Unseemly Ambition

by K. B. Owen

Tight-lipped, David turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Miss Lovelace rummaged in her purse and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here, Miss Wells.” Concordia wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get it all straightened out later,” the lady principal said to Concordia consolingly. “You have to admit—” her lips twitched in amusement “—your appearance is rather startling. Some gentlemen aren’t as…well, shall we say, flexible…in their thinking. I’m sure it was a shock to the poor man.” She gestured toward the square. “Why have the police blocked it off? What’s wrong?”

  “They believe there are bombs hidden at the site of today’s debate,” Concordia explained. She looked across the square to see Capshaw and Maloney quickly crawl out from under the platform structure and sprint in their direction. “I think he’s found something,” she said, excitement making her voice squeak.

  “All of you...need to stand farther back,” Capshaw huffed when he reached them. He caught his breath and turned to Maloney. “Doc Turbridge’s is one block down Prospect. Striped awning. Hurry.”

  Maloney ran for all he was worth.

  “You’ve found one?” Concordia asked.

  Capshaw shook his head. “We’ve found two.”

  “Two bombs?” Miss Pomeroy asked incredulously.

  One of the girls sucked in a breath.

  “Are they the first you’ve found?” Concordia asked. “What about the breakfast room?”

  “Nothing in the restaurant. We combed it thoroughly.”

  “So there isn’t a third one?” Concordia asked.

  “Just these two. I imagine Hitchcock ran out of time to construct a third,” Capshaw said. He took a deep breath and cast a glance back at the platform. “Two is plenty,” he added soberly.

  “Can you dismantle them?” Concordia asked.

  Capshaw pulled at his mustache distractedly. “We’ve already taken care of one.” He pointed to a stand of shrubbery at the periphery of the square, where several policemen were gathered, one carrying a large bucket of water. “We found it there. The trigger mechanism was wired to the device from the outside. A simple snip of the relays took care of it, but we’ll soak it, just to be sure.”

  “But the other one—” Concordia began.

  “—is more complicated,” Capshaw finished. “It’s a much larger device, cleverly concealed beneath Candidate Quint’s podium. Everything—explosive, fuse, timer—is contained within the casing. I’ve removed the access plate, but the opening is narrow. I don’t have fine enough instruments to reach in, find the right wires, and cut them. Maloney’s on his way to the dentist, to see if he has the tools we need.”

  Even as Capshaw was talking, the young ladies were whispering with great animation. Miss Lovelace pulled a familiar-looking canvas pouch from her reticule. Concordia recognized it as the improvised tool kit from their bicycle ride. Was it only last month? It seemed ages ago.

  “Lieutenant,” Miss Lovelace said, extricating narrow-nosed pliers and a pair of slim forceps, “will these do?” She handed them to an astonished Capshaw.

  “Oh, and let’s give him the long-handled jeweler’s screwdriver we just added to our collection,” one of the girls said. “That would be perfect for delicate work.” She plucked it out of the bag and passed it to Capshaw.

  “Oh, how I wish we could see this device up close!” another girl exclaimed.

  Capshaw’s look was unreadable. “Astonishing,” he murmured. “Thank you, ladies. Now please, move back.” He gestured to a patrolman standing beside the prison van.

  The man hurried over. “I need you to assist me,” Capshaw said. “It will take too long for Maloney to get back, and now I have what I need.”

  The policeman paled. “Me, sir? But I don’t know anything about them contraptions.”

  “No need,” Capshaw assured him. “You simply hold the lantern and hand me tools.”

  “But what about the prisoner?” The patrolman pointed a thumb toward the police van.

  Capshaw glanced inside. Flynn was asleep, curled on the wooden bench against the wall of the vehicle. Capshaw shook the heavy barred door to make sure it was locked tight. “He’s not going anywhere. Come on. There’s no time to lose.”

  As the pair hurried back to the platform, the crowd that had gathered stirred restlessly, aware that something was about to happen. The police had their hands full, keeping people at bay.

  “Oh, now I can’t see!” Miss Lovelace complained, as several men pushed in front of them.

  Concordia pointed to a small rise at the back end of the square, situated at a distance behind the platform. “We’ll be out of the way up there, and still able to see.” She turned to Miss Pomeroy. “Do you mind that we stay? I can explain everything later, but I need to make sure this turns out all right.”

  Miss Pomeroy nodded. “I must admit, I too am curious.”

  On the slope, the view was somewhat improved. Concordia could see Capshaw and his assistant crouching under the platform, although she couldn’t see the device itself. She watched for a sign, any sign, that things were going well. Judging from the rigidity of Capshaw’s back, and how many times the patrolman rubbed sweaty palms on his trouser legs, progress was slow.

  Looking beyond the platform, Concordia saw Mr. Sanders and his Democratic opponent Mr. Quint chatting amiably with one another and the people surrounding them. Apparently, not even the threat of death or bodily injury was enough to stop politicians from drumming up potential votes.

  “Look!” One of the girls pointed, and Concordia turned her attention back to the platform. “He’s reaching for the wire cutters now. They must be nearly finished.”

  Sure enough, they soon saw Capshaw heave a sigh and drop his head as he sat back on his heels. The patrolman had a big grin on his face. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Thank goodness,” Concordia breathed.

  Miss Pomeroy touched her arm. “I’m taking the girls back to the school. Obviously, there won’t be a debate today.” She looked Concordia up and down and grimaced. “I would suggest that you accompany us, but your attire would cause quite a stir on the trolley. Do you have a way to get back?”

  Concordia nodded. “I’ll have the lieutenant arrange for my transportation. I’ll see you soon.” She smiled at the students. “Your help was invaluable today. It may very well have made all the difference in the outcome.”

  The girls flushed and followed Miss Pomeroy.

  Concordia rubbed at her stiff neck. It would be good to get back to Willow Cottage, and sleep. She surveyed the thinning crowd along the square, wondering if Barton Isley had been arrested yet.

  A figure moving at the periphery caught her eye. It was a familiar-looking youth. Where had she seen him before?

  Of course.

  It was the man she’d seen on a snowy, moonlit night, when she had gone to retrieve a scarf on Rook’s Hill, and then again, weeks later, after the senior auditions. Concordia stood on tiptoe and craned her neck for a better look. Yes, it was the same slender build, the same tilt of the head, the same stride. Who was he?

  The man turned his face in her direction, and she gasped.

  Lily Isley.

  It all made sense. The versatile actress, adept at costume and charade. Why couldn’t she pass herself off as a man?

  But why would she wear such a disguise?

  Then she had her answer.

  Just behind Lily, shouldering his way through the crowd, was Robert Flynn.

  Concordia’s mouth dropped open in shock. How had Lily freed him from the van, with all of these policemen underfoot?

  Lily locked eyes with Concordia across the square. She nudged Flynn, and they both ran, Lily’s cap coming off and her hair tumbling free down her back.

  “Stop!” Concordia shouted. She called down to Capshaw. “Lieutenant! They’re getting away!” Without waiting for a response, Concordia took off after the pair, pushing her way through the crowd.

  Capsh
aw, heart still pounding from defusing two bombs, took in the astonishing sight of two trouser-clad women, one slipper-shod, running through the crowd. What on earth?

  Then he saw Flynn. Muttering an oath under his breath, he got up and ran after them, leaving behind the open-mouthed patrolman.

  Concordia had always taken the utility of sturdy shoes for granted, until today. Much was being asked of her poor feet; while pursuing Lily and Flynn, they hobbled her at last. She watched helplessly as the two got away. She bent over to catch her breath as hot tears prickled her cheeks.

  Concordia felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around to see Chief Stiles frowning down at her. “Do you ever stay put, Miss Wells? My men are chasing them down. Let’s get you home.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  O monstrous act!

  Othello, V.ii

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar

  May 1898

  Concordia returned to Willow Cottage to find an unexpected visitor, waiting anxiously in the parlor.

  “Mother!”

  Mrs. Wells started at the sight of her daughter in male attire, bruised, filthy, and weary. Nonetheless, she ran over and embraced her. Concordia rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and held her tightly.

  “How...when….” Concordia’s muffled voice trailed off.

  “Dean Maynard sent for me, dear.” Mrs. Wells stroked Concordia’s hair. “I’m so relieved you’re safe.”

  Concordia wiped her eyes on Maynard’s jacket sleeve. “You know what happened? Do you know about…Flynn?”

  Her mother nodded. “Mr. Maynard and Miss Crandall explained it to me.”

  “I’m sorry he turned out to be—”

  “Now, never mind about him,” her mother interrupted briskly. “He’s not worth wasting another thought on. I’ll be fine. I’m a little too old for falling hopelessly in love, you know.”

  Concordia searched her mother’s face. While some of what she said might be a bluff to spare her worry, Mother appeared composed rather than devastated.

  Mrs. Wells looked her up and down. “I believe it’s time for a bath, young lady.” She grinned. “And take your time. I can wait.”

  It was sheer bliss to soak in the tub. Concordia took her mother’s advice and stayed in it even as the water cooled. She wanted to forget the last fifteen hours.

  But how could she forget? Flynn was without scruple or conscience. She shuddered to think what could have happened in that root cellar.

  If not for Randolph Maynard. The man was a surprise, to say the least. He seemed to have softened toward her. Perhaps.

  At the thought of David, however, her stomach tightened. After last night, all she had wanted was comforting words from the gentle man who loved her. Instead, she’d gotten shock and anger. Mercy, did he think she put on trousers for amusement? Why couldn’t he see she’d been through a terrible ordeal? She was lucky to have come through it alive.

  It surprised her how quickly he had jumped to recriminations. A concern for propriety. Would her married life be like that? Her life—normally—was respectable and ordered, where she could easily behave in the decorous fashion expected of her. To be fair, David had never wanted her to be a shrinking violet. He respected her intellect too much for that.

  But could her conduct forever remain a model of propriety, without deviation…the product of a quiet, lady-like life? She wasn’t so sure. It seemed that, time and again, she was drawn into other people’s problems, dilemmas from which she could not simply walk away. She had to help. She had to act. Would David, once he was her husband, forbid it?

  She had no answers, except to be grateful they weren’t getting married right away. There were obviously more issues to sort out.

  Concordia finished her bath, brushed and pinned up her hair, and dressed in a simple white pleated shirtwaist and lavender muslin skirt. How lovely to be wearing her own clothes.

  Once she was presentable, she hurried back to the parlor.

  Concordia found her mother chatting with Charlotte Crandall and Miss Jenkins. The infirmarian summarily pulled Concordia over to the sofa.

  “Sit,” that lady ordered. “I want to look at your injuries.”

  Charlotte joined Concordia on the sofa, a smile tugging at her lips.

  Miss Jenkins gently probed Concordia’s bruised jaw. “Nothing fractured. Any teeth loose…no? Good.” She sat back on her heels and gazed searchingly at Concordia. “I was told it was Flynn who struck you. The man has much to answer for.”

  “I punched him first,” Concordia said.

  Miss Jenkins’ mouth gaped. Mrs. Wells regarded her daughter as if she’d grown a second head. But Charlotte started to giggle, and soon they were all laughing and wiping their eyes.

  “I’d better take a look at your hand, then,” Miss Jenkins said, her lips still twitching in amusement. She experimentally flexed the fingers. “Does this hurt? How about this?” She pressed gently. Concordia winced.

  “The knuckles are a little bruised and swollen, but that should subside soon,” Miss Jenkins concluded. “So long as you don’t make fisticuffs a habit.”

  The women giggled again.

  “Where’s Barton Isley? Did the dean tell you about him?” Concordia asked, as the infirmarian continued her examination, now removing Concordia’s shoes and stockings and frowning over her battered feet.

  “Eventually,” Miss Jenkins said. “I thought my girls were talking gibberish when they told me our bursar had been taken away by a policeman. Quite disruptive to the routine, as you can imagine. But shortly before you got here the president called a staff meeting and told us the whole story.”

  Concordia leaned back against the cushions, relieved that she didn’t have to recount her experiences of the night before.

  She had just restored her stockings and shoes when a knock at the door brought Randolph Maynard and Lady Principal Pomeroy to the gathering.

  “We wanted to check on you, dear, and see how you were faring,” Miss Pomeroy said, glancing at the bruise blooming along Concordia’s jaw.

  “I’m feeling better than I look, really,” Concordia said. She gave the dean a grateful look. “Thanks to you, Mr. Maynard.”

  Dean Maynard cleared his throat. “Glad to be of help. But you seemed to have the situation well in hand when I came on the scene.” He nodded in Miss Crandall’s direction. “Along with a strong ally.”

  Charlotte Crandall blushed. “Do you know if they’ve caught Flynn? Or Lily Isley?”

  “No. But Capshaw just called. He says he has news. He’s on his way.”

  At that moment, Ruby stuck her head in. “Do you mind fendin’ fer yourselves for a little bit? It’s time to take the girls over to supper.”

  “Of course, Ruby,” Concordia said. “We can manage.” No matter what events were going on in the world at large, students still had to be fed. She smiled at the normalcy of it. She’d missed that.

  “There’s a plate of sandwiches on the kitchen table, and hot water in the kettle,” Ruby added.

  Charlotte Crandall got up and smoothed her skirts. “I’ll get tea started.”

  President Langdon and a somber-looking Lieutenant Capshaw arrived at Willow Cottage just as Charlotte came in with the tray. Although Capshaw looked ready to drop from exhaustion, his glance swept across the room and its occupants as usual, looking for that one clue he might have missed.

  Additional chairs were brought in, and soon everyone was settled. It was getting crowded in the small parlor.

  “Did you find Flynn and Lily Isley?” Concordia asked, trying to read Capshaw’s expression. It didn’t look to be good news. His lips were pale, and a muscle in his jaw twitched of its own accord. She pressed her hands tightly together in her lap. The thought of the two escaping was unbearable.

  Capshaw sighed. “Yes. At Flynn’s residence.”

  Concordia closed her eyes. Thank heaven.

  “Do you have them in custody now?” Maynard said, leaning forward eagerly.


  “They are both dead,” Capshaw said.

  This was met with shocked silence, until Concordia asked the question for everyone in the room. “How?”

  “Mrs. Isley shot Robert Flynn, then took poison,” Capshaw said grimly. He got up and paced as best he could within the confines of the room.

  “But that wasn’t the worst of it,” he continued. “There was a third bomb, after all. Smaller than the ones we found in the square, but still plenty destructive. Mrs. Isley rigged it to go off when the front door was opened. Two of my men are in the hospital.”

  They all stared at him, horrified.

  “Will they be all right, Lieutenant?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  “They were fortunate. The door caught on a rug, and didn’t open completely. So they were partly protected from the blast. The doctor expects them to recover.”

  “Lily had enough knowledge to set up the device?” Concordia asked.

  Capshaw nodded. “Hitchcock coached her well.” He rummaged through a pocket and pulled out two folded sheets of paper. “She left a note addressed to you.” He passed it to Concordia.

  With trembling fingers, she unfolded the pages. Mrs. Wells unabashedly craned her neck to read over her daughter’s shoulder.

  My dear Concordia,

  So here we are, in the final act of our little drama. How I wish I had known it would end as a tragedy for me.

  I was sorry to have to tamper with your tea last night, because I do like you, even though you are responsible for our plan falling apart. In fact, I’ve been trying to protect you all this time. I coaxed Robert to consider Miss Hamilton as the true danger to our plans and leave you alone.

  But you kept persisting, even after I left the flowers and warning note in your office. I never imagined a lady professor would concern herself with anything other than her books and her students.

  I’m sure you see me as quite a scandalous woman, having a lover, plotting bold and violent deeds with unscrupulous men. Think what you wish; I don’t care. You cannot know the boredom of my life before I met Robert.