Unseemly Pursuits

by Owen, K.

  “Oh!” Concordia swatted at the smoldering tip of her braid. She thought she’d smelled something odd. She looked over at Sophia, still sleeping, strangely undisturbed by the ruckus.

  “I heard the maid say Miss Sophia took somethin’ to help her sleep,” Eli murmured.

  So that explained it. All the same, Concordia picked up her candle. Fortunately, she hadn’t set fire to anything else. She steered Eli out of the room before continuing the conversation.

  “You gave me quite a fright, young man,” she scolded. “What were you doing in Miss Sophia’s room?”

  The boy cocked his head at her as if to ask what she had been doing in Sophia’s room, but seemed to think better of it.

  “I couldn’ sleep, miss. I was worried the murderer ‘ud come back to get the rest of us. I got up fer a cup of milk and saw Miss Sophia’s light on. I thought mebbe she’d want some, too. But it was you.”

  “Ah, yes, I see,” Concordia said. “I was checking on her, too, and then I dropped something that rolled under the bed and bent down to retrieve it.” She felt guilty about lying to the child.

  “Uh huh.” Eli looked doubtful.

  “You don’t have to worry about the intruder coming back. I’m sure he’s as far from here as he can get. I’m going back to bed, and you should, too,” Concordia said, her hand on the door.

  “Yes, miss. G’Night.”

  As Concordia got into bed, she wondered what Eli had really been up to. Most likely, he was wondering the same thing about her.

  Chapter 10

  The cat will mew, and the dog will have his day.

  V.i

  Week 3, Instructor Calendar

  September 1896

  Concordia welcomed the return to her normal routine of classes, chapel, clubs, and cottage living. The girls new to the school were starting to settle in, finding their own place in the multi-threaded tapestry of college life. Everyone was getting ready for the Founder’s Day celebration tomorrow. In addition to the usual recitation of this year’s winning student poem, the weaving of the flower chain, and a reception, there would be a dedication ceremony to officially open the newly-remodeled student dining hall.

  In her first free period, she decided to find Miss Phillips. She pocketed the bracelet her father had left her and headed for the college’s exhibit room, where the history professor spent most of her time these days.

  Instead of Miss Phillips, however, she found a stooped old lady who was all too familiar. Concordia stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Miss Banning? Whatever are you doing here?” she exclaimed. Didn’t that woman ever retire?

  The lady turned around in her seat beside the Egyptian artifacts table. It was Miss Banning, all right. Her form and startling manner of dress were unmistakable. The long-time professor of history was wearing her customary layers of shawls and petticoats, making it impossible to determine her figure, stout or thin; she looked as if she had cleared the ladies’ dry goods table at Sage Allen and wore the entirety of it upon her back.

  “I was an instructor here when you were playing with dolls, my good miss,” Margaret Banning snapped. She adjusted her large bottle-glass spectacles as she looked Concordia up and down in a frank, if rude, appraisal. “Hmph. You’re more freckled than ever, if that is possible. You should wear a bonnet in the summer, young lady.”

  Concordia bit off a retort about preferring freckles to the antiquated Swiss muslin breakfast caps that Miss Banning habitually wore – one of which was currently sitting askew on the old lady’s head. “Where is Miss Phillips?”

  Miss Banning waved her into an adjoining chair before answering. “Our dear lady principal decided to relieve her of her curator duties, and called upon me to take over.”

  “What! Why?” Concordia asked. She had only been away from campus for two days; what prompted such an abrupt decision?

  “With the murder of the colonel, that nosy policeman came around asking questions. Lieutenant – what’s his name? Capuchin? Capybara? …well, you know who I mean: the one from last year. Well, the Ogre got wind of it, so Miss Phillips had no choice but to report the missing amulet. That Grant woman’s a mean old toad, if you ask me. ‘He that hisses in malice or sport, is an oppressor and a robber.’ Samuel Johnson.”

  Concordia couldn’t agree more, and it was obvious that Miss Banning found the situation upsetting, too. After all, the woman had used only one quotation so far, well below her average in a conversation. She’d also picked up on the Ogre nickname quickly. Concordia wondered why Miss Banning would do the lady principal a favor by assuming Miss Phillips’ duties.

  “Why did you return? Aren’t you already retired?” Concordia asked. Miss Banning seemed to dither as to whether she was really retired or not.

  Miss Banning ignored her and continued with her tirade against Miss Grant, thumping her cane on the floor emphatically.

  “We don’t seem to have good luck with lady principals lately, do we? That Hamilton woman last year had a shady past and left after one year. And no wonder, with all the trouble we had during her tenure. This one worries about the reputation of the college, but can’t see past her own nose and use some common sense. Punishes students and faculty without getting to the bottom of matters, getting everyone in a uproar.”

  Concordia was certainly no fan of Miss Grant, but she felt obligated to stem the tirade. “The lady principal is new, and has had many pranks to deal with. The loss of a rare artifact has no doubt been stressful.”

  “The amulet was obviously stolen, not lost,” Miss Banning retorted. “How is that Miss Phillips’ fault? Incompetence, Miss Grant called it. Bosh. ‘How difficult it is to save the bark of reputation from the rocks of ignorance.’ Petrarch. The woman should be calling the police, not me. What am I supposed to do, I ask you: run after the next thief who steals one of these musty old bits of clay?”

  Concordia stifled a snort over the mental image of Miss Banning hobbling after a robber, trailing shawls and wraps in her wake.

  “Where’s Miss Phillips now?”

  “Hmph. Moping in her office, most likely.”

  Concordia left Miss Banning to her cataloging.

  Miss Phillips’ office looked more like a crammed closet, created from an awkward corner of the third floor of Founder’s Hall. There was room for a tiny desk, two chairs, and an even tinier window. Sagging shelves lined the walls, crammed willy-nilly with books, papers, pottery, and other objects Concordia couldn’t identify, but took to be artifacts of some sort. Unpacked boxes spilling over with more items had been stacked in a corner.

  “Welcome to Miss Grant’s version of the woodshed,” Dorothy Phillips said in mock cheerfulness. Her face, tanned and crinkled at the corners of her eyes, was paler today. The usual twinkle was gone.

  Concordia wedged herself into the second chair, knees against the desk. She hoped she could extricate herself later with some modicum of grace.

  “Miss Banning told me what happened,” Concordia said, “although not all of it. I’m sorry. So Colonel Adams could not help you, when you talked with him about the amulet?”

  “I didn’t get the chance to speak with him,” Miss Phillips said. “He was too busy to see me, so I left my card. But of course, the policeman came to question me because of my visit. Then I knew I had no choice but to tell everything to the lady principal.” She made a face. “It wasn’t a pleasant scene. Now that I’m no longer curator, I had to move out of that office –” she looked around ruefully – “to here.”

  “Miss Banning said that Miss Grant hasn’t called the police about the loss. Is that true?” Concordia asked.

  “Yes, indeed. She wants to leave the police out of it. She has even convinced President Langdon to go along with the idea. I know she’s concerned for the reputation of the college, but isn’t that taking discretion a bit far? Besides, it’s now common knowledge that the amulet is missing. There are no secrets on a college campus.” Miss Phillips made a face.

  Concordia nodd
ed. How true that was. The rumor mill turned briskly at Hartford Women’s College and was a favorite activity of both students and staff.

  “I heard that Madame Durand made a pronouncement about it at her Spirit Club meeting yesterday,” Miss Phillips added. “She called the amulet ‘cursed.’ It certainly has been for me.”

  “Well, if it is cursed, we’re better off without it,” Concordia said. “Still, it’s unfortunate you couldn’t speak with the colonel before his death. Do you really think he took it back?”

  Dorothy Phillips shrugged. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. But if the colonel did take it back, it isn’t there anymore. I described it to the policeman, and he hasn’t seen it. I understand they made a thorough inventory.”

  “I was at the Colonel’s house, and I didn’t see it there, either.” Concordia proceeded to explain that her friend Sophia was the colonel’s daughter and she had stayed there to lend her support. “Perhaps the amulet was stolen by the intruder who killed him.”

  Miss Phillips sat back dejectedly. “If that’s the case, then we have little chance of seeing it again. Oh, why didn’t Colonel Adams simply come to me and ask for it back? Then we wouldn’t have the embarrassment of the amulet being featured in the newspaper, and now no artifact in our possession! We were hoping for future loans from other collections, but now…” she trailed off.

  “When things settle down in the Adams’ house, I’ll ask Sophia to look for it,” Concordia said. “If Colonel Adams took it, perhaps he hid it somewhere.”

  Miss Phillips brightened. “Oh, would you?”

  “Of course. But there’s another reason I stopped by,” Concordia added. “I was hoping you could tell me more about my father’s studies in Egyptology. …And this.” Concordia pulled out the bracelet left for her in Colonel Adams’ safe.

  The history professor reached for it. She laid it gently upon the table and plucked out a magnifying glass. Her eyes narrowed along their etched folds, as if she were squinting at something far away. “Interesting,” she murmured, turning it over with deft fingers.

  “Is it valuable?” Concordia asked.

  “Probably not,” Miss Phillips said, “especially since a few of the beads have symbols on them that aren’t Egyptian, even though the rest of it unquestionably is. Those beads are crudely etched, too, in comparison with the other carved designs.”

  “Not Egyptian?” Concordia asked, confused.

  Dorothy Phillips shook her head. “It was probably hard for you to tell without a magnifying glass, but here’s a bead - it is definitely a “W” on a background of loops. It was undoubtedly added to the bracelet later.”

  She passed bracelet and glass. “Here, take a look. See how the metal has been bent to slip them on, and the tarnish marks are darker underneath?” She looked at Concordia with open curiosity. “Was this from your father’s collection?”

  “Yes,” Concordia admitted, “but it only just came into my possession.” She told Miss Phillips about the opening of the colonel’s safe, and the discovery of her father’s package and letter. She also related the story of the strange séance that preceded her receiving the package.

  Miss Phillips frowned as she listened. “Madame Durand again. I remember that unnerving demonstration, where she announced I had lost something. That was only a day or so after the amulet went missing. Could she have anything to do with its disappearance?”

  “I don’t see how; she and her husband weren’t even in attendance at the opening that day.”

  “‘It should have stayed buried in the sands of Egypt, but it is here, now,’” Miss Phillips quoted. “Could that mean the amulet?”

  Concordia felt a prickle along her neck. “I don’t know.”

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  “What can you tell me about my father’s work in Egyptology?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Phillips went over to a shelf and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She leafed through the stack as she talked.

  “Randolph Wells was a prominent scholar in the field of Egyptology, particularly the subjects of language and ciphers. A brilliant man. Even though he only worked in the field for roughly fifteen years, his interpretations of stelae – those are boundary markers,” she added, noting Concordia’s puzzled expression, “along with other engravings, helped unlock information critical to several major tomb expeditions. Including – ah, well, they wouldn’t mean anything to you, of course, but rest assured your father was highly respected in his field.”

  She thrust a bundle at Concordia. “Here is perhaps his most brilliant work, ‘The Immortal Language of Ancient Pharaohs’. You can borrow my copy. Dozens of scholars, including me, have built upon what he accomplished.”

  Concordia took the article Miss Phillips had given her and headed for her own office, located in the opposite wing of Founder’s Hall. It was a good deal more spacious than the one Miss Phillips occupied, with a sunny window and plentiful shelf space. Which was filling up rapidly, she noted, as she let herself in and propped the door open for more air. She would have to do something about that soon.

  The only unpleasant aspect of her office was its proximity to Lady Principal Grant’s. Lately, Miss Grant had taken to sticking her nose in Concordia’s office and either giving her a task, or asking her about a task she’d already been given, such as the senior play. Concordia wouldn’t have an answer for her on this occasion; there had been no time since she’d returned to see Professor Harrison and determine their progress.

  Concordia didn’t understand why the lady principal kept asking her about the play; after all, Mr. Harrison was in charge of it (a mathematician – she still couldn’t get over that), and his office was within sight of hers, down the same hall. Olivia Grant, it seemed, took special delight in vexing her.

  As Concordia waited for students, she pulled out her father’s article. Let’s see if a literature teacher can make heads or tails of ancient Egyptian scholarship.

  She was already feeling a bit lost by the third page, but she knew right away it was her father’s composition. The tone and idioms sounded just like him, during those times when he would expound upon a point of history or an area of philosophical contention. She set down the pamphlet as childhood memories drifted into her consciousness: the smell of pipe tobacco on his jacket, the timbre of his voice, the lopsided grin when he had a new puzzle or cipher for her to work out. Although it had been eleven years since his death, she still missed him, and would like to think he would have been proud of what she had accomplished, in earning a college degree and becoming a professor.

  A hesitant tapping interrupted her thoughts. She straightened. “Enter!” she called.

  But instead of the student she was expecting, it was Eli.

  “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?” Concordia asked anxiously.

  “Miss Sophia told me to come, miss,” he answered, shifting from one foot to the other.

  The child looked tidier today. His neck and hands were washed, his clothes were clean, and his hair had been slicked down neatly on his head, although a couple of cowlicks insisted upon springing up. Something moved in his arms, and Concordia realized it was …a cat.

  Concordia did not exactly detest cats, but she wasn’t fond of them either. And this one was a particularly bedraggled specimen of his tribe. His hair was longish in some places and shortish in others; his coat was a patchwork of so many colors that it was impossible to tell what the base color would be; an ear looked as if a chunk had been taken out in a fight, and one eye was swollen shut, probably from a more recent fight. The other eye was yellow, and looked at her calmly.

  “That goes out,” Concordia announced, walking to the door. She hastily changed her mind when she stuck her head out into the hallway and saw Miss Grant chugging toward her door. The last thing Concordia wanted was to explain the boy’s presence – or the cat’s, for that matter – to the lady principal.

  “Quick! Over there, and be quiet!” Concordia hissed over
her shoulder. Quick as a flash, the boy melted into the shadows of the room, still holding the animal. Concordia stepped out into the hallway to intercept the lady principal before she came in.

  “Miss Grant, hello!” Concordia said, realizing too late that she sounded suspiciously cheery, a response the lady principal did not usually generate in others.

  Miss Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Did you wish to see me?” she answered icily.

  Concordia said the first thing that popped into her head. “I was wondering if you have seen Mr. Harrison. I wanted to ask him a casting question.”

  The lady principal’s lip curled as she gestured to the open door of Mr. Harrison’s office in the far corner of the corridor. “Have you tried knocking upon his door, Miss Wells? Perhaps you should try exercising your powers of observation, young lady.” She turned away, plodding with her characteristically heavy step down the hall to her own office.

  Drat. The woman must think she was demented. Concordia had always been horrible at lying, and was even worse at thinking up one on the spot.

  Miss Grant threw her one last look of derision before stepping into her office and closing the door.

  Detestable woman. With a sigh of relief, Concordia slipped back into her office and closed the door. Eli was crouched in a corner, the cat dozing in his arms.

  Concordia waved him into a chair as she sat down in her own. “What’s going on?”

  At the sound of her voice, the cat stirred and jumped out of Eli’s lap.

  “Miss Sophia sent me to talk to you, miss, ‘bout staying here fer a while an’ working as a messenger boy, or something like. She woulda come wi’ me, but she’s been ill with fever.”

  Concordia didn’t know what to address first – Sophia being ill, or saddling her with Eli. She decided on the former. “It’s not serious, I hope? Did she send for me?”

  “Oh, no, miss,” Eli said quickly, “she’s better now, just a bit too poorly fer travel. She couldn’ go to the colonel’s funeral – not that anyone seemed to want to – and that policeman couldn’ talk to her, either.”