Without contraries is no progression.
William Blake
Concordia had to admit to a ripple of excitement as she dressed in her best pleated eggshell shirtwaist and navy wool skirt and took the path from the farmhouse to campus that morning. David walked with her, heading for his own morning class.
Before they came within sight of the quadrangle, he kissed her forehead lightly beneath her hat. “Good luck, my dear. Enjoy yourself.”
She smiled and gave a little wave as she hurried to Moss Hall.
As with all the classrooms in Moss Hall, Room 208 was a blend of tradition and progress. The dark paneling, stained-glass atrium windows, and raised dais with the instructor’s mahogany podium were reminders of the college’s seminary days, whereas the retrofitted electric wall sconces, steam heating, and new student desks represented a look ahead, a suggestion of the best that could be offered to the young women looking to improve their prospects in life.
Concordia recognized a few faces that turned up expectantly toward her, though most were unfamiliar. She took a breath. “Good morning, class.” She wrote upon the chalkboard, “Elements of Rhetoric,” and then her name, “Mrs. Bradley.” Behind her, she could hear students stirring in their seats and whispering among themselves.
She knew what that was about. Best to tackle this issue head on.
She turned to face them. “It sounds as if someone has a question.” A hand was raised. She checked the seating chart Charlotte had provided. “Yes, Miss…VanDrake.”
Miss VanDrake, a freshman with a mop-head of excitable blond curls—judging by the manner in which they bobbed as she spoke—said, “You are a married lady, ma’am? I thought married women were not allowed to teach here.”
“Stand up and ask your question, if you please, Miss VanDrake,” Concordia said sternly. “You should be aware of the protocol by now.”
The young lady flushed. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and repeated the question.
Before Concordia could answer, another student—one she knew from last year who was now a sophomore—jumped to Concordia’s defense. “But Miss Wells—I mean, Mrs. Bradley—has been a professor here forever. She’s the best literature teacher I’ve ever had! It shouldn’t matter whether she’s married or—”
“Miss Caron.” Concordia cut across what was sure to be a speech that would have the girl swearing a blood-oath to her before she was done. “You are out of order.”
“I’m sorry, miss—uh, ma’am.”
“You should stand up as well,” Concordia said.
The young lady complied, clenching her gloved hands nervously.
Concordia regarded the two young ladies. An idea was beginning to form. “If I am to read the mood of the classroom correctly, we may have a debate on our hands.” She wrote upon the board: “Should married women be permitted to teach?” She was wildly straying from Charlotte’s lesson plan. She hoped she wouldn’t mind.
The students read the proposed question, eyes alight, and began whispering excitedly among themselves. Concordia gave them a moment. The two young ladies also waited, still respectfully standing.
“Now then,” Concordia began, “I propose that we divide the class into teams. Miss VanDrake shall lead the opposition to married women teaching at a women’s college. Is that acceptable to you, miss?”
The girl shifted uneasily. “I don’t know if I necessarily believe that. I was only asking the question—”
“And an excellent question it was, Miss VanDrake,” Concordia cut in. “That is why I have confidence in you acting as the lead. Do not worry about whether you hold this conviction personally. We are engaging in an exercise to formulate inductively and deductively reasoned arguments.” Her expression softened. “One must, from time to time, employ such adversarial forms in order to achieve this.” She turned to Miss Caron. “Are you prepared to lead the team arguing in favor of married women teaching at a women’s college?”
She grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good. The rest of the class, group yourselves beside these young ladies according to your preference. If one side has too many, I will randomly select students for the other team.”
All in all, Concordia reflected, as she headed to her borrowed office with a stack of themes to be graded, the debate was a success. The students had offered cogent arguments for their positions, which was the point. The issue of their teacher being a married woman had been thoroughly hashed out without her having to contribute any personal details in her own defense. An added benefit was their increased confidence in her ability to teach them.
Richardson’s office was in the east wing of the second floor, near the sophomore and junior study rooms and above the gallery. Shifting the stack of papers to the crook of her elbow, she got the door open and hurriedly plunked them on the desk as they slid out of her arms. Grading these would take some time. Mercy, she’d been a veritable lady of leisure up to this point.
The air had the stuffy, stale quality of disuse. She opened the window.
Ernest Richardson had thoughtfully cleaned out most of his personal effects from the desk, but she laughed out loud when she rummaged for a red pencil and found a bottle of hair tonic in the bottom drawer. “Madam Leroy’s Hair Restorer: soothes all irritation of the scalp, makes the hair grow thick and lustrous.” She twisted the cap, took a sniff, and wrinkled her nose. Thank goodness David wasn’t inclined to use such stuff. Of course, Richardson seemed a bit vain about his appearance. She recalled the smoothly pomaded hair and the ornate gemstone cufflinks and signet ring.
She stuck it back where she found it.
Finally done with grading, she went over to shut the window. The sun had retreated behind the tree line, and long shadows stretched into the quadrangle.
Now that her mind was no longer occupied with student themes, she turned back to the puzzle of Symond’s death. Miss Phillips’s past association with him troubled her. What if Capshaw discovered the lady’s history? He would think it more than coincidence that the man was killed in the gallery.
Concordia wished she knew exactly what had happened between Miss Phillips and Isaiah Symond, so she could better judge if it was a valid concern now. What was the secret they shared? But Symond was dead, and the history professor was obviously not going to tell her anything more.
Perhaps Symond had left behind a personal journal or other correspondence that could provide a clue? Symond’s lawyer might know something. She would have to tread carefully, however, so as not to give Miss Phillips away.
She went over to the bottom desk drawer, took out the tonic bottle, and stared at it thoughtfully. It was a poor excuse to see Mr. Richardson, but it would have to do. With David staying late to oversee a laboratory experiment—one hoped there would be no explosions this time—she was left to her own devices for the evening.
She got Richardson’s address from Mr. Langdon’s secretary using only a mild half-truth. After all, it would have been absurd to admit she was returning a gentleman’s hair tonic.
Concordia headed for the trolley stop just beyond the campus grounds. Richardson lived not far from the Capshaws. Perhaps she’d have time to stop by to see Sophia. Could she wheedle information from her friend about the case?
Hope springs eternal, as they say.
Concordia waved to the gatekeeper on her way out.
“Yer not coming back after ten, are ya?” he called out.
“Don’t worry.” Bless the man, he kept forgetting she didn’t live on campus anymore. She could make her way home without traversing the school grounds, if need be. It was a longer walk, to be sure, but a locked gate didn’t affect her at all.
“Mrs. Bradley!” a young lady called. It was Madeline Farraday, hurrying to catch up. “Are you taking the trolley, too?”
“I’ll be glad for the company.” Concordia slowed her pace. “Have you been able to settle back into a routine?”
“I’m managing.”
Concordia waited, but no further answer was forthcoming. “How are things at the boarding house?”
“Fine, except for the mutton stew Mrs. Carr serves nearly every night.” She grimaced.
Concordia had a sudden idea. It would mean waiting until another time to see Richardson, but she was feeling ambivalent about using a grooming product as an excuse to talk to him anyway. She would much rather spend her free time with Sophia. “I’m going to visit friends. Would you like to join me there and stay for dinner?”
“You’re not going home to have dinner with your husband?”
Concordia explained David’s commitment and her sad lack of cookery.
Madeline smiled for the first time. “I didn’t think there was anything you couldn’t do. You seem so perfect.”
Concordia rolled her eyes. “I doubt you’d find a single soul to agree with you on that score.”
“Where are we going? Will they mind if I come along?”
The streetcar glided to a stop in front of them, and Concordia paid both their fares and secured their transfer tickets. “The Capshaws. I have a standing invitation there.”
Miss Farraday’s eyes widened. “Capshaw? The policeman? You’re friends with him?”
“Actually, I’m best friends with his wife, Sophia, and over the course of several years”—and several murders, but she didn’t offer that bit of information—“I’ve developed a friendship of sorts with the lieutenant, too.”
“Extraordinary.” Madeline hesitated. “This isn’t some sort of trap to get me to talk to him again, is it? He’s already interviewed me twice.”
“Miss Farraday!” Concordia exclaimed. “Do you really think I’d stoop to such subterfuge? It’s not at all conducive to one’s digestion.”
The girl chuckled. “I suppose not. You know”—she dropped her voice as more passengers boarded at the next stop—“he’s not such a bad sort. It’s just his job that’s disagreeable.”
Amen to that, Concordia thought.
“Won’t he—or his wife—find it odd that a former murder suspect is dining in their home? Doesn’t it break some sort of fraternization rule?”
Concordia snorted. “Not that I am aware.”
“I suppose the awkwardness is worth it, to avoid another night of mutton,” the girl declared.
Sophia, baby on her hip, answered the door herself. “Concordia! What a nice surprise. You’re staying for dinner, I hope?” Her gaze turned to Madeline. “And who is this?” She opened the door wider and welcomed them in as Concordia made the introductions.
If Sophia recognized the name—Concordia often wondered how much Capshaw shared of his cases at home—she didn’t let on. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Farraday. You must stay for dinner as well. We’re having”—Concordia could see Madeline holding her breath—“chicken pot pie.”
The girl exhaled. “Sounds wonderful.”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Tonner’s pastry is light as a feather. It will be a shame to lose her.”
“Lose her? Why?” Concordia asked.
“We’ve been training her to work for you.” Sophia shifted the restless infant to her shoulder and patted his back. “I’d say she needs another week or so and she’ll be ready. We’re expecting someone new to replace her by then.”
“That’s so kind,” Concordia said. “We’ll be glad to have her.” If Mrs. Tonner’s pastry was as good as Sophia claimed, she would have to spend much more time riding her bicycle to fit into her shirtwaists.
“Training her?” Madeline echoed. “I don’t think I understand.”
Sophia led them down the narrow hallway toward the parlor. Concordia noticed two pairs of black policemen’s boots, of two different sizes, aligned neatly beside the coat rack.
Soon, the ladies had settled themselves comfortably upon the overstuffed chairs grouped beside the fire.
“We don’t have the funds to hire experienced staff,” Sophia explained, “but I work at the settlement house, where women are in need of work experience in order to gain employment and support their children. Many have fled abusive husbands, you see. So, some of them work for us here. They learn additional skills, and we provide them with references when they’re ready.” She shifted the child again, who was fussing in earnest now.
“May I see him?” Madeline asked, reaching for the baby.
Sophia hesitated and glanced at Concordia, who nodded. “She’s had plenty of experience.”
Madeline took the infant. She cooed softly and held him belly-down across the crook of her arm as she rubbed his back and rocked him gently. He let out a loud burp and promptly nodded off, his cheek resting contentedly upon the girl’s forearm.
Sophia’s eyes widened. “You’ll have to teach me that.”
Madeline smiled.
“Is the lieutenant dining with us tonight?” Concordia asked.
“Yes. He’s talking with someone in the study. He should be finished soon.”
“Where’s Eli?” Last year, the Capshaws had formally adopted the orphaned boy, now fourteen years old.
“He’s apprenticing with a carpenter after school. He’ll be home late.” Sophia turned to Madeline. “Our house is riddled with all sorts of comings and goings.”
Madeline smiled. “All the more interesting, I’d say.”
Concordia stood. “I’d like to meet Mrs. Tonner, if it won’t disrupt her work.”
“That should be fine. She wants to meet you, too. You know the way to the kitchen.”
Once Concordia was in the hallway, however, she didn’t head for the kitchen but turned toward the corridor that led to the study. She was thinking about the second pair of policemen’s boots…Sergeant Maloney’s, perhaps? If so, she’d dearly love to hear what he and Capshaw were discussing.
She stopped short. Her objective, the door of the study, was still several yards down the hall. However, a difficulty presented itself. Oh, not in terms of any sort of ethical quandary—she’d made peace with herself long ago about listening at doors, though she wasn’t sure if David had. Of course, he didn’t have to know.
The real difficulty was how to approach the keyhole without getting caught. She was about to sneak up on two very perceptive policemen while traversing creaky floorboards. She bit her lip and looked around.
Ah. The door immediately at hand led into the sitting room. She remembered from previous visits that it shared a fireplace with the study just beyond. If the flue was open, she should be able to hear.
She turned the knob. It opened easily—God bless the woman Sophia was training—and she slipped inside.
The sitting room had no fire at the moment, so she was able to crouch right beside the opening, taking care to keep her skirts from catching upon the andirons. She quieted her breath as she cocked her head to listen.
“—didn’t really expect there to be anything suspicious in Richardson’s safe.”
Though the flue lent a muffled-yet-echoed quality, she knew the voice was Capshaw’s.
After a brief moment of silence, he went on. “So—this is everything from Symond’s desk?”
“Yes, sir.” That voice had a brusque, rough-at-the-edges tone. Definitely Maloney. “Didn’ really look it over carefully. Just made sure that was all of it. Wi’ him being a rich guy, I figured it’d be better for you to go through it. ’Sides, that lawyer was looking over my shoulder the whole time, as if ’xpecting I’d make off with something.”
Concordia would dearly love to see the contents of Symond’s desk for herself. Could Miss Pomeroy’s cat statuette be among the items?
She heard Capshaw chuckle. “Richardson’s a protective one. His alibi check out?”
“As much as any o’ them do. Says he got back home ’bout midnight, then went t’bed. His manservant backs him up.”
Capshaw growled. “I wish the doc could give us a better time frame for Symond’s death. Between eleven and one in the morning doesn’t help us much.”
“Anything else, sir?”
She heard Capshaw sigh. “That’s it for now. Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll go through it all later. I’m sure you’re wanting to get home to your supper.”
Concordia barely heard the last words as she got to her feet.
Drat! The contents of her reticule spilled out on the rug. She groped quickly in the dark for the items, jammed them back in, and quietly skittered to the door.
All was clear. She blew out a breath. After closing the door behind her, she hurried to the kitchen to make the acquaintance of her soon-to-be servant.
A short woman of slight build was vigorously mashing potatoes, her back to the door. Pale strands of hair escaped her topknot. She was wearing one of Sophia’s checked aprons, which on her diminutive frame nearly touched the floor.
This was Mrs. Tonner? She looked not much older than a child.
Concordia cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”
With a stifled shriek, the woman spun around, masher tool raised above her shoulder in a defensive posture. A blob of potato barely missed her and dropped on the counter.
“Oh dear, I am sorry,” Concordia said, as the woman’s shoulders relaxed and she set down her tool. “Are you Mrs. Tonner?”
“Most folks jes’ call me Trixie.” She wiped her hands on her apron.
Upon closer inspection, Concordia could see faded remnants of a bruise above her cheekbone. “I’m Mrs. Bradley.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! So you’re the lady—” She gave an awkward bob. “Pleas’d to meet you, ma’am.” She reached up with slender, work-roughened fingers to self-consciously smooth the hair from her forehead. “I’m happy to be coming to service for you and your husband.”
“As are we.” Concordia smiled. After a glance at the pot bubbling on the stove, she added, “We’ll have plenty of time later to become better acquainted. I’ll let you get back to your work.”
She gave another bob. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Capshaw was already in the parlor chatting with his wife and Madeline when Concordia returned. He stood politely, but she waved him back into his seat. “Thank you for having us on short notice.”
“You’re welcome, any time.” He gestured toward Madeline, still holding the sleeping baby. “And you as well, young lady.”
Sophia smiled as she regarded her infant son. “Indeed, I’m often looking for company, with Aaron’s long hours away from the house. And I imagine meals other than boarding house fare would be welcome.”
Madeline blushed. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Oh, do call me Sophia. Everyone else does.”
Madeline smiled her thanks.
“Sophia tells me you met Mrs. Tonner.” Capshaw stretched his feet toward the fire. “What do you think of her?”
“We didn’t talk long, as she had both burners going at once,” Concordia said. “I’d say she seems capable. But she looks quite…young.”
“She’s older than she appears,” Sophia said. “Twenty-three.”
Madeline brightened. “Ah, we’re the same age. She must have married quite young. Is she widowed?”
“Not exactly,” Capshaw said.
Concordia waited for more. When none was forthcoming, she said, “She’s rather skittish. Jumped a mile and waved a potato masher at me before she recollected herself.”
Madeline’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Sophia and Capshaw exchanged a look.
Concordia shifted impatiently. “Would either of you care to tell me more about this woman? David and I deserve to know whether our future maid will make a habit of brandishing kitchen implements, should we catch her unawares.” Heaven only knew how she would react to the cat darting across her path.
“Trixie showed up at the settlement house one day,” Sophia said, “with a black eye and a sprained wrist, courtesy of her husband. By her account, he’s always had a temper. That particular time, he was angry that dinner wasn’t on the table as soon as he wanted it. Her tale, sadly, is not uncommon. We tended to her injuries and took her in.”
“Are there any children?” Concordia asked.
“No,” Sophia said. “The marriage is a recent one.”
“What happened to her husband?” Madeline asked.
Capshaw’s jaw tensed. “Tonner came looking for his wife at the settlement house, tried to drag her out by the hair. Sophia ran for help. Tonner got one good shot at the patrolman before he was subdued. Now he’s cooling his heels in jail.”
No wonder the poor woman flinched. While Concordia admired Trixie’s pluck to defend herself so avidly, she hoped the reflex would soon abate.
Everyone had second helpings of the pot pie and lingered over coffee after dinner. Concordia was surprised it was such a congenial gathering, as the addition of Madeline Farraday could have made things awkward. But the Capshaws’ ready hospitality had put the girl at her ease. When she showed particular interest in Hartford Settlement House, Sophia, of course, was more than happy to talk about a project that had been her passion for the past ten years.
“The need is greater than ever before, as the city’s population continues to grow,” Sophia said, dropping a lump of sugar in her coffee. “We want to expand the school program for the primary grades, but we first need funds for a new building.”
Madeline leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. “Our economics class is going to visit your institution next week. I hope we can see what you already have in place.” She waved a hand toward Concordia. “In fact, Mrs. Bradley is to be one of our chaperones on the trip.”
Capshaw raised an eyebrow. “One would think the Atheneum a better choice for a class excursion.”
“Our professor thinks it’s an excellent opportunity to learn about the funding of a charitable organization and the day-to-day use of its money,” Madeline explained. “And we’ve been sewing clothes and stuffed animals to give to the children.”
Sophia smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you all.”
Concordia stood and set aside her napkin. “If you will excuse me a moment.”
Capshaw stood politely, then re-seated himself as she left the room.
She didn’t have much time. She hurried into the study and closed the door behind her.
Sitting atop Capshaw’s desk was a large box. That had to be it. With one last glance over her shoulder, she started rummaging through it. If Symond kept the statuette displayed on his desk, it would be here.
Yes—there it was, tucked near the bottom, among papers, writing implements, keys, and a letter opener.
She examined the black stone figurine, a slim cat that sat regally upon a small, throne-like block with hieroglyphic writing etched into its base. At a scarce six inches, it should fit in her pocket….
She blew out a breath. Was she really going to take it away with her?
But it wasn’t evidence. And it was only fair that Miss Phillips should have it back, as it should never have been extorted from her in the first place. The only thing lost by its removal was proof of Isaiah Symond’s mean, petty nature.
Even so, Capshaw would be furious with her if he found out. She shivered.
Well, then, he wasn’t going to find out.
She tucked it in her pocket and made sure the box was exactly back in its place.