Beloved and Unseemly

by K. B. Owen

  Capshaw scribbled a note. “And why did you stop work early last night?”

  “My wife and I had a social function to attend.”

  “And the function?”

  “The Dunwicks’ charity reception.”

  “That would be Sir Anthony and Lady Dunwick, correct?” Capshaw made a notation. “But Mr. Guryev was not invited?”

  Sanbourne snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Where was Mr. Guryev going after that?”

  Sanbourne shook his head. “He did not say.”

  “Anyone he associates with regularly? Preferred entertainments?” Capshaw asked.

  “As far as associations, I am aware of none besides people on campus whom he sees day to day,” Sanbourne said. “In terms of his personal entertainments, well, I…I would rather not to go into that. Believe me, I have searched all of his usual haunts today when I realized he had not been seen. There is no sign of him. For all we know, he may be back at the laboratory by now.”

  “Still, we need the information, sir.”

  Sanbourne frowned. “Very well, but I would appreciate you keeping this confidential. His poor mother is visiting. If Ivan has in fact disappeared, she will be distraught enough.”

  Capshaw’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot promise. I will try.”

  “Ivan has a predilection for...gaming. Cards, mostly. I have long tried to dissuade him from the practice, as it has gotten him into trouble more than once. I know of two establishments he frequents in town.”

  Concordia’s eyes widened. The clever and handsome Mr. Guryev, a gambler? And Sanbourne knew of this. Why would he keep him on?

  Capshaw passed over his pad. “Would you write them down, please?”

  After glancing at what Sanbourne had written, he gave a satisfied nod. “That’s a start, but there are probably more you know nothing about.”

  “Can we head back to my laboratory now?” Sanbourne asked. “I am anxious to make sure my blueprint is safe.”

  “What about finding Mr. Guryev?” Concordia asked.

  Capshaw raised an eyebrow. She could almost hear the phrase: meddlesome females. “One thing at a time, miss. As Mr. Sanbourne pointed out, perhaps he has returned. For now, I need you to inform President Langdon of what has happened, and tell him to expect a visit from me later.”

  “Of course,” Concordia said. “I was wondering…Miss Lovelace or Miss Gage might know where Mr. Guryev was going last night. Do you wish me to inquire?”

  Capshaw might have been rolling his eyes, though it was difficult to tell in the deepening dusk. “Could I stop you if I wanted to? Very well, but do not speak of Oster’s death if you can avoid it. We do not want to distress the young ladies.”

  The bonfire beside the pond was burning merrily when they reached campus. The girls fed the flames with their wood cache from the tool shed, old school papers, and sticks and leaf litter that had escaped the afternoon rain. Concordia answered their cheerful greetings in as cordial a voice as she could muster. Fortunately, news of Oster’s death had not yet circulated.

  Anxious to check for his blueprint, Sanbourne headed for his laboratory, along with Lieutenant Capshaw and David. She wished she could have gone too, but the clever Capshaw had found a way to keep her out from underfoot. She went in search of Edward Langdon.

  She finally found him, along with the lady principal, watching the bonfire festivities from the dining hall balcony.

  Langdon’s frown deepened as she recounted the discovery. “Most unfortunate. Why am I only now learning of this?”

  Concordia plucked at her skirt. “I am sorry. I did not think of it. Mr. Oster was not found on campus, and he’s not connected with the school.” Not yet, anyway.

  Langdon grunted. “Thank heaven for that, but what in Sam Hill was he doing at the old Armstrong place?”

  Up to no good, she was sure, but she kept that to herself. She looked over at the lady principal, still staring at the bonfire. Was she paying attention? Gertrude Pomeroy was an enigma, ever fixed upon the joys of translating medieval French literature rather than heeding the world around her.

  “That is not all, I am afraid,” Concordia went on. “Have you seen Mr. Guryev on campus today?”

  Langdon shook his head.

  “Well, no one has seen him since last night. Lieutenant Capshaw believes there may be a connection.”

  Langdon shifted uneasily. “Surely not!”

  “No doubt the lieutenant will explain his reasoning when he calls upon you later. He and Mr. Bradley are with Mr. Sanbourne in his laboratory. A blueprint may be missing.”

  Langdon passed a hand across his forehead. “And this is connected to Mr. Oster’s death?”

  She nodded. “A torn piece was found in his hand.”

  Langdon groaned.

  “It is urgent that Mr. Guryev be found,” Concordia went on. “I have Capshaw’s permission to ask the engineering students if they know where he was going last night. Is that all right with you, sir?”

  “Must you tell them about the murder?” Langdon asked.

  She shrugged. “I do not know if I can avoid it. They will find out sooner or later.”

  “Most of them are participating in the bonfire at the moment. Don’t spoil it for them.”

  “I will start with Maisie Lovelace,” she said. “She wasn’t by the pond. She may be back at the cottage.”

  “Better take Miss Jenkins with you,” he said. “Miss Lovelace and the others are quite attached to Guryev. We don’t want any fainting or hysterics.”

  Concordia grimaced.

  “I will accompany you as well,” Miss Pomeroy said suddenly, turning her head. Her thick spectacles reflected the light of the fire and obscured her eyes in an oddly disturbing way.

  “Of course,” Concordia said.

  Hannah Jenkins was busy overseeing the bonfire. “Just toss it on there. Don’t get too close!” she called out. “Miss Smedley, stop adding damp leaves, if you please. You are creating too much smoke.”

  Concordia drew closer, breathing in the acrid scent and rubbing her hands towards its welcome heat. “Can you be spared for a bit?” She gestured over her shoulder, toward Miss Pomeroy. “We’ll explain along the way.”

  Miss Jenkins passed the stout branch she had been using as a poker to a senior girl and brushed off her hands. “I’ll be back. Don’t let the freshies get too close. We cannot have anyone’s skirts catching.”

  When they reached Willow Cottage, Concordia sent Ruby to fetch Miss Lovelace.

  Concordia felt a twinge of guilt when Ruby returned with the tousle-headed girl.

  Concordia patted the seat beside her on the divan. “Come, sit here. We are sorry to disturb you, dear.”

  “That’s all right,” Miss Lovelace said, smothering a yawn, “my headache is gone now….” Her voice trailed off as she glanced around uncertainly. “Miss Pomeroy? Miss Jenkins? What are you doing here? Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Concordia said hastily. “But I am afraid we bring bad news. Mr. Guryev is missing, and we hoped you might be able to help us find him.”

  Miss Lovelace frowned. “Mr. Sanbourne doesn’t know where he is?”

  Concordia shook her head. “He has not seen him since yesterday evening, when they locked up the laboratory. We are trying to determine where he would have gone last night.” She decided to refrain from mention of the murder. Miss Lovelace’s face had grown rather pale. “You work with him regularly. Did he say anything about his plans?”

  Miss Lovelace bit her lip as she thought. “No, nothing. But he doesn’t usually speak of his personal life with us. Even though he’s not much older than we are, he is very professional.”

  “Mr. Sanbourne said they locked up the laboratory at six o’clock. Is that right?”

  “Hmm, probably. I went over after supper to check on my own experiment, but the lights were out and I couldn’t get in. I even knocked.”

  “You knocked, when the lights were out? Why?” Concordia a
sked.

  Miss Lovelace made a face. “Silly, I know…I had the impression someone was still in there. I thought I heard footsteps.” She shrugged. “I was wrong.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know.” Maisie yawned again. “Seven? Something like that.”

  “This young lady needs to go back to bed,” Hannah Jenkins said firmly, putting a hand under the girl’s elbow and helping her to her feet.

  “Even when I’m tired, I have trouble sleeping,” Miss Lovelace said, rubbing her dark-circled eyes.

  Ruby got up. “I’ll bring you some chamomile tea. Up with you, now!”

  Only Miss Pomeroy and Concordia remained in the parlor. The lady principal made no move to leave. Concordia sat, hands in her lap, and waited.

  “So, Concordia,” Miss Pomeroy began, “we have another body.”

  “Yes.” Concordia shifted in her seat. She was grateful the lady principal had not said, You have found another body. Perhaps she was thinking that.

  The quiet was disturbed by a light rapping on the front door. Concordia got up to answer it.

  “David! Come in.” She led him into the parlor and gestured to a chair. “Any news? Has Mr. Guryev turned up?”

  “No sign of him. There are several blueprints in the safe, but the one for Sanbourne’s current project is missing. There are no signs that the safe has been broken into. Only Sanbourne and Guryev know the combination.”

  “Could the plans have been misplaced?” Concordia asked. “Oh wait, no…that wouldn’t make sense. I forgot about the scrap in Oster’s hand.”

  “We searched the laboratory thoroughly, nonetheless. No luck,” he said.

  Concordia shook her head. “I feel so sorry for Mr. Sanbourne.”

  “It’s a double blow,” David said. “To lose the work of months and to be betrayed by the man one considered a son.”

  “Are we sure Mr. Guryev stole the blueprint?” Miss Pomeroy asked, blue eyes wide behind her spectacles. “Not that man—Mr. Oster, was it?”

  “It had to be Guryev,” David said. “The blueprint was in the safe when they closed up for the night, and the laboratory was locked tight.”

  Concordia nodded. “Miss Lovelace went there after supper—something about checking on an experiment—and said all of the doors were locked.”

  “Only Sanbourne, Guryev, and our custodial staff have keys,” he said. “Capshaw will double-check that, of course.”

  “What is Capshaw’s opinion?” Concordia asked.

  David shook his head. “He’s keeping it to himself. If I were to guess, based upon his questions of Sanbourne, I would say Capshaw’s working on the theory that Guryev stole the plans to sell to Oster, Reeve’s intermediary.”

  “But why? Guryev was dedicated to Sanbourne,” Concordia said, remembering Guryev’s glowing praise at the reception.

  “You remember what Sanbourne said of his gambling problem. Perhaps Guryev was desperate for funds.”

  “If Guryev sold the plans to Oster, why kill him?”

  David shrugged. “A falling out?”

  Miss Pomeroy stood with a sigh. “I believe we have done everything we can.” She gave Concordia a meaningful look. “We must leave this to the police to investigate.”

  Chapter 9

  Week 4, Instructor Calendar October 1898

  Never before were women so utterly regardless of the unbecoming as they are when on a bicycle. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  Concordia awoke early on her day off, opening the curtains to a beautiful fall morning. Many of the trees had already shed their leaves, but the sun felt warm and the sky was a boundless blue. There was just enough time for a bicycle ride before she was to meet her mother and Sophia in town.

  She heard a few students stirring overhead as she put on her cycling attire. The shortened skirt, bloomers, and fitted leggings allowed for greater freedom of movement, though it revealed a fair amount of limb. Fortunately, no one on campus batted an eye anymore at such an outfit. President Langdon had at last caught up with modern times: the young ladies’ new physical fitness uniforms included bloomers, to Miss Jenkins’s delight.

  With a final tuck of her hair beneath her cycling cap, she was ready. She extricated her machine from the shed—an easier task now that the bonfire wood was gone—and set out for the sheep tracks.

  The ride was pure delight: the breeze upon her face, the blur of color, the speedy lurch of the downhill slopes, the scent of crisp fall air. After a while, between the warmth of the sun upon her back and the heat of her exertions, she stopped to remove her jacket and stow it in the basket.

  Others were out early. Charlotte Crandall and Randolph Maynard stood in the stable yard, preparing for a ride. Charlotte had persuaded the dean to join her after all. Concordia was too far away to hear their words, but Charlotte was laughing at something Maynard said as he helped her in the stirrup. He was smiling, too.

  Concordia’s eyes widened. Will wonders never cease?

  She climbed back on her bicycle and headed for the path around the pond. Charlotte Crandall and Mr. Maynard…the start of a possible romance? She supposed they were no less likely than any other pair, but the dean as a wooing suitor…he must be a good twenty years older. It certainly required a mental adjustment.

  If it had a softening effect on the man, she was all in favor of it.

  As she passed the front gate, she noticed Mr. and Mrs. Sanbourne parting ways, she with her paint box and easel heading toward Rook’s Hill, he turning toward his laboratory building. The poor man walked with a defeated slump to his shoulders.

  Concordia could only assume no significant progress had been made in finding Guryev, Sanbourne’s blueprint, or Oster’s murderer over the past week and a half. Lieutenant Capshaw did not confide in her, of course. He passed her with barely a nod the last time she had seen him on campus.

  To the discomfiture of President Langdon and the board of trustees, the newspaper accounts placed Hartford Women’s College squarely in the midst of the intrigue. It hardly mattered that the Armstrong farmhouse was the scene of the crime. The scandal revolved around Ivan Guryev. Reporters quickly learned of his staggering gambling debts and the threats upon his life by collectors. It was not a great stretch to conclude that Guryev had double-crossed Oster, killing him and fleeing with both money and blueprint to sell again. Many of the news stories had him back in Russia already.

  After rounding the pond loop, Concordia stopped to catch her breath and check her watch. She should head back to change if she was to make it to the dressmaker’s on time.

  Mrs. Feeney’s dress shop on Alden Street had the misfortune to be situated directly above a bakery. Perhaps the alterations that ensued after the ladies indulged in such treats provided a boon to the dressmaker. It required a stern effort of will for Concordia to pass by the delectable odors of gingerbread, cinnamon scones, and lemon curd tarts, her favorite. Her stomach rumbled.

  Mrs. Wells and Sophia Capshaw waited inside. The shop had the smell of new lumber shelving and flooring. A wide, brightly lit countertop spanned nearly the width of the back wall. Racks lined both sides of the shop, stretching from chair rail to head height, though they were not even half-full with fabric. Mrs. Feeney apparently had an eye for future inventory and brisk business.

  Sophia extended her hands in greeting. “Concordia! It has been weeks.”

  The two had been close friends since childhood, though their paths had diverged since then, with Concordia pursuing a teaching vocation and Sophia working with the poor and indigent at Hartford Settlement House.

  Concordia tilted her head up—Sophia was a good bit taller—for a close look at her friend. Her walking suit of hunter green velvet softened the angles of her slim figure, and the toque bonnet was trimmed with the same amber braid that adorned the cuffs and hem, flattering the blond hair tucked smoothly beneath. Only the most discerning eye would see that the dress was several seasons old and the toque had been refurbished at the milliner’s. Th
ough Sophia had been raised in the wealthy Adams household, she had left that life behind for one of public service. And now that she was married to Lieutenant Capshaw, living within modest means was a necessity.

  Concordia smiled. The one consolation of this dress excursion was Sophia’s company. Doubly so, since she might be privy to details about Capshaw’s investigation. Concordia had to admit she was hoping to find out more about the case.

  If Mother would permit talk of a murder during a wedding-dress fitting. She glanced across the shop. Mother and Mrs. Feeney were huddled over an array of Harper’s Bazaar issues scattered across the counter. “Here are the fashion plates we like,” she heard her say.

  Concordia leaned close to Sophia, her voice low. “Has the lieutenant made any progress in finding Guryev, or the man who murdered Oster?”

  “He has been working on little else.” Sophia’s light eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement. “To start, Guryev’s mother is not as innocent or as ignorant of her son’s scheme as she originally claimed.”

  Concordia frowned, remembering the frail, stooped woman at the reception. “That sweet old lady?”

  Sophia nodded. “Aaron finally coaxed the story out of her, through an interpreter. Apparently she knew her son was going to steal the blueprint and sell it to Reeve, with Oster as the intermediary.”

  Concordia’s eyes widened. “A week before Oster’s death, we had a reception to welcome Sanbourne and Guryev. Langdon invited Reeve and Oster. I noticed Reeve slipping a piece of paper into Guryev’s hand.” She hesitated. “I may have neglected to tell Capshaw about that.”

  “I’ll pass that along. It confirms what Guryev’s mother said. According to her, it was originally Reeve’s idea to steal the plans. She staunchly maintains that her son did not want to betray his mentor, but the debt collectors had been relentless. She said they followed him everywhere.”

  Concordia’s breath caught. They followed him everywhere. The night of the alarm-clock prank, she had seen Guryev leaning out the window of Sycamore House, eyeing the garden below. Had the debt collectors kept a covert watch on him even at the college? She shivered at the idea of strange men prowling about the grounds at night.