Spring Recess
April 1898
Concordia spent the rest of the college recess at her mother’s house. She helped Mother shop for her upcoming trip, browsing through the latest dinner dresses suitable for a steamer voyage. In addition, they toured the current exhibit at the Atheneum and enjoyed a quartet performing in Keney Park.
Alas, not all of their activities were congenial. Several women of Mrs. Wells’ social circle, learning Concordia was here for a visit, stopped by for tea.
Most were well-meaning elderly ladies, indulging idle curiosity about their friend’s spinster daughter who worked for a living. A lady professor was a novelty.
The cattier among Mother’s acquaintances, however, were less well-intentioned, having come to pry and jibe, preening the feathers of their self-importance in the process.
Mrs. Griffiths was one of these. The triple-chinned matron was both firmly corseted and firmly fixed in her opinions of this woeful world.
“So, my dear, you are still teaching at that...girls’ school?” Mrs. Griffiths inquired politely. Her eyes glittered with barely-disguised disapproval as she finished off her scone.
“It’s a women’s college, and yes, I am,” Concordia answered.
“How disappointing for you, Letitia,” the woman said, looking to Mrs. Wells, her voice dripping in false sympathy. “No doubt you expected your daughter to have married and produced grandchildren to console you in your old age.” She made a clucking noise, which unsuccessfully masked the alarming creaking sound of her corset’s elastic-and-coraline boning as she leaned forward to pluck the last cucumber sandwich from the tray. The woman hadn’t popped a seam yet, but Concordia was waiting for the day.
“Not much chance of that, now—she’s not getting any younger,” Mrs. Griffiths continued. “A pity, too. We need a larger population of our own kind, lest we be overrun by the foreigners in our city. They are breeding with abandon!” She fixed both women with a glare.
Mrs. Griffiths was in fine form today, Concordia observed. The woman’s remarks had the effect of buckshot, hitting the widest possible radius wherever it was pointed. She had belittled Concordia’s profession, relegated her to empty-wombed spinsterhood, placed Mrs. Wells firmly in her dotage, and had disparaged the entire immigrant population of Hartford, all within five minutes. It was enough to make one want to jump into the Connecticut River, pockets bulging with rocks.
Judging from the pained look on her mother’s face, Concordia knew she was dying to tell Mrs. Griffiths more about the current state of her daughter’s love life.
“Well, Agatha, actually—” Mrs. Wells began.
“Mother, would you mind ringing for more of Mrs. Houston’s excellent cucumber sandwiches?” Concordia interrupted, passing her the empty plate and giving her a warning look.
Mrs. Wells gave her a sheepish smile and rang the bell.
After Mrs. Griffiths left and they were recovering from the experience, Concordia asked her mother about the lady. “That woman has gotten more churlish with age. Why do you put up with her harpy ways?”
Mrs. Wells made a face. “I had been letting the acquaintance lapse, but she’s a fixture among Robert’s social set, so there’s really no avoiding her. Ever since my involvement with this charity project, I’ve been obliged to humor the woman.”
“You mean she has donated money for Irish orphans?” Concordia asked incredulously.
“I pointed out that they needn’t emigrate here if they weren’t starving over there.” Her mother smiled.
“Ah, nicely done,” Concordia murmured.
“Speaking of the Irish Aid Society,” Mrs. Wells added, “we are holding a charity luncheon tomorrow. I was hoping you could join us. You already know several of the attendees: the Dunwicks, the Isleys, Mr. Maynard, and Miss Pomeroy.”
“I didn’t realize the plight of Irish orphans was such a popular cause,” Concordia said. But it did sound promising; many of the same people who had attended the Isley dinner party would be at the luncheon. Perhaps she could learn something more to tell Miss Hamilton when she returned. Concordia sent up a silent prayer, hoping Miss Hamilton was close to finding Eli. There had been no word from her yet.
Letitia Wells smiled. “Ever since the announcement that Candidate Sanders will be our guest speaker, we have doubled our ticket sales for the event. So you’ll come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Concordia said.
The benefit luncheon had been moved to the Yacht Club to accommodate the larger crowd, and they rode there in Mr. Flynn’s carriage.
“Begor, you look absolutely lovely, Letitia,” Flynn said with a smile. “I’ll have a time of it, with other fellows trying to get a look-in.” He turned to Concordia. “And how nice ’tis to see your charming daughter. You two could be sisters, you both look so young.”
Concordia’s stifled snort came out as a cough. They didn’t look anything alike, and neither of them were what one would call “young” any more. What was the word used to refer to an Irishman’s false flattery—blarney? Most definitely.
As they pulled up to the building, Concordia stared at the structure, appreciating the grandeur of the marble pillars—adorned with banners of the club’s colors—flanking the wide steps and reaching to the vaulted windows of the building’s mezzanine level. “Impressive,” she murmured to her mother, as Mr. Flynn helped each of them out of the vehicle.
“The interior is equally remarkable,” Mrs. Wells said. “We were fortunate to get this venue at the last minute. Thank heaven the regatta season has not yet started.”
The dining hall was tastefully decked out for the event. Concordia had expected a nautical theme—seashells, rope nets, semaphore flags and the like—but was pleased to see crisp white linens, swathes of pale green tulle, and generous vases of bright spring blooms adorning each table. Not a seashell or barnacle in sight.
Mrs. Wells had arranged for Concordia to be seated with Miss Pomeroy and Randolph Maynard, although the rest of her table companions were unfamiliar to her. She attempted a cordial exchange with Dean Maynard, but he merely grunted and turned to the man on his left.
“Excuse me, miss—you dropped this,” said a familiar voice.
Startled, Concordia turned to see Ben Rosen at her elbow, holding out a slip of paper. Yes, of course: he must be here to do a story on the event. The newspaperman gave her a quick wink and left it on her saucer. She watched him walk over to Mr. Sanders and Mr. Flynn, pulling out his notebook and pencil stub from the rim of his bowler.
Miss Pomeroy looked at her curiously. “I didn’t notice you drop anything.”
Concordia glanced quickly at the scrap before putting it in her purse. “I’m always dropping something,” she said with a sheepish laugh.
Gertrude Pomeroy nodded sympathetically as she pushed her spectacles back into place. “So am I, dear.”
But all through the salad and entree courses, as Concordia made small talk with the lady principal, she kept thinking about Rosen’s note.
Have urgent information. Can’t reach Miss H. Watch for my signal and meet me at the gardener’s shed.
Perhaps he’d learned something about the Inner Circle? She chafed at the wait.
The luncheon drew a varied gathering: society ladies, the usual philanthropic well-to-do families…and politicians. Always politicians. Even Mr. Sanders’ opponent, Mr. Quint, attended the function, though he was a bit late. Concordia saw both Flynn and Isley glare at the man when he came in. Quint hesitated, glancing uncertainly their way before being seated. The plight of Irish orphans must be close to the man’s heart for him to risk straying into Sanders’ territory, Concordia thought.
After the main course came the speeches: from her mother, thanking the volunteers and attendees, from Mr. Sanders, speaking of the privilege of service to others, and from Mr. Flynn, talking about the desperate plight of orphaned children back in his homeland. Listening to Flynn, in his lilting Irish brogue, she felt as if she were really there, breathing in the smoky peat fires, feeling the sharp hunger pangs of the children. She was embarrassed to find that her eyes prickled with tears.
Concordia sniffed into her handkerchief and observed the Isleys, who sat next to her mother at the head table. Both were absorbed in the speech: Lily, mouth parted in a half-smile, hand stroking her water glass; Barton leaning forward, chin resting thoughtfully on his palm. If Flynn could coax money out of Isley, his charm knew no bounds.
After a round of enthusiastic applause, it was time for a break before the dessert course, giving guests the opportunity to mingle and perhaps put money in the ribbon-wrapped pails distributed throughout the room. Flynn got up to circulate among the crowd.
Concordia made her way over to congratulate her mother. “You spoke beautifully.”
“Indeed.” Lady Dunwick was at her elbow. She extended a gloved hand. “Letitia, such a lovely function. It looks to be a rousing success.”
Mrs. Wells blushed.
Lady Dunwick turned to Concordia. “I want to thank you for recommending my niece to your lady principal. Charlotte starts at the college next week.”
“It was my pleasure,” Concordia said. It would be nice to see Charlotte Crandall again.
Lady Dunwick patted her on the arm. “If you should ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.”
“Thank you.” Concordia said, catching sight of Rosen across the room. The man raised his bowler hat in her direction before stepping outside.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said to her mother, “I think I’ll get a little fresh air before the dessert course.”
Mother, engrossed now in conversation with Sir Anthony, gave barely a nod as Concordia headed for the exit.
But fresh air was not easily come by, as the press of people made navigating the room exceedingly difficult. She found herself dodging tables, chairs, waiters clearing plates, and elderly patrons who moved at a snail’s pace. As she tried to squeeze past one lady in an enormous floral hat, Concordia’s parasol caught on a table skirt. The tea service came along with it and crashed to the floor.
Mercy, why was she carrying this blasted thing anyway?
“I-I am s-so sorry,” Concordia stammered. A waiter hurried to clear the mess with a resigned sigh.
By the time Concordia reached an exit, it had been several minutes since she’d seen Mr. Rosen. She hoped they would have time to talk before she was missed.
Now to find the shed. She followed the gravel path to the arbor, looking around. On such a temperate day, many others were out as well, strolling along the paths or seated on benches, admiring the sweep of tulip beds.
Where was the shed?
Stepping off the path, Concordia found it a few minutes later, tucked behind a lattice fence. She glanced quickly behind her before going through the gate. It would not do to be seen alone in such a secluded spot, as if she were keeping a lovers’ tryst.
“Mr. Rosen?” she murmured into the gloom. Silence.
The shed door was already open, and she pulled it wider. She smothered a yelp as she stumbled over a shovel in the dim light. Then she noticed something dark at her feet. Mr. Rosen’s bowler.
She picked up the hat and brushed it off. She had a bad feeling about this. “Mr. Rosen?” she called a little louder, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. She raised her parasol handle, ready to swing it if need be.
Then she saw him, slumped over a wheelbarrow. “Mr. Rosen!”
The man was unconscious, the back of his head encrusted with dirt and blood. Concordia tentatively leaned closer. He was still breathing, but barely.
“Stay calm,” Concordia said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’m going for help.”
She turned toward the door just as a very tall shadow crossed through it. She squeaked in fright.
“What in blazes is going on here?” demanded a voice.
Concordia’s knees went weak with relief as she recognized it. “Mr. Maynard, thank goodness. It’s Mr. Rosen. It looks as if he’s been attacked.”
Maynard crossed into the light of the shed’s window. He gave a snort. “Come now, Miss Wells, let us not be overly dramatic.” He went over to Rosen and felt his pulse. “He’s still alive. It was most likely an accident, but just in case—we cannot put our young lady professors in danger from marauders—I’ll stay with him while you go get help. Doctor Ruggers is at table six; bring him back with you. But for heaven’s sake, be discreet about it. There are nearly two hundred guests. We don’t need a panic—or a scandal.” His jaw clenched. “Later, you can tell me what one of our respectable teachers was doing in a secluded shed with a newspaper reporter. Go!”
Concordia ran.
By the time Concordia returned with the doctor, Maynard had shifted Rosen to a prone position on the dirt floor, carefully supporting the man’s head with his rolled-up jacket. The doctor set his bag down and crouched as best as he could within the cramped confines of the shed.
He looked up at Concordia. “When did this happen?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I saw him walking this way not more than half an hour ago.”
“Should we summon an ambulance?” Maynard asked.
After a careful examination, the doctor shook his head and put his instruments back in the bag. “His skull is fractured. There was nothing more we could have done.”
“Was?” Concordia repeated.
“The man is dead.” The doctor stood and brushed off the dirt from his knees. “Have you called the police? This was no accident.”
Maynard gave Concordia a startled glance. Concordia nodded, though the sight of the dead newspaperman chilled her. The gardener would never leave a shovel lying upon the ground to be tripped over, and it was too much of a coincidence that Rosen had been anxious to pass along information to her but now could not.
Rosen, who had winked at her just an hour before. She swallowed.
It was the Inner Circle. She was sure of it.
In the gloom of the shed, she gripped the door and took a slow breath to steady her knees.
The perceptive doctor was quick to support her elbow. “Here, miss,” he said kindly, leading her over to a stone bench beyond the gate. “You rest here. We’ll take care of everything, although I suppose the police will want to ask you a question or two. Try not to worry.”
Concordia made no protest, but sank onto the bench. The cool stone felt like the only solid thing she had to cling to.
The next hour was a flurry of people coming and going; the gardener and building custodian, to watch over the body until the police arrived; Maynard and the doctor, bringing Flynn back with them; uniformed policemen, talking with the men and giving Concordia an occasional curious glance; stretcher-bearers, to remove the now-shrouded form. Concordia watched it all with a sense of detachment, as if a play-acting scene were going on. How odd, this sensation of feeling nothing.
Concordia had hoped that Lieutenant Capshaw would come, but a different policeman arrived. He was a short, thin man, with a youth’s complexion and a hesitant manner, dressed in a uniform that seemed two sizes too large for him.
He approached her.
“You are Miss Wells?” he asked, his Adams’ apple bobbing along his throat.
Concordia nodded.
“Sergeant O’Neil, miss. I need to ask you a few questions.” He paused. “Can I get you some water? You look pale.”
She shook her head.
“How did you know Mr. Rosen?”
“He was a newspaper reporter, and frequently came to our school functions to cover events for the Courant.”
“Your school, miss?” the man asked in confusion.
“Hartford Women’s College. I teach there.”
“I see.” He scribbled a note and then observed her more carefully. “I never met a college lady before.”
As there didn’t seem any good answer to that, Concordia stayed silent. The man was obviously young. Why hadn’t they sent someone with more experience to investigate a murder?
“And what brought you to the shed, Miss Wells?”
Concordia had been dreading the question ever since she saw O’Neil. If it had been Capshaw in charge, she would be eager to share everything she knew. But she remembered her conversation with Miss Hamilton:
If the Black Scroll membership includes men in law enforcement, could it be behind the removal of Capshaw from Florence’s murder investigation?
A disturbing thought, is it not?
Most disturbing.
Concordia folded her hands primly in her lap. “The luncheon was crowded, and the air stifling, so I decided to take a walk on the grounds before the dessert course.”
O’Neil made a note on his pad. He gestured to the main gravel path up the slope behind them. “But as you can see, the shed is out of the way. What brought you here?”
“I was standing at the end of the path,” Concordia said, pointing behind her. She hated the lie, but had better do a good job of it. Safer not to trust this man, at least until she could speak with Capshaw. “I thought I heard something. Like a moan,” she added, for dramatic effect.
This earned her a sharp look from the doctor, who was standing within earshot. Concordia flushed. She wondered if Mr. Rosen had been in no condition to moan. Perhaps embellishment wasn’t a good idea.
“So you know of no reason why Mr. Rosen would have been in the gardener’s shed?” Sergeant O’Neil persisted.
Concordia shook her head and leaned heavily on her parasol, a perfect vision of feminine distress. “I have no idea. Will that be all, sergeant? I’m feeling light-headed. I think I need to lie down.”
There was one thing to be said for having an attack of the vapors: everyone left you alone to recover from it. Of course, the smelling salts that Mrs. Houston insisted upon waving under Concordia’s nose when they first returned to the house weren’t all that pleasant, but at least now Concordia had the solitude to think about her next step.
She paced the confines of her childhood bedroom. What had Rosen wanted to tell her? It was obviously connected to the Black Scroll; that’s what she and Miss Hamilton had asked him to look into. Presumably that was why he was murdered.
Then she had a chilling thought. If Rosen was killed to ensure his silence, that meant the killer knew of Concordia’s involvement. And perhaps Miss Hamilton’s as well.
She must talk to Capshaw, right away. He might know where to locate Miss Hamilton so they could warn her. And perhaps he would know what they should do next.
She glanced at the little clock on the desk. Almost dinner. Concordia changed quickly and went downstairs.
Concordia’s mother and Robert Flynn, who was joining them for the evening, were waiting in the parlor for Mrs. Houston to announce dinner.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Mrs. Wells asked anxiously. Flynn had stood politely as Concordia entered the room, but she waved him back to his chair and sat down herself.
“Much better.” Concordia looked over at Flynn, ever elegant in his stiff white shirt and black worsted evening tails. “I know I was originally planning to accompany you to the musical entertainment at Mrs. Griffiths’ this evening, but would you mind going without me?”
“Never fear, we’ll make your excuses to the lady,” Robert Flynn assured her. “’Tis a dreadful experience you’ve had.”
Mrs. Wells shuddered. “I cannot believe this has happened. Who would want to kill this...newspaperman? And at our luncheon, too.”
Flynn patted her hand. “I’ll allow ’tis a dreadful thing, but thank the stars we managed to keep the guests out of it. Except for the doctor, and he’s as discreet a fellow as ever stood in shoe leather. It’s unlikely to be a prominent story when the guests learn of it later, I imagine.”
Concordia suppressed a sigh. The newspaperman would have been quite upset to know that his own murder wasn’t considered a “prominent story.”
“I imagine a quiet evening at home is just what you need,” Mrs. Wells said to Concordia.
“Actually, I had hoped to visit Sophia,” Concordia said. “Would you mind dropping me off there on your way to the Griffiths’ function?”
Mrs. Wells’ face brightened. “Sophia? I haven’t seen her since the wedding. Oh, I would love to visit with her, even if it’s only for a little while.” She turned to Flynn. “Would you mind if we left a little early, and stopped briefly at the Capshaws? I’m sure we could be at Agatha’s in time for the quartet.”
“It’s equal to me,” Flynn said with a shrug. “A policeman’s house, eh?” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Should be interesting.”
Mrs. Wells turned to Concordia. “But how will you get home? We’ll be out quite late.”
“I’m sure I can stay the night. Then I can walk back or take the trolley tomorrow morning. It’s not that far,” Concordia said. “I’ll send a note ’round to her, just to make sure.”
The evening ride from the Wells’ home in Frog Hollow to the Capshaws in the Clay Hill neighborhood was mercifully free of traffic, and they made quick time. Flynn told the driver to wait nearby. “Look lively, lad, and don’t go far. We’ll be no more’n thirty minutes.”
Sadie opened the door and took their wraps. “The missus is in the parlor,” she said, leading the way.
Robert Flynn’s eyebrow quirked as his eyes swept over the cracks in the plaster walls and the scuffs in the wood floor. Concordia gritted her teeth when she caught Flynn giving her mother an amused smile, to which Mrs. Wells paid no attention.
“Sophia!” Mrs. Wells exclaimed, when they entered the parlor. She clasped the young woman’s hands warmly. “You look wonderful. I knew marriage would agree with you.”
Indeed, Concordia noted in surprise, Sophia seemed lighter and happier today, as she smiled and exchanged greetings with Concordia’s mother and Mr. Flynn.
“Aaron will be back in a few minutes. Please, be comfortable,” Sophia said. She turned back to Mrs. Wells and Mr. Flynn. “Would you excuse us for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, Sophia grabbed Concordia by the elbow and nearly dragged her from the room.
“What is it?” Concordia whispered, when they were in the hall and Sophia had closed the parlor door behind them.
Sophia was hopping up and down in her excitement. “Eli has been found! He’s coming home.”
Concordia put a hand to her mouth. Thank heaven. “How is he? Did Miss Hamilton tell you what happened?”
Sophia shook her head. “It was a short telegram. She merely said that he’s recovering from injuries, but he’ll be fine.”
Injuries.
Concordia felt a little sick. Had the boy been in a strange hospital all this time? It was agonizing that Miss Hamilton hadn’t revealed more. No doubt it was all she could do to send them word.
Sophia must have read Concordia’s expression, because she reached out and squeezed her hand. “She said he’ll be fine,” she reminded her.
“When are they coming?” Concordia asked.
“I’m not sure. She said she would find the fastest conveyance possible. Now we wait.”
“Once mother and Mr. Flynn leave, there’s something urgent I need to talk with you and Cap—Aaron about,” Concordia said.
Sophia raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but stopped short when the front door opened. Capshaw walked in, followed by…David Bradley?
“Fortunately, Mrs. Gilley’s shop was open late,” Capshaw said, holding out a string-wrapped box. He grinned. “I got your favorite, Concordia—lemon tarts.” He gestured to David. “Look who I met on the walk back. I’ve just caught him up on our news.”
David nodded. “I was returning from a lecture, and realized I’ve been remiss in visiting you two since your marriage. And now, we have a great deal to celebrate, don’t we?” He eyed Concordia warmly. “Plenty of good news to go around.”
Capshaw gave her a quizzical look, but Concordia pretended not to notice.
At least David had recovered his good humor. There was no trace of his pique from last week’s encounter with Mr. Rosen in front of DeLacey House. But land sakes, how was she going to tell David about Rosen’s murder? How would he react when he learned that she’d been the one to find the dying man?
“We’d better go in to our guests,” Sophia said.
“Yes, let’s,” Concordia said, putting on a smile. “They cannot stay long.”
The group settled in over dessert. The talk turned to police work, in which Flynn took a great interest. Capshaw regaled them with outlandish stories of foolhardy criminals.
“The devil, you say!” Flynn exclaimed, at one point in Capshaw’s narrative. “The thief cooked a steak for himself and ate it, before taking the jewels? Egad, the cheek of the man!”
Capshaw grinned.
“More coffee?” Sophia offered, holding up the pot.
A rueful smile tugged at Flynn’s mouth as he pulled out his watch. “A pity it is to break up such a gathering, but we will be late if we don’t leave soon.”
“Oh my, yes!” Mrs. Wells exclaimed.
The doorbell rang at that moment, and Concordia caught a glimpse of Sadie hurrying to get it.
When Concordia saw who was at the door, she unabashedly stood up and craned her neck for a better look.
Miss Hamilton.
The next few minutes were an awkward jumble: the Capshaws rushing to the hall, heedless of their guests, with Concordia close at their heels. David, Letitia Wells, and Robert Flynn made polite, awkward talk as they waited.
And wondered.
Soon Concordia returned to the parlor, her expression a mixture of apology and pure happiness.
“Sophia asked me to extend her regrets for the disruption,” she said, “but her husband has police business he must attend to. Sophia and I are needed as well.”
David stood beside Concordia. “I’d be happy to stay and wait for you.” He dropped his voice. “I behaved quite foolishly last week. I wanted to apologize.”
Concordia smiled. “Yes, please stay. Perhaps we can talk more when you take me home later.” Now was not the time or place to discuss postponing their engagement. She didn’t know how she was going to broach that subject.
Sadie came down the hallway. “Mr. Flynn’s carriage is waiting.”
Flynn got to his feet and helped Mrs. Wells out of her chair. “’Tis past time we were leaving.”
Letitia Wells gave Concordia a worried glance. “Are the Capshaws all right?”
Concordia smiled. “Actually, it’s good news. I’ll explain tomorrow.”
Mrs. Wells nodded in relief and followed Flynn into the hallway, where he retrieved his hat and walking stick from the coat rack. Concordia heard him mutter “’Twould be a shame if we’ve missed the contralto,” to her mother, as he draped her shawl over her shoulders. He glanced through the open door of the study and paused, taking in the sight of the group seated by the fire: Miss Hamilton, Capshaw, and Sophia, with a very grimy Eli fast asleep in her lap.
“Robert? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Wells asked, following his frozen stare.
He flushed an angry red, gesturing toward the group in the study. “This is the police business for which we were kept waiting?” His voice was a low growl. “Who the devil are they?”
Mrs. Wells, mouth set in a grim line Concordia knew all too well from childhood, stalked out the front door to the waiting carriage without a backward look at her rude companion. Robert Flynn hurried to catch up with her as quickly as his dignity would allow.
Concordia didn’t envy Flynn the talking-to her mother would no doubt give him. And it was exactly what he deserved. Apparently the man wasn’t all charm; he obviously had a temper, along with an exaggerated sense of his own importance.
Concordia shook her head and joined the others in the study, where Sadie had set out some more tea and pastries for the guests.
Penelope Hamilton looked up. Concordia could see the exhaustion evident in the lady’s puffy, shadowed eyes, her creased brow and pale lips. “I regret our arrival made things awkward. Eli couldn’t bear to be away a minute longer. I hired a driver to bring us directly here, rather than travel by tomorrow’s train.”
Concordia regarded the sleeping boy in Sophia’s lap, a strand of dark curly hair obscuring part of his pale cheek. She would have done the same.
“I read the evening paper on the way here,” Miss Hamilton went on, with a sharp glance at Concordia. “I understand you dealt with a disturbing event today.”
Concordia sat down beside Sophia with a sigh. “Most disturbing.”
“I haven’t seen this evening’s paper. What’s happened?” David asked.
“Mother’s charity luncheon at the Yacht Club took a nasty turn.” Concordia turned to Capshaw. “That’s why I came to see you tonight, but we haven’t had a chance to talk. Mr. Rosen...is dead.”
“Rosen. The reporter from the Courant?” Capshaw asked. “How are you involved?” He gave her that look Concordia knew so well: You college ladies... always finding trouble.
Concordia clenched her hands together. “I found him in the gardener’s shed. He’d been hit over the head with a shovel.”
David drew in a sharp breath and looked in her direction, but Concordia wouldn’t return his glance. He no doubt wondered if the newspaperman’s murder was connected to their meeting at DeLacey House. She didn’t want to argue with him now about the perils of getting involved in a murder investigation. Although there was no avoiding that discussion later, she was sure.
“I’d heard there was a disturbance at the Yacht Club,” Capshaw said, “but I was on my way out of the station and had no time to learn the details.” He shook his head. “Had you gone searching for him? It’s a wonder you weren’t killed, too.”
Concordia bristled and started to speak, but Miss Hamilton interrupted. “Rosen was looking into the Black Scroll, specifically the Inner Circle. You remember the conversation I told you Concordia had overheard at the Isley party? Since we weren’t able to learn more about the group, we asked the reporter to make discreet inquiries. Certainly, we didn’t anticipate this.”
Sophia sucked in a quick breath as she glanced at Capshaw. “That was the group you told me about? The one who might be involved in you being taken off the case.”
Capshaw nodded, tight-lipped.
Miss Hamilton turned to Concordia. “Tell us what happened. From the beginning.”
Concordia dug into her skirt pocket and pulled out Rosen’s note. “He gave me this as the luncheon guests were being seated.”
Capshaw gave it a quick glance before passing it to Miss Hamilton. “And you have no idea what he was going to tell you?”
Concordia shook her head. “There were too many people likely to overhear. He didn’t dare say anything at the time.” She proceeded to describe Rosen’s signal, her delay in being able to get out of the room, finding Rosen in the shed, barely alive, then Maynard coming upon them.
“Wait a moment,” Capshaw said. “How did Randolph Maynard come to be on the scene? You said the gardener’s shed was off the path. What was he doing there?”
Concordia sat back in surprise. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I didn’t think of that before. I was simply grateful for the assistance. I didn’t want to leave Mr. Rosen alone in order to fetch help, and the dean offered to stay with him. He made him more comfortable while I ran to get one of the guests—a doctor.”
Capshaw and Miss Hamilton exchanged a glance.
“What is it?” Concordia asked.
“It seems suspicious,” Capshaw said.
“You mean, Maynard could be the murderer?” Concordia asked. “But why return to the shed? Wouldn’t he want to be as far from there as possible, for that very reason?”
Miss Hamilton leaned forward. “If Maynard is the murderer, he might have returned to make sure that Rosen was truly dead—” Concordia winced “—or perhaps he feared he had dropped something incriminating at the scene and had gone back to retrieve it.”
“And going with that assumption for a moment,” Capshaw added, “you leaving him alone with his victim would give him ample opportunity to scour the area.”
Concordia hesitated. “The dean was sitting right next to me when Mr. Rosen slipped me the note,” she said reluctantly.
“If Maynard were a Black Scroll member and realized the reporter knew something damaging, he could have decided to silence him,” Miss Hamilton said. “Perhaps Rosen wasn’t quite so cautious in his inquiries.”
“But our dean?” Concordia said incredulously. As disagreeable as Maynard was, could he really be a cold-blooded killer? He had seemed more concerned with the propriety of Concordia meeting a man alone in a remote shed.
“Now what do we do?” Concordia asked.
“Who’s assigned the case?” Capshaw asked her.
“A man named O’Neil.”
Capshaw grimaced. “The sergeant is diligent enough, though inexperienced. Did you tell O’Neil about the note, and the reason why you had gone looking for Rosen?”
Concordia shifted in her seat and glanced at Miss Hamilton. “I thought it was better to leave out that part.”
Capshaw rolled his eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said grimly. “If someone killed Rosen to keep him from telling you what he knew, then you—and possibly Miss Hamilton—are known to be involved. Do you think whoever it is will scruple to kill another woman? We’ve discussed this before, miss. Leave the detecting to the professionals.”
“You must concede, Lieutenant,” Miss Hamilton said, coming to Concordia’s defense, “that we don’t know whom to trust in your department. Your removal from the Willoughby murder investigation does not inspire confidence in that regard. I believe Concordia’s caution was warranted. We don’t know anything about this man O’Neil, or what his superiors may request of him.” She gave Capshaw a stern look. “When this case is done, your department will have some unpleasant housekeeping to do.”
Capshaw scowled. “If our chief did indeed allow a group such as the Black Scroll to obstruct an investigation, he would have much to answer for.”
“Has your replacement made any progress in Florence Willoughby’s murder?” Concordia asked.
Capshaw’s jaw tightened. “Not what I would call ‘progress.’ The attack on the woman has been ascribed to the actions of an unstable individual. With no additional garroted victims since then, it is thought that the killer left the area and the danger to the public has passed. I don’t believe that for a moment, of course, but my opinion was not considered,” he added bitterly.
“So the case is still open, but inactive?” Miss Hamilton asked.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Rosen was not garroted,” Concordia said. “How do we know his death is connected to Florence Willoughby’s murder?”
“We don’t,” Miss Hamilton said reluctantly. “We must learn what Rosen wanted to tell you. It wouldn’t hurt to look into Maynard’s activities as well.”
Eli murmured in his sleep, and all eyes turned to the boy.
“At least Eli is safe,” Concordia said. It was the best news she’d had all day. “What happened?” She pointed to the crutch propped next to the divan.
“The boy was grievously injured after his release from jail,” Miss Hamilton said. She turned to Sophia. “You’ll want your doctor to give him a good going-over tomorrow. Do you mind if I start back at the beginning, for Concordia’s and Mr. Bradley’s benefit?”
Capshaw nodded and pulled out his wad of paper, folded and unfolded so many times Concordia could see the smudge of its creasing from where she sat. “Hearing it again may clarify a few things.”
“I know little about any of it,” David volunteered, with a swift glance at Concordia, “but I’ll try to follow along.”
Miss Hamilton folded her hands in her lap and began.
“When I learned from Eli’s friend—the boy who sells newspapers near the Pearl Street trolley stop—that he saw Eli running after a cab on the afternoon of Florence’s murder, I came to two conclusions: one, that the boy was chasing someone–no doubt the person he was convinced had murdered his mother; and two, that the cab was headed toward the train station. He found another means to get to the station in order to stay on the trail.”
Capshaw made an irritated gesture. “What could he have been thinking, to take such a danger upon himself? Why not come to me?”
Miss Hamilton opened her mouth to speak, but Sophia interrupted. “I think I understand it.” She smiled at her husband. “Although Eli had a mother—a surplus of mothers, it seems—he’s never had a father. A boy his age needs that. He’s become quite attached to you, dear. It’s clear he admires you. He’s stated more than once that he wants to grow up to become a police detective.”
“So when the opportunity arose to catch his mother’s killer, he acted on it,” Concordia added. “He wants to earn your approval.”
Capshaw’s expression could have been embarrassment, pride, or vexation; it was difficult to tell.
“In the heat of the chase, I doubt there was time to reach you, anyway,” Miss Hamilton said.
“So what did you do next, Miss Hamilton?” David prompted.
“No one saw Eli take a train out of Union Station that day. However, once I was able to talk with the conductor who had been on leave, I learned that a boy matching Eli’s description had been arrested and jailed for sneaking aboard a train the next day. He was traveling back to Hartford from Providence. He couldn’t pay for his passage. They’ve had trouble with scofflaws lately, and have tightened their rules.”
“Three days in jail seems extraordinarily harsh for such an infraction. And a child at that,” Concordia said.
Miss Hamilton nodded. “Indeed. “The conductor worried that the man who’d pointed out the boy was a spotter. The conductor didn’t want to risk being reported for not following the company policy. Eli was only supposed to remain in police custody until his family came to get him.”
“Why didn’t Eli contact the Capshaws?” Concordia asked.
“The boy insists that when he was put in jail he did ask that Sophia be contacted. He was told that a telegram was sent, but there was no response.” Miss Hamilton shrugged. “I don’t know what went wrong, but in his eyes, he was convinced that you’d rejected him.”
“The poor child,” Sophia murmured, smoothing the hair from the boy’s forehead.
“Prison officials then referred Eli to a reformatory school, and the school matron came to collect him,” Miss Hamilton said.
Concordia shook her head. “He would have hated that.”
“Exactly,” Miss Hamilton said. “He managed to slip away from her in the street, shortly after they left the jail. It was just after that when Eli was run over by the hansom,” she added.
Concordia and David both started out of their chairs. “‘Run over!’“ Concordia exclaimed.
“I was explaining that when you joined us,” Miss Hamilton said with perfect composure, as if boys got run over by hansoms every day.
David leaned forward, brow creased in concern. “Was it an accident, or deliberate?”
“I feel certain it was deliberate,” Miss Hamilton said. “It happened about three blocks from the jail. Witnesses told me the driver had been lingering at the corner, and suddenly whipped up the horse at great speed. He didn’t stop after Eli was knocked to the ground. Only the fact that the horse shied at the last minute saved the boy from worse injury.”
Concordia shuddered. What sort of man would callously run over a child?
“What happened after that?” Capshaw asked, scribbling in his pad. “Someone has obviously been taking care of him.”
“Yes,” Miss Hamilton said, “the bystanders who witnessed the incident carried Eli to a nearby house of a woman who’s a midwife. I’ve spoken with her. The boy was unconscious, and no one knew who he was. She set his leg and dressed his other wounds. Soon after, he developed a fever, and was not lucid for some time. She didn’t like the idea of a vulnerable young boy staying at the local hospital for the poor and indigent, given the sanitary conditions of that particular place, so she simply took care of him herself.”
Sophia exhaled in relief. “How extraordinarily kind. Can we pay her for the expense?”
Miss Hamilton smiled. “It’s already done.”
“What happened next?” Capshaw asked.
“Eli regained consciousness a couple of days ago. He wouldn’t tell her anything about himself—remember, he thought you had washed your hands of him—and she was at a loss. Fortunately, that’s when I found them.”
“Are you mad at me?” a quavering voice whispered.
Eli, now awake, looked up anxiously at Sophia.
Sophia stroked his hair. “No one is angry with you. We never got the telegram. I’m sorry about that.”
Eli smiled at her, then wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Miss ’amilton tole me. You still want to ’dopt me?”
“Of course,” Sophia said. “But one rule: no more running off. If you have a problem, or something bad happens, you come to us, right away. You aren’t alone anymore.”
Eli nodded and struggled to sit up. “I’m real sorry about not tellin’ you where I was, but I didn’ have a chance.”
Capshaw squatted next to the boy. “I know you gave Miss Hamilton an account of what happened, but I’d like to hear it straight from you. Do you feel well enough to talk?”
“Let’s get him more comfortable first,” Sophia said, reaching for cushions.
Once Eli was settled between Concordia and Sophia on the divan, his leg propped up on a pillow and a mug of tea in his hands, Capshaw got down to business.
“Start with when you last saw Florence alive.”
Eli took a deep breath. “It was after lunch. She sent me ’round the corner with some money, to get a paper, and she said I could get myself a stick candy with the extra, if I wanted.” His eyes softened. “She was real thoughtful. I was starting to like her. She tole me that day that she decided she shouldn’ take me away, that she knew I was happier here. Cat seemed to take to her, and stayed in the room while I was gone.”
“How long did it take you to get the paper?” Concordia interrupted, which earned her a look from Capshaw. She could almost hear the thought in his head. Hmph. Meddling females.
“Dunno, it was a while. I was talkin’ with Whitey on the way,” Eli said. “Then I figured I was late an’ she was waiting, so I hurried back.”
“What happened then?” Capshaw asked quietly.
Eli kept his eyes on his clenched-together hands. “I found her on the bed. At first, I thought she was sleepin’ but when I got closer her eyes were open, jes’ starin’…and she looked….” He drew a ragged breath. “She was dead.”
Concordia patted his back. “Go on,” she gently urged.
“I heard someone on the fire escape, so I hid under the bed. Cat was there with me.” Eli’s eyes held worry and regret. “Is he okay?”
Capshaw nodded. “He’s fine, son. Martha has him back at the settlement house.”
Eli wiped away more tears of relief, and blew his nose noisily in the handkerchief Capshaw passed over.
“Back to the person on the fire escape,” Capshaw said. “Did you see who it was?”
Eli shook his head. “It was a man, but I couldn’ peek through the bedskirts without giving myself away. I heard him mutterin’ to himself.”
“What did he say? What was his voice like?” Capshaw asked.
“It was real snarly,” Eli said. “And he said: ‘Takin’ a big chance comin’ back. I gave ’im ev’ry scrap o’ paper in the stinkin’ place—there weren’t no more. I better get paid good fer this one.’”
“Did you hear anything else?” Capshaw asked.
“No. He pulled out a lot o’ drawers, but quiet-like. I was real scared he’d look under the bed next.”
“What happened then?”
“It sounded like he was fiddlin’ with the door knob at first, and then I heard him at the window, climbin’ out. I did peek under the edge of the bed, then.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
Eli shook his head. “Not a good one. He was too quick. All I saw was a big hand, with hairy knuckles, as he was pulling down the window.”
“So you decided to follow the man,” Capshaw prompted the boy, “leaving the cat behind.”
Eli nodded. “I was real sorry to do that, but I thought Cat would slow me down. I figured someone would find him soon and let him out, when they found....” He shuddered, then whispered, “Her.”
“How did you avoid being seen?” Concordia asked, breaking the silence.
“I waited until he was out of the alley and across the street. When he weren’t looking, I went down the fire escape as quiet as I could. It can make an awful clatter if you’re not careful. He couldn’t see me by then, ’cause the buildings are so close together. I followed him for a few blocks, and that’s when he met the man in fancy dress.”
Concordia gave Eli a sharp look. “Fancy dress? Do you mean like formal wear?”
Eli shrugged. “He was wearing a black jacket, striped pants, white shirt and collar. Looked fancy to me.”
“Then what?” Capshaw asked.
“They talked for a couple o’ minutes, and the fancy man handed a bundle of somethin’ to the other man. I think it was money. Then they split up.” He gave Capshaw a curious glance. “How do you decide which one to follow, when you’re on a case?”
Capshaw tousled the boy’s hair. “We’ll talk about that later. The more important question at the moment is, how did you decide?”
Eli pursed his lips. “I figured the fancy man paid the other man to—you know.” His voice faltered briefly. “I thought I’d follow the fancy man.”
Capshaw nodded in approval. “Good choice. And then?”
“After a few blocks, he took a cab an’ I couldn’t keep up. But,” he added, “I heard him say ‘station,’ so I hitched a ride on a couple of street cars and then a fella’s veg’table dray.”
“Were you able to catch up with him at the station?” Concordia asked, completely absorbed in the narrative.
Eli made a face. “It was hard, ’cause there were a lot more fellas with the same kind o’ clothes on. And then when I did find him, I had to sneak on board, ’cause I didn’ have any money.” He looked at them apologetically. “I figured it was for a good reason.”
“We’ll get back to that later,” Capshaw said. “You were able to get aboard without being, uh, detected?”
“Yessir, but I had to hide in the water closet whenever the conductor came around. I was real worried I’d miss the fancy man’s stop. But I didn’t dare get close enough for him to notice me.”
“Were you able to determine where he got off?”
“I got off at the stop for Providence jes’ in time. Then he got into another hansom cab.” The boy hesitated.
“What is it?” Capshaw prompted.
Eli sighed. “I’m sure he saw me then. The window curtain twitched, and suddenly the cabbie whipped up the horse, and took off.”
“Did you see the man’s face when he moved the curtain?” Capshaw asked, his voice hopeful.
“No sir. All I saw was his hand and wrist.”
“Describe them,” Capshaw said.
“The hand was pale, with long, slender fingers. The cuff looked nice and white—not wrinkled or dirty at all. And there was a big gold button with a black design on it.”
“You mean a cufflink?” Capshaw walked over to the desk, pulled out paper and pencil, and handed them to the boy. “Can you draw the design?”
Eli bent over the paper, teeth pulling on his lower lip as he worked. After several erasures and corrections, he finally finished. “Here.”
After passing it to Capshaw, he eyed the dessert plate hungrily. Concordia brought it over with a smile.
Capshaw examined the rough drawing of what looked to be a tube that was slightly pinched in the middle, with a spiral at one end. “A cylinder of some kind. I don’t recognize it,” he muttered, handing it to Miss Hamilton, who puzzled over the sketch. Concordia got up and looked over her shoulder. Something about the drawing looked familiar.
“If I were on the case I would show this around, and make inquiries,” Capshaw said, jaw clenched.
“Just tell me whom to ask,” Miss Hamilton said.
Capshaw pulled out his notebook and scribbled down names and street addresses. “These four jewelers specialize in custom pieces,” he said, tearing out the sheet and passing it to her. “We’ll need to know who commissioned the cuff links, when, and if more than one pair was—”
Capshaw stopped short as Concordia rushed out of the room. They heard her rummaging in the coat closet.
She returned a moment later, holding up a pin, which she passed to Miss Hamilton. “I thought that sketch looked familiar. What do you think? Is it the same design?”
Miss Hamilton examined it against Eli’s drawing. “They are very like.” She turned to Eli, who was already working on his second pastry. “Did the cufflink look similar to this?” she asked, showing him the pin.
The boy nodded, mouth full.
Capshaw came over to look at the pin. “Where did you find this?” he asked Concordia.
“Remember the stranger I told you about? The youth I only saw from a distance? He dropped it.”
Capshaw started. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“I stuck it in my jacket at the time, and forgot all about it.” Concordia grimaced. “I’m terrible about emptying my pockets. It’s been there ever since.”
“Could Eli’s fancy man and the school’s mysterious youth be the same person?” Capshaw mused aloud.
David shifted uneasily in his seat. “I don’t like the idea of any stranger strolling the college grounds at will, much less the one responsible for Miss Willoughby’s death.”
Concordia didn’t like it, either, but the man hadn’t been seen on campus in weeks.
Miss Hamilton got back to the business at hand. “Our first course is to trace the source of this pin. Between that and the sketch, we should be able to find the jeweler.”
Concordia, looking once again at Eli’s drawing, sucked in a sharp breath.
“What?” Capshaw asked.
“It’s not a cylinder; it’s a...scroll.”
In the silence that followed, Capshaw glanced anxiously at Eli, who was reaching for a third pastry. He got up and moved to the far end of the room away from the boy, gesturing to the rest of them to do the same.
Once they were out of earshot, Miss Hamilton said, “No doubt the man is a member of the Black Scroll.”
Sophia clenched her trembling hands together. “What do we know about this group?”
“Precious little,” Miss Hamilton admitted.
“So this man—from the Black Scroll—is responsible for the attempt on Eli’s life? Could he try again?” Sophia’s voice was strained, but quiet.
Capshaw looked uneasy. “I don’t know.”
“Well,” Sophia said, “we’re not taking any chances. Eli’s staying with us—permanently.”
Capshaw smiled. “Whatever you say, dear.” He walked back over to Eli. “How would you like to live here from now on, son…yes? Good. I’ll send word to Martha to collect your things.”
Sophia gave Capshaw a grateful look. She sat down beside Eli and held him close.
Concordia smiled. “Don’t forget the cat.”
“Okay, so we know about the day of the murder,” Capshaw said to Eli, after he’d finished eating. “Miss Hamilton says you were arrested the next day. Tell us about that.”
Eli brushed off the last of the crumbs and sat up straighter. “After the fancy man got away, I went back to the station. But I missed the last train. I slept near the station and got on the first train to come back here in the morning. I figured, since I couldn’ follow him no more, I’d come back real quick and tell you, so you could take over. But at the first stop, the conductor grabbed me. They took me to a policeman, who locked me up.” Eli shrugged. “I’m not so good at sneakin’ as I used to be, I guess.”
Capshaw laughed out loud.
Concordia smothered a grin. Apparently, reforming a child’s criminal behavior had its disadvantages.
Sophia gave them both a sharp look. “But you told them to contact us?” she asked.
Eli plucked at the cushion next to him. “When they said that you gave no answer, I thought you didn’ want me no more.”
Sophia held him close. “Of course we want you. There must have been some mistake along the way.”
Miss Hamilton, who had been listening to Eli’s narrative in silence, looked over at the boy. “You may not be as poor at concealing yourself as you think.” She glanced back at Capshaw. “Remember the spotter the conductor told me about? Perhaps he was neither a spotter nor a disinterested passenger.”
Capshaw’s eyes lit up with interest. “Ah, yes, that’s a possibility.”
Eli shrugged. “Well, it don’t matter. Someone noticed me.”
“I think Miss Hamilton’s point is that the man who tipped off the conductor may be the one you were following,” Capshaw said.
Concordia leaned forward excitedly. “Do you mean that, when the man noticed Eli was on his trail, he eluded him long enough to then turn around and follow the boy himself?”
Miss Hamilton nodded. “Quite clever, I must say.”
“And bold,” Capshaw added.
“So then, the man in fancy dress got me put in jail on purpose?” Eli asked. “Why?”
Capshaw tapped his pencil against his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps to allow him time to learn more about you, and whether you were actually a threat to him.”
Miss Hamilton nodded grimly. “It cannot be a coincidence that the boy was run down in the street, just when he was released from jail.”
Eli paled. “He’s tryin’ to kill me, too?”
Concordia winced at Miss Hamilton’s habit of plain speaking.
Capshaw placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re safe now. We won’t let anyone hurt you. But tells us the rest of it. What else do you remember, after you were released from jail?”
Eli grimaced. “I got away from that school mistress, and was tryin’ to figure out what to do next. Then I heard a loud clattering, and saw the cab, coming real fast. I tripped when I tried to get out of the way. The last thing I remember was the horse bein’ on top of me.” He shuddered. “When I woke up, my leg and head hurt a lot.” He pointed at Miss Hamilton. “She found me at Mrs. Jardin’s house.”
“The midwife,” Miss Hamilton clarified.
The boy nodded. “She took real good care of me, even though I don’t remember a lot of it.” He smothered a yawn.
“The poor child’s tuckered out,” Sophia said, stroking his hair. “What time is it?”
That reminded Concordia of Florence Willoughby’s letter. If something should happen to me, ask Eli to show you the gift I gave him. “Eli, do you still have the pocket watch from Florence?” After all he’d been through, chances were slim.
To Concordia’s surprise, the boy reached for his cap, set aside on the table. “I hid it in here.” He pulled it out of the lining and passed it over to Concordia.
“Is this the only thing she gave you?” she asked, turning it over in her hands.
Eli nodded.
It didn’t look remarkable, just a plain watch of brushed gold with a hinged cover. Judging by the nicks and scratches it was obviously old, perhaps passed down from a previous generation. She passed it along to David.
“How is this significant?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.
“Florence’s letter talked about the present she had given Eli.” Concordia tapped the watch. “She hinted that something was hidden in it.”
David pulled out his pocketknife. “I’ll take a look under the casing,” he said, walking over to the desk lamp.
Capshaw picked up his pencil once again. “Okay, one more thing, and then you can sleep,” he said to Eli. “Describe the men in as much detail as you can.”
When he was done, Eli curled up on the divan and promptly slept. Sophia covered him with a throw, and they all shifted to the other side of the room to talk.
“I wish he’d gotten a closer look at them, but this is a start.” Consulting his notebook, he read: “Two men. First—short, stout, gray hair, reddened neck, thick grayish whiskers, scruffy bowler hat, dressed in workmen’s clothes. Second—tall, slim, black morning coat, light striped trousers, top hat, dark hair heavily streaked with gray, and a graying, neatly-trimmed beard.”
Concordia shook her head. Those descriptions could apply to any number of men. How were they to find a killer only seen from the back, and at a distance, by a young boy?
But wait, the conductor saw the man, too—if they were going on the assumption that it was the same person. “Did the train conductor give you a description of the man who alerted him to Eli?” Concordia asked.
Miss Hamilton nodded. “It matches Eli’s. A middle-aged gentleman, with dark graying hair and close-trimmed beard. The man was seated, so the conductor isn’t sure how tall he was.”
“Any distinguishing facial features? What about the voice?” Capshaw asked.
She shook her head. “The conductor noticed nothing striking in his appearance. And the man merely slipped him a note and pointed to the washroom, where the boy was hidden. The conductor was under the impression the man had some throat ailment. And the conductor has long since tossed away the note. I asked.”
David Bradley rejoined the group, eyes alight with excitement.
“You’ve found something, Mr. Bradley?” Miss Hamilton asked.
David grinned. “I’ll say. Look at this.” He held out a small piece of what looked to be a brown paper wrapper, dirty and worn. “It was wedged beneath the back plate.”
Concordia watched over David’s shoulder as he smoothed it out. The print was barely visible: an image of what looked to be a muscular figure in a helmet, and the letters HERC on one line and DANGE below that.
David passed it to Miss Hamilton. “Do you know what it is?”
Miss Hamilton’s lips thinned in a somber line. “I recognize it.” She passed it to Capshaw. “It’s a fragment of an explosives wrapper. Dynamite.”