by Owen, K.
President Langdon’s energies were directed more practically, toward getting the railing re-installed, this time employing different workers and overseeing the job himself.
Concordia didn’t know if Lieutenant Capshaw had yet determined if shoddy workmanship was to blame, but given the tension among the administrators, she guessed he had not.
She shuddered. Her shoulders and back still ached from the abrupt pull of muscles, as she’d clung to the boy in an awkward, crouched contortion.
A stirring of students in their seats called Concordia’s attention back to the task at hand. “If you are finished, pass up your papers, and turn to the ‘Wife of Bath’s Tale’ on page forty-one. Read quietly while the rest of the students finish.”
She hoped she could keep her class on topic today. The students were distractible enough in the normal routine of things.
Normal? We have an exhibit theft and a near-disastrous railing collapse. We also have a Lady Principal on the warpath, and an exotic séance medium making grand prognostications of doom, just to make it more interesting. What is normal?
Concordia knew her own attention was flagging, too. Between her worry about Sophia’s murder confession, the mystery of Papa’s connection to Egypt and why he’d kept it from her all those years, and keeping Eli and his abominable Cat out of further trouble, she was ready to hide under the bedcovers.
Somehow she got through the Chaucer class, but it was with relief that Concordia finally dismissed them. After going back to the cottage, changing out of her wrinkled shirtwaist into a fresh one and re-pinning straggling locks of hair, she hurried to the gate to meet Lieutenant Capshaw. The events of yesterday had kept the lieutenant on campus beyond prison visiting hours, so he had arranged to take her today to see Sophia.
Capshaw was not waiting alone at the gate, however. Concordia’s hands went cold when she saw the grim-lipped lady principal standing with him. This could not be a good sign.
Miss Grant’s small, dark eyes narrowed into the pudgy creases of her face as Concordia approached. “Where do you think you’re going, Miss Wells?” she said coldly.
Concordia looked over to Capshaw, who stepped hesitantly toward the women. “I have explained our errand to Miss Grant, but there appears to be a problem.”
“There certainly is, Mr. Policeman,” Miss Grant snapped. “I’m restricting this young lady to the confines of the college grounds until further notice.”
“Why?” Concordia asked warily.
“You are getting too big for your britches, Miss Wells. Taking it upon yourself to arrange for that little street arab, that harum-scarum boy who destroyed the balcony, a place to live here on campus? Without my permission, or my knowledge? You have exceeded your authority, and I cannot permit that to go unanswered.”
“But –”
Capshaw stepped into the fray. “Miss Grant, of course you must deal with your staff as you see fit. However, Miss Wells is needed at the station. She has yet to dictate her statement about the balcony incident and sign it.”
“I thought that was the result of shoddy workmanship, and not criminal sabotage,” the lady principal said suspiciously.
“I haven’t yet concluded my investigation. Even if it is worker error, the incident must still go on record, in case of future litigation,” Capshaw said.
“What about seeing Miss Adams? Was that not your original purpose?” Miss Grant demanded.
“That is only part of our errand, but the paperwork is essential,” Capshaw said.
Miss Grant looked at Capshaw for a long moment, then said grudgingly, “Very well. I will make an exception, this time. But do not be long,” she added, wagging a finger under Concordia’s nose. “I will be keeping my eye on you.”
Concordia suppressed a shudder.
As they walked through the gate, Concordia’s knees wobbled, and Capshaw put a steadying hand under her elbow.
“Thank you for helping out back there,” Concordia said.
Capshaw gave her his usual melancholy look. “I don’t envy your return. I’d rather meet an angry drunk in a dark alley than tangle with that…lady.”
“At least now I’ll be able to talk with Sophia,” Concordia said.
“I didn’t have the chance to say so before, miss,” Capshaw said, “but Miss Adams’ fever returned last night. She’s been moved to the prison infirmary, at least until she’s well enough to return to the women’s ward. The doctor has allowed you a brief visit.”
Poor Sophia. It wasn’t surprising that she’d suffered a relapse under such circumstances. Concordia would have to make this visit count; heaven only knew when she would have another chance, with Lady Principal Grant confining her to campus and keeping predatory watch over her movements.
The Kinsley Street Station was undergoing expansion, which made it impossible to enter by the front door. Capshaw took Concordia around to the Temple Street entrance instead. At least it was quieter back here, although no less dusty. The hallway was cluttered with desks and chairs from emptied rooms. Capshaw gave a nod to the desk sergeant on duty as they maneuvered around the furniture.
The prison infirmary was tucked into a quieter corridor of the building.
Capshaw knocked, and they waited.
“I’ll have to be nearby, miss – prison rules – but I’ll give you as much privacy as I can. I hope you can get the real story out of her. I sure haven’t been able to.”
A sturdy-looking matron with a large ring of keys at her waist opened the door to the ward, and Concordia hesitantly stepped through. She’d never been in a prison infirmary before. It didn’t look as prison-like as she imagined. Except for bars on the windows and the stout lock on the door, which was turned behind them once they were in the room, it looked like any hospital ward. It had the same double-row of white beds, bedpans and instruments, and the unmistakable carbolic acid smell. Then she noticed one sleeping woman with shackles around an ankle, secured to a bolt on the floor. There was a fabric restraint across her torso and arms.
“That’s Hattie,” the matron said, observing Concordia’s glance. “She’s one of the regulars, in and out of here. It’s been years now. She gets quite violent while the liquor is wearing off. But then she’s fine after that, just as nice as can be. She’ll serve her sentence, leave, and be back in a couple months.”
The matron sounded so matter-of-fact about it. Concordia shuddered. She hated to think of Sophia being in this place.
Sophia was lying white and still in her bed, deep shadows visible under her light lashes and in the hollows of her cheeks, her frame more gaunt than Concordia remembered. She opened her eyes when Concordia sat on the side of her bed and patted her hand. Capshaw and the matron moved to a discreet distance, conducting a murmured conversation, looking over from time to time.
“Concordia, why are you here?” Sophia turned her head away. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” She sniffled into her pillow.
“Nonsense,” Concordia said briskly, “we are friends, and I want to help. Where else would I be?”
Sophia struggled to sit up. Concordia propped some pillows behind her.
“There’s nothing you can do. I’m to blame for this. It’s my fault.”
“Since I know that you didn’t kill your father,” Concordia said bluntly, “then you must be talking about something else. But confessing to something you didn’t do isn’t going to fix whatever you are feeling guilty about.”
Concordia could see from the sharp look Sophia gave her that her comment had hit home.
But Sophia was known for her stubbornness. It was the quality which had enabled her to spurn all attempts to marry her off, and dare to leave behind her comfortable place in society to work for the poor of Hartford. Stubbornness gave her the perseverance to successfully campaign for funds to expand the settlement house, to start a free health clinic for poor women, to establish a nursery education program for the children of working mothers.
Concordia admired her friend, but s
aw the prideful, arrogant side of Sophia’s stubbornness, too. Her way was the right way, and she had to carry on alone if others did not follow. She could be quick to judge and impatient with those of her former social circles, including her own family. In some ways, she was the Colonel’s daughter, although Concordia was sure the thought would appall her.
“It is my responsibility,” Sophia answered, “and I am taking care of it.”
Concordia tried a different approach. “Very well. Can you at least tell me what happened, so I can understand why?”
Sophia leaned back wearily against the pillows. An aide came by with a pitcher of water and filled a glass for her. Sophia took a few sips before speaking.
“I’ve told the policeman all of this, but I suppose you deserve to hear it from me.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice grew husky. “I’m sorry, Concordia. I know you can never forgive me.”
“Just tell me what happened.” Concordia looked over at the wall clock. “They will make me leave soon.”
***
“Well? What did she tell you?” Lieutenant Capshaw asked.
They were sitting in his office. Capshaw had just set down weak tea in front of her, served in a mug with a chipped handle. It was hot, and sweetened with a tooth-numbing amount of sugar. Surprisingly, it was just what she needed. She was chilled and dazed from the experience, but as she drank the tea, she felt her composure return.
“She’s sticking with her story. I don’t believe it, though. She’s hiding something. Perhaps she’s protecting someone?”
“We’ll get to that later,” Capshaw said hesitantly. “Repeat for me what she related to you. We can compare it to her original confession. Perhaps some inconsistencies will emerge.”
“It was very straightforward. Sophia said that she got up late that night to get a book to help her sleep. Her father’s study door was open, so she went in to talk with him about a family matter. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. She said the discussion got heated, he lost his temper and came at her with a poker. She grabbed the gun from his desk, and shot him.”
“What did she do then?” Capshaw asked.
“She said that, in her distraction, she must have had the gun in her hand when she ran up to her room and then set it down somewhere, but she can’t remember. She’d heard of the robberies in the Charter Oak neighborhood, and so decided to make it look like an aborted burglary. She broke the glass of the French door, messed up the desk, and went back to her room to wait until the morning, when a servant would find the body.”
“But her sister found the body instead, a short while later,” Capshaw said.
Concordia nodded. “Sophia said she felt badly about Amelia having the shock of finding him, especially since the trauma has rendered her mute.” She looked over at Capshaw. “There’s no change in Amelia’s state?”
“Not as of yesterday, when I was there last,” Capshaw answered. “This has gone on for weeks now, beyond the time frame the doctor predicted.”
Concordia sighed. Poor Amelia. First her father murdered, now her sister in prison, self-accused of the deed.
“Then what happened? Did Miss Adams say anything about the missing artifacts? If she took those to make it look like a robbery, why didn’t we find them when we found the gun? And what about the safe? Did she try to open it?”
Concordia thought back to Sophia’s account. “She didn’t mention either the safe or the relics when she told me what happened. She merely said she broke the glass on the French doors of the study, disarranged the desk, and went back to her room to wait. But we still don’t know if those items were even stolen; they might have been disposed of by the colonel beforehand.”
“True,” Capshaw acknowledged. “Did she mention the gun, or the evidence she destroyed in the fireplace?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. She did say that she changed her nightgown because there was blood on it, and burned it later. And that she found the gun in her bedroom after the police came. By then it was too late to put it back, so she hid it until she could dispose of it. But of course, she became ill before she could do anything about that. You can’t burn a gun.”
Capshaw ran his hands through his bright red hair, making it stand on end. He gave the appearance of a Pomeranian with its hackles up. “I know she’s lying, Miss Wells. There are definite gaps and inconsistencies that her confession does not explain. First, she said she took nothing from the room except the gun, yet we cannot find any evidence that the colonel sold the missing artifacts before his death. So where are they? Second, the man was shot from behind. If you were in danger of your life from a man coming at you with a poker, wouldn’t you shoot him from the front? And Miss Adams is nearly of a height with her father. Did she crouch down when she shot him? If so, why? And if she burned a bloody nightgown in the fireplace and put on a fresh one, why did we see bloodstains on that gown as well?”
Concordia shook her head. “I don’t understand any of it. Even under duress, Sophia is too level-headed to do something as stupid as carry the murder weapon to her room, rather than simply leave it in the study. It was the colonel’s pistol, after all, it would not have incriminated her.”
“She is too clever for that,” Capshaw agreed.
“But why did you arrest her, lieutenant, with doubts such as these?” Concordia asked.
Capshaw propped his elbows on the desk, and his head in his hands. He looked utterly weary.
“I had to arrest her when we found the gun in her room, and she confessed. My superiors are anxious to solve this case. It doesn’t look good for the murder of a prominent citizen like Colonel Adams – unpleasant as most people considered him to be – to go for weeks without the killer being apprehended.”
“Surely you wouldn’t sacrifice Sophia for political expediency, and leave a murderer to go free?” Concordia exclaimed.
She had gone too far; it was the first time she had ever seen the usually mild-mannered Capshaw truly angry. His face flushed a dusky red. He slapped his hands on the desk, pushed away from the chair, and leaned over toward Concordia, who shrank back.
A moment passed. Whatever he was about to say, Concordia never knew. Instead, the redness receded from his face, he sat again, and calmly sharpened his pencil. “Is that what you really think, Miss Wells?” he said finally.
Concordia felt chastened. “No, lieutenant. I apologize.” She looked down at her gloved hands. “This has been most trying.”
“It’s not going to get better, miss,” Capshaw said. “We have to consider whom Miss Adams is shielding. There are more trying times ahead.”
Concordia felt cold all at once, from the top of her head to her hands and feet. There weren’t many people in the Adams household whom Sophia would sacrifice herself to protect. In fact, there was only one person.
Amelia.
***
Concordia couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t get the image of Sophia’s drawn, haggard face out of her mind, and the events of the day weighed heavily upon her. Sophia had confessed to the murder of her father. She had faked the burglary attempt. But, if Sophia were lying to protect someone – Amelia – and had done all these things to confuse the police, that would make sense.
Capshaw had noticed that Amelia’s nightgown had been absolutely clean, while Sophia’s had smears of blood upon it. But what if that wasn’t the first nightgown Amelia had worn that night? What if Amelia had come to Sophia, gun dangling between nerveless fingers, mute with shock, wearing a bloodied nightgown? Wouldn’t Sophia have gotten rid of the evidence to protect her sister? Gone in to the study, broken the glass in the door, and disordered the room? Changed the child’s gown, and hidden the bloody one, burning it later? Had Sophia discovered the gun when it was too late to put it back, and hidden it, too?
There was a problem with this line of thought, but Concordia couldn’t quite get at what it was. Her exhaustion was clouding her thinking.
Then she realized what she was missing. Why would Amelia kill her father? If i
t was an accident, why not call the police immediately and tell all? Accidents with guns were sadly all too common. No one would blame an eight-year-old girl for such a tragedy.
But Sophia had not considered it an accident. She had acted swiftly and with great deliberation to protect her sister. Did Sophia know of a powerful motive Amelia might have had to kill their father? But could a girl so young be capable of such a horrible deed?
It was time to act. Lieutenant Capshaw was doing his best, Concordia knew, but as Sophia’s friend she had the duty to sort this out, despite the impediments Sophia herself was putting up. And perhaps she had a better chance at getting at the truth than Capshaw. Servants and family members wouldn’t be on their guard around her as they would the policeman.
But there was one big problem with that: her restriction to campus. Well, she wasn’t going to let the Ogre stop her from going into town and finding answers. She would have to manage to sneak off campus somehow. But she was going to need help.
Having made her decision, Concordia finally slept.
Chapter 13
Though this be madness, yet there is a method in’t.
II.ii
Week 5, Instructor Calendar
October 1896
Concordia sat down with Ruby and Eli in her sitting room, the door and windows closed, and shades drawn. She felt like a sneak thief planning her next “job.”
Over the past few days, she’d seen enough to know that Miss Grant had a network of spies at her disposal: teachers, staff, and even students, those who liked to be in the lady principal’s good graces and gain favor. Concordia had noticed an unusual number of glances through her windows when she was reading or grading papers, and felt the eyes follow her throughout her day, as she attended chapel, taught classes, and went from building to building. She knew enough to be careful in the company of the mathematics teacher, Mr. Harrison, whom everyone knew was a particular favorite of Miss Grant. Other than that, Concordia didn’t know exactly who was reporting back to the Ogre, and it was making her nervous.
