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  As the miscreants dragged out ladders and tried to catch the last contrary birds that roosted on the beams of the ballroom’s high ceiling, Concordia drew David aside. “Do you know where I might find a toolkit?”

  David grinned. “Are you planning to build a bird-catcher?”

  “More of a prankster-catcher.”

  David raised an eyebrow. “Now, that I have to see. Langdon’s garden shed should suit. What in particular do you need?”

  “A few screws and a bit of wire.”

  “All right then, let’s go.”

  They slipped out through the back porch to the shed. David lit the lantern hanging by the door. “It’s too cramped in there for both of us.” He eyed her attire. “I don’t want you to snag that lovely gown on anything. Wait here.”

  She was happy enough to comply. It was a pretty gown, and the shed was exceedingly cobwebby.

  A few minutes later, he was back. “You may also need a pair of pliers.” He stuffed them in his pocket.

  “Good thinking.”

  “Where to next?”

  “My office,” she said. “We have to prepare an envelope. I will explain on the way.”

  As they headed for Founder’s Hall, Concordia told him of her suspicion that Alison Smedley was responsible for the gun above the stable door, her motive being to discredit Miss Lovelace and raise doubts about the suitability of the new engineering program. For the time being, Concordia kept to herself the conversation she had overheard between Maynard and Charlotte.

  “What are we doing with screws and wire?” David asked.

  “I told Miss Smedley that an envelope containing evidence about the gun prank was in Miss Pomeroy’s desk for safekeeping, until Mr. Langdon has a chance to examine it.”

  “Evidence? What evidence?”

  She described what George Lovelace had found over the stable door.

  David frowned. “That doesn’t sound like particularly damning evidence.”

  Concordia smiled. “Alison Smedley doesn’t know that.”

  “So you wish to create a spurious envelope and place it in Miss Pomeroy’s office?”

  She nodded. “Everyone knows President Langdon returns tomorrow. If Miss Smedley is the perpetrator, she will want to secure it before he sees it.”

  “And you selected Miss Pomeroy’s office because the lady never locks her door.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who has the real envelope?”

  “Maynard.”

  They reached Founder’s Hall, and she paused at the door. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “What, and miss an event nearly as exciting as dozens of birds swooping down upon my head?”

  She grinned. “Your sense of adventure is irresistible, Mr. Bradley.”

  With David’s help, the envelope was prepared and placed in Miss Pomeroy’s desk drawer. It was a challenge to navigate the lady principal’s office in the dark. They stepped upon and toppled stacks of papers on both floor and furniture.

  “I fear we are making a terrible mess,” she said ruefully.

  “I doubt she will notice.” He leaned against the desk, sending another stack of papers sliding to the floor. He bent to retrieve them. “How does the woman get any work done?”

  Concordia came over to help, brushing past his shoulder.

  He dropped the remaining papers and took her hands in his.

  She did not pull away, though it was difficult to suppress a tremble. She affected a jesting tone. “It would not do for us to be huddled together in the dark in the lady principal’s office.”

  He kissed her wrist. “Anywhere I am stuck with you is heaven to me.”

  Just as she recovered breath enough to answer, they heard light steps echo in the stairwell. “I left my office door unlocked,” she whispered. “Keep watch from there with the light off. I will join you afterward.”

  He frowned.

  She prodded him toward the door. “Don’t worry, I will be perfectly safe.”

  After he left, she slipped behind the coat rack, Miss Pomeroy’s large woolen cloak concealing her quite effectively. She waited, her breaths quiet and shallow. She must keep a cool head when she caught out Miss Smedley. It would be all too easy to heap aspersions upon the girl. Sneaking around, causing the death of a beloved horse, and putting people at risk of serious harm, all in order to place blame on someone whom one envied—abominable, yes, but such behavior also pointed to a troubled soul.

  She could hear the footsteps along the hallway, getting closer.

  With a faint click of the latch, the door swung open. Miss Smedley carried a shuttered lantern that cast her hooded face in shadow. Concordia strained to see as the girl set the light down upon the desk. Something was not quite right.

  The pool of light illuminated only the edge of the desk as Miss Smedley rummaged through the drawers, quietly sliding open each one and easing it shut again before moving on. Concordia heard the catch of breath and the crackle of paper as the envelope was discovered. With a sigh of satisfaction, the young lady pushed back her hood, leaning closer to examine her find in the light. Concordia saw her face at last.

  It was not Miss Smedley.

  Only by sheer effort of will did she refrain from crying out in surprise. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest as she kept a hard grip on Miss Pomeroy’s cloak.

  Though similar in build to Alison, this lady was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a nervous energy in her movements that Concordia knew all too well.

  Frances Kimble.

  The bursar looked through the envelope with a frown, then re-folded the flap and placed the envelope back in the desk drawer. She left quickly. Concordia listened to the lady’s light footsteps in the stairwell. It had a familiar sound. Her eyes widened in recognition. So, it had been Miss Kimble eavesdropping near Dean Maynard’s door the other day.

  With a sigh, Concordia scooped up the envelope and joined David in her office.

  He turned on the desk lamp. “What happened? I heard the footsteps.”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, after taking a few slow breaths to quiet her racing pulse. “It was Miss Kimble.”

  “What!” He abruptly sat down in the other chair, his face a mix of confusion and disbelief. “I don’t understand. Did Miss Smedley tell her about the envelope?”

  “That’s what I assume. Miss Kimble must have offered to check.”

  David shook his head. “There has to be another explanation. Perhaps she overheard you talking, and was curious?”

  Concordia pursed her lips. “She was nearby at the time, helping Miss Jenkins rearrange chairs.”

  “Well then, that explains it,” he said. “I have noticed the lady takes an interest in all the goings-on here. Eavesdropping and sneaking around may not be model behavior, but it’s not criminal.”

  Concordia flushed. She too had eavesdropped upon a conversation and done a significant amount of sneaking around this evening, so she could hardly find fault with the woman on that account.

  “Perhaps you’re right. After she opened the envelope, she put it back.”

  “Well then, nothing to worry about.”

  Concordia pursed her lips. Unless Miss Kimble had expected something else to be in the envelope. Something that would implicate her? And when she saw that was not the case, she knew it was safe to return it.

  David frowned. “You are not convinced.”

  “Why didn’t Miss Smedley come? The reason must be that Miss Kimble came in her place.”

  He shook his head skeptically. “We are talking about a student prank. Why are you clinging to the idea that Miss Kimble, one of our administrators, tried to harm Maynard?”

  She sighed. “I do not want to believe it. But you’ve seen the rancor between them.” Perhaps the ill feeling stretched beyond the last two months. Had they known one another before the semester started? It was long ago…. We would bring ignominy upon the school, Maynard had said. And what of Mrs. Sanbourne’s caricat
ure of Maynard and Charlotte, with Miss Kimble peeking over Maynard’s shoulder…in jealousy, perhaps? Had Mrs. Sanbourne noticed something the rest of them had missed?

  One thing was certain: if the dean and bursar of Hartford Women’s College shared a sordid past, the scandal would be inescapable. She must tread very, very carefully.

  David leaned forward. “You suspect Miss Kimble and Miss Smedley of working together?”

  Concordia grimaced. “I don’t know…Miss Smedley has the motivation, but not the technical ability.” Did Miss Kimble possess both? She remembered something…. Yes. Miss Kimble was the granddaughter of a clockmaker. Miss Lovelace had mentioned that. Yes, it was possible.

  He shook his head. “What are we going to do now?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “We?”

  He grinned. “‘Till death do us part,’ you know.”

  She smiled back. It felt good to have an ally. “Our next step is to talk to Charlotte Crandall.”

  He frowned. “Why Miss Crandall?”

  She hesitated. She could not tell him, not yet. She knew so little. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Remember, we need to speak with Lieutenant Capshaw about who might have been following Guryev on campus,” he said. “Now that we know for sure the poor man is dead, it is more important than ever.”

  Mercy, so many problems at once. The prospect was exhausting. She stood and covered a yawn. “I’ll send a note in the morning.”

  He looked out the window. A pre-dawn glow touched the horizon. “It is morning.”

  Chapter 21

  Week 7, Instructor Calendar November 1898

  Concordia made no progress in speaking with either Capshaw or Charlotte over the next few days. She had sent a note to the Kinsley Street Station, but had not yet received a response. She was feeling distinctly snubbed. Perhaps Capshaw considered it meddling and was ignoring her. Should she talk to Sophia? She had not wanted to presume upon their friendship, but she would do what was necessary. The issue was time. Her schedule this week made a trip into town impossible.

  Speaking with Charlotte should have been simpler, as they shared a residence, but the young lady had taken advantage of a gap in her assignments to visit her aunt, Lady Dunwick, at her Hartford townhouse.

  The one bright spot to the week was the fact that Maisie Lovelace was finally cleared of guilt in the gun prank and her restriction lifted.

  The meeting consisted of Concordia, Miss Lovelace, Mr. Lovelace, Miss Pomeroy, Mr. Maynard, and Mr. Langdon, in his office.

  Miss Lovelace’s uncle took charge of the meeting. He handed the girl a length of fresh wire and a pair of pliers, then held a piece of wood against the wall, just above her head. Three new screws were embedded in it. “Now then m’dear, go on and secure the wire to the screws. Leave a little length, as if ye were attaching something to the other end of each.”

  With a shrug, Miss Lovelace set to work with practiced ease. Concordia watched her carefully, noting that the young lady was indeed left-handed. The job was done in moments. Miss Lovelace handed back the pliers, re-seated herself, primly folded her hands in her lap, and waited.

  Mr. Lovelace brought over the board for them to examine. He gestured to the envelope in Langdon’s hands. “We’ll compare them.”

  Langdon dumped the contents upon his desk. “These came from the stable door frame?”

  Lovelace nodded. “Ye see the differences in handiwork? Here—” he pointed to twisted-off ends “—and here.” He pointed to the wire wrapped around the heads of the screws.

  Langdon’s frown cleared. He turned to Miss Lovelace. “We owe you a profound apology, my dear.”

  She flushed and glanced at Maynard. He sat, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

  “We all owe you an apology,” Langdon said pointedly. “Isn’t that right, Randolph?”

  “It would seem so,” was the curt reply.

  Concordia grimaced. That was about as good as they were going to get from the man.

  The tension in Miss Lovelace’s shoulders eased. “I know that my behavior of last semester is part of why you did not have confidence in my innocence. I promise, sir, I would not pull such a reckless and dangerous stunt. Someone—” she glanced at Concordia “—is trying to get me in trouble.”

  Langdon leaned forward. “Who is that, Miss Lovelace?”

  “We are inquiring into the matter,” Concordia interrupted. She shot the girl a warning look. “But we do not have any proof yet. We have already seen how disastrous it is to proceed without evidence.”

  “On the other hand,” Maynard said, glancing at Langdon, “we do know who is responsible for releasing dozens of birds in Sycamore Hall and wreaking havoc upon the Halloween festivities.”

  Langdon’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile. “I was fortunate to miss that.”

  “Though not the aftermath,” Maynard reminded him. “We are still finding feathers and droppings in the first floor rooms.”

  Concordia sighed. She wished she had discovered the scheme sooner. Before the hampers were opened.

  Miss Pomeroy stirred herself and chimed in, pushing her spectacles up her nose for emphasis. “The young ladies are returning today to clean up the places they missed. I have put them on restriction until Thanksgiving. There will be no more mischief.”

  Concordia shook her head. She truly hoped Miss Pomeroy was right. Otherwise, the cycle of pranks and punishment might never end. She and Miss Pomeroy had spoken to the miscreants, all friends of Miss Lovelace. The students’ original intention was to release the birds in Maynard’s side parlor study, as revenge for him refusing to allow Maisie to attend the Halloween ball. Perhaps now that Maisie’s restriction was lifted, the antics would end.

  There was one problem with that line of reasoning. Bitterness of that sort does not subside, Charlotte had said. Concordia glanced at Dean Maynard, who stared out the window. Who felt bitterness toward him?

  She thought she knew. Miss Kimble. If Concordia had confronted her in the act of rifling through the phony envelope of evidence, would that have prompted a confession? Would she have explained why she had wanted to harm Maynard, and what had happened between them long ago?

  Concordia could kick herself for not seizing the opportunity. What if the woman tried again? They needed answers, quickly.

  It was pointless to try to extract information from the close-mouthed dean. However, Charlotte was due back tonight. No matter how late, they would have a talk.

  “Well! I believe we are finished here,” President Langdon said, pushing back his chair and shifting his bulky frame away from the desk. He clasped George Lovelace’s hand. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention. How are you getting on with Sanbourne, by the way?”

  Everyone else headed for the door. Concordia fussed with re-positioning her chair in the corner, curious to hear the answer.

  The cap twitched in Lovelace’s hands, as if he were anxious to put it back on. “We’re getting on well enough, though he don’ let me do much ‘round his laboratory. Real secretive, he is. But I s’pose I have plenty o’work helping the students with their projects.”

  Langdon nodded. “These geniuses are a touchy bunch, I hear. We appreciate your help.”

  Maynard held the door open. “Coming, Miss Wells?”

  She checked her watch. Mercy! She would be late for class if she didn’t hurry.

  Maisie Lovelace waited for her in the stairwell. “Thank you for believing in me all along.”

  Concordia smiled. “We will get to the bottom of this, don’t you worry.”

  Miss Lovelace gritted her teeth. “Ooh, that Alison Smedley! How could she be so awful?”

  Concordia hesitated. She had not told Miss Lovelace about the bursar’s possible involvement. It was still a puzzle. Why would Miss Kimble implicate Maisie Lovelace? Unless Alison Smedley had acted on her own in that regard, placing the toolkit in the stables later?

  This whole business was giving her a headache. “It may
be more…complicated, dear. We must learn more.”

  “I know enough,” the girl retorted. “Alison should be punished for what she has done.”

  Concordia lowered her brows in a stern frown. “We will wait. Do you understand?”

  Maisie turned away, her shoulders stiff with anger. “I will not wait long,” she muttered under her breath.

  Chapter 22

  Week 7, Instructor Calendar November 1898

  We should be real first, and ornamental afterwards. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  That night, Concordia perched in the plush wingback chair in her sitting room, her favorite reading spot. The cottage had settled down hours ago. She struggled to keep her eyes open, despite the windowpanes rattling from the heavy winds. There would be a storm soon.

  Where was Charlotte? She usually returned before curfew, also known as the “ten o’clock rule,” when students were required to turn out their lights and go to bed. Of course Charlotte was a faculty member now and not bound by the rule, but the lady was a creature of habit. She had not sent word of a delay in her plans.

  She could hear Ruby’s heavy tread past her door, pacing between the kitchen and front hall. The house matron was worried, too.

  The wind, the rhythmic steps, the ticking of the mantel clock, and the lateness of the hour were finally too much for her. Her head slumped against the chair and she slept.

  Ruby heard the key turn and hurried to open the door to a weary, wind-blown Charlotte Crandall. “Thank goodness! We were worried about you,” she whispered.

  Charlotte’s cheeks were pale and pinched with the chill. “I am so sorry. I stopped at the office first…to find some papers. It took longer than I anticipated.”

  “Well, come on in and—” Ruby paused. Was that a noise in the shrubbery outside? Probably the wind, but she stuck her head out of the door, just the same.

  Clouds scuttled across the moon, alternately casting shadow and light across the paths. All the buildings were dark, except for a glow on the second floor of Founder’s Hall. Ruby gestured in that direction. “Did you leave your light on, miss?”