Unseemly Pursuits

by Owen, K.

  She gave a start, remembering her father’s letter.

  Everyone called him Red. It was an apt name, for he was red-haired, red-complected from the pitiless heat of the desert, and had a red-hot temper, too.

  “Good evening…Miss Wells, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes, good evening to you as well, Mr. Rosen,” she said, her thoughts going a mile a minute. He was the right age to be her father’s former partner-turned-rival. He looked to be red-haired before he had aged. Was that enough to suspect a man?

  Concordia gestured toward the group. “Getting enough material for your article?”

  “So far, but I have other areas to cover. I would like to see Madame Durand’s demonstration later. President Langdon has graciously invited me to stay for the supper buffet before that event.” He looked over her costume, pencil in hand. “I’m doing an inventory of the different costumes for my article. Are you that fairytale character…Little Red Riding Hood, I believe?”

  Concordia, and in a moment of inspiration, held out her hand in mock-formality. “This evening, you may call me Red.”

  The man looked startled, but played along, taking her hand and making an awkward little bow over it. “My pleasure, Red.” He let go of her hand and started scribbling.

  Concordia suppressed a disappointed sigh. She wasn’t very accomplished in this detective business. The man’s mild reaction was certainly no conclusive indication of whether or not he was Red. She tried another approach.

  “Do you get to travel much in your profession?”

  He was still looking down at his notepad as he answered. “Here and there,” he murmured. “I’ve been at it for a long time.”

  “Oh? Were you always a reporter?”

  He finally looked up at her, puzzled by her not-so-subtle inquiry. “Not always. Many of us fall into this line of work after pursuing other endeavors.”

  Concordia had to tread carefully. “Do you enjoy your work?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I assume you have to cover some disagreeable stories,” she added sympathetically. “The murder of Colonel Adams, for example?”

  The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What are you getting at, Miss Wells? I know when I’m being ‘interviewed,’ believe me.”

  “I-I apologize,” Concordia stammered.

  “Why so curious?” Rosen said. “Did you perhaps hear that I saw the colonel the afternoon before his death? As I told that blasted policeman, I needed more background information before writing my article. I had no opportunity to speak with him in depth at the time.”

  His face reddened as he leaned over her. “’Curiosity killed the cat,’ young lady. I would be very careful of where I stick my nose, if I were you.”

  Concordia shrank back.

  “Is there a problem here?” a voice asked.

  She whirled around to find Dean Pierce, nearly at her elbow. She hadn’t even heard him approach.

  For a man in a wheelchair, the dean conveyed an imposing presence. Tonight, dressed as the powerful Cardinal de Richelieu - red cardinal’s robes, ecclesiastic skull cap, and enormous cross of Lorraine sitting on his chest – he looked even more commanding. Rosen cleared his throat. “Not at all. If you will excuse me.”

  Pierce inclined his head in mute dismissal.

  “I didn’t want a reporter here but the president insisted,” Pierce said, when Rosen had gone. “Mr. Langdon is looking for good press to counteract the notoriety of the stolen amulet and the railing collapse.”

  Concordia nodded. “It has been a trying term.”

  They heard the supper bell. Eager girls with youthful appetites started filling the hall, heading for the buffet.

  “Coming?” the dean asked, pivoting his chair.

  She shook her head. “I’ll join you later.”

  With a smile and a wave to Concordia, the dean wheeled himself to join the stream of girls.

  Concordia lingered in the parlor and helped President Langdon put the room to rights. No point in rushing to the buffet when there was sure to be a line.

  “How are your classes going, my dear?” Mr. Langdon politely enquired, as they straightened furniture and picked up debris.

  “The students are coming along well,” Concordia answered. “The senior Literature majors should be ready for their examinations by spring, and some of the more impulsive sophomores from last year – you remember Miss Landry?” – Langdon nodded – “are finally settling down to be responsible young ladies.” She shook her head. “There were times when I doubted it was possible.”

  Langdon laughed. “Even parents have doubts about their own progeny, Miss Wells. But these girls are thriving under your influence.”

  Concordia gave him a skeptical look.

  Langdon’s expression grew serious. “Do not let anyone – even someone in authority over you – make you doubt yourself,” he said quietly.

  She looked down at her hands. “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.”

  “Nonsense,” President Langdon said briskly. “Our lady principal doesn’t know you as I do. I have not yet seen fit to override her authority, but you can always come to me if things get out of hand.”

  Concordia flushed and nodded mutely. She wasn’t sure how much Langdon knew about her difficulties with Miss Grant. But she wanted to deal with the issue herself rather than run to him for rescue.

  “Let’s get some supper.” Langdon patted his large middle. “I’m starving.”

  The sight of all that food on the buffet tables made Concordia realize how hungry she really was. The multiple a la carte offerings made it difficult to choose. Among the favorites were aspic de foie gras, canard roti a l’orange, and cold sandwiches of chicken salad. Then there were the desserts of baked apple, stuffed with brown-sugared nuts, pumpkin crème brulee, and petit fours. Cider, tea, and lemonade were plentiful. She loaded her plate to the tipping point, wondering if there was a way to surreptitiously loosen the laces of her over-bodice.

  “Here, allow me,” someone said. Concordia turned abruptly as David made a grab for the sandwich sliding off her plate. “I’ve saved seats for us,” he added.

  And a good thing, too, Concordia thought, looking over the crowd. With no seats left, many of the girls were perched upon windowsills and the porch steps outside.

  “There was no help for it,” David murmured as he helped her into her seat. Concordia quickly realized what he meant when she nodded to her table mates. Besides Miss Pomeroy, Mr. Harrison, Dean Pierce, and Miss Banning, Miss Grant and Madame Durand were also part of their group. They each acknowledged her greeting with varying degrees of cordiality except Margaret Banning, who was diving into her aspic with great gusto and ignoring everyone.

  Being seated with both Miss Grant and Madame Durand might be enough to take the edge off her appetite, Concordia thought.

  As they ate, Concordia noticed that the lady principal appeared rather mellow, introspective even. She had obviously tired of the white face powder and had wiped most of it off, except for what clung to the furrows of her face. At the moment, she was holding up a spoon and staring at her reflection in it. At least Miss Grant wasn’t tormenting her, so Concordia had no quarrel with whatever the woman did to keep herself occupied.

  Since Concordia had been away from the ballroom before supper, this was the first time tonight that she had seen Madame Durand. The lady looked stunning in her gypsy costume – dressed as Carmen, Concordia guessed. Madame’s black hair, full and lustrous, was loose about her shoulders, pinned back only at one ear, behind which a red silk rose was appended. She wore the characteristic loose-ruffled white cotton blouse of a peasant gypsy, with a heavily-fringed silk shawl of Prussian blue. What Concordia could see of the skirt was voluminous black satin, richly embroidered in a profuse floral pattern. Madame looked her most exotic this evening.

  “Where is Monsieur Durand?” Concordia asked politely.

  Madame blotted her lips before answering. “He conveys his apologies,
but says he does not care for such entertainments.” She gave a little shrug.

  A student approached their table. Looking back at her friends, who kept waving her on, she tentatively addressed the medium. “Excuse me, Madame. When will you be giving your planchette reading? We’re all wild to see it.”

  “What’s a planchette?” David Bradley asked.

  Madame Durand turned her light blue eyes to David. “It is a device used for automatic writing, Monsieur Bradley. People also call them ‘talking boards’. It is a shield-shaped, flat piece of hardwood, about this big” – she held out her hands six inches apart – “with three small wheels underneath, and a hole for a pencil. A sheet of paper is placed under the device, and two people rest their hands lightly upon the planchette. If the spirits wish, they will move the board and communicate with us through what is written upon the paper.”

  Concordia gave a little shiver.

  Then Madame looked up at the student, still hovering at her shoulder. “Soon, ma cherie. When it is closer to the witching hour of midnight, we will gather. That is the optimum time for the spirits to traverse the boundary between the dead and the living.”

  Satisfied, the student thanked her and went back to her companions.

  David raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Isn’t it more feasible to assume that those resting their hands upon this piece of wood are doing the moving themselves?”

  “I’ve heard of these boards, too,” Miss Pomeroy interrupted. “I thought it was a child’s toy. In fact, aren’t they sold in toy shops?”

  Madame shook her head vigorously. “No, no – it is not a toy; it is a spirit board.”

  The kitchen staff had begun clearing the plates from the table, which seemed to rouse Miss Banning – no longer eating – to join the conversation.

  “Hmph. ‘Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.’ Abraham Lincoln.” She thumped her cane beside her in emphasis.

  “It has been tested many times, and sessions are closely observed,” Madame retorted. She pushed back her chair, and all of the men – except for Dean Pierce – rose politely.

  “If you will excuse me,” Madame said, “I have some preparations to complete.” She turned to the dean. “Would you mind assisting me?”

  Dean Pierce looked startled, but recovered well. “Of course.”

  With an irritated flounce of her skirts, she stalked out, Pierce wheeling himself to catch up. Their departure seemed to be everyone’s cue to get up from the table, too.

  Which was just as well, since the band had just struck up a lively melody. Girls were pairing off along the floor, spacing themselves evenly apart for the two-step.

  David had a gleam in his eye as he turned to Concordia. “May I have this dance?” He reached out a gloved hand.

  “Delighted,” she said, thrilling to the feel of his other hand upon the small of her back as he guided her around clusters of people.

  He led her out on the floor and they started the dance, weaving and twirling with the other pairs. Some of the Joan of Arcs were dancing, too, but Concordia noticed that they weren’t all there on the floor. As she spun and faced different directions throughout the dance’s movements, she looked for the rest of them. Six, seven, eight….

  But she had to focus on the intricate movements. Concordia reached out with both gloved hands, stepping forward toward her partner again to complete the round. David clasped them, smiling warmly, his eyes crinkling in the corners the way she always loved. She felt giddy, happy. She smiled back.

  Then she caught sight of Lady Principal Grant and her smile faded. As they locked eyes, Concordia could see that the woman’s expression was more than a scowl of disapproval.

  It was hatred, raw and powerful.

  Chapter 20

  By heaven I charge thee, speak.

  I.i

  Week 7, Instructor Calendar

  October/November 1896

  It was finally the “witching hour,” and Madame Durand was ready.

  While not quite everyone was interested in “spirit automatism,” it was a very popular demonstration, judging by the crowd. Concordia, David, and several other faculty members worked the back of the room, keeping the girls quiet and seated.

  Madame stood to address them.

  “Our Spirit Club has been growing nicely. Your interest warms my heart” – here she pressed both hands to her bosom and bowed her head in humility – “and I am deeply grateful. Tonight, we conduct a little experiment, to see if the spirits will speak with us. Some may call it a parlor game” – this said with a sharp glance over at David Bradley, who merely grinned back – “but powerful evidence has shown that this phenomenon defies human explanation. Psychical forces are at work.”

  She walked into the crowd of eager girls, hands upon her hips, skirts swishing, head high, looking the very part of the passionate gypsy she was dressed to be. Finally, she stood before Mr. Rosen and whispered to him. He bowed and moved to the front. Then she walked all the way to the back of the room and stopped beside Concordia. She looked at her intently with those ice blue eyes.

  “Miss Wells, please to join us at the table?”

  Concordia heard the envious sighs of the young ladies around her. She wanted to say no, but thought that would sound churlish. Besides, it might help to see Madame up close again during a performance. Perhaps she could see how the lady worked some of her tricks. And convince her mother to abandon such foolishness.

  She followed Madame to the table at the front of the room. Taking up most of the surface was a large piece of white paper. Upon it was the planchette Madame had described: flat, wooden, its shield shape ending at a point, an upright pencil pushed through a hole near the pointed end. Tiny wheels were affixed beneath the board.

  Mr. Rosen helped Concordia into her chair as Madame explained the process.

  “Miss Wells and I shall sit across from each other, placing our fingers lightly upon the wood. Mr. Rosen will stand beside the table to observe; he will also call upon the young ladies in the audience for questions that we can ask the spirits. Some of the answers may not be legible, or make sense; some might be in the form of a prediction, the veracity of which may be evident at a later time.”

  Mr. Rosen seated her in the chair opposite Concordia. In the dim light, Madame’s heavily-lashed eyes looked shadowed, mysterious. “Do not try to push or move the board in any way,” she instructed. “We will simply rest our hands upon it in a relaxed fashion.”

  “Does anyone have a question?” Mr. Rosen called out. Several hands were raised. “Yes, young lady,” he said, picking one of the girls dressed as Joan of Arc.

  “Will Professor W. find true love?”

  Startled, Concordia jerked her hand and the planchette slid off the table. She murmured an apology and picked it up as some of the girls tittered. She felt her face grow hot. The girls could be mischievous brats at times.

  She and Madame placed their hands back upon the board. At first, nothing happened; then, she could feel tremors under her fingers. The board began to glide, of its own accord, around part of the page. She could see the pencil tracing small loops. She looked at Madame’s hands. It didn’t look as if she was doing anything to cause this, either. How was this happening? It was an unnerving sensation. Then the board abruptly stopped. Mr. Rosen bent over for a closer look.

  “Yes,” he intoned, clearly puzzled.

  The audience applauded in delight. Concordia turned a few more shades of red.

  Mr. Rosen picked another upraised hand.

  “Will Miss G. find true love?”

  General laughter followed this question, but as there was more than one “Miss G” on campus, Lady Principal Grant could say nothing in objection. But everyone knew to whom the question referred.

  The planchette began to glide once again. This time, it did not seem to spell a name, but instead to outline a form. It stopped.

  Mr. Rosen squinted at it. “It’s not a word, it’s a picture. An animal?”

  S
everal girls chuckled at that.

  The board moved again. This time, there was a word. Horse.

  “Horse,” Mr. Rosen quoted. He frowned.

  Two more times, the planchette wrote “horse,” and then it stopped. Several girls exchanged glances.

  As other questions were asked, with a variety of success, Concordia was getting an idea. She knew the spirit world wasn’t really speaking to them, of course, even though she still didn’t know how Madame was working the trick. But here was an opportunity to learn something about Colonel Adams’ murder. If the murderer was not a member of the colonel’s family, then perhaps, as Miss Phillips had suggested, it was someone here, from the college. Maybe Red was here. She felt a shiver settle along her spine.

  She looked over at Ben Rosen, still convinced that he was hiding something. He could be Red. But he’d thwarted her earlier attempt to question him as closely as she wanted.

  She couldn’t ask directly about the murder. But she could try something else.

  Concordia looked over at Madame Durand. “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course,” Madame said.

  In a dramatic voice meant to project throughout the room, Concordia intoned, “Who is Red, and is he here?”

  The talking board abruptly skidded across the table, and fell to the floor with a clatter.

  ***

  “Concordia, that was beyond reckless,” David whispered fiercely.

  David had pulled her into the arbor just outside Sycamore House after the planchette session, in order to talk with her privately. A private tongue-lashing was more like it.