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  “Miss Wells, hello!” she greeted her. “Are you here ta see Miss Hamilton?”

  Concordia nodded mutely, her voice stuck in her throat.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but she i’nt here. She’s at the Senior Tea.”

  Concordia knew perfectly well where Miss Hamilton was. She cleared her throat.

  “Oh! I forgot. How silly of me. She lent me this book, and I know she needs it today.” Concordia held it out.

  The maid reached for it. “I’ll give it ta her.”

  “You are so kind,” Concordia answered, passing it over. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Oh, while I’m here, Miss Hamilton said I might borrow another book, from the house library. Would you mind if I come in?”

  “O’ course, miss,” the maid responded, “but I have ta get back ta my work. Can you see yourself out when you’re done?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Concordia tried to keep the relief out of her voice. She turned toward the library, waiting until the girl had disappeared into the rear kitchen. Concordia quickly headed for the stairs. She was in, but the next step was difficult. She had to get into Miss Hamilton’s rooms.

  Concordia had timed her search to coincide with the Senior Tea, which all of the DeLacey House senior faculty attended. The building was empty, except for the house staff. She had to hope that they would be otherwise occupied. This was her only chance to find out more about Miss Hamilton and what she was up to.

  She tried the lady principal’s door. It was locked, as might be expected. Time to find the housekeeping keys. Concordia had reasoned that the staff must need to change the linens and replenish the water ewers on a daily basis; she was counting upon the maids being lazy enough to keep the keys nearby, to avoid trudging up and down the stairs.

  The linen closet was the most likely place. She began checking doors along the hallway until she came upon the deep closet at the end. At first glance, Concordia couldn’t see any keys, but she searched anyway, feeling along the backs of the shelves and behind the door frame. She glanced over her shoulder, nervous that someone would come along and demand to know what she was doing there, probing among the sheets and towels.

  It seemed like ages before her patience was rewarded. She sighed in relief when her fingers finally clasped cool metal. She lifted the key ring from a hook under the lowest shelf and quietly shut the door. Muffling the keys against her skirts, Concordia hurried down the hall, back to Miss Hamilton’s door. The keys were not marked; it took several tries before she found the right one. With one last glance over her shoulder, Concordia put the ring in her skirt pocket and slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

  Concordia cast her eye around the room, wondering where to start. Her heart was still beating wildly, and she was shaking. Was it anxiety about getting caught, or guilt about violating a woman’s privacy? She wasn’t sure.

  Miss Hamilton’s study seemed the logical place for correspondence and other documents.

  Bright sunlight coming through the open drapes of the study cast shadows from the quivering leaves outside. Every moving silhouette made Concordia jump.

  There was no doubt that Miss Hamilton was an avid reader, and a scholar. There were well-worn Greek and Latin primers, histories, a collection of Shakespeare plays. Another bookcase held volumes of Homer, Virgil, Milton, Balzac, Burke, Tennyson: both the classical and the modern engaged Miss Hamilton’s interest, it seemed.

  She turned her attention to the desk. It didn’t look like the standard-issue furniture found in most of the faculty quarters. It was a solid oak, slant-top desk, at least fifty years old, she guessed. Perhaps it had been passed down in Miss Hamilton’s family and she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Concordia had seen a desk just like this one, although she couldn’t remember where. She began to carefully pick up papers, one stack at a time, so that she could replace them exactly where she had found them.

  After half an hour of glancing over receipts, administrative paperwork, and letters from a sister in Chicago, Concordia was ready to give up. It would be imprudent to stay much longer; the tea would be over soon. She stepped back and looked at the desk again, frowning in concentration. What was it about this desk?

  Of course.

  Nathaniel Young once had a desk of this type. She remembered it from visits as a child. And…yes! Something that Nathaniel had shown her and Mary, ages ago, knowing it would delight little girls: the desk’s secret panel.

  With growing excitement, Concordia crouched down behind the desk, pressing along the ridge where the central cabinet’s upper board dovetailed with the frame. After trying a few spots, she felt the board release, and she was able to slide it sideways. She leaned in for a better look into the cavity. It was only about two inches deep, but nearly as tall as the entire back. Wedged into the space were neatly tied letters of correspondence, and a slim volume that looked to be a journal.

  Now completely engrossed, Concordia promptly sat on the rug beside the desk and started to sift through her find. Miss Hamilton had made careful copies of her own letters, sent to a post office box in Chicago—not the same address as Miss Hamilton’s sister, Concordia noted. The lady principal had also saved letters received from that same Chicago post office box. There were at least two dozen of them in all. She frowned over the cryptic letters, containing phrases and initials that made little sense to her.

  She read the top letter of the pile, dated today. Miss Hamilton had apparently not yet completed it.

  No sign of led. in FH.--interrupted. Presume destroyed by R.

  W. bears closer watching

  The letter stopped there. Concordia set the correspondence aside with a sigh and turned her attention to the book. It was not a journal after all, but some sort of log, divided into two sections. One section had times, dates, and more cryptic initials, and the other—

  A card fluttered out of the volume. Concordia barely had time for a glimpse of the odd-looking symbol in the corner of the card—was that an eye?—when, to her horror, she heard the door opening in the outer room.

  Concordia drew in a quick breath as the pieces fell into place...

  An eye

  watching…

  We Never Sleep!

  …as Miss Hamilton crossed the outer room in quick strides and flung open the study door. “You!” she cried.

  Concordia looked up at the lady principal, her mouth open in shock. Both women were rooted in place, Concordia sprawled on the carpet, Miss Hamilton with her hand on the door.

  “You are a Pinkerton?” Concordia exclaimed in disbelief.

  Chapter 39

  Week 14, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  A pained look crossed Miss Hamilton’s face, as she closed the study door behind her. “Not so loudly, if you please, Miss Wells.” She let out a grim sigh. Stooping next to Concordia to gather the book and strewn letters, she wordlessly restored them to their hiding place.

  Concordia watched her in silence as well, fitting it together. A lot of things made sense now: why Miss Hamilton would be targeted in the Glove Night prank, the attempt on her life that had failed with the assault upon Sophia, the fire in her office. Concordia also better understood Miss Hamilton’s temperament—her cool-headedness, self-control, and quick mind were ideally suited to such work, and probably molded by it, too. It still seemed fantastic to Concordia that there was such a thing as a “lady Pinkerton.” But why is a detective here?

  “I can’t give you a complete answer to that, Miss Wells,” Miss Hamilton replied. Concordia didn’t realize that she had spoken the question aloud.

  Miss Hamilton sat down on a settee, carefully smoothing the folds of her cerise taffeta. She looked over at Concordia. “Why don’t you sit in a proper chair, Miss Wells, instead of remaining ridiculously slumped on the floor?”

  Concordia sheepishly scrambled to her feet, shaking out her skirts. “I’m sorry to have pried into your affairs. But I had to know. Your presence in the Hall last night was too suspicious. What is going on?”
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  With an air of resignation, Miss Hamilton waved her into a chair. “Please, sit down. This will take a while, I’m sure. I’ve become concerned lately about you discovering my secret, especially after last night.”

  W. bears closer watching

  So that’s why she wanted last night’s incident kept quiet, Concordia thought.

  “What were you looking for in the Hall?” Concordia asked. “Who was that man who ran away?”

  “Dean Langdon is my guess,” Miss Hamilton said.

  “Dean Langdon? How is he involved? Why…?” Then Concordia began to see. “He was following you, wasn’t he? Not the other way around?”

  Miss Hamilton nodded.

  Yes, that made sense, Concordia thought. Founder’s Hall is visible from Sycamore House. Perhaps the dean had seen something, just as Concordia had, and investigated? But then, why would he run away?

  Miss Hamilton broke into Concordia’s thoughts. “I don’t know how Edward Langdon is involved,” she admitted. “He does suspect that I am not entirely who I seem to be, but I don’t think that he realizes I am a detective. He may only be trying to protect the interests of the college. Or he may be concealing his own illicit acts.”

  Concordia remembered the argument she’d overheard in the arbor.

  I know what you have been doing, and I will make sure you regret it. You are threatening the security of this college. The fury of Arthur Richter’s tone had been clear. But what had he accused the dean of doing? She would have to give that further thought.

  “Are you really a lady principal?” Concordia asked, recalling Miss Banning’s suspicions.

  Miss Hamilton made a face.

  “I intended no insult,” Concordia added hastily, “but I am astounded by the idea of a lady detective. I have never heard of such a thing before. How can you be both an administrator and a detective?”

  “Well, it has been a challenge,” Miss Hamilton said dryly. “Although it was some time ago, my credentials are genuine.”

  “Miss Banning said she could not find out anything about the past seven years of your life,” Concordia said. “Is that because you were a detective back then, too?”

  Miss Hamilton laughed. “Ah, Miss Banning. She would make a fine sleuth herself. She’s a difficult lady to keep a secret from. But yes, you are correct, more or less. I’ve been involved with the detective agency in some capacity since I resigned as Forsythe’s headmistress back in ‘88.”

  “So why become a detective?” Concordia asked, hoping the question didn’t seem impertinent.

  Miss Hamilton’s eyes got a faraway look. “My husband—now deceased—was a detective. I started working for the agency, unofficially at first, while we were married, when he needed me for the occasional assignment. I found that the work suited me, and it was exhilarating.”

  “But it seems a sordid job for a lady,” Concordia said, recalling unsavory stories of Pinkertons ruthlessly suppressing labor union strikes.

  Miss Hamilton conceded the point with a nod. “Thankfully, my duties will never involve protecting the interests of industrial magnates, a most dangerous—and yes, sordid—endeavor. My husband Frank was one of those who died during the Homestead Strike in ’92. The agency had been hired to provide security for Carnegie Steel Works—but you must remember the newspaper stories of that debacle.” She sighed.

  Concordia nodded. There had been conflicting accounts about who was to blame, or who fired the first shots—the agents or the strikers—but in the end, sixteen men from both sides were dead, the remaining Pinkertons surrendered in disgrace, and the state militia had to be mustered to control a rabble of five thousand who had entered the fray. It made the problems at Hartford Women’s College seem minor by comparison.

  Which brought Concordia back to the issue at hand. “You didn’t answer my earlier question, Miss Hamilton. What were you looking for last night? It can’t have anything to do with the recent incidents; they occurred after you arrived.” A sudden thought struck her. “You are here because of the school’s money troubles, aren’t you? Was Miss Lyman involved? Does her death have anything to do with this?”

  Miss Hamilton hesitated. “I will tell you that, yes, I have been charged with discovering who is behind the college’s money losses. What I’ve been searching for, if I can find it, would prove the extent of the embezzlement going on, and the person--or persons—responsible. I believe Miss Lyman was involved—it’s difficult to imagine her not involved, as bursar—but there is no concrete evidence to override the coroner’s determination of suicide.” She held up a hand to forestall Concordia’s next questions. “I cannot tell you what I’m looking for, or who hired the agency’s services.”

  Concordia considered this in silence. Miss Hamilton was looking at her expectantly.

  “You wish me to keep all of this confidential, I suppose,” Concordia said.

  “It would put an end to my investigation, Miss Wells, if it were known,” Miss Hamilton said bluntly. “The person responsible would no doubt stop, but would never be caught. The money would never be recovered, if that is even a possibility at this point. Further, I believe that most of the incidents over the last few months are connected to my investigation. We must catch the culprits, if the college is to have any peace again.”

  Concordia was torn. While she admired Miss Hamilton, she found the prying and subterfuge inherent to detective work distasteful. Yet, she recognized its necessity.

  She stood to leave.

  “Very well. I will keep your secret, Miss Hamilton.”

  Miss Hamilton suppressed a sigh of relief as she, too, stood. “Thank you. Oh, and one other thing,” she said, holding out her hand, “may I have the housekeeping keys back?”

  Chapter 40

  Week 15, Instructor Calendar, May 1896

  False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

  I.vii

  Concordia tried to draw a full breath, and found that she could not. She cast a wary eye at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. The corset had done its work, helping her fit into Miss Bellini’s pale-green dress.

  Oh, my.

  Concordia made a face in the glass. She did not remember the neckline being this low-cut. Did she look like one of those women who took every opportunity to exhibit her feminine charms? She hoped not.

  Well, it was too late now. She tried not to think about going through the entire evening--and early morning hours—depriving her lungs of the proper amount of air while her bosom experienced an excess of it.

  How do women do this?

  She turned from side to side, looking over the rest of the gown, momentarily forgetting her discomfort and delighting in the soft, filmy material that swirled and settled again gracefully in its folds.

  Would Mr. Bradley like it?

  Concordia glanced at the small hand-bouquet of white roses he had sent this afternoon. The note that had come with them had been penned in his usual light-hearted tone: We will have a splendid time, even while keeping the youngsters from misbehaving. —D. B.

  Her smile faded when she remembered what Julian had said about him. Could it really be true? Julian could be mistaken about who he saw, or the house.

  She wanted to give Mr. Bradley the benefit of the doubt, at least until she heard what he had to say about it. She resolved to talk to him tonight, even though a crowded ballroom did not lend itself to posing such a delicate query. But she needed to know, before she danced in the man’s arms.

  She wished she had someone to confide in. Mary would have understood her quandary. Concordia thought about her a great deal lately. She would have loved this event tonight, reveling in all the little preparation details. Concordia was only just beginning to appreciate the excitement and anticipation behind such an occasion, and to understand why Mary had enjoyed them so.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  Ruby propped the door with a sturdy hip, juggling combs, brushes, and ribbons. Conco
rdia went over to help. Through the doorway, she could hear the hubbub from the seniors upstairs, busy with their own preparations.

  “Where is my fan? Did that wretched Louisa take it?”

  “No—you may not borrow my gloves! Those are the best ones I have!”

  Concordia chuckled and closed the door.

  “How are you managing, Ruby?” she asked, turning to the harassed-looking matron.

  “’Bout like you’d expect,” Ruby answered, rolling her eyes. She stepped back to look at Concordia. “My, my, you look wonderful! That gown is right fetching on you. You’ll be turning heads, for sure. Especially Mr. Bradley’s,” she said mischievously.

  Concordia’s cheeks grew warm as she murmured her thanks.

  “Would you like some help with your hair, miss?” Ruby asked. “I’m done with the girls. They’re fending for themselves now, and enjoying every minute of it.”

  “Oh, please,” Concordia answered. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

  Ruby sat her down and undid the multiple pins with nimble fingers. Concordia found her thick, wavy hair to be a nuisance; she usually pulled it straight back and up, twisting it into a tight knot on the top of her head and pinning it all madly in place. It seemed no matter how many pins she used, the arrangement managed to work itself loose again by midday. Today, at least, she had not stuck her customary pencil in there as well.

  She tried not to fidget as Ruby experimented with combs and twists.

  At last Ruby was finished, and held up the mirror for Concordia to see.

  “How wonderful!” she marveled. Ruby had swept her hair back toward the nape in a softer arrangement, and entwined it with a pale green ribbon to match her dress.

  “There’s more of it,” Ruby offered, holding up the rest of the ribbon. “Maybe you can wear a piece around your neck, with a brooch?”

  “Hmm. I don’t…actually, yes—I do!” Concordia answered. Rummaging in the dresser drawer, she pulled out Mary’s pin, the one that neither she nor Henry, in going through Mary’s jewel case the day after the funeral, had been able to identify. Until she discovered it in a skirt pocket a couple of weeks ago, she had forgotten about it.