by Owen, K.
Well, that was a blessing at least, Concordia thought. But she knew Lieutenant Capshaw wouldn’t be thwarted for long.
“What about Miss Amelia? Is she better?”
Eli shook his head. “I ain’t seen her, but I hear them say she still don’t talk to anybody. It’s a sorr-ful house, for sure. That’s why Miss Sophia sent me here.”
“So we need to find you a place to stay,” Concordia said.
Eli nodded eagerly. “Just fer a little while, Miss Sophia says. An’ I’m real quick, an’ remember long messages, an’ I don’t mind where I sleep.” His eyes were pleading, and his lip trembled, just a little.
The cat chose this moment to twine itself around Concordia’s skirts, kneading the folds with its paws and purring loudly. Ugh. It probably has fleas. Concordia twitched her skirts out of the way and brushed at them.
Eli came over and scooped up the cat. “He likes you, miss.”
“Yes, well, we won’t be seeing much of each other,” Concordia said. She went to the door and looked out cautiously. The coast was clear. “All right, let’s go.”
The best course, Concordia decided, was to bring him back to Willow Cottage for the time being, and put him in Ruby’s care. The cottage matron would undoubtedly fuss and complain about it, but Concordia knew the woman really had a heart of gold. Ruby could at least feed the boy while Concordia went to talk to Clyde, the gatekeeper, and make arrangements for Eli. And the cat.
Ruby Hitchcock was none too pleased to see the grubby messenger boy again. She stood, hands on ample hips, looking him over.
“Well, at least you’re cleaner today, young man. But you missed a spot behind that ear –” she proceeded to give it a gentle tug “ – and we expect the gentlemen around here to keep the’selves neat.”
She looked down and shook her head at the mangy cat, currently winding itself around her ankles and purring with great energy. “I know yer ways, puss. Don’t think I’m going to let you stay. I run a clean cottage.” The cat, as if understanding, proceeded to switch allegiances to Concordia, scooting under her skirts as she tried to step away.
“Ugh. By all means let’s put the cat out, but can you give Eli something to eat while I talk to Clyde?” Concordia asked.
Ruby looked Eli over, her expression softening. “I expect you are hungry. Boys your age always are. Put the animal out the back door and go wash your hands. I’ll make you something.”
Concordia hurried over to Clyde’s gatehouse post, the disreputable cat trailing after her.
Chapter 11
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
I.iv
Week 4, Instructor Calendar
September/October 1896
Founder’s Day started out in the full glory of a warm, sunny day in late September. First, there was the longer-than-usual chapel service, during which the school anthem “Forward, Woman, to Thy Calling” was sung. Then this year’s winning student poem was read aloud by President Langdon.
After chapel and a special Founder’s Day breakfast feast, the student body gathered at the quadrangle to weave the customary chrysanthemum chain. It would be presented to the freshman class as a token of welcome and official acceptance, a mark of respect after the first grueling weeks of pranks and other mischief that had been played upon the new girls. This year, the chain would then adorn the balusters of the dining hall’s new upper balcony, where the dedication was taking place.
The faculty attended all of the Founder’s Day ceremonies, naturally, but were not an active part of making the chain, so Concordia found herself in a spectator role at the moment. She watched the girls cavorting around each other, their white dresses gleaming in the sunshine, weaving the stems and twine. She breathed in the cool air, sharp with the scent of bruised chrysanthemum blossoms. It had come to symbolize fall in her mind, as much as the sweep of burnt oranges, yellows and reds in the wooded distance.
She felt a calm settle over her. Eli had been taken care of; Clyde had fixed up an extra bunk for him in the gatehouse cottage, and had even found some serviceable clothing for him. He’d drawn the line, however, at taking in the beast, who had no name other than Cat, it seemed. Concordia had no choice but to bring the animal back to Willow Cottage. Ruby was less than enthused by the idea – until last evening, when the Cat came out of the kitchen with a dead mouse in its mouth. It promptly placed the prize at Concordia’s feet.
Ruby chuckled as she brought out the dustpan and Concordia grimaced. “Maybe he’s worth keeping, after all. We won’t have no more mice problem, at this rate. Looks like you’re a favorite of his.”
Concordia could do without that sort of devotion.
Her thoughts turned to Sophia, and how she was dealing with her distraught little sister and their father’s death. She hadn’t heard from her friend in nearly a week, but with her being ill, that was understandable. After the building dedication, when Concordia had some free time, she would send a letter. She hoped Amelia’s condition was improving. She wondered if David was still there. The little girl was obviously devoted to him, and perhaps he could help the child get over her condition.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth at the thought of David Bradley. It had been good to see him again, even if their first meeting after so long had been a bit awkward. If he hadn’t returned to Boston yet, perhaps she should talk with him about what she’d found under Sophia’s bed. But then, she’d have to admit to snooping in her friend’s room. Maybe not just yet. Lieutenant Capshaw was bound to have made progress by this point, without her interference.
“Miss Wells,” a voice murmured behind her. Startled, she turned to see Lieutenant Capshaw at her elbow, almost as if her thoughts had conjured him. She shook her head. Wonderful. Now she was thinking like one of those spiritualists.
“I need to speak with you, miss, if I may,” Capshaw said in a low voice.
Several faculty members, recognizing the lieutenant from his recent visit, looked over at them with undisguised curiosity.
Concordia led the policeman over to the arbor at the near end of the common area. “You’ve made progress?”
“That depends on what you’d call progress. We’ve made an arrest, but – ”
“Oh, what a relief! But you don’t look happy about it,” Concordia added, noting his troubled expression. “Is something wrong?”
Capshaw shifted from one foot to another and hesitated. “That’s why I came to see you, Miss Wells. It’s your friend, Sophia. I had no choice but to arrest her for the murder of her father. She has confessed, you see.”
Concordia’s neck tingled and her head felt light as she tried to absorb this news.
Capshaw gently eased her onto the arbor bench and waited for her to collect herself, glancing down at her with his customary gloomy expression.
Her mind was a flurry of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The outrageousness of Sophia as a cold-blooded killer warred with the very doubts that had prompted Concordia to search her friend’s room in the middle of the night.
No. A world where Sophia was a murderer would never make sense to her.
Concordia drew a shuddering breath and finally looked up at Capshaw. “You know there has to be some mistake, lieutenant. Sophia could not have murdered her father.”
Capshaw shook his head. “She confessed after we found the colonel’s gun hidden in her room. There was also evidence of her having destroyed something in her bedroom fireplace, probably a garment, but she won’t tell us about that. Even if her confession is a lie – although why she would do so makes no sense – she is involved in some way.”
Concordia knew the policeman was right about that part. She’d noticed it at the time. Sophia was holding back something. Concordia remembered the fabric she’d felt under Sophia’s bed, stiff with a dried substance on it. She’d never had the chance to look at it before Eli had interrupted her, but what else could it be but blood? She felt a little sick.
“What happens now? Can I see her?
”
“She’s on her way to the station. There will be paperwork, which may take a little time, but I can take you over there whenever you are ready.”
Concordia looked at the gathering, which was already moving to the dining hall for the building dedication. The lady principal was among them, and caught Concordia’s eye, frowning at the sight of one of her teachers sitting in the arbor with a policeman.
She sighed. She knew there was no getting out of attending the dedication ceremony. She turned to Capshaw.
“Have you ever been to a building dedication, lieutenant? No? Well, here’s your chance. It should only take thirty minutes. Then we can go.”
The new wing, with its spacious upper balcony that wrapped around one corner, was swathed with the freshly-made chrysanthemum chain, along with bows and more flowers. The effect was quite festive. Chairs were arranged for the faculty to sit out upon the balcony, with the students below. A wide, white ribbon had been tied to opposite balustrades for the official cutting ceremony.
As the faculty found the seats tagged with their names, Concordia heard the strident voice of Miss Grant.
“This chair placement is unacceptable. Why have I been put in a cramped corner? I don’t want to be hanging over the railing, young man,” Lady Principal Grant said, chiding the custodian’s helper who was still arranging chairs. The man blushed and made a futile attempt to move the seats again.
Concordia could see Miss Grant’s point; with that lady’s bulk, such a position would be tight in the extreme.
She touched the man’s sleeve. “I’d be happy to switch seats with Miss Grant,” she offered, pointing to her own chair at the end of the middle section, which was more congenially placed for a woman of the lady principal’s size.
The young man looked relieved and directed Miss Grant to the other chair. Concordia stepped around other teachers to reach her seat. They really were wedged in here, she thought: the railing was just at her shoulder. The iron work looked to have a fresh coat of paint on it, and there were faint marks of adhesive – from a “Wet Paint” sign, perhaps? – still on the nearby surface. She leaned away as best she could. If another sign had been stolen, she certainly wasn’t going to be the butt of the joke.
Looking down at the crowd, she saw a cluster of girls centered around a petite woman with black hair. Concordia craned her neck for a better look. It was Madame Durand, talking animatedly with the group of students. The woman seemed to be more and more involved in the doings of the college with each day. Standing nearby was Lieutenant Capshaw, patiently waiting to escort Concordia to the police station to talk to Sophia.
Sophia. Why? Why confess to your father’s murder?
As she dabbed at her eyes with her kerchief and tried to regain her composure, she glimpsed a bundle of fur, scurrying along the ground below and being chased by a boy. Oh, no. She couldn’t see where they went, but she had a sinking feeling they were now in the building. Please heaven they wouldn’t come up here.
Concordia, Ruby, and Clyde were trying to keep Eli’s residence at the college as little noticed as possible. To the rest of the faculty and administration, he was just a messenger lad. No one else knew he was actually staying at the school. She suspected the lady principal would strongly disapprove if she knew.
President Langdon stood, and was handed the scissors by the dean. Let’s hope he doesn’t give one of his long, meandering speeches, Concordia thought, trying to adjust herself more comfortably in the hard chair. Just cut the ribbon, and let’s go.
As the president spoke, Concordia was aware of movement. Glancing down, she saw the Cat, slinking under her seat. Uh-oh. Wherever the Cat was, Eli was sure to follow.
Sure enough, Concordia turned and saw Eli squeezing behind the back row, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. So far, only those seated in the very back were paying him any attention. The rest of the faculty focused on President Langdon, who kept waving the scissors tantalizingly near the ribbon, and then stopping and saying something more.
Eli made it to her chair, whispered a quick “Excuse me, miss,” and, with his back to the railing, reached under to extricate the animal.
Then it happened.
With a great creak and a sickening scrape of metal, the railing gave way, pitching Eli nearly into oblivion, save for Concordia’s quick grab of his suspenders. She heard a yowl from the Cat, as Eli’s hands were around its middle when he lost his balance. She felt the buttons start to give way and dove out of her chair for a better grip on the boy.
The crowd gasped, and – as crowds usually do – ineffectually gave advice from below, or, in the case of the faculty immediately surrounding Concordia, extended hands to pull at whatever they could. To Concordia’s dismay, this included her skirts, her hair, and her ankles. She wasn’t the one in danger of going over the side, Eli was, but she was blocking anyone else’s reach, so people were just grabbing at what was at hand.
“Let…go…of the…Cat,” Concordia hissed between clenched teeth, for Eli still instinctively clutched the animal, rather than her arm. Her shoulders ached, and she didn’t know how long she could hang onto him.
But Eli was paralyzed in fear, whimpering and holding the cat even more tightly. From her vantage point, Concordia saw the people below looking up anxiously, except for Madame Durand, who appeared to be mumbling to herself, her expression trance-like. She kept mouthing one word over and over. Concordia finally caught what it was: doom…doom…
A tall shadow loomed over them, as Lieutenant Capshaw shouldered people out of the way, reached over her, and with his long, strong arms, hauled them both to their feet in one fluid motion. The Cat, released at last, ran for its life. The one silver lining, Concordia thought later, was the fact that the beast stayed out of her way for two entire days afterward.
The balcony was cleared and everyone was sent back to their residences. Concordia walked to the gatekeeper’s cottage with a very shaky Eli so that the boy could recover from his experience.
And clean up, too. As Concordia had suspected, the railing paint had still been wet, and Eli’s clothing had black smudges in a number of places. Concordia’s shirtwaist hadn’t come away unscathed, either, so she hurried back to change.
Once she was presentable, she went back to the dining hall to find Capshaw. He was still at the gap in the balcony railing, along with President Langdon, examining the posts.
“What did you find?” Concordia asked, crouching down for a closer look. The metal post had twisted as it bent, and was nearly coming out of the crumbling concrete around it.
Langdon frowned. “Looks like shoddy workmanship. Perhaps the cement for these posts wasn’t mixed correctly, or not allowed to harden properly. What do you think, Lieutenant?”
Capshaw sighed. “A re-inspection of the entire structure would be a wise precaution, Mr. Langdon, but I can’t say for certain that there wasn’t tampering here.” He pointed to the base of the iron post, where the metal was irregular along a small seam. “This looks to be cut, then poorly soldered, which would create a stress point. The concrete footings may not be to blame.”
“So someone deliberately cut the railing? But why?” Concordia asked. Her stomach clenched. Had someone targeted the lady principal, the chair’s intended occupant? They had enough trouble on campus lately, without adding fuel to that fire.
Capshaw stood and dusted off his trousers. “It’s difficult to say for sure. The workers might have made an error when they were constructing the railing, and started to cut in the wrong place. Then, rather than waste a good piece of iron, they soldered the cut. It doesn’t go clean through, so perhaps they thought it would hold. It’s just a theory, of course.” He turned to President Langdon. “We’ll need the contact information for the contractor you used, so we can make inquiries. Meanwhile, keep everyone away from the area.” He frowned at Concordia. “Especially young boys and their cats.”
Chapter 12
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,
/> So fast they follow.
IV.vii
Week 4, Instructor Calendar
September/October 1896
“Notebooks out,” Concordia said, with a gesture to the blackboard. “You have twenty minutes to write on today’s theme.” She swiveled the board to tilt it more towards the light, amid the sighs of girls who struggled to undo buckles on satchel flaps and twitch skirts out of the way of each other’s feet. It was a rainy, gloomy day, and the turned-up lamps did little to brighten the far corners. The weather matched the overall mood of the campus. The happiness of Founder’s Day seemed a distant memory.
Concordia suppressed a sigh herself. She didn’t like to begin the period with a writing exercise. Although this was only her second year at Hartford Women’s College and her fourth year of teaching overall, she knew that writing, when performed as a chore rather than as a result of intellectual engagement, lent itself to poor results. She preferred to first involve the class in a lively exchange of questions and ideas before turning to a writing assignment. One must prime the pump before something potable comes out.
But this assignment was intended to penalize, not stimulate, and Concordia had no say in the matter. Lady Principal Grant had instructed that all rhetoric teachers issue this assignment to their classes as punishment for the students’ role in the events of the day before. Hence, the following writing topic:
“Reflect upon why practical jokes are a danger to one’s fellows and not to be tolerated in the future.”
While it was understandable that Miss Grant would be just as distressed as everyone else by the incident, to lay blame for yesterday’s near-disaster at the door of the students’ rampant sign-stealing was taking it a bit too far. In Miss Grant’s twisted form of logic, she reasoned that no one would have leaned against the railing to begin with if the sign had still been there. It was futile to point out that the uneducated Eli wouldn’t have been able to read the sign in the first place. Besides, the less attention paid to the boy, the better.
