Dangerous and Unseemly Page 18

  “Be careful.” Miss Crandall called back over her shoulder. “This stair shifts. The mortar is crumbling away.” Concordia cautiously stepped over it and followed Miss Crandall to the landing, where they stopped to catch their breaths.

  “How could heavy, cumbersome props be kept up here?” Concordia asked.

  Miss Crandall didn’t answer, but pointed to a low wooden door, which she opened and ducked through. Concordia followed. They found themselves within a surprisingly spacious inner room, stacked with boxes holding all sorts of bric-a-brac, old draperies, rugs, and derelict equipment.

  “We must be directly above the rafters of the chapel,” Concordia mused, looking around.

  “That’s right,” Miss Crandall said. “There is a wider staircase that connects to the room on the other side, but the door is warped and can’t be opened. No one has bothered with it since, as far as I can tell. I would guess that the bigger items have been in here since then.”

  “How do you know about this place?”

  “I discovered it when I was a sophomore.”

  Concordia looked puzzled as she surveyed the room. “This can’t be all the props.”

  “No, the bulky wooden frames and sets that are reused every year are stored under the stage. I thought some of these other items might be interesting, though,” Miss Crandall said.

  Holding the lantern closer, Concordia began gingerly picking through boxes. It was an absurd collection of items. She tossed aside a water-damaged men’s leather shoe, without a mate in sight. Who would donate that.

  Ah, but here were some interesting pieces, she thought, setting aside costume jewelry, belts, wooden swords, and scabbards. She pulled out two daggers. The first was quite large, and dull-edged, with a plain black enamel hilt. The second had a shiny, narrower blade. Its red-lacquered hilt was more ornamental, and encrusted with a circle of rhinestones at its base. She held up the daggers for Miss Crandall to see.

  Miss Crandall’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen the red one before.”

  “Where do all of these things come from?” Concordia asked.

  “Oh, students, parents, even professors have donated things over the years,” Miss Crandall answered. She gestured toward the red-handled knife. “I’m not certain, but I believe that one belonged to Miss Pomeroy—she has given us several items over the years, I know. It’s perfect for the dagger scene, don’t you think?” She recited, in mock-dramatic fashion: “Is this a dagger I see before me? Come let me clutch thee.” She waved her hand wildly in the air.

  “Hmmm. Now I remember why you weren’t cast in the lead role,” Concordia said, making a face.

  Miss Crandall smiled and passed Concordia a battered tiara.

  Who on earth donated this, Concordia wondered, holding it up to the lantern. It looked like something belonging to a dowager duchess. Perhaps it would make a nice crown for Lady Macbeth. “We’ll have to come back in daylight,” she said, noting the windows.

  She and Miss Crandall found an empty box and began putting in the items they would take away later.

  “Aahh!” Miss Crandall flinched.

  “What is it?” Concordia brought the lantern closer. Miss Crandall was sucking on her finger.

  “That knithe ith very sharp,” she said ruefully.

  “Oh, dear. Will you be all right, Miss Crandall?” Concordia asked. The senior nodded.

  “Well, we may want to use the dull-edged dagger instead, even if it doesn’t look as good,” Concordia said, taking a closer look at Miss Crandall’s finger. “We cannot have the cast members slicing themselves. Ready to go?”

  As Concordia turned towards the exit to the spiral staircase, she noticed what looked to be a service panel in the wall. “What’s that?” she asked. She crouched down and gave it a tug.

  “Hmm?” Miss Crandall held the lantern closer. She gave a chuckle. “Oh, you might as well have a look.” She handed her the lantern. “But be careful—it’s a long way down.”

  Intrigued, Concordia pulled the cover away and, mindful of spiders, leaned cautiously into the crawl space, holding the lantern aloft. Immediately below her was one of the sturdy rafters of the chapel’s ceiling, and then--air. She caught her breath. She could see the whole interior of the chapel from this position. If she had wanted to (which she certainly did not), she could have traversed, beam by beam, the chapel’s buttresses.

  Of course.

  Concordia pulled herself back into the room, dusting off her skirts. She stared in wonder at Miss Crandall. “You? You were part of the sophomore prank two years ago, when the gloves were suspended from the rafters?” Miss Crandall gave a sheepish nod.

  “So that was how it was done. Amazing,” Concordia murmured thoughtfully. “You were quite mischievous as a sophomore, Miss Crandall,” she continued, as she restored the panel and they proceeded down the stairs, “it is extraordinary how responsible you have become in only two years.”

  “I have had to be,” Miss Crandall said, jaw set in a stubborn line. She seemed preoccupied, so Concordia did not ask for an explanation. They returned the extinguished lantern to the hook before leaving the tower, and returned to Willow Cottage in silence.

  Chapter 37

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  Twas a rough night.

  II.iii

  Concordia thought she would have no trouble going to sleep after such an active day, so she was surprised to find herself still wakeful after several hours. The warm night air, fragrant with damp grass, did little to relieve the stuffiness of the room. Even in her lightest muslin nightdress, she felt uncomfortable. Her restless mind turned over the puzzle of what was revealed—and not revealed—in the letters she had received. She despaired of ever understanding how Mary died. During her occupied hours today, Concordia had managed to set aside her questions. But now, in the quiet of the night, there was no escaping them.

  Then there was the problem of David Bradley, and what Julian had told her. Although she did not know Mr. Bradley very well, she had difficulty believing that he would be so base as to visit a brothel. But perhaps that sort of thing was not considered particularly wicked for a man to do. To her, it was loathsome. She knew she would have to talk with him about it, but how does a lady broach such a subject?

  There was also the issue of Mr. Bradley’s connection to Sophia Adams. Was he so concerned with Sophia’s welfare that he would cancel his trip to Boston in order to visit her? He had allowed Concordia to believe that he had gone ahead with his plans, and that Sophia was practically a stranger to him. Perhaps he was the one making sure that Sophia Adams was unconscious after the attack? Was the “rescue” of Sophia in the rain that morning a blind?

  Giving up on sleep, she groped for her spectacles and impatiently twitched aside the crumpled covers. She needed something to read. Perhaps Keats would serve to quiet her mind. Turning up the lamp in the sitting room, Concordia started to pull the draperies closed when something outside caught her eye. She leaned closer for a better look. Had there been a light? She looked up the hill toward the Hall. All was dark. No—wait, yes! A small point of light, moving steadily between the windows of the second floor, along the wing unaffected by the fire.

  That had better not be one of my girls, was her first thought. Not after her stern talk with them about going out after curfew. Although more than a week had gone by since the fire, and all seemed quiet on campus, they still needed to be careful.

  Who would be in Founder’s Hall at--she checked the clock on the mantel--one o’clock in the morning? The light was now making its way up the stairwell to the third floor.

  She had to know what was going on. Concordia rummaged in her wardrobe for an old lantern she kept for emergencies, and pulled on her coat. She slipped quietly through the door and out to the grounds.

  The drizzle of the evening had stopped, but the wet grass soon soaked through her thin slippers as she approached the Hall. Bother. Why hadn’t she stopped long enough to put on proper footwear, instea
d of rushing out in such a harum-scarum way?

  Concordia tested the knob of the immense oak front door to the Hall: locked. She circled around to the side, where she found this door, too, to be locked. There was not a soul out on the grounds. Where were the extra watchmen hired by the college?

  She would have to go in on her own. She unlocked the side door and stepped inside, easing it shut behind her. It settled in with a click that seemed as loud as a shot. She froze, listening. Nothing.

  She now felt certain that the intruder was no student; with each of the outer doors locked, how would one of the girls get in? Yet someone was in here. Like her, it was someone with a key.

  She crept through the library. She couldn’t risk the side stairs immediately to her right; they were wooden, and creaked too loudly. It would have to be the front marble staircase. She still hadn’t heard anyone moving about, but she and the intruder had an entire floor separating them.

  Lantern held high, Concordia successfully navigated the Ancient Poets section, crammed with cumbersome, odd-sized volumes that jutted this way and that, unbridled in their eagerness to tumble from their shelves. She had nearly made it to the staircase when she walked into a low book cart. She grabbed at her wildly swinging lantern to stop it from creaking on its rusty hinges. It took a few moments for her breathing to settle down before she finally worked up the nerve to climb the stairs.

  Once she gained the second floor landing, Concordia paused again. No glow of a lantern; perhaps the intruder had realized the risk and put it out? The clouds were clearing--enough moonlight was coming through the windows to enable someone to easily maneuver through the halls. Unfortunately, that would also mean she would be spied as soon as she got up there.

  She heard a sound—the soft tap of heels on the parquet floor above. It came from the farthest corner, in the back hallway. She would have to take a chance, while the intruder was still far enough from the stairwell. Concordia extinguished her lantern and set it down. She wouldn’t need it now. Pushing her spectacles more firmly upon her nose, Concordia crept up the stairs and along the hall, hugging the wall’s shadows.

  Although her slippers made no sound, the moonlight coming in through the long windows made her feel as exposed as a hunted doe. As she turned the corner, her heart lurched as she saw a tall, thin shadow—man, or woman?—moving in her direction. She quickly darted back around the corner. The hallway ahead of her was too long. She would not reach the stairs before she was seen—and pursued. The office doors along the hall were undoubtedly locked. She would waste precious time testing them.

  She remembered the broom closet, which had no lock. As quickly and as silently as she could, Concordia skittered down the hall, praying, as she turned the closet’s door handle, that the custodian kept the hinges well-oiled. He did. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the shadow at the other end start to stretch beyond the corner now, although she heard nothing but the wild pounding in her chest.

  She slipped in and tried to ease the door closed. A mop handle got in the way. Drat! She didn’t dare risk the noise of trying to shift it. She had to hope it would go unnoticed. The closet was cramped; a step-ladder, tarpaulins and buckets took up most of the space. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sharp odor of turpentine.

  The footsteps were getting closer. Concordia burrowed as far back into a corner as she could, and wedged herself behind a drop-cloth thrown over the ladder.

  She had scarcely bundled her skirts out of sight when she heard the door open. Her breath caught. There it was, the same tap as before. Undoubtedly a boot heel. A man’s or a woman’s?

  She could feel the presence on the other side of the too-fragile drop-cloth barrier, hear the quiet breathing, not her own. He—she? -- had only to reach a hand around to discover her. She waited, tensed, hardly daring to exhale.

  After what seemed an age, the intruder left, soft taps barely audible along the hallway. She was alone. Her knees felt like gelatin, and she was shaking, but after a moment she willed herself to move. She had to get a glimpse, while she still had the chance. She swung the door outward.

  Right into Miss Hamilton’s face.

  “Miss Wells!” the lady principal gasped, clutching her nose.

  Before Concordia had time to apologize, or explain, they both heard a loud clatter and breaking glass, followed by a stifled oath, and the sound of running feet in the stairwell. The intruder had tripped over Concordia’s lantern.

  Without a word, Miss Hamilton ran faster than Concordia would have given her credit for, with Concordia right behind her.

  They were too late; they heard the bang of the door as the prowler escaped.

  “We can at least see who it was.” Miss Hamilton rushed to one of the hallway windows. But luck was with the intruder; the sky had clouded up again, and they could see nothing in the blackness.

  “Shouldn’t we notify the watchmen?” Concordia urged.

  Miss Hamilton sighed. “It’s too late to give chase. I will report it, of course.”

  Miss Hamilton, rubbing her injured nose, looked over Concordia’s attire with a sardonic eye. Concordia knew she must be a sight: shod in water-stained slippers, hair down over her shoulders, nightdress peeking below her coat and trailing at her ankles. Miss Hamilton, on the other hand, even at this late hour, was well-groomed and dressed in a plain, dark worsted dress, every button in place. Did she always keep such late hours?

  “So, Miss Wells, would you mind explaining to me why you thought it wise to go prowling about so late at night?” The question could have been either a scolding or an amused observation; Concordia wasn’t sure which.

  Concordia bit off a retort about Miss Hamilton prowling in the dark, too.

  “I saw the light, and thought that it might be one of the girls violating curfew. It seemed prudent to investigate.”

  Miss Hamilton considered this in silence. They walked together down the stairs, Concordia retrieving her broken lantern, stuffing the pieces inside its cavity.

  They reached the front door. Miss Hamilton paused with her hand on the knob.

  “I would ask that you not discuss tonight’s events with the students or staff,” she said to Concordia. “I don’t want to alarm anyone unnecessarily.”

  “Yes, Miss Hamilton.”

  “And, further, Miss Wells, while your intentions were well-meaning, if acted upon rather hastily,” this last said with an amused tug of her mouth as her eyes swept once more over Concordia’s bedraggled appearance, “I expect my staff to refrain from wandering alone late at night in their sleeping attire. It is both dangerous and unseemly.”

  Concordia nodded. Tired as she was, she wondered which was more important to Miss Hamilton: safety, or decorum? She seemed to equate the two.

  Back in her quarters, Concordia closed the sash, latched it, and climbed into bed. She had more questions now than before. The intruder, for instance. The muttered oath they heard sounded like a man, but she couldn’t place the voice. What was he after? And what in the world was Miss Hamilton doing there at this hour? She had offered no explanation.

  The more Concordia thought about it, the more convinced she was that Miss Hamilton had been looking for something. But what? And who leaves the electric lights switched off to search in the dark?

  Only someone who doesn’t want to be discovered, she thought reluctantly. Our Miss Hamilton has something to hide.

  Concordia at last drifted off into an exhausted sleep, wondering how she was going to find out more about the woman.

  Chapter 38

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  Look to the lady.

  II.iii

  Concordia awakened to a spring morning that was sparkling clear. Perfect for a bicycle ride. She dressed quickly and, careful not to wake sleeping students, set out.

  As she rode along the paths, quiet at this time of day, Concordia’s thoughts returned to Miss Hamilton. Why had she been prowling the Hall after midnight, with the lights out? Was s
he looking for the intruder, as Concordia had been? But that made no sense, as Miss Hamilton’s rooms did not overlook the Hall. Sycamore House blocked the view of the Hall from DeLacey House.

  Unless Miss Hamilton had already known of the intruder’s intentions?

  The more Concordia dwelled upon Miss Hamilton’s behavior, the more damning it seemed. Even the lady principal’s dress—not the bright silk dress Concordia had seen her wear at dinner, but a dark wool dress. The better to prowl the halls in, so as not to be seen or heard? And who was the other person they both heard on the stairs?

  Miss Hamilton was certainly someone’s target, Concordia thought. The knife in the effigy; the ransacking of her private rooms; the attack upon Sophia, no doubt meant for Miss Hamilton; the fire set in her office. Why? Concordia remembered Miss Banning’s outrageous suspicions regarding the seven unknown years in Miss Hamilton’s history. For all we know, she could have been in prison all that time. While Concordia had difficulty imagining Miss Hamilton as a prison convict, something was not right about the lady.

  Concordia knew she should probably seek advice about her concerns. But whom could she talk to? Dean Langdon? President Richter? She didn’t know whom to trust. And what would she say? That she was suspicious of Miss Hamilton? For what—setting fire to her own office, stabbing her own doll? The idea seemed ridiculous. Concordia needed facts, not suppositions. And she was going to get them—today.

  That afternoon, Concordia rang the bell of DeLacey House, book in hand, her stomach fluttering. Let’s hope this works. A young housemaid opened the door.