I will not be fooled by you into opinions that you please to impose.
William Blake
“Whew! I’m glad that’s over,” Miss Phillips murmured, passing her cloak to the maid at Sycamore House, the residence for the college’s president and other male administrators. The building was well suited for social events at the college—receptions, dinners, dances, and the like—as it possessed a spacious dining room, ballroom, terrace, and expanded kitchen facilities.
Concordia handed over her own wrap. “I’d call it a resounding success, thanks to your efforts. The mayor and his wife were quite impressed with the new exhibit. All of the exhibits, actually.”
“So long as that reporter from the Courant writes a favorable account,” Miss Phillips said. “He asked a great many questions about the provenance of the Descriptive Catalogue.”
“That was odd,” Concordia said. And Isaiah Symond had not cared for the reporter’s persistence. His answers had been terse and not entirely forthcoming. It did cause one to wonder….
“Shall we go in?” Miss Phillips asked.
“Yes, of course. Are we the last to straggle in?” Concordia, not blessed with tall stature, stood on tiptoe for a better view of the dining room. “I don’t see Miss Cowles.”
“I doubt she’s coming. I overheard the dean berating her for not attending to a new shipment of books. Apparently, there are so many boxes they don’t fit in the library storeroom, and he tripped over one of them today. I assume that’s where she is now.”
“I can’t say I blame her for putting it off,” Concordia said, as they joined the company in the dining room. “The storeroom is a dreary, windowless space.”
Randolph Maynard was the only man she could ever imagine taking the crusty librarian to task. But nothing ever happened fast enough for Maynard’s liking. He abhorred disorder.
At the long table of polished cherry, Concordia found herself seated between Ernest Richardson and Isaiah Symond, with Miss Phillips, Miss Pomeroy, and Dean Maynard immediately across from them. Symond was solicitous of the ladies in general and Miss Phillips in particular as she was finding her chair, gallantly pulling out her seat for her and fetching her handkerchief when it dropped to the floor. Judging from the lady’s mottled flush and clenched jaw, she did not appreciate such attentions.
“So, Miss Phillips, congratulations on a job well done,” President Langdon said. “But tell me, what’s this about a Blake lecture series? The mayor’s wife showed me the placard.”
Dorothy Phillips craned her head toward the head of the table. “A series of two lectures are planned for now. The goal is to create more interest in the new exhibit and generate further donations to the gallery.”
Langdon’s expression brightened. “Excellent idea!” He gestured to Concordia. “And you are to conduct them? I can think of no one better suited.”
Concordia flushed, ever grateful for Langdon’s faith in her, which had remained steadfast over the years.
Maynard reached for his wine glass. “Far too much trouble over a musty old book no one cares about.”
The staff was used to such sulky mutterings and paid him no attention. Ernest Richardson flashed him an amused glance but said nothing.
Symond took the bait, however. He leaned toward Maynard. “I’d say a great many folks will care about it. The notion of a lecture series to bring in outside attention is a splendid idea.” He hesitated. “However, shouldn’t the college engage a professor to lead it? A man, I mean. What do you think, Mr. Langdon?”
Every female academic in the room stiffened.
“Ahem.” President Langdon tugged at his collar as if it had suddenly grown tight. “We don’t make that distinction here, Mr. Symond. All the professors at this institution are well qualified, no matter their sex.”
Symond spread his hands in apology. “Yes, yes, of course. I misspoke. I meant that one would consider it inappropriate for a married woman—who is naturally no longer associated with the school, save for ties of nostalgia—to give the talks.”
“I am associated with the school,” Concordia retorted. “I’m a lecturing fellow.”
Symond sat back. “I beg your pardon?”
Maynard rolled his eyes. “It’s an honorary title, Symond, in gratitude for the help Mrs. Bradley has provided to the institution over the years. The position is just enough to keep the lady busy—and out of trouble—until the inevitable little ones come along.” He glanced briefly at Concordia, who made no attempt to hide her disdain.
Out of trouble, indeed.
Dean Maynard turned in his chair to meet Langdon’s eye. “I have to agree with Mr. Symond in this instance, Edward, if only for the fact that the college shouldn’t broadcast the hiring of a married woman in any official capacity.”
“Two lectures hardly qualify as disrupting social mores,” Miss Phillips interjected. “And Mrs. Bradley is eminently suitable. She was awarded the Romantic Poetry Studies Medal at Vassar and has since published several well-reviewed articles on the Romantics.” She nudged the lady principal sitting beside her, who seemed to be in a doze. “Miss Pomeroy, tell them about Concordia’s qualifications.”
“Huh?” The lady looked up, blinking. “Ah—I regret I’ve not been attending to the conversation. I’m sure whatever you decide will be suitable.” She rose. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late. I wish you all goodnight.”
The gentlemen stood politely. Concordia wondered if she should leave, too, but would it appear churlish? Maynard, at least, would attribute it to a fit of sulks.
How she missed David. He would have found a way to make such unpleasantness easier to tolerate, with an irreverent quip and a surreptitious wink.
A change of subject was in order.
As the plates were removed, she said, “I’m grateful the exhibit opening went smoothly and the prankster didn’t strike again.”
Miss Phillips was the only one to nod in agreement. The others looked at her blankly.
Dean Maynard folded his arms and glowered. “Mrs. Bradley—what strange contortion of logic would lead one to believe a sophomore prank in the chapel would be duplicated in the gallery?”
“First of all,” she retorted, “I doubt the blame for the chapel lay with the sophomores.”
President Langdon lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
“I would look to the juniors for that,” Concordia said. “From what I understand, they had their reasons to cause trouble for the sophomores. What better way than to play a trick on the sophomores’ favorite targets—the freshmen?”
Maynard’s lip curled in a sneer. “You’ve been talking to Miss Farraday, I assume. She told me her theory, but I find it highly questionable.”
“We should look into it all the same,” Langdon said.
“And the pranks have not been confined to the chapel.” Concordia explained the sabotaged chairs in the library and the missing bulb and upside-down book in the gallery. Then she glanced over at Miss Phillips. “I wonder, too, if your missing cat statuette is connected.”
Miss Phillips shrugged. “I doubt it. I’m sure it will turn up.”
Maynard leaned forward. “You’re missing something, Miss Phillips?”
The lady gave a reluctant nod. “From my office.”
“Aside from the chapel prank,” Concordia said, “the remaining incidents have occurred on the first floor of the Hall.”
Symond’s brows lowered. “Should we be concerned about the security of the Blake exhibit?”
“Not at all,” Langdon assured him. “The lock on the double doors of the gallery is new and, unlike the outer doors of Founder’s Hall, unique to the gallery. Only three people possess copies of the key—Miss Phillips, the custodian, and myself.”
The maid appeared in the dining hall doorway. “Coffee and dessert are now served in the library, Mr. Langdon.”
“Excellent!” Langdon got up and tugged his vest down over his wide middle. He gestured toward Symond and Richardson. “You gentlemen are in for a treat. Cook’s madeleines are divine.”
As they made their way to the library, Concordia noticed Miss Phillips lagging behind, her brow furrowed and her air one of general distraction. Concordia hung back to walk beside her.
“Is something troubling you?” Concordia asked. “It’s not the lecture series, is it?”
“Hmm?” She looked up. “Oh—no.” She leaned in closer, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “I’m not sure I locked the gallery doors.”
Concordia’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear.”
Even though they kept their voices low, Symond, who’d been waiting politely for them to precede him into the library, sucked in a breath. “What’s this? The gallery has been left unlocked, with a prankster on the loose?”
As he didn’t trouble to keep his voice low, every head turned.
Miss Phillips flushed and met his eye, though Concordia could see a flinching sort of wariness there. “I’m afraid that is a possibility. I should go see.” She turned to the maid. “Can you get my cloak, please?”
“I’m coming with you,” Symond said.
“That isn’t necessary,” she said quickly.
“Nonsense,” he snapped. “I haven’t gone to this much trouble and expense to have something happen to my exhibit.”
Miss Phillips sighed. “Nothing is going to happen. It’s merely a precaution.”
Richardson came up behind them. “Want me to come along, Isaiah?”
“No need. It shouldn’t take us long.”
Concordia put a hand on the lady’s arm. “I’ll walk out with you. I should be getting home anyway.”
Miss Phillips’s forehead smoothed in relief.
As they approached the Hall, Concordia noticed all the windows were dark, as would be expected at this late hour. Miss Phillips led the way around to the side door to the stairwell, but Symond hurried ahead of her. He hesitated when the door opened easily. “Isn’t this supposed to be locked, too?”
“We usually leave it open for junior staff to access the stairwell to their offices,” Miss Phillips said. “I’m more concerned with the gallery doors.”
“We should lock this nonetheless,” Symond said.
“If you wish.” She groped in her reticule. “Where are my keys?” she murmured. “Oh no.”
“No keys?” Symond growled.
“When did you have them last?” Concordia asked.
“I honestly cannot remember. My office?”
Symond held the door open. “Well, woman?” he demanded. “Let’s get them and lock up. It’s getting late.”
Even in the narrow light cast by the electric wall sconces, she could see Miss Phillips flush again.
Someone was running toward them across the quadrangle. Even from this distance, Concordia recognized the tall figure and fair hair of Madeline Farraday.
“Mrs. Bradley,” the girl called out as she approached, “can you come home quick? Mrs. Houston took a tumble down the stairs. I fetched Miss Jenkins to tend to her. She told me you’d be here. I don’t know how badly she’s hurt. Her ankle—” She stared at Isaiah. “Oh.”
He looked equally startled, then tipped his hat. “Ah, Miss Farraday.”
Without another word, the girl turned on her heel and walked away. With a murmured apology, Concordia hurried after her.
It was close to midnight before Mrs. Houston was dozing comfortably in her bed, ankle wrapped and propped on a cushion. Concordia closed the door behind them as she and Miss Jenkins stepped out to the front porch.
“I gave her a draught to help her sleep,” Hannah Jenkins said. “Make sure a doctor looks in on her tomorrow. It appears to be a simple sprain, but it’s wise to be cautious. I only run a school infirmary. I’m not a physician.”
“I’ll contact my mother in the morning,” Concordia said. “She’ll arrange it and likely bring her back to her house to finish recuperating.” On a selfish level, she was going to miss the wonderful dinners Mrs. Houston made.
“You’ll want to keep that cat out from underfoot in the future,” Miss Jenkins said, mouth twitching.
Madeline stepped out to join them on the porch, shawl wrapped around her. “Mrs. Bradley? I’d like to accompany Miss Jenkins back to campus, if I may. I’m missing my notebook. I must have dropped it somewhere between here and the quadrangle. It would be ruined if I don’t get it before it rains.”
It did, indeed, smell like rain, but Concordia didn’t like the idea of a student being out so late. “Miss Jenkins can look for it on her way back to campus.”
“I’ll bring it inside if I find it,” Miss Jenkins promised.
Madeline’s brows drew together in distress. “It has all my medieval French poetry translations! I have more studying to do before tomorrow’s test. Please?”
Concordia blew out a breath. Mrs. Houston’s accident had disrupted everyone’s schedule, so she was not about to remonstrate with the girl about the late hour.
Hannah Jenkins no doubt had the same idea. “I’ll help her look. The gatekeeper can walk her back here.”
“All right,” Concordia said. “But don’t be long, Miss Farraday. I’ll be waiting up for your return.”
Concordia awoke with a start in the wingback chair. She glanced at the mantel clock. One thirty! Surely Madeline would have woken her when she returned. She ran up to check the girl’s bedroom. It was empty, the bed still made.
It shouldn’t have taken this long.
Concordia hesitated. She didn’t want to leave Mrs. Houston alone, but she had to find Madeline. She peeked in on the housekeeper. The woman was sleeping soundly.
If she was quick about it, she could be back before Mrs. Houston awoke.
Just in case, Concordia scribbled a note, put it on the housekeeper’s side table, and made sure the crutches Miss Jenkins had provided were within easy reach before grabbing a jacket and lantern.
She put up her hood. They’d been right about the rain. At least it was only a light drizzle at the moment. When she reached campus, she kept to the main path, passing the network of side paths leading to the pond, the gazebo, Sycamore House, and the student cottages. Her brisk steps ringing upon the pavement and the gentle pish of the rain were the only sounds on this still night. No sign of Madeline.
She reached the quadrangle, bordered on three sides by the chapel, student dining hall, and Founder’s Hall. She stopped. A light shone through a side window of the first floor of the Hall. It wasn’t coming from the library, but toward the back, where the antiquities gallery was located.
Could Madeline be there?
Concordia hurried over to the side door, expecting it to be secured by now, but the knob turned under her hand.
She took a breath for courage, ignoring the prickle of unease at the base of her neck. Lifting her lantern high, she stepped into the gloom of the stairwell.
And promptly collided with George Lovelace.
“Mrs. Bradley!” he exclaimed. “Lord, you scared me to death.” He passed a shaking hand over his mustache and blew out a breath.
“What are you doing here, George? What’s going on?”
“Looks like trouble at the gallery.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and she pushed past him. “No…wait! You shouldn’t go in there.”
She ignored him, then wished she hadn’t as she stepped through the open gallery doors. She only vaguely noticed the chaos of the room—a glass case tipped over, a table pushed out of position, various exhibit items littering the floor—before she saw Isaiah Symond, sprawled face-down on the floor, unmoving. By the light of the wall sconces, it was obvious he’d been struck on the back of the head. His silver hair was matted with blood.
She knelt beside him, touching him gingerly, as George caught up to her.
She looked up. “He—he’s dead.”
George helped her up. “Yes. I wanted to spare you, ma’am. Come. This is no place for a lady.”
“I—I’m all right. But we should send for the police right away.”
He nodded vigorously. “And at least one thing was stolen.” He pointed to the glass case on the table that was out of position. It was empty, the door ajar.
The Descriptive Catalogue of William Blake was gone.