Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

  She couldn’t despair. Somehow she would get out of this.

  She heard a slight rustle outside. A night animal? Flynn’s driver? Or perhaps it was Charlotte, bringing rescue? Flynn seemed not to notice.

  She had to keep him talking.

  “What about Barton Isley?” she asked. “Does he know you had Florence killed, and murdered Mr. Rosen yourself? Does he know of your attempts to kill Eli and Miss Hamilton?”

  “Isley?” Flynn said derisively. “Of course not. He would never agree to such tactics, and I rely heavily upon his business acumen and considerable social connections. ’Tis a nuisance to cater to such a highly-principled fellow. Barton doesn’t possess the steely resolve to do what needs to be done. We have a saying: ‘Soft words butter no parsnips.’”

  A very different saying had come to Concordia’s mind: Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things, though great ones are their object. The man whom Flynn considered “highly-principled” was part of the conspiracy to set bombs at a public function. If the situation weren’t so dire it would be laughable.

  “But he’ll make an excellent candidate for the state senate seat,” Flynn went on boastfully. “He was doing quite well before he withdrew from the race, to be bursar at your school. He has since regretted that decision.”

  “How does bombing the rally get Isley back in the race?”

  Flynn smiled. “T’will appear to be an attack upon the Democratic candidate. We have arranged it so that blame falls solely upon Mr. Sanders—if he survives. Isley can step back in as the clean-cut, uncorrupted alternative.”

  Concordia snorted. “But the blast will not be harmless. He’ll know you tricked him.”

  Flynn shrugged. “I doubt it. He believes what I tell him. I will express deep regret in being so mistaken, of course. ’Twas a pity…perhaps Johnny put in more explosive powder than he should? Barton’s too embroiled in this business to pull out now.”

  “But why help Isley gain office at all, and by such extreme means?”

  Flynn hesitated, then sighed. “As you say, you won’t be leaving to repeat it, so I’ll satisfy your curiosity. Once a state senator, Isley would be in position to be elected by the general assembly to the United States Senate. He knows I have the connections to make it happen. That sort of access would be invaluable.” He snorted in derision. “I have grander plans than this little Nutmeg State of yours.”

  “I see.” Concordia edged to her left, hands behind her back. There must be something she could use.

  At last. She felt an object, metallic and claw-like. A hand rake. She curled her fingers around the wood handle, and subtly shifted her stance for better leverage.

  “Well! As diverting as this little tête-à-tête has been, I have important matters to tend to,” Flynn said briskly. “Johnny will be here in a few hours. You may as well make yourself...comfortable.”

  Flynn edged backward, shining the lantern in her eyes. Concordia inched forward blindly, fingers tightening on the rake handle behind her back.

  This time, they both heard the rustling sound. As Flynn turned his head to look behind him, Concordia swung the rake, hard, at the lamp in his hand. It crashed to the ground and went out. Flynn gasped in pain as the weapon caught his hand.

  In the midst of the confusion and darkness, another figure, quite tall and lean, leapt upon Flynn. Concordia yelled for help and crawled past the two as they rolled in the dirt.

  “Concordia!” a voice shouted from across the yard. It was Charlotte Crandall, crouched behind the well. She pointed to the road. Against the sunrise-pink sky, Concordia saw three police vehicles, rattling at speed toward the house.

  “It looks as if…the cavalry…has come at last,” huffed a familiar deep voice behind her.

  Concordia whipped around. Her eyes widened in surprise to see a panting, disheveled Randolph Maynard dragging a barely-conscious Flynn by his collar.

  “How did you come to be here?” she asked.

  He grimaced. “It’s a long story.”

  In the brightening dawn, Maynard got his first good look at Concordia. His mouth hung open.

  Finally, he found his voice. “Are you...are you wearing my trousers, Miss Wells?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  By the mass, ’tis morning.

  Othello, II.iii

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar

  May 1898

  With the arrival of the police and a short explanation from Maynard, who then hurried into his house on an unknown errand, Flynn was promptly deposited in the prison wagon.

  Concordia was pleasantly surprised to see Lieutenant Capshaw. In uniform, and…without a mustache? He looked like a youth of twenty. She tried not to stare. “I thought you’d been fired!” she exclaimed.

  Capshaw grimaced as his gaze swept over Concordia. She knew she was a sight: rolled trousers held up by suspenders over a lumpy waist, shirt sleeves flopping over her wrists, feet bare.

  An older policeman stepped forward. “No, miss. But it was a necessary subterfuge.”

  “Concordia,” Capshaw said, “this is Police Chief Stiles.” The man bowed.

  Concordia frowned. This was the man who had succumbed to the Inner Circle’s wishes? Who had fired Capshaw…but not really? Chief Stiles was now helping them? She gave Capshaw a puzzled glance.

  “He’s been investigating the Inner Circle for the past two weeks,” Capshaw said.

  Concordia folded her arms and glared.

  The chief flushed. “I regret my part in this matter, Miss Wells. I didn’t know. I should never have allowed myself to be so influenced.” He glanced at Capshaw. “I’ve been trying to undo the damage ever since.”

  Capshaw nodded. “We’re making progress. Hitchcock has been found.”

  “Where is he now?” Concordia asked.

  “He’s cooling his heels in the city jail,” Capshaw said. “We were questioning him when we got word that something untoward was going on at Maynard’s country house, and help was needed immediately.”

  Concordia breathed a sigh of relief. “So Hitchcock had no time to plant the bombs?”

  Capshaw’s expression was grim as he shook his head. “Unfortunately, we were too late for that. It’s obvious he was making bombs at his hide-out, but the devices themselves are gone. He must have passed them to a confederate. And Hitchcock isn’t talking to us.”

  Concordia remembered Flynn’s mention of someone local who would be assisting Hitchcock. “Perhaps you can get Flynn to tell you the location of the bombs.”

  “We have a man on it now,” the police chief said, looking over at the prison van, otherwise known as a “Black Maria,” where Flynn was locked up.

  “Are you taking him back to the station?” Capshaw asked.

  The police chief shook his head. “I want him on the scene. Perhaps being a little too close to those devices will get him to talk.”

  Randolph Maynard approached the group. He thrust a pair of slippers at Concordia. “Put these on. I’d purchased them as a gift for my niece, but you are in more immediate need of them.” He shook his head as he looked her over once more. “I have no female clothing to provide, unfortunately.”

  Blushing, Concordia murmured her thanks and slipped them on. They actually fit her quite well, and were a welcome relief to her sore feet.

  Maynard turned to Chief Stiles. “I should return Miss Crandall to campus. And we have a horse to retrieve along the way. Isley is part of this bomb conspiracy, and he may be at the college. What should I do?”

  “I’ll send one of my men with you to the school to take him into custody,” Chief Stiles said. He waved over a muscular, broad-chested patrolman, whose snug-fitting tunic jacket revealed a powerful torso and arms.

  Concordia spoke up. “And you’d better arrest Mrs. Isley, while you’re at it.”

  “Miss Crandall told me about the woman drugging your tea and keeping you confined.” Maynard said, shaking his head in disbelief. “She seemed so harmless.”

  Lieutena
nt Capshaw guided Concordia to one of the carriages. “We’d better get going, too. You can tell us the rest along the way.” He turned to the chief. “What time does the debate start?”

  “There’s a breakfast beforehand, hosted by the Ladies Civic Committee,” the chief said. He checked his watch. “That starts in an hour. The outdoor debate takes place after that.”

  “Heavens,” Concordia said, “it will take us at least that long to get there.”

  Capshaw’s mouth tightened. “We’ll make it.”

  The drivers pushed the horses as fast as they could go. Concordia, though grateful for their speed, had the misfortune to be riding in one of the older vehicles. There was at least one broken spring in the undercarriage, she was sure, judging by how often a rut in the road sent her lurching against the side, or into the laps of the carriage’s other occupants, Capshaw and Sergeant Maloney.

  After Concordia had given her full account of the previous evening, Capshaw shook his head and gave her one of his gloomy looks. “How you manage to survive these—” he struggled for a suitable word “—incidents...is a perpetual wonder to me, miss.”

  He turned his attention to the sergeant, who was looking everywhere but at Concordia’s trousers.

  “You’ll be with me. The chief and the rest of the men will be occupied with clearing the area. We’ll search the restaurant first for the devices, then outside, at City Hall Square. The restaurant seems most likely; it would be easier to hide a device with all of the furniture in the room, and avoid being seen.”

  Maloney nodded. “Any idea what we’re looking for? I never laid eyes on such a thing.”

  “They are timed-detonation devices,” Capshaw explained. “Which means they could have been placed hours ago.”

  “How big would they be?”

  “We don’t know,” Capshaw admitted, “and Hitchcock isn’t talking. An alarm clock would be used as the timer, so that part might be roughly the size of my hand. Then it would be connected with a brass wire to the fuse and explosive. It could be as small as a cigar box, but it could look like anything—a lamp, a box, a bench—made of wood, or perhaps iron.”

  “How do we shut off something like that?” Maloney asked.

  “That’s the tricky part,” Capshaw said. “If they were in a hurry, the timer might be outside the bomb’s outer casing. Then we can simply cut the wires. If they were more deliberate, then everything—timer, wires, fuse, and the explosive compound, which we believe to be nitrate—would be inside the casing. We’d have to open it up first, just to get to the mechanism.”

  Maloney swallowed.

  “And remember,” Capshaw added, “according to Miss Wells—” he gestured in her direction “—there are three devices.”

  “How do you know so much about bombs, Lieutenant?” Concordia asked.

  Capshaw gave Concordia an unreadable look. “Miss Hamilton had a knowledgeable, though unsavory, contact who gave me a recent education.”

  Bless Miss Hamilton’s pragmatic nature, Concordia thought. Even from a hospital bed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Lay hold upon him: if he do resist,

  Subdue him at his peril.

  Othello, I.ii

  When the dean, Charlotte Crandall, and policeman arrived at the gate of Hartford Women’s College, the men hopped out. “Can you see to it the horses are taken care of?” Maynard asked Charlotte. “We must get to Barton Isley at once.”

  “Of course,” she said, taking the reins.

  Maynard checked his watch. Seven-thirty. They’d made good time, even with checking the Isley house along the way. According to the staff, Isley had arrived home late and then left early this morning. Upon inquiring about Mrs. Isley, the maid had simply said she was not home and refused to say anything more.

  Where was Isley now? Maynard passed a weary hand through his hair. Lord, what a long night. What day was it?

  Friday. That meant Isley would be poring over the end-of-week invoices in his office.

  “This way,” Maynard said to the policeman, gesturing to the right. They hurried across the quadrangle to Founder’s Hall.

  Isley looked up in annoyance as Maynard flung open his door without knocking. “Randolph, what the devil?” He sucked in his breath sharply when he caught sight of the policeman in the doorway.

  The dean crossed the room in two strides and grabbed Isley by the collar. “You miserable, no-account snollygoster! Drugging a defenseless woman and holding her prisoner? Allowing that cur Flynn to do your dirty work for you, just to further your own gutter-rat ambitions?”

  “Sir!” the policeman exclaimed, putting a hand on Maynard’s sleeve. “A little restraint.”

  The color had drained from Isley’s face as Maynard loosened his grip and shoved him back into his chair.

  “Where is your wife, the poisoner?” Maynard sneered. “You both have much to answer for. She wasn’t at your house, and the maid would not say another word.”

  Isley worked his lips together before speaking. “I don’t know. She didn’t come home last night.”

  “You don’t know where your own wife is?” Maynard allowed his derision free reign.

  “We know the Inner Circle has planted explosive devices at the debate,” the policeman interjected. “Where will they be hidden?”

  Isley put his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “Hitchcock has been captured, but the bombs are gone,” Maynard said. “Who was going to place them? One of the other Inner Circle men?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Maynard gritted his teeth. They were getting nowhere with the man. It had to be someone from the Inner Circle setting the bombs. Except for Hitchcock, they didn’t seem too trusting of hired help. Who was in the group? Maynard was sure, now, that the cuff links he’d been asked to order were for the Circle. Besides Flynn and Isley, who were the other three? No, four, he remembered. There had been a pin, too.

  Whoever had set the devices must have nerves of steel, he thought. Bold and confident. And the pin….

  He had a chilling thought. No. It couldn’t be.

  “Where is your wife?” he asked again.

  Isley shrugged but said nothing.

  The policeman took restraining cuffs out of his pocket. “Mr. Isley, I am taking you into custody.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Strike on the tinder, ho!

  Give me a taper! call up all my people!

  Othello, I.i

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar

  May 1898

  At last, the police vehicles pulled up to City Hall Square. Even though the candidate’s breakfast had not yet begun, spectators were already occupying positions outside near the speakers’ platform, set up the evening before.

  Capshaw and Maloney hopped out before the carriage came to a full stop. Capshaw paused and gave Concordia a stern look. “Stay here.” Then he was gone.

  Concordia, all too aware of her unsuitable attire, wasn’t tempted to go anywhere. She did watch out of the window as the police began dispersing people. She saw Capshaw quickly cross State Street and enter the Long Brothers’ Palace Restaurant and Hotel. She sighed and leaned back against the cushions.

  Concordia awoke to the sun in her eyes. She sat upright and gazed out the window. Mercy, how late was it? She wished she had her watch.

  The people, more of them now and lingering out of idle curiosity, had been moved farther back. She could see Capshaw and Maloney out in the square, crawling around the platform structure. What about the hotel? Had they found any devices in the breakfast room?

  With people gathering in the square, she was having trouble seeing what was going on. Maybe she could get a little closer. She climbed out of the vehicle and closed the door.

  “Miss Wells?” asked a high-pitched voice.

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Concordia recognized that voice. She turned to see Miss Pomeroy, accompanied by Miss Lovelace and her friends. What she wouldn’t give t
o be in a skirt right now.

  Miss Pomeroy gave her a startled look over the tops of her spectacles. The young ladies smothered giggles behind their gloved hands.

  Just a few steps behind Miss Pomeroy was David Bradley, looking even more startled than he had the day she had nearly run him down with her bicycle.

  Concordia flushed. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it once we’re back to campus.”

  Miss Pomeroy nodded in her usual absent-minded way, but David was not so obliging. He looked her up and down, taking in the sight of her rolled-up trousers, over-sized shirt and jacket, bedraggled hair, and slippered feet. Concordia felt a hot flush creep up her neck and face.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” he demanded. “And out here in public! This utter lack of propriety is uncharacteristic of you, Concordia.” He peered more closely at her face. “And is that a bruise on your cheek?”

  The students fidgeted, alternating glances between Concordia and David.

  Concordia fought the conflicting sensations of wanting to crawl back in the carriage to hide and wanting to slap David’s face. She settled for something close to the latter.

  “It is indeed a bruise,” she answered tartly. “Thank you for your concern.”

  David took a step back. Then his face softened and he drew closer. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Concordia shuddered at the memory of the past few hours and gave him a glare. “Now you ask? Which do you care more about, the propriety of my appearance, or my well-being?”

  Miss Pomeroy put a protective arm around a trembling Concordia. “Perhaps it would be best if you leave us now, Mr. Bradley. Thank you for your escort. We’ll see you back at the school.”

  “But—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradley,” Gertrude Pomeroy said firmly.