Unseemly Pursuits

by Owen, K.

  While that was a relief, the worry was taking its toll. Concordia felt just as trapped as the students, with nowhere to go, and no progress to be made.

  Finally, after another day of shrieking, arguing, and a spilled pot of illicitly-cooked fudge in a student’s room – when would these girls stop cooking? - Concordia knew she had to step out for a break.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” she said, grabbing her jacket. Ruby nodded in sympathy – or was that envy? – as Concordia walked outside into the quiet, chill November air.

  She walked around the grounds for a little, finally sitting down on the bench beside the pond, watching the birds peck at the dried leaves and warm themselves in the sun.

  “You look awfully gloomy today,” said a familiar voice. Concordia looked over to see Dean Pierce wheeling his chair toward her. She got up to help him, but he waved her off. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, dear. I’m perfectly capable, thank you.” His voice held a bit of an edge, or was that her imagination? His expression seemed pleasant.

  Concordia wondered again what circumstances had landed Dean Pierce in that chair. Some sort of tragic accident long ago, she had heard. Rumors suggested a fall from a horse. Of course, it would be vulgar to inquire.

  “Is something on your mind, Miss Wells? Or are you just mirroring the general gloom of the campus?”

  “A little of both, I suppose.”

  “I remember the last time we talked, you were going to look for more clues about your father’s past, isn’t that right? Don’t be discouraged. I’m sure you’ll find the answers you’re looking for.”

  “Actually,” Concordia said, leaning toward him, “this is rather confidential, so please don’t tell anyone –”

  “Of course, of course,” he said eagerly. “You’ve found something?” His eyes gleamed with interest. He smiled paternally at her.

  He really was a nice man for an administrator, Concordia thought. Except for President Langdon, very few of them took the time to listen to the troubles of a junior faculty member.

  Concordia related what she had found in her father’s study, along with her frustration in not being able to decipher his journal. “We really think it contains the answer to Colonel Adams’ death,” she said.

  “”We’?” he asked.

  “Sophia, Miss Phillips, Mr. Bradley, and the policeman know,” Concordia said. “Although Miss Phillips has been too ill to take a good look. But I’m hopeful that she can decipher it when she’s better.”

  “How fascinating,” the dean said. “But that was so very long ago. How is it that this is all happening now?”

  “I don’t know,” Concordia admitted.

  “What will you do with the amulet?” he asked.

  “My father took great pains to make sure I got it,” Concordia said. “I’ll keep it for now and decide later, after all this settles down.”

  “A wise decision, I think,” Pierce said. In a change of subject, he asked, “How are you and Miss Grant getting along these days?”

  “Hmm…well, there are no open conflicts. That’s something, I suppose. Let us just say we don’t seek out one another’s company.”

  Concordia had written and delivered her “pretty little note of apology,” and Miss Grant had made no further mention of the incident. In actuality, the lady principal did not talk to her at all. Concordia didn’t find this a relief, however, for the lady principal’s silence was often accompanied by barely-disguised looks of utter hatred. Concordia felt it whenever they passed one another in the hall or attended the same meeting.

  Why did Miss Grant hate her so?

  “Perhaps you two struggle because you don’t understand each other,” the dean suggested.

  Concordia sighed and let her eyes rest on the nearly-bare trees in the distance, the earlier sweep of reds and golds having faded to brown. “Do you understand her, Dean?”

  Pierce gave a little chuckle. “Perhaps not entirely, but I’ve been making a point of observing her. She is under a great deal of strain. Belligerence seems to be how she copes with it.”

  “She should take up a more congenial hobby,” Concordia retorted. “Like lawn tennis. Or knitting.”

  Pierce laughed aloud. “Shall I tell her that when I see her later today?”

  “Certainly not.” Concordia checked the watch on her jacket lapel. Drat! It was getting late, and she still had a lesson plan to write before supper. “I have to go.”

  Concordia felt Dean Pierce’s paternal gaze follow her as she hurried along the path toward Willow Cottage.

  She finished her work just in time to dress for supper. There was quite a commotion going on upstairs as the girls, too, changed into dinner dresses.

  Concordia smiled. She’d noticed that with the students’ activities restricted, more of a fuss was being made for those things which they could do, namely, classes and meals. Unfortunately, this made them unusually chatty in the classroom as well as the dining hall.

  Ruby tapped on the partly-open door and stuck her head in. “This came for you while you were out, miss.” She held out an envelope.

  “Just set it down over there, thanks,” Concordia said, struggling with a boot.

  After Ruby left and the struggle was resolved successfully, she opened the letter. It was from Miss Phillips.

  Concordia,

  Although I’m still recovering from this horrid illness, I had a burst of energy today and was able to get the first part of your father’s journal translated. (Shh…don’t tell Miss Jenkins). I’ve enclosed it here. He used an early shorthand that had fallen out of popularity more than twenty years ago.

  I hope to get to the remainder of it soon.

  Yours,

  Dorothy

  Concordia’s heart beat faster as she pulled out the pages, written in Miss Phillips compact hand, with quavering lines here and there.

  The Journal of Randolph Wells, Ph.D.

  23 October 1873

  He must be stopped.

  It is with a heavy heart that I write this, for Red was my close friend through difficult expeditions, and has saved my life more than once.

  He is also a liar and a plunderer. I know that now, having just received answers to letters I’d sent weeks ago. They confirm my suspicions. Red has been stealing relics behind my back and selling them in back-alley markets.

  The timing of the news is disastrous, as we are already underway. I did not think to ask for any letters that might have reached the boat just before our departure, and the careless servant only remembered to distribute them to us on the second day of our Nile journey from Cairo to Amarna. There is no turning back.

  Why did I not realize the truth about Red sooner, before I shared my translations of the stelae, before I told him of the high priest’s tomb? He would strip it of every valuable antiquary, as I now know he did with our discovery at Abydos. Worse yet, should we find the tomb, the wall-writing within it could provide clues to the location of the Royal Tomb of King Akhenaten and his family. This would yield no end of treasure.

  Adams has joined us on this expedition. It is his first. But now I need his help to stop the thief in our midst.

  ---------------------------------------------------

  24 October 1873

  Adams and I have plan. The arrangements have been made.

  Perhaps the most difficult part at the moment is having to smile at the villain, pretending I know nothing of what he has been up to.

  Adams and I have decided that, when we dock the boat, at which point the land portion of our journey begins, we will confront Red and tell him we are leaving him behind. I will take personal satisfaction in telling him why. It may be necessary to physically restrain him. Either way, we’ll be leaving an extra man behind on the boat to keep him there. We certainly don’t want him to follow us.

  Our intent, should we be so fortunate as to find the tomb, has always been to catalogue its contents, sketch some of the major pieces, and pack a few of the less-fragi
le items to bring to Mariette in Boulaq as proof of our find. As the head archaeologist for Egypt’s premiere museum, Mariette will have the manpower, heavy equipment, and other resources to properly secure the tomb. Our team, however, will get the credit for the find and the enormous satisfaction that comes from unearthing Egypt’s treasures.

  The one troubling aspect to this is that Red already knows the contents of the map, and could probably find it himself. What is to prevent him from going back to the site later and plundering it then? It would be impossible to post guards at the tomb until such time as Mariette secures the site.

  Adams has pointed out, however, that once our discovery and cataloguing are complete, Red wouldn’t be able to get away with stealing anything, even if he were given free reign over the tomb. We would have ample proof against him.

  It is hard to argue with such logic as this. And yet, I am uneasy.

  -------------------------------------------

  25 October 1873

  Adams wants to amend the plan. He is concerned that we are destroying Red’s reputation on the basis of only two letters. While he agrees that we need to leave Red behind until we know for sure, his sense of fair play makes him reluctant to publicly humiliate the man in front of the entire expedition party. Adams is a noble man and I am impressed by his ethics in this regard.

  Adams proposes to slip a sleeping draught in Red’s drink, and when he cannot be roused, tell the rest of the party that he is too ill to make the land journey. We will leave two of Adams’ most reliable men to keep him on the boat when he awakes.

  I do not like it, but we have to consider the reputation of the expedition as a whole and not compromise it with scandal.

  -----------------------------------------

  27 October 1873

  We are moored at our destination and the unpleasant task has been accomplished. We have left Red behind on the boat. There is more unpleasantness to come, when we must confront him with what we know and report to Mariette what I have learned about his activities. But for now, I look forward to the search for the tomb.

  Miss Phillips’ translation ended there. Concordia was grateful to her for copying out so much of it, ill as she was. She was hopeful that they would have more answers soon.

  Even with this much, Concordia felt as if she had learned a great deal about these three men. She wished her father hadn’t trusted Colonel Adams so much. With what she now knew of him, she suspected his proposed “amendment” to the plan was not in her father’s best interests. But she would have to wait for the rest.

  If only they could find Red. Was he really here? She wished her father had provided her with his full name and a better description. Although the passage of more than two decades may have altered his appearance greatly.

  Nonetheless, she should share what she had so far with Lieutenant Capshaw. She had just sat down to compose a note when she heard the thunder of two dozen pairs of feet coming down the stairs. She sighed. It would have to wait until after supper. Stuffing Miss Phillips’ envelope in her skirt pocket, she walked out.

  The dining hall was clamorous with the chatter of girls greeting each other like long-lost soul-mates. Thanksgiving recess couldn’t come soon enough.

  Concordia seated herself at one of the staff tables and looked around. “Where is Miss Grant?” That woman never missed a meal.

  Miss Pomeroy craned her neck for a better view of the other staff tables. “I don’t see her, either. That is odd. Do you suppose she’s ill?”

  “One could only hope,” another teacher muttered, for which she got a kick under the table from Miss Jenkins.

  “Ow!” she exclaimed, giving the infirmarian a black look.

  “Miss Grant has eyes and ears everywhere,” Miss Jenkins murmured, inclining her head toward Mr. Harrison at the next table.

  “How do you know?” Miss Pomeroy asked.

  Concordia looked over at the gentleman in question. Mr. Harrison seemed rather nervous today. The usually prim, turned-down mouth was white-lipped and drawn; beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. She could see his hands trembling as he put his napkin to his lips. What was wrong with him?

  Hannah Jenkins nodded to Miss Pomeroy and leaned forward so as to not be overheard. “I have seen the two of them together quite often lately. They seem very…cozy. Once, he came out of her office when I knew she wasn’t even in there and slipped something into his pocket.”

  That was an interesting development, which Concordia resolved to find out more about later, but she drew the discussion back to the subject at hand. “When did anyone see Miss Grant last?”

  “She stopped by the gymnasium this morning,” Miss Jenkins said, her voice still under the hubbub of the students’ noise. “I’d reported some of my badminton shuttlecocks missing. The woman made me go through the entire inventory with her to see if I ‘misplaced’ anything else. She was in fine form then, I’m sorry to say.”

  Concordia noticed Dean Pierce wheeling himself into the room. He had said he’d be seeing Miss Grant today; he might know. Something was not right here. Excusing herself from the table, she walked over to greet him.

  “Mr. Pierce, hello,” Concordia said. “I was wondering, did you see the lady principal this afternoon?”

  “I did not,” Dean Pierce snapped, wheeling himself around to look up at her. “If you must know, I was indisposed, something a healthy young lady like yourself would never consider in others, would you?”

  Concordia was taken aback by the unexpected anger. He did indeed look unwell, his face pale and drawn.

  “I-I beg your pardon, dean,” she stammered, and retreated back to her seat. What was wrong with everyone? She hoped there wasn’t a contagion of some sort brewing.

  “That didn’t go well,” said Miss Jenkins, who missed little.

  “No, it did not. He’s usually quite kind.”

  When the meal was over, still with no sign of the lady principal, Concordia said, “Anyone want to go with me to check on Miss Grant?”

  A number of eyes dropped. There appeared to be no takers.

  “I’ll go with you,” Miss Pomeroy finally offered. Concordia gave her a grateful look.

  Gertrude Pomeroy, who had been teaching at the college for ages, lived in Delacey house with the other women senior faculty, which included administrators such as the lady principal. She used her key to unlock the front door, Concordia trailing behind.

  Miss Pomeroy knew exactly which door belonged to Miss Grant’s private quarters, which was a time-saver, as Concordia would have had to ask and then explain herself.

  Miss Pomeroy tapped on the door. “Miss Grant?”

  No answer. They waited a few moments.

  She knocked with more vigor. “Miss Grant, are you in there?”

  After another minute, Concordia said, “Should we try the door?”

  Since Miss Pomeroy looked very reluctant to do so, Concordia grasped the knob. It turned easily. She pushed it open, bracing herself for the Ogre’s blast. How dare you enter my inner sanctum!

  But there was nothing. The room was empty.

  “Miss Grant?” they called out together.

  Miss Pomeroy looked at Concordia. “I think we have to check the bedroom.”

  “Yes.”

  Cautiously, both women crept tentatively toward it.

  “Oh, no,” Miss Pomeroy breathed.

  The woman was sprawled on the floor, face purple.

  “Miss Grant?!” Concordia exclaimed.

  Miss Pomeroy rushed over and felt the woman’s pulse. “She’s still alive. Barely.” She pointed at the lady’s disarranged collar. “Look at these marks on her neck. She’s been strangled.”

  Concordia ran to the outer door and called for help. The housekeeper rushed in. “Well, what’s this about, then?” She stopped and sucked her breath in sharply at the sight of the lady principal.

  “Call a doctor,” Concordia ordered. “And the police. Ask for Lieutenant Capshaw. Hurry.”

&nbs
p; The housekeeper ran as fast as her arthritic legs could carry her.

  Concordia went back to Miss Pomeroy, who was chafing the lady principal’s wrists, loosening her collar, and gently probing her neck. “Nothing appears broken, thank goodness.”

  “The room is a mess,” Concordia said, looking around at the pillows tossed to the floor, the mattress partially lifted off its frame, and the contents of Miss Grant’s desk, which had been swept to the floor. “Perhaps she surprised an intruder?” She picked up an object she recognized.

  “This is the diadem we were going to use for the play,” Concordia said. “But then it disappeared.”

  Miss Pomeroy, having done all she could for Miss Grant until the doctor arrived, joined her, looking at the desk’s open drawers. “Hmm, those are the shuttlecocks Miss Jenkins said she was missing. And look, here’s my gilt-illuminated bookmark.” She picked it up. “It was a gift from the French Society students. I thought I’d lost it weeks ago.”

  Concordia looked at her. “What does it mean?”

  Miss Pomeroy frowned. Then her face cleared in understanding. “Ah. Yes. This explains a few things. We have a cousin in the family with this problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Miss Pomeroy said, as the outer door opened. Help had arrived.

  The housekeeper had the good sense to summon Miss Jenkins as well. Under the infirmarian’s take-charge style, the room was cleared quickly and a stretcher brought.

  “Your instincts were excellent, Concordia,” Miss Jenkins said, before shooing her and Miss Pomeroy into the hall. “If she hadn’t been discovered until morning, she’d be dead.”

  “Well, I didn’t imagine this happening,” Concordia said. “Will she recover?”

  Miss Jenkins shrugged. “It’s too soon to say. But at least she has a chance now. Ah, lieutenant,” she said, looking over Concordia’s shoulder to see the policeman hurrying down the hall, “this way. We haven’t moved her yet, but we must do so quickly.”