He that
filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not
enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.
Othello, III.iii
Week 9, Instructor Calendar
April 1898
Concordia was happy to return to the college after what had been a most disturbing week. The soothing chatter of high-spirited girls, catching up with one another about their adventures, was a welcome relief from recent events. She was looking forward to the familiar routine of classes, chapel, teas, and bicycle rides. Even play rehearsals didn’t seem so disagreeable.
Another bright spot came in the form of the newly-hired Charlotte Crandall, who would be living with them at Willow Cottage for the rest of the spring semester.
“I hope you don’t mind staying in student quarters,” Concordia said, as she helped Charlotte carry her suitcase up the steps. “We’re short on space everywhere.”
Charlotte surveyed the room. “It certainly brings back memories of when I was a freshie. I don’t mind. My instructor quarters at the boarding school weren’t much bigger, anyway.” She gave Concordia a hug. “It’s good to be back.”
Concordia smiled. She’d always admired the young lady, who had made many friends during her time at Hartford Women’s College with her charm, quick wit, and warm-hearted ways. Although she came from the wealthy Crandall family, Charlotte had been determined to make her own way. Concordia hoped the young lady would be offered a permanent position at the school. For the time being, it was wonderful to have the extra help at the cottage. Perhaps even Miss Smedley would come around under Miss Crandall’s influence.
Charlotte regarded Concordia closely. “Was your break not as restful as you’d hoped? You look a bit...tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Concordia shook her head. The less said about her spring recess, the better. “I suppose even a vacation can be exhausting.” She checked her watch. “Do you have everything you need? I have to be somewhere.”
“I’m fine,” Charlotte assured her.
Concordia hurried across the quadrangle toward her office, her thoughts returning to the alarming find inside Eli’s pocket watch. Florence had obviously hidden it there to keep it out of the hands of her pursuers. No doubt the explosives wrapper was the “scrap of paper” the killer had been sent back to recover when Eli was hiding under the bed. The why of Florence’s murder was becoming clearer, even if the who of it was not. Florence had associated with unscrupulous men and had possessed dangerous knowledge. A disastrous combination.
The idea of the Black Scroll in possession of explosives made Concordia shudder. If the group was indeed responsible for the deaths of Florence Willoughby and Ben Rosen, along with the attempt on Eli’s life, then nothing good could come of them having weapons with broader destructive power.
Lieutenant Capshaw and Miss Hamilton had acted quickly upon that possibility, with Miss Hamilton leaving town the very next day for what Capshaw termed a “short trip.” Concordia hoped it would bring them answers soon.
“Is there a problem?” a peremptory voice called.
Concordia glanced up to see Randolph Maynard standing on the path, wearing an amused smile. “One more step and you would find yourself in the fountain, Miss Wells.”
She was, indeed, standing beside the fountain, having no idea how she got there.
Maynard glanced at his watch. “Are you attending the farce being perpetrated in Bursar Isley’s office? It’s almost two o’clock now.”
Concordia nodded.
“This should be amusing,” Maynard said derisively. “I have my doubts about the ability of these young ladies to dismantle the president’s buggy and restore it whole. They must have had help in pulling the prank. They won’t be getting any help today.”
Concordia straightened and met Maynard’s eye. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She hoped to see Maynard eat crow for dinner later.
Maisie Lovelace and her cohorts, clad in leather aprons to protect their shirtwaists and skirts from grease, were already crouched beside the vehicle, a litter of tools at their feet. At Mr.Isley’s office door,Concordia and Maynard joined the growing crowd of teachers who had come to watch, including Barton Isley, President Langdon, and Lady Principal Pomeroy. A newspaper reporter invited from the Courant peppered the girls with questions as they worked.
Concordia’s chest felt heavy at the sight of a different newspaperman. She would never again see Ben Rosen here, tipping back his bowler when introducing himself, scribbling notes with the tiny pencil that seemed swallowed up in his grip, or giving an impertinent wink when he had privileged information to share.
The girls conducted themselves with lady-like self-assurance, describing the intricacies of taking apart the vehicle as they worked. With such cramped quarters, the other students on campus had been restricted from coming in to watch, but Concordia could hear a chorus of shouts each time one of the girls brought a piece of machinery outside and laid it on the lawn.
Concordia stayed long enough to watch the smirks on the faces of Isley and Maynard fade, replaced first by incredulity, and then with a grudging respect. But it was time to get back to Willow Cottage. She had promised Lieutenant Capshaw a favor.
She touched President Langdon on the arm before leaving. “Thank you again,” she murmured.
He grinned. “It’s supposed to be beautiful weather this week. I’m looking forward to a nice, long drive.” He patted the vest pocket over his pear-shaped belly. “And the custodian has given me a list of items throughout the campus in need of mending. That should keep these young ladies busy through June.”
Back at Willow Cottage, Concordia tidied the parlor for Lieutenant Capshaw’s arrival, then went looking for Ruby. She had a plan to keep the housekeeper from slipping away from Capshaw this time. She grabbed the sewing basket on her way to the kitchen.
“Ruby?” Concordia called out.
““You need somethin’, miss?” Ruby asked, drying her hands on her apron.
Concordia smiled apologetically and gestured to the basket. “We have some mending that the girls don’t have quite the needle-skills to manage. Would you mind?”
The matron squinted over a puffed-sleeved shirtwaist Concordia extracted from the basket. With a sigh, Ruby retrieved her magnifying spectacles and perched them on her nose as she examined the tear. “Wot do they teach these girls at home? Ah well, I should have enough time b’fore dinner to take care o’ it.” She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out a spool of thread.
“Thank you,” Concordia said. Sewing was the one task she could count on to keep Ruby occupied and sitting still.
On her way down the hall to wait for Capshaw, she heard the faint snuffle of a girl crying. She followed the sound, climbing the stairs and stopping at Charlotte Crandall’s room. She hesitantly tapped on the door.
There was a brief silence. “Come in,” Charlotte called.
Concordia stopped in her tracks at the sight of a red-eyed Alison Smedley, kerchief to her nose, sitting across from Charlotte. That was fast, Concordia thought.
“Am I intruding?” Concordia asked from the doorway.
“Not at all,” Charlotte said. “I found Miss Smedley alone in her room, and we decided to have a cozy chat here. I was just about to make us some tea.” She passed the girl another handkerchief. “Things have not been going well for Alison lately.”
“Indeed?” Concordia sat on a stool. “What seems to be the problem?”
The girl gave her a skeptical look and sniffed. “I know you don’t care,” she said. “You like those other girls better. That scapegrace Maisie Lovelace and her crowd. The clever ones. But not me.”
“That’s not true,” Concordia said. “But I don’t approve of your behavior toward them, or your lack of effort in your own studies.”
“Ooh, those girls are infuriating. I cannot stand it!” Miss Smedley exclaimed. “They do something outrageously stupid, like putting the president’s buggy in the bursar’s office of all things, and now the whole campus is cheering them on, and they get their names in the newspaper.” She put her face in her handkerchief and sobbed again.
Concordia sat next to the girl, putting an arm around her shoulders. “There’s much more to it than it seems,” she said, her voice gentle, “but it’s pointless to compare yourself to others. Why worry about them? What do you want from your life? And how are you going to make that happen?”
“Alison, may I tell Miss Wells what you told me?” Charlotte asked.
The girl shrugged and wiped her eyes.
Charlotte turned to Concordia. “Alison is beginning to have doubts about the sort of life her parents have in mind for her, but she fears trying to do anything else. She thinks she would not be capable, or that her father would forbid it.”
Alison nodded miserably.
“Alison and I come from a similar upbringing,” Charlotte continued, with a half smile in the girl’s direction. “In fact, our families know each other. Our parents want us to become leaders within our social sphere, to be a help-meet for the man we will eventually marry, and further his career—in the parlors of genteel society, at least. I’m not saying that isn’t a laudable ambition, but it isn’t suited to every girl. To our families, the purpose of a women’s college is to make advantageous connections and to enhance our pedigree. No one back home expects us to apply ourselves to the mental rigor of college work–I doubt they imagine we are required to do rigorous work. They certainly don’t expect us to pursue a career after college.”
Concordia sat back and considered this in silence. That explained a great deal: the scorn, the aborted efforts, the desperate need for an attentive following.
“Miss Smedley,” Concordia said finally, “I know you are capable. I have seen glimpses of it. Why not explore your abilities? We can help, if you are willing to try.” She gestured to Charlotte. “I suggest you ask Miss Crandall how she came to be here now, as a teacher, a woman making her own way in the world. I think you’ll find it inspiring.”
She got up and left them to it.
Concordia was just in time to meet Capshaw as he stepped onto the porch. She quietly ushered him into the parlor and went to get Ruby.
“Would you mind coming out to the parlor for a moment?” Concordia asked, sticking her head in the kitchen. She turned and walked back down the hall before Ruby could ask why. With a puzzled crease of her brow, the matron put aside her work and followed.
Lieutenant Capshaw stood as they entered. “Mrs. Hitchcock.”
Concordia saw the raw panic flit across Ruby’s features before she suppressed it. Her shoulders slumped. “Lieuten’nt.”
“Would you sit, please?” Capshaw gestured to the settee.
Concordia closed the door and sat beside the trembling housekeeper. “It’s all right, Ruby,” she said. “Lieutenant Capshaw just wants to ask you a few questions.”
“I know what questions he has,” Ruby said, eyes blazing, “but I don’t have any answers for him.” She faced him squarely. “Don’t know why you’re pokin’ your nose here, anyhow.”
Capshaw raised an eyebrow. “An unsavory stranger wanders the grounds, and you don’t think that’s a problem? Aren’t you charged with the safety of your girls?”
Ruby kept her eyes on her shoes. “It’s been a while since then. Nobody’s been hurt,” she added defensively.
“Ruby,” Concordia said, “it’s clear you’re trying to protect this man. You know him, don’t you?”
Ruby shuddered and buried her face in her apron, sobbing.
Capshaw looked as if a live snake had slithered into the room. He cleared his throat and gave Concordia a beseeching look.
For the second time that day, Concordia found herself consoling a weeping female. “We want to help. Just tell us. Who is he?”
Ruby lifted a tear-streaked face. “My husband.”
Concordia’s mouth hung open. Husband?
Capshaw calmly pulled out his notepad and started to write. “I thought you were widowed, ma’am,” he said politely.
Ruby gritted her teeth and dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. “So did I. For the past thirty-four years, no less! I got a widow’s war pension, pitiful as it was. That cowardly, no-good excuse for a man let them think he was dead, along wi’ the dozens scattered on the battlefield. He switched the contents of his pockets and papers with another man who...” her voice faltered, “didn’ have much of a face left.”
“Why?” Concordia asked.
Ruby shrugged. “He didn’ want to fight anymore. He told me he left the country for a long time, working as a logger in Canada, and picking up odd jobs in the off season.”
“And you haven’t been in communication with him all this time? How did he find you?” Capshaw asked.
The matron scowled. “He’s living in Hartford for a time, he says, and he found me because of that blasted newspaper article, when I got the staff award. Says when he read it he figured I was doing well for myself. Wanted money. He threatened to tell President Langdon he was my husband.”
“Did you give him any?” the lieutenant asked.
Ruby nodded, and turned to Concordia with pleading eyes. “Wot could I do? If the school knew I was married, I’d lose my position for sure. And I’ll certainly never live with that shady, no-account Johnny Hitchcock while I still have breath in me!”
“So he’s going by Johnny Hitchcock these days?” Capshaw asked, scribbling rapidly.
“Guess he in’t scared of being caught by the War Office anymore.” Ruby shrugged.
“Any other names he’s gone by? What’s he doing in Hartford?”
Don’t know why he’s back in these parts, but he’s up to no good, I’m sure,” Ruby said. “I have no idea wot names he’s used in the past.”
“What do we do now?” Concordia asked Capshaw.
The policeman rubbed his mustache as he thought. “Where have you met this man, to give him money?”
“At first, he came to the kitchen door. I was kinda scared that’s what he was goin’ to do, after you told me he’d come looking for me, miss,” Ruby said, glancing at Concordia. “But I told him he was attracting too much attention being on a girls’ campus, and he could get me in trouble. So he sent me a message with the name of a saloon. I’d go, and have a messenger boy step inside to ask for him while I waited outside. Then he’d come out, I’d give him the money, and leave.”
“The name of the establishment?”
“The Brass Spittoon.”
Concordia’s lips quirked. The name said it all.
Capshaw stood. “Mrs. Hitchcock, this is what you’re going to do: first, stop communicating with him. Completely. And don’t give him any more money. If he comes to campus, call me.”
Ruby blanched. “But he’ll tell Mr. Langdon!”
Concordia interrupted. “Mr. Langdon will already know, because you are going to tell him. Today. I’ll go with you.”
Capshaw nodded. “That’s right, ma’am. It’s the only way to remove this man’s hold over you. In the meantime, I’ll locate the...gentleman, and make him see the error of his ways. We have plenty of blackmailers in prison, you know. I’ll remind him of that fact. He should leave you alone after that.”
Ruby put a trembling hand on Concordia’s arm. “But I’m still—married to him,” she whispered.
“We’ll talk with Mr. Langdon about that, too,” Concordia said. “I’m sure there is something that can be done, when a man has been declared dead all these years. Don’t worry,” she added, “we’ll get this straightened out.”