by K. B. Owen
She stood, feeling more steady now. “Let’s go.”
As Concordia still wore Dean Maynard’s clothes, she climbed down the ladder quickly. She held it steady for Charlotte, whose skirts hampered her progress.
“We need a conveyance,” Concordia whispered, as they hurried toward the road.
“Well, we’re not getting any of those carriages.” Charlotte whispered back, pointing to the three vehicles in front of the house. Their drivers were standing idly beside them, smoking and laughing. “We’ll have to ride Chestnut.”
Concordia had hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “Can he manage both of us?”
Charlotte nodded. “He’s a big one, but it will be slower going.” She pointed to the far pasture. “This way.”
Chestnut whinnied softly as they approached. Charlotte rubbed his nose. “He was always my favorite at the school.”
“Uh-huh,” Concordia said doubtfully. The horse was looking at her with an equally skeptical eye. Perhaps he disapproved of ladies in male attire.
Charlotte swung easily into the saddle and grasped the reins. “Here, I left the stirrup open for you. I’ll pull you up. Don’t worry: he’s gentle, really.”
With a sigh, Concordia put her foot in a stirrup. At least it wasn’t a side saddle, although how Charlotte managed to ride astride in her skirts was a question she didn’t have time to ask.
Charlotte looked over her shoulder to make sure Concordia was in position. “Okay, just hold on. You’ll be fine.”
Concordia stifled a gasp and grabbed Charlotte’s waist as they lurched forward. Charlotte kept the horse at a canter. Concordia glanced back toward the house, just visible through the trees.
Oh no.
Every light was blazing on the west side. Even worse, a dark shape was moving at speed down the drive toward them.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to go faster,” Concordia said.
Charlotte took a quick look back. She touched her heels to the horse’s flanks, and he broke into a gallop. Concordia clung to Charlotte for dear life, her hair coming out of its pins and whipping around her face.
The carriage wheels were audible now, and soon the vehicle itself was clearly visible. Concordia recognized Flynn’s two-horse carriage. They were obviously outmatched. Chestnut was starting to tire from the extra weight. To make matters worse, they couldn’t cut across the fields and leave the road-dependent carriage behind them. Low stone walls edged the road. The horse wouldn’t be able to jump it with both of them on his back.
“I have an idea,” she said in Charlotte’s ear. The young lady nodded reluctantly, as Concordia described what they would need to do.
Charlotte slowed the horse as the vehicle caught up with them.
“Ah, Mr. Flynn, what brings you here?” Concordia called out as the carriage pulled up beside them. He couldn’t see in the dark that she was carefully disentangling herself from Charlotte and making sure none of her clothes would catch on the saddle.
Flynn hopped out, face red with fury. “Dunna play games wi’ me. Get down, now!”
The horse skittered nervously at the raised voice, and Charlotte Crandall patted his neck to quiet him down.
The driver climbed down to reach for Chestnut’s bridle. He paused, eyes widening at the sight of Concordia in men’s clothing. In one fluid movement, Concordia slid off the horse. “Now!” she cried to Charlotte.
Charlotte gave Chestnut a swift kick. The animal responded, and sped away at a gallop. Concordia ran in the opposite direction. She glanced back long enough to see Charlotte and Chestnut clear the stone wall beautifully and dash across the fields. Concordia kept sprinting for all she was worth. As long as Charlotte got away and reached Capshaw in time, that was all that mattered.
Flynn, stunned and slow to respond, gave a shout and chased Concordia as the driver stood in the middle of the road, mouth open.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Maynard stared at the empty stall for a good long minute, as if willing the horse to reappear.
He gritted his teeth in vexation. Mischievous students again. Perhaps they were responsible for the note after all. But how were the two connected?
He had just awoken the stable hand and sent him off in search of the horse when he saw the Willow Cottage matron huffing down the path, bed-cap still clapped to her head, a shawl wrapped around her nightgown.
“Mrs. Hitchcock, what on earth are you doing out at this hour?” Maynard asked.
“Have you seen ’em?” she asked breathlessly.
“Seen whom?” Maynard asked.
“Miss Crandall and Miss Wells. They’re not in their rooms. A critter yowling outside woke me. I checked all the girls’ bedrooms since I was up. That’s when I seen they were gone.”
“Gone? For how long?” Why did he inevitably hear the name Miss Wells whenever there was trouble?
Ruby sucked in her lip as she thought. “They was goin’ together to a dance or such-like. Left here just at lights out. I went to bed. Miss Crandall’s ball gown is on her bed now, so she must ’a been back, but there’s no sign that Miss Wells came back at all.”
Maynard clenched his jaw. A dance. That was too much of a coincidence for his liking. And he didn’t like what he was thinking now. “Chestnut’s gone.”
Ruby’s eyes widened. “He’s always been a favorite o’ Miss Crandall’s. Ya think she took ’im?”
Maynard was sure of it, but there wasn’t time to explain. “I think I know where they are, but I need your help. Wake up President Langdon, and tell him what’s happened—”
“Ooh, Mr. Maynard, they’ll get in trouble, for sure!” Ruby protested.
“They’re already in trouble,” Maynard growled. Blast the woman. He’d never met a female yet who simply followed instructions without arguing over them first. “Tell President Langdon to telephone the police.” Thank goodness the school had put in a telephone line last year. It would save time. “Have them meet me at my house in Cottage Grove. He knows the address.”
“But he’ll ask me why!” Ruby said. “What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him there’s trouble. I haven’t figured it out yet, but he’ll trust my judgment,” Maynard said. Without another word, he ran back into the stable to harness Ransom.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
‘tis a monster
Begot upon itself, born on itself.
Othello, III.iv
As freeing as running in gentleman’s clothing can be, Concordia’s breath soon came in heaving gasps and her body trembled with over-exertion. She felt as if she were running through mud, her legs leaden weights. She heard Flynn close in behind her, his own breathing labored.
If he were going to catch her, she would at least make it painful. She stopped and turned abruptly just as he was about to tackle her, planting her feet apart and curling her fist, which she buried in his abdomen.
With a heavy oomph of pain, he was on the ground, bringing Concordia down with him. She winced as she fell on her sore shoulder. Ow. Her hand hurt, too.
No wonder ladies don’t usually throw punches.
Flynn gave her a vicious slap that made her ears ring. He hauled her to her feet. “Egad, ’tis only one way to deal with you,” he huffed, and raised his hand again. Concordia flinched.
“Sir!” came an outraged voice. Flynn’s driver had caught up to them. “Hittin’ a lady?”
Flynn lowered his hand. “Never you mind,” he barked, keeping a firm grip on Concordia’s arm and steering her back to the carriage. “Why didn’t you go after the other one?”
The driver snorted. “And how was I gonna do that? The coach don’t have wings, ya know. ’Sides, we’ll be able to catch up wi’ her. The creek borders the far side of the field about a mile fro’ here, and wi’ all the rain we’ve had, she won’t be able to cross it. She’ll have to double back to the bridge.”
Concordia’s heart sank. She prayed the man was wrong, and Charlotte would make it through.
Flynn nodded stiffly. “Turn the carriage around, and be quick about it. We’re going back to the house.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Driving along the quiet road at this hour of the morning would have been pleasant if Randolph Maynard wasn’t so worried. As he tapped the reins along Ransom’s flanks once more to urge him on, Maynard considered what had prompted Miss Crandall to take Chestnut in the middle of the night. None of the possibilities were reassuring. From what little he’d observed of Charlotte Crandall, he found her sober and intelligent, not given to reckless impulses like this. But at least they knew she’d returned to campus. What worried him most was that Miss Wells had not come back at all.
The side road he’d just turned on was darker and narrower. The houses here weren’t yet wired for electricity. With only carriage lanterns for illumination, Maynard was forced to slow down.
He gritted his teeth at the slower pace. It would be at least twenty minutes before he got to the bridge, and another ten after that.
As Maynard squinted into the dark, he saw a glimmer in the distance. He slowed the vehicle, and listened. He was sure he heard the clop-clop-clop of another horse. Soon his lanterns picked out the white blaze of Chestnut’s forehead.
“Miss Crandall?” he called out, not able to see, but his voice projecting into the stillness.
“Oh, thank heavens,” came a lady’s weary voice.
“What in tarnation did you think you were doing?” Maynard demanded, as he assisted a tired and muddy Charlotte, who was nearly falling off her equally tired and muddy horse.
“I’ve been trying to find help.”
“These are summer residences along this stretch.” Maynard led the fatigued horse through a pasture gate. “They haven’t been opened yet for the season.” He pumped some water into the trough, removed the saddle and bridle, and turned the animal loose.
“Will he be all right, just left here?” Charlotte asked anxiously, as they closed the gate and returned to the carriage.
“He’ll be fine. This is Frank Pennington’s place. He won’t mind. Besides, it’s only temporary.”
“Now,” he continued, after he had helped Charlotte up to the seat and grabbed the reins, “I assume we’re heading back to my house to rescue Miss Wells. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”
“You’re going to find it difficult to believe,” Charlotte said wearily.
“Try me,” Maynard said.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Thou know’st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft.
Othello, II.iii
With a sinking heart, Concordia saw the carriage drive was empty when they pulled up in front of the Maynard house. Except for the driver, she and Flynn were alone.
Flynn unceremoniously dragged her out of the carriage. “Bring the lantern,” he called to his driver. He glared at Concordia. “I’ll be putting you where you canno’ cause me further trouble. There will be no window to climb out of this time.”
Her new place of imprisonment looked to be far less congenial than Dean Maynard’s bedroom. In the dim light of the single lantern, she could see they were headed for the root cellar. A wooden double door with a stout outer latch opened wide to a sloping entrance, stretching ten feet below ground.
“What are your intentions, Mr. Flynn?” Concordia said bluntly. She observed the driver, eyeing her uneasily. Perhaps here was a possible ally?
Flynn took the lantern from the driver. “Unhitch one of the horses and wait at the bridge for the other young lady. Dunna come back without her.”
With a nervous tip of his cap, the man left. Flynn prodded Concordia toward the cellar opening.
“My intentions, Miss Wells? Why, your untimely demise, of course.” He adopted a sorrowful look. “I grieve already for your poor ma. But ne’er fear. I’ll be there to comfort her in her time of need.”
She suppressed a shiver at the thought of no one else knowing who this man really was. Especially her mother.
But Concordia had no intention of meekly going to her Eternal Reward. She had to stall for time, hoping Charlotte would bring back help.
“But you’ll have Hitchcock do your dirty work for you,” she responded tartly. “As you did with Florence Willoughby.”
“Aye, indeed—Florence,” he said casually, as if she were an item he had misplaced and forgotten. “Quite careless of me to be givin’ her access to the room where we stored our materials. To be sure, I didn’t realize until too late that she had engaged in a nasty bit of eavesdropping as well.” He scowled. “And then she had the audacity to extort money from me, no less! After all I had done for her: ball gowns, baubles, theater tickets.” He shrugged. “‘Eaten bread is soon forgotten,’ as they say. God’s truth, I did what I had to do.”
“And was that the case with Eli?” Concordia asked contemptuously. “Following him back to the train, then having him arrested. No doubt you needed time to find out who he was and why he’d been following you, but why try to kill him? He’s just a child.”
Flynn gave her an unreadable look. “I learned he was associated with that policeman—Capshaw. I couldn’t take a chance.”
“It must have been quite a shock when you saw him alive in the Capshaw’s living room,” Concordia said coldly.
“The boy and Miss Hamilton were full of surprises,” Flynn admitted. He gave Concordia a hard look. “She’s not who she appears to be, is she?”
When Concordia didn’t answer, he prodded her through the hatch.
Even as she inched along the dark, sloping dirt floor of the root cellar, Flynn at her back, Concordia tried to keep him talking. “You were sufficiently worried about Miss Hamilton to stage the ‘accident’ at the trolley stop. And when she survived that, you brought Hitchcock out of hiding in an attempt to silence her once and for all.”
“Did I now? You have all the answers, don’t you?” Flynn sneered.
Concordia ignored the jibe. “But you had to do some of the dirty work yourself, didn’t you? Ben Rosen’s murder. He wasn’t garroted as Florence had been. You must have seen Rosen approach me at the luncheon, so you attacked him in the gardener’s shed just before I arrived. What did you fear he would tell me? Had he learned of your connection to Florence? Possibly the identities of Inner Circle members?”
Flynn’s brief look of surprise confirmed that Concordia’s guess had hit the mark, but he merely grunted and prodded her toward the back wall.
Concordia continued on. “What I don’t understand is how this is connected to setting bombs at the senatorial debate and getting Barton Isley elected.”
Her words had the intended effect of stopping Flynn cold. “How in blazes do you know about that?” He hesitated. “Ah, the noise outside the balcony. Hmm, it seems that our lady professor has been engaging in some unseemly snooping. Well, well, aren’t you a resourceful cailin.”
“No matter what you told Isley, you know a great many people will be wounded or killed by the blast,” Concordia pressed. “Have you no conscience? What do you hope to gain?”
“More than you, my dear, could understand.” Flynn’s face creased in a mock-paternal frown. “You modern women may well say that you know the ways of the world, but sadly deficient you are in seeing beyond your parlors and kitchens.”
“Humor me,” Concordia said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I may as well know the truth. I’m going to die, anyway.”
Flynn gave her a wary look.
They were at the bottom of the cellar now, and Flynn released her elbow. Through the open hatch door behind him, Concordia could see the light of pre-dawn streak the sky. She leaned back against a bin, groping behind her in the dark for something, anything, that would serve as a weapon. A crowbar? A spade? This time of year, the bins that usually held potatoes, carrots and other vegetables were bare.
Concordia persisted. “I already know about the Inner Circle. At first I thought that Isley was in charge, but it’s clear they do your bidding.”
Flynn puffed up in pride. “Indeed, now it serves my purposes, although it was Barton’s creation. He had oh-so-high ideals when he formed it. Wanted to fight the corruption and inefficiency of our local government. He hand-picked a few men from the Black Scroll Order who professed the same ideals. Ironic, is it not? Such naïveté. I have shaped it into a more practical, effective entity.”
“And the Black Scroll’s general membership does not know of the Inner Circle’s existence,” Concordia said.
Flynn cocked an eyebrow. “Naturally. The Black Scroll Brotherhood would never approve. I want to keep the Brothers on my side; their oaths have proved eminently useful. The police turned a blind eye on several occasions.”
“No doubt the investigators of the Gascogne explosion turned a blind eye, too?” Concordia asked, remembering what Miss Hamilton had learned. She continued exploring the bins behind her in the dark, her hands skimming along the surfaces.
Flynn scowled. “Apparently Florence passed on more information before her death than I’d anticipated. Or perhaps it was your resourceful Miss Hamilton who figured it out.”
Concordia went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “And because Lieutenant Capshaw was learning more about the Willoughbys in the course of investigating Florence’s murder, you arranged for him to be removed from the case and replaced by someone less experienced, didn’t you?”
Flynn gave her a mocking smile.
“Capshaw is out of my hair completely, now,” he said. “He’s been fired.”
Concordia felt a twist of pity for Sophia, and fear for them all. How does one defend against a powerful few, working in secret, manipulating people to their will?