by K. B. Owen
By now you know that I set the bombs, disguised as a youth. You nearly caught me months before, as I practiced going about in my costume. I was sorry to lose my pin in the snow that night. As the only woman member of the Circle, I cherished it.
I had you all duped, didn’t I? Everyone underestimated me.
After we escaped the police in the square today, we hurried back to Robert’s house to get money and a few necessities to start a new life together.
But then he pointed a gun at me. He was going alone, he said, and didn’t want any loose ends left behind.
Only then did I realize what a fool I had been. He had never loved me. I was a tool to be used and discarded when no longer needed. I was a “loose end.”
But he underestimated me, too.
It is all over now. Prison is not for one such as I. The third bomb that I’d had no time to place will yet serve a purpose. I am leaving this note away from the blast. It will no doubt keep the stuffy society matrons gossiping for a good long time.
In the meantime, I wait for the tea—a different kind this time—to do its work. Good-bye Concordia.
~Lily
Wordlessly, Concordia passed it back to Capshaw. Her mind was a turmoil of conflicting emotions: shock, anger at Lily’ betrayal and ruthlessness, sadness for the loss of life and the waste of talent.
She shuddered, and her mother patted her back reassuringly. “Be thankful that it’s over.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am.
Othello, V.ii
Week 17, Instructor Calendar
June 1898
“Here, let me get that,” Concordia said, reaching around Miss Hamilton to prop open the door to Willow Cottage as they went in. “I’ll make us some tea. And there may be some of Ruby’s scones left,” she added, leading the way to the kitchen.
Penelope Hamilton, wrist in a splint but looking otherwise whole, smiled. “That sounds lovely.”
“I’m glad you could visit once more before you leave,” Concordia said, putting the kettle under the tap. “Are you sure you’re fit to travel?’
“I’ll be fine,” Miss Hamilton assured her.
“I imagine your family misses you,” Concordia said. She set a plate of scones and a teacup within reach of Penelope Hamilton’s good hand.
“My sister is the only family I have left,” Miss Hamilton said. “Although she came to see me during my recovery, a hospital environment is hardly congenial for socializing.”
“I don’t know what we would have done without you,” Concordia said, thinking over the events of the past few weeks. Lily Isley and Robert Flynn were dead, Hitchcock and Isley were in prison, each awaiting trial, and the police chief was facing disciplinary action for his part in obstructing the Florence Willoughby investigation. The Inner Circle, without its leader, was broken up, powerless. Charlotte Crandall had told Concordia that her uncle, Sir Anthony Dunwick, had withdrawn his membership in the Black Scroll, along with Maynard and a number of other brothers. Accusations and blame were directed toward the powerful Willoughby family.
But it was over.
Miss Hamilton smiled. “I was happy to assist. A fascinating case. You did most of the hard work, however.”
Concordia winced. The bruise on her jaw had faded, but the memories were painfully fresh.
“I haven’t seen Mr. Bradley around lately,” Miss Hamilton continued. “Miss Pomeroy told me what happened between you two at the square. I hope the rift has been mended?”
Miss Hamilton’s directness was always a bit disconcerting. Concordia looked away, busying herself with steeping the tea to cover her silence. Forgiving David had been the easy part, but she’d found herself at a loss for words to answer any of his letters of apology. After a week of leaving his messages unanswered, she had received a terse note from him, saying that he was leaving for his parents’ summer cottage and would be gone until the fall term. She wasn’t sure whether she was angry, hurt, or relieved. She’d tried to push it out of her mind with work. Certainly the end of term had held plenty to occupy her: examinations, graduation preparations, letters of reference, dismantling the cottage household. Many good-byes were exchanged as the students scattered for the summer recess.
The good-byes were always the hardest part. Concordia would miss her girls, as impetuous, mischievous, and noisy as they were wont to be. Even Miss Smedley, who at last had settled down to be a fair student and planned to return in the fall.
But when Concordia wasn’t busy—usually in the quiet of the night as she lay staring at the moonlight-bathed ceiling—she thought of David, and hoped she wasn’t saying goodbye to him, too. She’d started four different letters to send, and had torn up each one.
Miss Hamilton was watching her carefully. Concordia finally met her gaze. “He’s gone for the summer. And no—it has not been mended.”
“Ah, I see.” There was an awkward silence, then Miss Hamilton changed the subject. “I’ll be starting my next assignment soon.”
“Oh? What assignment is that?”
“It looks to be quite intriguing. It involves a cross-country railway trip. In fact, I was wondering…I’d need a companion for the journey. What do you think?”
Concordia’s eyes widened. “Me? I already have a job. Shouldn’t you find someone more—” she groped for a word “—professional?”
Miss Hamilton shook her head. “You underestimate yourself. Besides, you wouldn’t do actual investigative work. I would merely need you to listen and observe. It would be helpful to have someone to talk to. Sometimes detection is lonely work.”
Concordia nodded. She had felt that loneliness.
“You’ve just finished with the spring term,” Miss Hamilton went on, as Concordia poured the tea. “The trip would involve only a few weeks of your summer recess. Besides, it might be opportune to get away from Hartford for a while. You could use a change of scene.” She hesitated.
“There’s something more to this,” Concordia said.
“I’m also concerned about the Inner Circle,” Miss Hamilton said.
“Why?” Concordia asked. “That has been broken up.”
“We don’t know the full extent of the Circle’s influence, or if the remaining members might engage in some sort of retribution,” Miss Hamilton countered. “Remember, we don’t know the identities of the final three in the group.”
Concordia sat lost in thought, gripping her teacup. When she had visited Sophia and Eli a few days before, she’d learned that Isley was still refusing to identify the other members. Did he fear them so? She’d tried not to think about those unknown men, possibly nursing a grudge against her.
Miss Hamilton waited in silence. The mantel clock ticked in the quiet.
The sound of the doorbell made them both jump.
They heard Ruby’s footsteps in the hall, and then Capshaw’s voice as he talked with Ruby. A couple of minutes later, the familiar stoop-shouldered man paused in the kitchen doorway. Concordia noticed he was growing his mustache again. It seemed to be coming in just as red as ever.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have news.”
“Of course, Lieutenant, sit down.” Miss Hamilton gestured to another chair. “Would you like some tea?”
He shook his head. “I can only stay a moment. I came to tell you that Hitchcock and Isley are dead.”
“What! Both of them?” Concordia cried. Her fingers felt suddenly chilled, and she gripped her teacup for its warmth. “How can that be?”
“Killed as they slept, and in different cells,” Capshaw said dejectedly. “With a fatal dose of chloroform.”
Concordia and Miss Hamilton exchanged glances.
“It looks like Ruby is a widow, once again,” Concordia said.
Capshaw nodded. “I just told her.”
Miss Hamilton grimaced. “The Inner Circle is alive and well.”
&nb
sp; EPILOGUE
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
II.iii
Summer Recess
June 1898
Concordia sat on her suitcase to keep it shut as she wrestled with the buckle on the strap. It was at this inopportune moment that someone knocked on the door of Willow Cottage.
Drat. Since she was alone in the house, she would have to get that.
The man at the door was holding flowers. Concordia recognized both the flowers—prize-winning roses from President Langdon’s garden—and the man.
“David?” Concordia stared at him, her hand gripping the knob.
He gave her a tentative smile, which dimpled his cheeks but didn’t quite reach his brown eyes. “I couldn’t stay away. Can we talk?”
Concordia took a deep breath. “Come in.” She opened the door wider. As he passed her, she couldn’t help but notice that his neck and wrists had been touched by the sun over the past few weeks, and the wavy black hair now curled past his ears. She resisted the urge to smooth it out of the way.
“Did Mr. Langdon let you take these?” she asked instead. She gestured toward the roses.
“He helped me cut them, actually—who knew there was so much involved in snipping a simple rose?—and sent me away with his blessing. For you,” David said, handing them to her.
She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in their gentle fragrance. “They’re lovely. Come into the kitchen while I find a vase.”
“Where’s Ruby?” he asked, sitting at the well-worn table while Concordia rummaged in cabinets.
“Out shopping.” Concordia pulled down a vase and soon had the flowers settled in. “Mr. Langdon certainly grows a beautiful rose,” she murmured.
“Still, it’s a poor expression of apology,” David said soberly. He reached over and took Concordia’s trembling hands in his. “Dean Maynard wrote me, and recounted the whole story of what happened that night. I had no idea. Even so, I behaved abominably in the square that morning, just at the time when you most needed strength and comfort.”
Concordia swallowed back the lump forming in her throat. She would not cry. Again. She would not.
She could only trust herself to nod, pulling her hands away. She returned to shifting the flower stems in the vase, tucking them here and there, struggling to regain her composure.
“Am I forgiven?” David asked anxiously.
Concordia took a deep breath and met his eye. “Long ago. I should have answered your letters, but…I couldn’t find the words. It was a difficult time.” She touched the petals gently.
David nodded. “I understand that better now. At least we have this chance to talk before you leave.”
Concordia’s hands stilled. “You know I’m leaving?”
“Miss Hamilton wrote to say you’re taking a trip with her.”
“Oh. What else did she say?” She couldn’t imagine Miss Hamilton telling David about the Pinkerton assignment, or the risk of revenge by the remaining members of the Inner Circle.
David leaned forward, lines of worry creasing his forehead. “Precious little, which makes me wonder. Knowing Miss Hamilton’s line of work, I’m skeptical that this is the trip of leisure she implied in her letter.”
Concordia looked past his shoulder, through the sunny kitchen window. She focused her attention on the wild daylilies outside, against the sweep of green grass. “Well, it’s leisure for me. I need a change of scene.”
David’s frown deepened. “You know,” he said mildly, “you never look directly at me when you’re lying.”
Drat. Concordia gave an exasperated sigh and met his eyes. “What do you want me to say? We have this argument again and again. You don’t want me to ‘get involved,’ or ‘take chances.’ I’ve come to realize that I cannot live that way. I cannot simply be a bystander.”
In her agitation, she stood and paced the room.
David stood as well. “Just be honest with me! Why are you going on this trip?”
Her back stiffened as she looked away. “The Inner Circle killed Isley and Hitchcock. In their jail cells, right under the eyes of the law. Lieutenant Capshaw and Miss Hamilton think it would be wise for me to leave town for a while.” She turned back to face him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I kept it from you because I don’t want you to tell me I’m in this pickle through my own fault, and that I should have listened to you.” She tilted her chin defiantly. “Because, even now, I would make the same choices again.”
David walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. She felt her neck tingle and her cheeks grow warm.
“Concordia,” he said in a softer voice, pulling her gently toward him, “I promise, I will never again make you defend what you do. You have proved, time and again, that you are capable of taking care of yourself.” He gave a shaky laugh and held her close. “I just want to take care of you, too. If you’ll let me.”
Concordia smiled through the last of her tears as David brushed them from her cheeks. “Yes.”
She looped her arms around his neck as he brushed her lips with his, then deepened the kiss. They stayed like that for a long time.
Ruby Hitchcock, arms laden with parcels, glimpsed Concordia through the window and was about to knock to get help with the door. Until she saw the young lady professor being thoroughly kissed by Mr. Bradley.
Land sakes, it took him long enough. The matron smiled and walked around the path to the front door.
THE END
Afterword
It’s a great time to be a historical author, with the wealth of digitized historical material available on the world wide web. For anyone interested in the background research that went into the writing of this book, I’ve shared some wonderful primary and secondary sources on my website, http://kbowenmysteries.com. I’d love to see you there.
I hope you enjoyed the novel. Should you feel so inclined, please consider leaving a review on www.Amazon.com or your favorite online book venue. Word of mouth is essential to help readers find books they will love, particularly those written by independently-published authors. Thank you!
To order other books in the Concordia Wells series, please visit: http://kbowenmysteries.com/books. Purchase links to all of the online venues are provided on that page.
Acknowledgments
Many people have had a hand in bringing this book into the world, and I want to express my sincerest thanks to them here. Among those who helped were several scholars and experts. Any errors found are solely mine, not theirs.
To Pamela Mack, Ph.D., at Clemson State University, who generously provided information about women engineers in the late-nineteenth century.
To the academic scholars of Victoria List ([email protected]), who furnished me with a wealth of information about nineteenth century anarchists.
To Jay Holmes, for his expert and ever-patient answers to my questions about nineteenth-century bomb making.
To author Mary Morrissy, who helped me make Mr. Flynn’s dialogue more authentic. At last, the Irish are gettin’ a look-in.
To Margot Kinberg, Kassandra Lamb, and Rachel Funk Heller, the best beta readers a gal could ask for. Thank you for your thoughtful feedback. Your suggestions helped immensely.
To fellow Misterio Press author Vinnie Hansen, who provided invaluable editing in the novel’s final stages, and Kirsten Weiss, for her meticulous formatting. For the latest mysteries by these and other authors at Misterio Press, please visit http://misteriopress.com/misterio-press-bookstore/#all.
Speaking of formatting, I’d like to thank Debora Lewis for her formatting of the print version. You truly make these words a thing of beauty.
To artist Melinda VanLone, who never fails to create such wonderful covers. I am grateful for her time and talents. Melinda can be reached at BookCoverCorner.com.
To Kristen Lamb, Piper Bayard, and the generous community of fellow writers known as WANAs, for their advice and support. We are truly not alone.
To my parents-in-law, Stev
e and Lyn, and the extended Owen clan of wonderful sisters- and brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews. You continue to read my books and cheer on my milestones. Thank you!
To my young niece Isa Owen, who motivates me with her own love of writing. I look forward to reading your books someday.
To my parents, Ag and Steve, to whom this book is dedicated. I love you.
To my sons, Patrick, Liam, and Corey, who have been so supportive of my writing efforts. Corey—thank you for keeping me well-supplied with cheese and crackers.
Most of all, I want to thank my husband Paul for his boundless encouragement and love. I would not be the author I am today without you.
K.B. Owen
October 2014
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