by K. B. Owen
She found Miss Lovelace with Miss Gage in the parlor, dressed and waiting to walk over to the dining hall. Miss Gage turned an excited face toward Concordia. “Miss Wells, have you heard? Maisie’s uncle is to be Mr. Sanbourne’s new assistant!”
“Really? Can he manage the time away?” Concordia asked. George Lovelace was a clockmaker with a shop along Kinsley Street. Over the years, he had allowed his niece and her like-minded friends to borrow tools and tinker with spare parts.
“He has an employee who can take over for a couple of months, at least until the Christmas season,” Miss Lovelace said. “It will be nice to see more of him.”
“That should give Mr. Sanbourne time to find a permanent replacement,” Concordia said.
“Mrs. Sanbourne will be relieved, too,” Miss Gage said. “She and Miss Kimble have been helping Mr. Sanbourne in the laboratory in the meanwhile.”
“Really?” Concordia raised an eyebrow. “I did not know we had so many mechanically minded ladies here on campus.”
“Miss Kimble’s grandfather was a clockmaker, just like my uncle,” Miss Lovelace said. “She said she has a lot of time on her hands.”
Concordia frowned. “Mr. Maynard is still keeping the accounting books from Miss Kimble’s clutches?”
Miss Gage made a face. “Apparently Mr. Langdon has intervened and given her limited bookkeeping tasks. But she sounded none too happy about it.”
Setting aside Miss Kimble’s woes, Concordia closed the door and gestured the girls into chairs. “I want to talk about Mr. Guryev’s disappearance.”
Miss Lovelace slumped in her chair. “I still cannot believe he has done what they say.”
“What sort of questions did Lieutenant Capshaw ask?”
“He wanted to know about Mr. Guryev’s associates and how he spent his free time,” Miss Lovelace said. “We couldn’t tell him much.”
Miss Gage nodded. “Then he asked about the night before Founder’s Day. We couldn’t help him with that, either. Once our class was over at four o’clock, we went our separate ways.”
Concordia nodded toward Maisie Lovelace. “You knocked on the laboratory door after supper and heard someone inside, isn’t that right?”
Maisie Lovelace shifted uneasily. “The lieutenant asked me about that, but I’m not sure now. It could have been my imagination.”
Concordia tried a different tack. “You know that Mr. Sanbourne’s blueprint is missing?”
Miss Gage nodded. “Mrs. Sanbourne told us. She’s very upset about it.”
“Mrs. Sanbourne told you?” Concordia asked in confusion.
“I attend her lessons in oil painting.”
“Ah. Quite generous of the lady.”
“Then Jane told me,” Miss Lovelace said.
“You don’t take painting lessons?” Concordia asked.
“I might, if Alison Smedley weren’t there,” the girl muttered.
Miss Gage shrugged. “I do not understand the animosity between you two.”
Miss Lovelace clenched her hands in her lap. “Miss Wells, do you really think Mr. Guryev stole the blueprint and then…killed Mr. Oster?”
Concordia did not want to lie to them. They were no longer children. “That appears to be the case, but there may be other possibilities.” None of them good. “Tell me, did Mr. Guryev seem nervous or preoccupied?”
Miss Gage and Miss Lovelace exchanged a look.
“Well?” Concordia said impatiently.
“Sometimes,” Miss Gage said. “In one class, he jumped a mile when a student came through the back door, just behind him.”
“When was this?”
“The week of Founder’s Day.”
Miss Lovelace nodded. “It was also right around then that I asked him for help with a stuck bolt. His hands were shaking so much he could barely hold the tool.” She made an impatient gesture. “We told all this to the policeman.”
“I’m just trying to clarify things in my own mind,” Concordia said. “Have there been any strangers lingering on campus, or someone who kept a particular eye on Mr. Guryev?”
“Lieutenant Capshaw already asked us about outsiders. We saw no one who wasn’t supposed to be here,” Miss Gage said.
Miss Lovelace tapped her chin in thought. “Hmm, I wonder…would the Trinity College boys count as strangers? Now that I think about it, I really only know a few of the fellows who come each week.”
Concordia leaned forward, pulse quickening. “How many students from Trinity attend the engineering workshops and lectures?”
Miss Gage shrugged. “It varies. Sometimes as many as two dozen. Not always the same ones.”
She felt a surge of excitement. Could Guryev’s debt collector have posed as a college student and slipped in with the group? If Capshaw questioned the Trinity boys who attended the engineering classes here, someone might have noticed something.
Of course, Capshaw would not appreciate her meddling, but she would merely be supplying him with a piece of information. Surely he could not object to that.
Miss Lovelace sighed. “The program is not turning out the way we had hoped. Mr. Sanbourne has become withdrawn. We hardly get any time in the laboratory anymore. We attend lectures in another building instead of working with the equipment. It is all textbook study these days.”
“Perhaps when your uncle comes, things will improve,” Concordia said.
“I hope so.”
They heard voices in the hall and Ruby opened the door. “Shall we go?”
As they walked over to the dining hall in the fall dusk, the girls chattering and laughing, Concordia’s mind was awhirl with the puzzle. If Capshaw took her idea seriously and it helped to solve the case, perhaps she and David could buy the farmhouse, after all. Was it possible? The notoriety would subside over time.
“You are a million miles away,” Ruby complained, as she caught Concordia’s elbow to keep her from stumbling into a pile of raked leaves. “Dreaming of your beau?” she teased.
Concordia gave a wan smile. “In a way.”
Chapter 11
Week 4, Instructor Calendar October 1898
But everyone, from the tired washer-woman to the student, the wrestler, the fine lady, and the strong man, demands a cup of tea. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Concordia and Hannah Jenkins sipped their tea in the staff lounge, relishing the cozy quiet of having the space to themselves. Afternoon classes would soon let out and the lounge would fill with faculty ready for a break.
Concordia gazed out upon the quadrangle. Leaves scuttled in the brisk wind. She gave a shiver and settled more comfortably into her shawl. “How are the plans coming for the Halloween Ball?” Miss Jenkins had volunteered to organize it this year. Customarily it was the lady principal’s job, but everyone knew that organization was not Miss Pomeroy’s forte.
“I have plenty of volunteers for the decorating,” Miss Jenkins said, “although I wish they were not so eager to use natural materials. Bittersweet vines, cornstalks, any number of gourds—if it ripens in the fall, they’ll gather it.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Those could make for charming arrangements,” Concordia said.
Miss Jenkins snorted. “Until last night, we hadn’t had a good frost to kill off the insects. One young lady had the misfortune to discover an ants’ nest in the last batch of vines she gathered. I’m surprised you did not hear the shrieks across the quadrangle yesterday.”
Concordia chuckled. “Perhaps ribbons would be best.”
Miss Jenkins raised her teacup in salute. “Amen to that.”
“I take it we will have the usual entertainments?”
“The nut-burning, certainly. You know how the girls love to go on about suitors and marriage.”
Concordia smiled. Burning the nuts—or nits, as the Scots referred to them—was a time-honored Halloween activity. A young lady threw two nuts in the fire, one to represent a specific young man she admired, the other for herself. If the nuts popped or jumped apart, the union was no
t to be. However, if the nuts burned brightly side by side, their love was purported to be strong and their future together promising. She had never subscribed to such foolishness, but the students enjoyed it. So long as they did not singe their skirts in their eagerness to approach the fire.
“There are other activities in the works,” Miss Jenkins went on. “Mrs. Sanbourne has volunteered to sketch caricatures, and of course we will have dancing in the ballroom. I wish we could forgo the apple ducking. It makes an awful mess. But the hue and cry when I proposed that was not to be believed.”
“I can help with that, if you’d like,” Concordia said.
Miss Jenkins shrugged. “I had not asked because I thought you were busy with wedding arrangements. Fittings and trousseau shopping and so on.”
Concordia grimaced. As she had feared, once word spread about her resignation many of her colleagues would treat her as if she were already gone. “I would be happy to help. I am trying to keep the wedding preparations as simple as possible, although that is a challenge when one has a mother.”
Miss Jenkins nodded as she set down her empty teacup. “What are your plans after the wedding? Where will you live?”
Concordia hesitated. She dearly wished she had an answer to the question where will you live? She had tried contacting Capshaw to share what she had learned, only to be told he was out of town on a case. Or perhaps he was avoiding her and had ordered such a message be given? She should check with Sophia.
Concordia was spared a reply when the door opened and Miss Banning ambled in. The lady leaned heavily on her cane and trailed one of several shawls in her wake. Dean Maynard, close behind, stooped to pick up the end. Miss Banning adjusted it with barely a humph or a glance in his direction. Charlotte Crandall and Miss Kimble followed soon after.
Concordia smiled as she listened to the chatter. She loved the collegiality of such times, when the faculty gathered at their ease and shared their day. She knew she wanted to marry David, but at the moment her heavy heart whispered that it was too much to give up.
She slid over to make room for Charlotte and Miss Banning. “How are you today?” she asked the old lady, as Charlotte went to the sideboard to fetch the tea. “Our weather has turned cold quite suddenly, has it not?” She imagined the chill was especially difficult on that lady’s rheumatism, though of course it would be impolite to bring up the subject.
Margaret Banning looked Concordia up and down through her thick lenses, which distorted her blue eyes into owl-like size. “A little cold weather is not enough to deter me, my good miss.” Her eyes brightened as Charlotte passed over a teacup. “Ah, thank you, dear.”
“How are your classes going? Any promising students this year?” Concordia asked.
Miss Banning scowled and gripped her cup with knobby hands. “Girls these days are preoccupied with chasing novelty: the latest style, club, and whatnot. The study of history is not nearly so glamorous, though it reveals more about the human condition than they will find in fashion magazines. ‘Man is explicable by nothing less than all his history.’ Emerson.”
As further talk along that line would prompt more quotes from dead philosophers, Concordia turned to Miss Kimble, who had taken a seat across from her. “I hear Miss Lovelace’s uncle has been hired as Mr. Sanbourne’s assistant.”
Frances Kimble dropped a sugar cube into her cup before looking up. “The engineering students have been sadly neglected. Since Mr. Sanbourne is much too occupied to conduct a search for a permanent replacement, I had a word with Mr. Lovelace. He is more than qualified to run the basic workshops and oversee the young ladies’ projects.”
Maynard, seated in the rocking chair a few feet away, turned abruptly. “You took it upon yourself to hire Lovelace, without consulting me first? I am dean of faculty here. I decide upon new hires, not you. Your job is to keep an accurate ledger. If you can manage it,” he added under his breath.
“I would not be doing even that, had not President Langdon finally stepped in,” Miss Kimble said sharply, setting her cup aside. Her slim shoulders stiffened as if braced for battle. “As to the new hire, the engineering program is uniquely funded through Theodora Blake’s grant. It is technically not part of the faculty budget and therefore not within your purview. I decide how to allocate those monies. You do not have to be consulted, and you do not have to like it.”
Concordia watched with a sort of morbid fascination as the veins stood out on Maynard’s neck and his face turned a dusky red. She almost felt sorry for the dean, especially when she glimpsed the distress on Charlotte’s face. Maynard abruptly stood and stalked out of the room.
With a sigh, Miss Kimble sat back and sipped her tea.
Well, perhaps she would not miss some aspects of college life when she married. Concordia rose to refill her cup.
As if summoned by her thoughts, David stepped into the lounge. He wore his customary dark wool trousers and brown hounds-tooth jacket, worn at the elbows. His reading glasses were tucked into the breast pocket.
She self-consciously settled her own spectacles more firmly upon her nose as he met her eyes. Mercy, his smile still made her knees weak.
He crossed the room in quick strides, nodding to those he passed. “Allow me,” he said, reaching for the pot.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Miss Jenkins got up to leave, depositing her cup on the sideboard. “Ah, Mr. Bradley! Concordia and I were discussing where you would be living once you are married. Have you found anything promising?”
Concordia frowned. Miss Jenkins was terribly nosy about the subject.
“In fact,” David began, “we had been thinking of—” he winced as Concordia’s well-heeled boot came down upon the arch of his foot.
“Oh, I beg your pardon! How clumsy of me,” she said, taking a hasty step backward.
Miss Jenkins regarded the couple with a skeptical eye. “Well, I suppose I must be going.”
David grimaced as he watched her leave. “So we are no longer considering the Armstrong house?” He discreetly flexed his ankle. “I didn’t realize Oster being found there bothered you so.”
“It does.” She dropped her voice. “How can we live there without knowing who is responsible and seeing justice done?”
“So you have absolutely ruled it out?”
She hesitated. “If Lieutenant Capshaw can solve the case, I would feel better about it. In fact, I have some information that I hope might help.”
David leaned closer. “Really? What is it?”
Concordia caught Miss Kimble glancing in their direction, her dark eyes narrowed attentively. “I’ll explain later. But for now, I would rather keep the idea of buying the Armstrong place to ourselves. Everyone will have an opinion on the subject.” She gestured at his foot in concern. “I hope I did not hurt you?”
He grimaced. “We shall have to determine a less painful signal in the future, or my feet will not survive it.”
She smiled. “I promise.”
Chapter 12
Week 5, Instructor Calendar October 1898
Nothing could be simpler than the riding-habit, and yet is there any dress so becoming? ~Mrs. John Sherwood
Concordia walked with Charlotte to the stables in the early-dawn light, wearing Charlotte’s second-best riding habit. It was tight in the waist and long in the skirt. She had to take care not to trip over the hem.
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”
“Nonsense, the fresh air will be good for you,” Charlotte said, tugging on her black kid riding gloves. “It is still too muddy for cycling, and we have been confined indoors for nearly a week, grading papers and refereeing student squabbles.”
Concordia sighed. Charlotte was right about the squabbling. Two factions had formed once again at Willow Cottage: Miss Lovelace and her fellow engineering students, and Miss Smedley and her cohorts. The rainy weather this week had kept everyone inside and in a fine pucker.
At last the sun was out, and she was gr
ateful to be away from the cottage. Even if she was to be atop an ugly horse and in the company of the dean, it was preferable to the past few days.
“There’s Mr. Maynard now,” Charlotte said, nodding.
Maynard bowed politely to Concordia, though he could not keep the sardonic glint from his eye. “Miss Crandall’s powers of persuasion must be considerable. Shall we?” He tugged at the stable door.
A loud crack echoed in their ears. Concordia took a startled leap backward and tripped on her hem. Charlotte had fallen to her hands and knees.
The horses whinnied in panic. The largest of them, a large Frisian, thrashed in his stall, wood splintering under his hooves.
“Ransom!” Charlotte cried, scrambling to get her feet under her.
Maynard ran toward the horse to restrain him, but he was too late. With a final mighty kick and a leap over the debris, Ransom cleared the stall and sped past Maynard, heading for the only exit. Toward Charlotte and Concordia.
“Charlotte!” Maynard yelled, a look of horror on his face as the horse bore down upon them.
Charlotte froze.
Concordia lunged for her, yanking a handful of her jacket and swinging them both toward the hay bales in the corner. The hooves thundered past as Concordia’s head struck the handle of a pitchfork.
The last thing she remembered before she lost consciousness was the barrel of a pistol, kicked by the horse and skittering in the dirt.
Chapter 13
Week 5, Instructor Calendar October 1898
The world is full of traps. ~Mrs. John Sherwood
The blackness faded and she opened her eyes. Where—?
The infirmary. She blinked a few times, the memory flooding back. The horse. Hitting her head. She put a hand to her aching temple. It felt so unreal.
