surreptitiously checked her watch again. When would they go in to dinner? Could she risk staying that long? It was only a matter of time before she encountered the Isleys. She doubted if she could convince them that she was a prospective member of the Daughters of the Black Scroll.