by Owen, K.
Concordia struggled to leave behind the guilt she felt about last night’s argument. She would have to give careful thought about how to mend the damage.
In the meantime, there were the amulet and papers to think of. This morning Concordia had realized that, despite her discovery, she was no closer to learning the identity of Colonel Adams’ killer. So instead of returning directly to the college she decided to stop by the Adams’ house. It was an early hour for calling upon the family, but she could at least talk with the staff again and learn if Amelia had returned.
The Wells’ housekeeper was very obliging in culling goodies from the larder for Concordia to bring to Mrs. Lewis: a tin of Darjeeling tea; a generous chunk of sponge cake, and a jar of her delectably tangy lemon curd. Mrs. Houston wrapped the whole in a large napkin for Concordia. She gave her a hug.
“You come back soon, now, miss. Try not to worry about your mother. She’ll snap out of it, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Wells had not come down to say good-bye, but Concordia hadn’t expected her to. Perhaps she was a little relieved, too.
“Keep an eye on Mother, will you? And let me know if Madame Durand makes a return?”
The housekeeper promised. Concordia thanked her and left.
“Miss Wells, why what a pleasure to see you again!” Mrs. Lewis said, opening the back door at her knock. “The rest o’ the house is at the Sunday service, but yer welcome to come in for some tea.”
“Oh dear, what happened to you?” Concordia asked, as she watched the cook hobble on a cane and bandaged foot.
“Ah, my gout is botherin’ me,” she said. “Doc drained it yesterday. That’s why I’m a’tome today, instead of at church.” She looked at her curiously. “Shouldn’t you be at service, too, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“Ours at the college is a bit later on Sunday,” Concordia explained. “I only stopped by for a short stay, but I brought some lovely things from my mother’s larder.”
“Aye, how is your mother? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Oh, fine,” Concordia said vaguely. But Mrs. Lewis wasn’t paying much attention, as she untied the napkin.
“Oh, my! You brought Dar-jee-eeling tea! Oh, I adore that; we haven’t had it in a dog’s age around here.”
“You sit; let me make you some,” Concordia offered.
The cook didn’t demur, but propped her foot up comfortably and pointed to where everything was. Soon they were both sitting with the fragrant tea between them, and slices of Mrs. Houston’s sponge cake.
“So you’ve heard about Sophia. I suppose that’s why you’re here,” Mrs. Lewis said. “But she’s nowt back yet. Later today, she comes home.”
Concordia almost choked on her tea. “Sophia? They are letting her go?” Thank goodness.
Mrs. Lewis shook her head. “She’s not out o’ trouble yet, poor dear. They’s just letting her stay in the house, but she canna leave it. Miss Amelia is back, you see. Poor bairn’s been crazy frantic without Miss Sophia. Tried to run away from her uncle’s house, twice. They could’na keep her. The missus pleaded wi’ the coppers to let Miss Sophia come back to take care o’ her sister.” She sniffed. “Lord knows the missus could’na trouble herself to do it, even if Miss Amelia woulda let her anywhere near.”
Concordia took a moment to digest this information. At least Sophia wouldn’t endure the humiliation of prison. For the time being.
“Is Amelia talking?”
The cook made a face. “Not like you and I would call ‘talking.’ When she isn’t dead quiet, she rambles. Cries a lot, too, poor li’l thing. The missus is hoping her sister can calm her down. Mrs. Adams isn’t what you’d call ‘patient’.”
Concordia hoped Sophia could calm the child and get her to talk, and not only for the girl’s welfare. They needed answers.
“What’cha got there, miss?” Mrs. Lewis asked in a change of subject. She pointed to the hooded red cape, which Concordia had folded neatly and set aside while making the tea.
“I found it in Mother’s attic last night – don’t you think it would make a good costume for Red Riding Hood?” Concordia said, reaching over to fluff out the folds. “The college is having a Halloween ball for the students and staff next week.”
The cook’s eyes brightened. “Ah! I remember All Hallows back home, when I was a wee one. We’d go ‘guising’ – wi’ blackened faces and old clothes to fool evil spirr’ts, and folks would give us sweets. But my favorite thing was dookin’ for apples. Will your students be playin’ any o’ those sort o’ games?”
Concordia nodded. “The girls have convinced some of the staff to sponsor several of the traditional activities in the smaller rooms at Sycamore House. There will be dancing, too, in the president’s dining hall.”
Mrs. Lewis leaned forward in interest as Concordia ticked off the list with her fingers.
“The plan so far is to have Miss Banning read tea leaves, Madame Durand to work the planchette board, Miss Phillips to oversee what you call ‘apple dookin,’ and Mr. Langdon to supervise the nut-casting.”
The latter activity, nut-casting, was quite popular with the students. Each girl took turns throwing two nuts in the fire – one to represent themselves, and one a potential beau – to predict the future of their relationship. It was all harmless nonsense, of course, but sometimes the students got a little over-eager and drew too close to the fire. Last year, one girl got hit right between the eyes when a nut popped back out of the hearth. The young lady was less distressed by the injury than by the resulting prediction that the object of her affections was false. Concordia hoped President Langdon could keep the crowd in check.
“Aye, I remember that custom of burning the nits,” the cook said. “The ones that popped were bad, but if they burned brightly, you’ve found your true love.” She closed her eyes and quoted:
The auld guid wife's well-hoarded nits
Are round an' round divided,
An' monie lads' and lassies' fates'
Are there that night decided.
Some kindle, couthie, side by side
An' burn thegither trimly;
Some start away w'i' saucy pride,
And jump out-owre the chimlie
Concordia was surprised at first to hear the cook quoting a Robert Burns verse, but realized that any Scotswoman worth her tartan had her kinsman’s poetry committed to memory from a young age.
The doorbell rang.
“That could be Miss Sophia now!” Mrs. Lewis said, frantically removing her apron, brushing crumbs off her chest, and struggling to her feet.
“I’ll answer it,” Concordia offered. It would be excruciating to wait for the hobbling cook to make it all the way to the front door. With as much decorum as she could manage, she made her way quickly down the hall and opened the door.
Lieutenant Capshaw was supporting a thin, weary-looking Sophia on the step.
“Sophia!” Concordia cried, embracing her friend. “Thank heaven you’re out of that dreadful place. Hello, lieutenant,” she added.
“Lieutenant Capshaw was the one who pleaded my case to his superiors,” Sophia said, “although it isn’t over.”
“That will come with time,” Capshaw said, “but no more secrets, miss.”
Sophia inclined a weary head. From Concordia’s angle, the circles under Sophia’s eyes and the slight twitch along her jaw were alarming signs of profound exhaustion.
The hobbled Mrs. Lewis had caught up to them. “Miss Sophia, you are a sight fer sore eyes, I must say.”
Sophia gave her a hug. “It’s good to be back. Where’s Amelia?”
“Sleeping,” the cook said. “The doctor gave her something. Why don’t you lay down for a bit, too, miss? You look tuckered out.”
“I think I will. But you’ll let me know when she wakes?”
The cook promised, and led Sophia up to her room. Although who led whom was questionable, with one hobbling on a cane and the other so tired she could barely stand upright.
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Concordia turned back to the lieutenant, expecting to say good-bye, but instead, Capshaw continued on to the parlor and gestured to her. “If you please, Miss Wells, we have a number of things to talk about.”
“Now,” he began, when they were both seated and the parlor door closed behind them, “we have made progress in the investigation of Colonel Adams’ murder, but not nearly enough.” He coughed delicately, as if to coax the next words out. “I need your –” cough “– help, miss.”
That was a first, Concordia thought, suppressing a smile. “What do you want me to do?”
“Let me first explain where we are.”
Concordia settled the folds of her skirt and waited.
Capshaw got up and paced the room as he talked. “We know Miss Adams is innocent of the murder of her father. She made a false confession and tampered with evidence in order to protect someone else.” He stopped and looked over at Concordia. “I didn’t have to look far for that person. There is only one individual Miss Adams would go to such lengths to protect.”
Concordia nodded. “Her sister, Amelia.”
“Correct,” Capshaw said. He continued his pacing. “But then the question I had to ask was why Miss Adams would so readily suspect her eight-year-old sister of murdering their own father? Because even if Miss Adams saw the girl standing over the body, gun in hand, nightgown bloody – and I’m sure that what Miss Adams burned in her fireplace was her sister’s bloody nightdress, not her own – why did she jump to the conclusion that it was purposeful? Miss Adams would not have acted as she did had she thought it was an accident. No, she thought her sister had deliberately killed their father.”
Concordia felt a chill run through her at these words. “How could that be?” she protested. “What possible motive could such a young child have? It’s incomprehensible.”
Capshaw gave a heavy sigh and, finally, seated himself again. “That is the line of inquiry I have been pursuing since Miss Adams’ arrest. And I am sorry to say that I have found an ugly truth in this household, which provides both sisters with plenty of motive.” He hesitated.
“What, lieutenant?” Concordia prompted. “What ugly truth?” As dearly as she did not want to be told, she knew it was necessary.
Capshaw shifted in his chair. “The more I looked into the colonel’s past, the more I realized what a scoundrel he was: ruthless – and at times unscrupulous – in his business dealings. During his military career, he exacted severe punishments upon those under his command, and sabotaged rivals in order to get ahead. I even found that he and your father had worked together long ago, Miss Wells, with Adams providing the funding for tomb expeditions in Egypt and even going on their last one. It went badly, I understand. I wouldn’t be surprised if Adams had a hand in that, too. Perhaps you know more about it than I. But none of this prepared me for –” He stopped, gathering his composure.
Concordia kept her patience in check as best she could.
Capshaw continued. “It took a while, talking with the staff, the family doctor, the lawyer. Many reluctant people, but finally, I was able to piece it together.”
He looked Concordia square in the eye. “The colonel ill-used his daughters, Miss Wells,” he said quietly. “He methodically beat both of his girls.”
Concordia’s heart hammered hard in her chest. She couldn’t get a full breath. Snippets of memory came back to her from their childhood when Sophia would come to play. Sophia had seemed happier during the colonel’s assignments that called him away from home. Concordia remembered a smattering of injuries Sophia had suffered, explained away as a collision with a door or a stumble down the stairs. Then there was the scary time when Sophia was said to have fallen, cracked her ribs, and later developed pneumonia. As a child, Concordia had never suspected. Now it fit together.
Capshaw was watching her closely. “You have been friends with Sophia for a very long time, haven’t you? You see it now.”
Concordia took a shaky breath and met the policeman’s eyes. No wonder Sophia had left the house as soon as she was able. But she didn’t go very far, because of Amelia. How could Adams have been so cruel to his own daughters?
“So Amelia has also been a target of the colonel?” Concordia asked.
“When I confronted Miss Adams about what I knew, she told me…some of it. She had hoped that Amelia would be spared, but she tried to keep a close eye on her. She thinks it started recently, after her mother’s death.”
Concordia thought back to Amelia’s appearance the day after the murder. “I saw no bruises on her, except for the bump on her head.”
Capshaw sighed. “At my request, the doctor examined Miss Amelia thoroughly. He found a number of old bruises, along the ribs. The colonel learned on Miss Adams, remember. He would know how to do it by now so it wouldn’t show.”
A blaze of white-hot anger burned in Concordia’s chest. She stood and paced the room. “Why? Why didn’t someone do something to protect these girls? The mother? The doctor? The servants?”
“The servants were in no position to speak out,” Capshaw said, also standing, “although, when I finally got the truth out of Mrs. Lewis she said that both the staff and the mother tried to keep the girls out of his way. Their mother is dead now, but during her lifetime she feared her husband’s temper. Her declining health made it difficult for her to intervene and she had nowhere to turn. According to the law, a man has the right to discipline his children as he sees fit.
“By the time Miss Adams was fifteen, however, she was strong enough – and determined enough – to deter the colonel’s…proclivities. That’s when she said the beatings finally stopped. For her, that is.”
“What about the doctor? Why didn’t he do something?” Concordia asked.
Capshaw shook his head. “The family doctor of Miss Adams’ childhood passed away a number of years ago. The current one had his suspicions, but wasn’t called in often enough to be sure.”
“So you believe that this gives Amelia sufficient motive to have killed him. What about her head injury? Could Adams have struck her, and she grabbed the gun to protect herself?”
“And shot him in the back?” Capshaw asked skeptically. “More likely, she fainted and hit her head on the desk as she fell, for all we know. I wish the child could tell us.”
“I have trouble believing Amelia deliberately killed her father. But if it’s true, what would happen to her?” There could be no good answer to this, Concordia knew.
“A child this young would not be formally charged,” Capshaw said, “but –” His voice trailed off.
“—she would be quietly locked away,” Concordia finished for him. “Dear heaven.” She shuddered. A vulnerable, traumatized young girl at the mercy of strangers, surrounded by the violently insane? If the child weren’t already mad, she soon would be.
They were both quiet for a few moments.
“The only hope for Amelia is if we can find that someone else is responsible,” Capshaw said. “Once I confronted Miss Adams with what I knew about her father, she admitted that she’d lied.”
“So what really happened?” Concordia asked.
“By Miss Adams’ account, she awoke to Amelia shaking her. Her nightdress was bloody. At first, Miss Adams was panicked, thinking that Amelia had been grievously injured. While checking the girl for any cuts, she found the bruises on her ribs. Amelia was still frantic to lead her back to the study, so Miss Adams got Amelia a clean gown and followed her back there. When she saw their father had been shot, she assumed that her sister had just been beaten by the colonel and had shot him to stop it.”
Concordia closed her eyes to regain her composure. It was all so horrible. “How did Sophia come to have the gun?” she asked, finally.
“Miss Adams isn’t sure about that. She thinks that Amelia must have crouched over the body – that’s how the nightdress got so bloody – picked up the gun, and in her panic, ran to her sister’s room for help with it still in her hand. Whether the child was panicked
because she had just shot her father, or had just found her father, we do not know. She probably set the weapon down in the bedroom while she was shaking her sister awake. Miss Adams didn’t see it in her room until it was too late to put it back. That’s when she hid it.”
He sighed and shook his head. “If only Miss Adams hadn’t tampered with the evidence. Especially burning the girl’s nightgown. We might have been able to tell from the bloodstains if Amelia had done the shooting or not.”
Concordia remembered the night after the murder, when she searched Sophia’s room. The stiffened fabric, wrapped around something heavy, and shoved under Sophia’s bed. It had to have been Amelia’s gown and the gun. Sophia couldn’t risk destroying the gown until the police were out of the house. Concordia could kick herself for not taking it out and examining it at the time. But there was no point in volunteering that piece of information to Capshaw. She’d never hear the end of it.
“You said I could help, lieutenant. What can I do?”
“I’m thinking of the two Egyptian relics that are missing. Nothing else is gone. I’m skeptical that they’ve been misplaced or sold. They were so valuable that the colonel was reluctant to donate them to the college, so it’s unlikely that he would have been careless with the receipt of sale. I’ve found a number of receipts for valuable acquisitions and sales of such.”
Maybe there was hope, Concordia thought. She remembered something else, too. “You told me that the outer door of the safe was open and the colonel was lying right next to it. That could also indicate an intruder’s attempt to secure valuables.”
Capshaw nodded. “But I’m specifically thinking of Egyptian valuables. The missing artifacts were most likely acquired while Adams collaborated with your father. That’s where I need your help. I was hoping you could tell me more about the projects your father and Adams worked on together, any associates they had, and so on.”
To Capshaw’s alarm, Concordia laughed aloud. That she and the lieutenant had been simultaneously trying to find answers to the murder, through the unlikely avenue of her father’s Egypt expeditions, was the oddest piece of luck she had seen in a while.
