by Owen, K.
Eli shook his head. “Doa’n know, miss. She wan’ me to bring yer back. That’s all.”
Concordia left a quick note for Ruby, then followed Eli to the trolley stop outside the campus gate.
Chapter 7
Murder most foul.
I, v.
The Adams house was an impressive structure, situated among equally impressive homes along the illustrious block of residences dubbed “Governor’s Row.” Built in the once-popular Italianate style, it sported wide, elaborately-corniced eaves overhanging curved windows. A heavily-ornamented second-story gable crowned the whole. While it wasn’t the largest house on the block, it certainly spoke of the family’s wealth and privilege.
Concordia hadn’t been here to visit since Sophia had gone to live at Hartford Settlement House. However, the settlement house was currently undergoing extensive renovations and expansion, so available space was tight. Sophia had volunteered to move back to her childhood home to ease crowding.
Concordia knew it was a sacrifice for her friend to live at home. The colonel had never approved of his daughter’s work with the poor, and father and daughter shared the same stubborn temperament. The situation had not been helped by the death of Sophia’s mother two years ago nor the recent addition of a wife who was close to the age of her new step-daughter. The only bright spot was that Sophia could spend more time with Amelia.
The parlor maid who answered the door gave the grimy Eli a skeptical look as she let them in.
“You know better,” the maid chided the boy. “Next time, go around the back entrance or the housekeeper will have my hide.” Her look softened. “Since you’re here, scoot back to the kitchen. Cook just took some bread out of the oven. If you wash your hands, I reckon she’ll give you a slice. But stay out of the way; there’s policemen here.”
Eli was gone in a flash.
Concordia started. “Police? What has happened?”
The girl shook her head. “It’s the colonel, miss. He’s dead.” She paused and dropped her voice for dramatic emphasis. “Murdered.”
Concordia sucked in a breath. It had only been a week since she’d seen Colonel Adams at the opening of the antiquities exhibit. How could this have happened?
“Was anyone else hurt?” Concordia asked anxiously.
The maid shook her head. “Must have happened in the night. We were all asleep. Didn’t find him ‘til this morning, in a heap on the floor, shot. Blood everywhere. It’s a wonder we weren’t all murdered in our beds, I say.” She shivered. “But lemme take you to Miss Sophia; she’s real anxious to see you.”
Sophia was pacing in the sitting room. She was still clad in her dressing gown, hair down past her elbows.
“Concordia!” she cried. The maid discreetly closed the door as Sophia hugged Concordia and sniffled into her shoulder. “Thank heaven you came,” she said in a muffled voice.
Concordia sat her friend down on a well-worn ottoman near the fire, and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. Although the mid-September day was only a little chilly, Sophia was shivering. Concordia chafed her hands gently. They felt so cold.
“What happened? What are the police saying?”
Just then, the door opened and Amelia ran across the room and flung herself into Sophia’s arms, hair a tangled mess of golden curls, tears streaming down her cheeks. Although the girl’s sides convulsed in sobs, she didn’t make a sound.
“Amelia, don’t cry. I’m here, dear heart. I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Sophia murmured into her sister’s hair.
She looked past Concordia, eyes blazing. “Don’t you have some deranged individual to chase down, Lieutenant?” she demanded coldly. “Why traumatize a little girl who has been through too much already, and can’t even tell you anything?”
Concordia turned to see that a man had followed Amelia into the room. A policeman. In fact, it was a policeman she knew.
Lieutenant Capshaw was unmistakable, with his flame-red hair and perpetually gloomy expression. He walked with his tall, spare frame slightly stooped over, as if he were continually looking for something he might have missed.
Until a few months ago, Concordia had never thought she’d be on speaking terms with a policeman; the two didn’t exactly occupy the same social sphere. However, events at the college last spring had changed that, and the lieutenant had had several occasions in which to shake his head over Concordia’s “impulsive ways” and declare that he never understood young ladies nowadays. Or “college people.”
While Capshaw looked equally surprised to see Concordia, he ignored her for the moment and addressed Sophia.
“I regret it’s necessary, miss. From what I’ve seen so far, I doubt we are dealing with a madman in this case. We have to interview everyone in the household. Someone may possess an important detail without realizing it.”
He gestured towards Amelia. “Why can’t she talk? She makes no sound at all. But I know she can hear.”
Sophia tightened her arms protectively around her sister. “Wouldn’t finding your father dead be traumatic enough to render you mute, if you were such a tender age as she? We have called for the doctor to see what can be done for her; he’ll be here shortly.”
Capshaw stifled a sigh and turned his mournful eyes to Concordia. “It’s a surprise to see you again, Miss Wells.” The question What are you doing here? was implicit in his tone.
“Miss Adams requested I come, Lieutenant,” Concordia said.
“Indeed? I would imagine that a young lady’s mother would be of more comfort than a friend in such a trying time. Wouldn’t you, miss?” he asked Sophia.
Sophia gritted her teeth. “The current Mrs. Adams is not my mother,” she hissed.
Concordia listened to the exchange in silence. As Mrs. Adams was barely five years older than Sophia, and obviously not her mother, Capshaw’s disingenuous question had just provoked Sophia into revealing the animosity she harbored toward Lydia Adams. For the sake of propriety, Sophia had tried to keep these feelings hidden, Concordia knew. The gossips had had enough to flap their tongues over when the Colonel married a woman young enough to be his daughter, only ten months after the death of his first wife.
There was a tap on the door, and the maid ushered in an elderly man carrying a medical bag. Ignoring everyone else, he knelt beside the child, while Sophia murmured comfortingly to Amelia and reluctantly disentangled herself from the little girl’s grasp.
“How long has she been like this?” he asked, pulling out a stethoscope.
“For a few hours, since she found our father early this morning,” Sophia said.
“Yes, I was informed of that. Most unfortunate,” the doctor answered, glancing over at Sophia. “I am terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Adams. I can leave a sedative for your later use, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary, doctor.” Sophia answered. “But what about Amelia?”
The doctor was feeling the girl’s scalp. The child winced.
“What’s this?” He pulled aside her hair. Just behind her left ear was a bruised, swollen lump, the matted hair behind her neck stiff with blood. “Did you hit your head?” he asked the child, who just stared back at him, blankly.
“I didn’t see that,” Sophia said, startled. “Perhaps she fainted when she first saw Father, and hit her head on something?”
“Possibly,” the doctor answered over his shoulder as he checked the rest of her head, “but this complicates her condition.”
He looked up at Concordia, Capshaw, and the maid, who was hovering uncertainly, not sure if she was still needed. “Let me complete my examination. All of you…out, please. Except for Miss Adams.” He glared at Capshaw. “Don’t you have a murderer to apprehend, lieutenant?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to his patient.
Concordia felt a bit sorry for the policeman, trying to get information from people caught in the vise of family turmoil and emotions. Rather like trying to capture one particular straw in a whirlwind.
Th
e maid went back to her duties while Concordia and Capshaw lingered in the hallway, waiting for Sophia and the doctor.
Capshaw seemed content with the silence, spending the time looking at the paintings along the paneled walls, running an absent finger along the dust-free frames. Concordia couldn’t stand it any longer.
“What happened, Lieutenant? Whom do you suspect? What have you learned?”
Capshaw hesitated. “Miss Wells, I know you are concerned for your friend’s welfare. However, even though your meddling was successful in the past, I would advise you to stay out of this. You will not like the outcome.”
“I don’t like it already. Can’t you at least share the basic information with me, so that Sophia is spared the distress of telling me about it? She did send for me, so obviously she wants me to know what is going on.” Hmph. Meddling.
“Very well,” Capshaw said, reluctantly. “The colonel was found in his study by Miss Amelia this morning. Apparently the child often wakes early. However, since she can’t answer our questions at the moment, we don’t know why she would have gone into her father’s study at that hour. According to Miss Adams’ account, the child woke her around six o’clock and dragged her back to the study to show her the colonel’s body.”
“The maid said he was shot,” Concordia said.
Capshaw nodded. “We haven’t found the weapon yet, but the colonel’s own pistol is missing. One of the French doors has a broken window and the outer door of the safe was ajar. That suggests three possibilities: either Adams was about to open the safe when the intruder came in, the intruder tried to coerce the colonel to open the safe and shot him when the man did not comply, or the intruder himself made an unsuccessful attempt to get into the safe. The study is the only room in disarray, but the family is doing an inventory now, to see if there are any missing items. So far, nothing appears to have been taken.” He gestured to the artwork in front of him. “These paintings are quite valuable, and yet, here they remain.”
“But it was a burglary, surely? Perhaps aborted when the colonel was shot and the intruder fled in a panic?” Concordia asked.
“If so, it’s the first in this neighborhood. There have been recent burglaries in the Charter Oak area. In those instances no one was harmed, the windows were broken more cleanly, and the items stolen were mostly silver plate. This one looks nothing like those.”
The door to the morning room opened, and Sophia and the doctor stepped out. As the doctor left, Sophia murmured to Concordia, “Will you sit with her? I’ll be back in a minute.” She motioned toward the room, where Concordia could see Amelia on the sofa, asleep.
Concordia, Sophia, and Capshaw were gathered in the parlor. It was a space decked out in the latest style to receive callers. Delicate cherry side-tables clustered about the seat groupings, ready for tea trays. Embroidered pillows flanked a divan, which looked to be newly-upholstered in a warm gold fabric of geometric patterns. Fragrant burgundy roses filled crystal vases scattered throughout the room. A large Japanese silk fan, perched atop the cottage piano, looked to be tickling the ear of the other policeman standing by the door. The man, obviously younger than Capshaw and his junior in rank, batted at it in annoyance.
“How is the child?” Capshaw asked.
“The doctor has given her a sedative,” Sophia explained, “but he wants someone beside her at all times. The housekeeper is with her now.”
“What’s wrong with her? Why doesn’t she speak?” Concordia asked.
“He called it ‘hysterical mutism.’ It’s unusual but not unheard of, apparently, especially in young children who have had a shock they cannot grasp. Then there’s her head injury, which doesn’t look severe, but the doctor thinks it could be inhibiting her speech as well.”
“Will she recover?” Lieutenant Capshaw asked.
Sophia nodded. “The doctor says he has not heard of a case going beyond a few days, perhaps a week. Right now the hysteria is suppressed. She could have quite a violent reaction when it surfaces. That’s why he wants someone always with her, so she doesn’t harm herself. And we’re applying compresses to the lump on her head, until the swelling subsides.”
“Poor little thing,” Concordia murmured.
Capshaw clucked his tongue. “It is inopportune that the child cannot tell us what she knows.” He made a motion to the policeman by the door who turned and walked out.
“These things seldom work to one’s convenience,” Sophia responded tartly. “She could not tell you much more than I can. She came to get me as soon as she found our father. I saw everything she saw.”
“Perhaps,” Capshaw said, “but you cannot tell us why she was there in the first place. Surely Colonel Adams had strict rules about the presence of children in his study. And in the early hours of the morning. Did she hear the shot? The murderer might have been making his escape, even as she was opening the door. The doctor believes that your father had been dead for only a short time. The pool of blood was quite fresh, if you will pardon me saying so.”
Concordia shivered.
“That is a most indelicate observation, lieutenant,” an imperious voice said.
Lydia Adams stepped into the parlor. She moved with the languid ease of one accustomed to admiring looks from others. Her china-doll daintiness gave her the appearance of fragility. This morning, she wore a simple wrap dress of midnight blue, which was nonetheless cut in the latest fashion: a full skirt that nipped-in at the tiny waist, and balloon sleeves large enough to look at risk of collapsing, but ending in snug-fitting lower sleeves to emphasize delicate wrists. She was obviously making do until her widow’s mourning wardrobe was prepared.
Capshaw stood, flushing a dark red that reached his hairline. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Adams,” he said stiffly. “Please sit down.”
Mrs. Adams held out a slip of paper before seating herself. “Here is the list you requested.”
“Ah.” Capshaw looked it over carefully, frowning. “Only two items? ‘A necklace and a statuette from the colonel’s collection.’ Can you be more detailed?”
Lydia Adams sighed. “Several weeks ago, when my husband was going through his collection to finalize what he would be donating to that…ladies’ school, he showed me several pieces that he said he was holding back and wanted to give to me.”
Concordia bristled at that ladies’ school, but stayed silent. She looked over at Sophia, who shrugged.
Mrs. Adams fixed her eyes upon Concordia, as if noticing her for the first time. “You are from that place, aren’t you? I remember you at the opening. I wished he’d given you those things, too.”
“What did this necklace and statuette look like, Mrs. Adams?” Capshaw asked, keeping his impatience in check.
“The figure was about so tall,” Mrs. Adams said, holding her hands ten inches apart. “It was a rather horrid little thing – a nude woman.” She shuddered. “He told me it was an Egyptian fertility symbol. Sometimes the colonel could be rather…indelicate.”
“And the necklace?” the lieutenant prompted, scribbling upon his wad of paper.
“Very large, with rows of multi-colored beads – it looked like a heavy collar. With a hideous beetle in the middle. I ask you, who gives his wife such things?” She rolled her eyes.
“Where did you see the stolen items last?” Capshaw asked.
“On my husband’s desk in his study. But, mind you, I’m not saying they were stolen. I certainly did not want them, and I made that very clear to Roger at the time. I encouraged him to sell them or give them away. But you asked me what was missing, and I don’t know what he did with them.”
“No household valuables were taken? Paintings, silverplate, jewelry?”
Mrs. Adams shook her head. “Nothing.”
Capshaw folded the paper and tucked it away in his tunic. “When did you last see your husband alive, Mrs. Adams?”
“Shortly after dinner. He was working in his study when I told him good-night. I decided to retire early – it had been a most try
ing day. I was being fitted for a new gown – heaven only knows now when I’ll get to wear it – and Mrs. Pemberton’s tea was interminable, with her going on and on about how precocious her dear little moppets are, when everyone knows they are as dimwitted as stumps –”
“And none of you heard the gunshot?” Capshaw interrupted. “I find that strange, madam.”
“I customarily take a sleeping draught, so I heard nothing,” Lydia Adams said, “and the servants sleep in the back of the house. You no doubt noticed the heavy wood door of his study. The more proper question would be, why didn’t the watchman making his nightly rounds hear anything? Whatever is he being paid for?”
Capshaw didn’t respond to the jibe, but turned to Sophia. “What about you, Miss Adams? You heard nothing?”
Sophia shook her head. “I slept heavily last night, lieutenant. I, too, had had a trying day. Although mine had more to do with settlement business than listening to…gossip over crumpets,” she added. She gave her stepmother a sharp look.
Mrs. Adams either didn’t hear the last remark, or chose to ignore it as she plucked a speck of lint from her sleeve.
“What can you tell me about Colonel Adams’ visitors yesterday, Mr. Rosen and Miss – er – Phillips?” Capshaw said, looking down at his notes.
Concordia gave a start of recognition, which earned her an inquisitive glance from Capshaw.
So, Dorothy Phillips had finally worked up the courage to talk to Colonel Adams about the missing amulet. An inopportune day to do so, Concordia thought, as it had now landed her on the lieutenant’s list. And what about the newspaper reporter – why had he been calling upon the colonel?
Mrs. Adams gave an elegant shrug. “I wasn’t aware my husband had visitors, but I stay out of his business affairs. As I mentioned before, I was out most of the day.”
“Would anyone have harbored ill-will toward him, ma’am? Business partnerships that had ended badly? Problems with servants?” Capshaw persisted.
