Week 11, Instructor Calendar
May 1898
At last, Capshaw sent word that Miss Hamilton had returned to Hartford. Soon afterward she heard from the lady herself, arranging to meet at Mrs. Gilly’s Tea Shop.
Concordia saw her before she was even halfway down Canton Street. The tall woman of flawless posture, her graying-blonde hair smoothly tucked under a stylish hat of melon green, the elegant tilt of her head…Miss Hamilton was unmistakable in a crowd. Just the sight of her felt reassuring. Heaven only knew where they would be without her aid in this affair.
They sat at one of the outdoor tables under the striped awning, taking in the sight of passersby as they sipped their tea and shared a lemon tart.
Concordia felt some of the tension drain away as she sat. As eager as she was for Miss Hamilton’s news, she took a moment to let the world pass in front of her. Worries about her students, her classes, and her fiancé faded as she fixed upon the dappled sunshine on the sidewalk, the babies pushed in their carriages, and the profusion of ladies carrying brightly-frilled parasols.
Penelope Hamilton, however, was ill-disposed to sit idle. She cleared her throat. “Capshaw showed me the note from your office.”
Concordia nodded, pulling herself back into the game of detection once again. “I haven’t been able to determine who left it.”
“I agree with Capshaw that the Inner Circle is a strong presence on campus now,” Miss Hamilton said. “When I returned to my guest quarters at DeLacey House, I found that my belongings had been thoroughly searched.”
Concordia started. “You think it was Isley or Maynard?” she whispered.
Miss Hamilton shrugged. “Probably. That’s why I wanted to meet you here. I’ve already moved my things to a hotel. One cannot be too careful.”
Concordia suppressed her disappointment. Miss Hamilton had been the only other person on campus who knew what was going on. She would miss her being right nearby. But of course, the precaution was a necessary one.
“What did you learn about the Black Scroll during your trip?” Concordia asked.
The lady leaned in and dropped her voice. “I’ve investigated secret societies before, but the Noble Order of the Black Scroll is a particularly close-mouthed group. On the surface, it seems to be a charitable organization, justifying its secret nature as the necessity of anonymous philanthropy. Indeed, recipients such as Hartford Settlement House have benefited lately from a number of anonymous donors. I’ve learned that the Black Scroll was behind that.”
“While secrecy for the ‘greater good’ is not so terrible, the explosives wrapper we found certainly points to something...” Concordia searched for the word “...evil.”
Miss Hamilton plucked absent-mindedly at the gaily-checkered napkin in her lap. “Secrecy is a double-edged sword, hiding villainous deeds as well as benevolent ones. And then there’s the issue of who determines the ‘greater good’—one man’s good could be another man’s bane.”
“Yes, of course,” Concordia agreed. “Even when men are convinced that their motives are pure, many barbarous things have been done in the name of justice, or Providence. The Crusades and the Inquisition are examples of that.”
“Exactly,” Miss Hamilton said.
“What else did you learn?” Concordia asked.
“I’ve discovered the three binding principles of the Brotherhood that every member must unconditionally agree to upon joining: to do charitable works; to never reveal that he is a member—or that anyone he knows is a member; and to help a brother in need, no matter what the circumstances.”
“The last two tenets do seem worrisome,” Concordia said.
Miss Hamilton nodded. “And really, it isn’t the general membership of the Brotherhood that troubles me. It’s this rogue organization within the heart of the Black Scroll. My source couldn’t find any indication that the general membership is aware of its existence.”
“Lieutenant Capshaw’s police chief must be a Brother,” Concordia said. “Was the Brotherhood’s obedience rule used to compel him to remove Capshaw from the case?”
Miss Hamilton swatted at a stray fly. “I expect so. No doubt the Circle felt that Capshaw was getting too close to learning about them.”
“Then members of the Inner Circle—” Concordia began.
“—need only invoke the rules of the brotherhood to get the cooperation of others, with no one the wiser. Those not in the Circle would believe the motives and actions to be as benevolent as their own, when that may be far from the case.”
“Do we at least know the members of the Black Scroll?” Concordia asked.
Miss Hamilton smiled. “Thanks to the conversation you overheard at Barton Isley’s dinner party, I had a start, but it has been slow-going. I’ve acquired a partial list of members, any of whom could also belong to the Inner Circle. You know some of these.” She ticked off a list on her gloved fingers. “Barton Isley, Sir Anthony Dunwick, Republican Candidate Sanders, Robert Flynn, Randolph Maynard, Police Chief Stiles, and several Willoughbys, Florence’s father and each of her three brothers. We know for sure that Isley is associated with the Inner Circle, and that Sir Anthony had been approached to join them. Based upon the jeweler’s information, we’re guessing that the Inner Circle is a very small group, consisting of six members, with a seventh on the way.”
Concordia should not have been surprised by the list, but the idea of Robert Flynn being a Black Scroll member made her uneasy. Should she say something to her mother? Yet he struck her as an outsider, the Irishman with his quaint turns of phrase.
Then she realized Miss Hamilton had skipped over something. “What do you mean, ‘jeweler’s information’?” Concordia asked.
“Ah, yes, I forgot that part,” Miss Hamilton said. “I tracked down the jeweler’s shop where the cufflinks had been made. Five sets of cufflinks had been commissioned, along with the pin you’d found. Oh, and an additional cufflink set has just been ordered,” she added.
“Sir Anthony,” Concordia said. So he had decided to join the Inner Circle, after all. She wondered what his niece, Charlotte Crandall, would think of that if she knew.
“That seems a safe assumption, as is the notion that these were intended for Inner Circle members,” Miss Hamilton said.
“But who ordered the jewelry? Barton Isley?” That didn’t seem consistent with the man’s frugal nature.
Miss Hamilton shook her head. “Not Isley. Randolph Maynard.”
“Our dean placed the order?” Concordia exclaimed, inadvertently raising her voice.
Miss Hamilton made a shushing gesture. “The same.”
Concordia felt a chill settle in her spine. With both Isley and Maynard as Inner Circle members, the school was sure to face yet another scandal. “Have you learned anything of the Circle’s current plans?” she asked.
“Not yet, but it usually comes down to power and money. And now that they have explosives?” Miss Hamilton shuddered. “They are all the more dangerous.”
“But how much did Florence know? How did she come by the dynamite wrapper?” Concordia asked. “One doesn’t leave that sort of thing lying around. It is dynamite, as you surmised?”
“Yes indeed,” Miss Hamilton said. She pulled out a small notepad. “It’s the ‘Hercules’ brand of powder explosive, from the California Powder Company. As to how she got the wrapper, I’ve learned she was on intimate terms with someone in the Black Scroll, no doubt an Inner Circle member. She probably stumbled upon it by accident.”
“‘Intimate terms’?” Concordia asked.
“To put it bluntly, she had a lover. I haven’t learned his identity, but I know he’s a family friend of the Willoughbys. I wonder, though, if Rosen had learned who he was. Such a discovery might be what killed him. My source tells me Rosen was asking a lot of questions of the Willoughbys, with some trumped-up story about a feature article in the business pages of the Courant. I wish he’d been able to talk with you before he died.”
Concordia couldn’t count how many times she’d wished that herself, but she stayed on topic. “Why did Florence take the wrapper? Was she going to the police with it?”
Miss Hamilton shook her head. “She had ample opportunity to go to the authorities, but did not. Based on that and her letter to you, I suspect she was engaged in a dangerous little blackmail scheme.”
Concordia remembered that part of Florence’s letter: I’ve secured enough money to leave the area and live comfortably abroad. She leaned forward. “But how would she know the significance of the explosives wrapper? Have you discovered what they plan to do with such a device?”
Miss Hamilton’s eyes brightened in excitement. “I’ve researched recent cases involving the use of dynamite. One looks particularly promising. There was an explosion in Boston harbor several months ago, aboard the Gascogne, arrived from Le Havre. It was carrying high-priced Valenciennes lace and other valuable commodities. The case was never solved—even though the insurance company investigated. The company considered the policy owners possible suspects. They were eventually cleared, however. The cargo turned out to be much more valuable than the insured price for it. The incident was eventually attributed to anarchists, and quietly dropped.”
Concordia raised an eyebrow. “Anarchists? Here?” She’d heard of isolated anarchist incidents, the most famous being the Haymarket riots in Chicago more than a decade ago, but it seemed more of a European phenomenon.
Miss Hamilton shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t believe it either. They make a convenient scapegoat group. Anyone can write a dithering note and shift the blame upon anarchists.”
“What do you think really happened?” Concordia asked.
“The owners sustaining the loss are in the dry goods business, just like the Willoughbys. They are, in fact, the family’s biggest competition. The financial loss wasn’t substantial, especially since it was insured, but can you imagine the time involved to replace the goods? Who, then, would have the advantage of inventory?”
“The Willoughbys,” Concordia answered.
“Exactly. And there’s something else,” Miss Hamilton added quietly. “The harbor watchman who died in the blast? The explosion didn’t kill him. He’d been garroted.”
Concordia shivered. “The same as Florence.”
Miss Hamilton gave a slight nod. “It’s no coincidence. We’re looking for the same killer.”
“But didn’t Lieutenant Capshaw investigate garroting murders in the area over the past several years and find nothing?”
“True, but that’s not Capshaw’s fault,” Miss Hamilton said. “Initial reports merely said the guard died in the fire. The coroner’s corrected notation as to the manner of death was easy to miss. I’ve been looking specifically for incidents involving explosives—something we didn’t know about before now.”
“So you think Florence connected the ship-board explosion and the wrapper she later found—among her paramour’s possessions, perhaps?—and on that evidence alone, she decided to blackmail her lover and his group?” Concordia couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.
“A paper scrap is hardly damning evidence, I grant you,” Miss Hamilton acknowledged. “However, the Inner Circle member she blackmailed may not have been sure what proof she actually had. Or perhaps that scrap was all she managed to conceal before her death, and other physical evidence she’d possessed was taken away by her killer.”
“So the Inner Circle paid her, at least for a while, until they could figure out if she had told anyone else, what evidence she had, and where she’d hidden it.” Concordia shivered.
Miss Hamilton nodded in agreement. “And no doubt planning to silence her, at a place and time that wouldn’t disrupt their own operations.”
“But Florence must have suspected them,” Concordia said. “So she went into hiding.”
“Stopping only to visit Eli,” Miss Hamilton added. “That delay to see the boy gave them the chance to find her.”
To hide the tears that blurred her vision, Concordia took a sip of her tea, now gone cold. Her stomach clenched at the dangerous game the woman had gambled at, and lost—one that had nearly cost Eli his life, too.
Miss Hamilton checked her watch. “I have to go. I’m interviewing the conductor at the train station again. I want to show him the cufflink design.”
Concordia checked her own timepiece. “Oh! I have to be back in time to help with final preparations for tomorrow’s performance of Othello. We’re going in opposite directions, but at least we can keep each other company at the same corner.” She looked up at the sky, where gray clouds had swept in, blotting out the spring sunshine. “I hope the sky doesn’t open up in the meantime.”
Waiting at the crowded stop, Concordia asked Miss Hamilton, “After interviewing the conductor, what’s your next step?”
Since people hovered quite close to them—Miss Hamilton would have quite a time getting a seat on the downtown car with this crush—the lady leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I have an appointment tomorrow to speak to the chief of police, to inquire as to why he took Capshaw off the case.”
Concordia’s eyes widened. “He won’t tell you anything,” she murmured back. “If he’s a Brother, he can’t.”
“I know.” Miss Hamilton’s gray eyes took on a determined look. “But I have to try.”
“Won’t that get the lieutenant in trouble?” Concordia protested.
“He’s given me his blessing,” Miss Hamilton said. “He wants to get to the bottom of it as badly as the rest of us. But it’s most certainly a risk.”
Concordia nodded, feeling miserable. Here was Capshaw, newly married and adopting Eli, and he could very well be dismissed—or worse—if the Inner Circle was alerted.
“The chief’s the only link we have,” Miss Hamilton said, her jaw set in determination.
The trolley for the downtown line was approaching, and people began to jostle one another for a front position. Concordia and Miss Hamilton hung back.
“Hey! Outta my way, you,” growled one rough-and-tumble man to another, and swung a hairy elbow. Concordia caught a glimpse of a seaman’s anchor tattoo as the man caught another tough full in the face and bloodied his nose.
Pandemonium erupted. Before they could move out of the way, Concordia and Penelope Hamilton were caught in a sea of knuckles and elbows. They held up their hands to protect their heads from the cross-blows as they tried to retreat to a safe distance. A woman screamed. People stumbled in their panic to get away. Concordia found herself separated from Miss Hamilton, who was swept into the thick of the chaos.
The trolley continued to glide smoothly toward the corner, its driver ignorant of what was happening.
“Stop it! Stop!” Concordia yelled, fending off stray blows as she struggled to close the gap and reach her friend.
To her horror, just as the trolley was bearing down upon the corner, a shove—she couldn’t tell from whom, there were so many bodies—sent Miss Hamilton flying. The lady landed in the street, directly in the path of the trolley car, its driver now frantically applying the brake.
Miss Hamilton lay motionless.
“No!” Concordia screamed. Several women put their gloved hands to their mouths in terror. The men seemed oblivious to everyone except whomever they were pummeling.
Concordia made a final push toward Miss Hamilton’s still figure in the street. She launched herself in one leaping tumble, snatching at the woman’s waist as her momentum rolled them into the middle of the dusty street. Concordia felt a painful snap of her shoulder as she landed on her side.
The last thing Concordia remembered seeing before she blacked out was the grimy underside of the streetcar bumper, stopped at last, inches from her ear.