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  Concordia watched them leave. At least two souls on this campus were happy.

  She walked down the stairs to see how Mr. Maynard was faring. His office was empty.

  Miss Banning stood in her office doorway. She waved her cane in the direction of Maynard’s door. “He has gone off to search for that Sanbourne woman.”

  “How do you know?”

  The old lady gestured behind her. Concordia peeked over her shoulder at the vent in the wall the offices shared.

  “I hear everything through there.” Miss Banning chuckled. “Not that I needed it today. Edward was fit to be tied, and quite voluble.”

  “I do not find this funny,” Concordia retorted.

  Miss Banning’s expression through her owl-eyed spectacles was inscrutable. “‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ Proverbs. Maynard needed taking down a peg or two. A sordid past is as good a remedy as any for arrogance.”

  Concordia blew out a breath. “Since you know so much, can you tell me if anyone is trying to locate Peter Sanbourne?”

  Miss Banning nodded vigorously. “Maynard said he was going to Sanbourne’s laboratory in case he knew where to find his wife.”

  “He is breaking the news to Sanbourne now? With no one to accompany him?” Concordia asked in a panic. The two were bound to come to blows.

  “That is what I assume. I would not want to be in his shoes, I can tell you—” Miss Banning broke off as Concordia ran out of the office.

  She did not bother to retrieve her coat, but rushed down the stairs and out the door, puffs of breath beating against the cold air as she ran past bemused students. As she approached the engineering laboratory, she winced at the sound of breaking glass.

  “Stop! Stop it!” She burst through the doors. Sanbourne had Maynard pinned to the floor, hands at his throat.

  With unexpected force, she grabbed Sanbourne’s collar and pulled him off. The wide-eyed expression on his face suggested that such unladylike behavior had given her the advantage of surprise.

  Maynard got to his feet, brushing off his jacket and rubbing his jaw, where a bruise had begun to darken it.

  Concordia surveyed the laboratory. What a mess. Broken glass jars littered the floor, along with papers, crumpled sketches, pencils, filing tools and wrenches.

  “Where is your wife?” Concordia asked, between breaths. “The police will be here soon.”

  Sanbourne scowled. “I do not know. I have not seen her since last night.”

  “What!” Concordia exclaimed.

  He pointed to a curtained alcove in the back room. “I was working late, and decided to stay the night. There is a bed and a sink. I keep a spare change of clothes.”

  “You have no idea where she would be?” Concordia asked.

  Sanbourne ignored her, bending down to collect the tools from the floor and returning them to the bench. “It is absolutely absurd to accuse her of wrongdoing. I do not care what has happened in her past.” He glared at Maynard, speaking through gritted teeth. “And I do not believe for one moment that she is guilty of what you accuse her, then or now. She paid a dear price for your sordid conclusions back then. I will not have her pay a second time.”

  Once again, Concordia wondered if Rachel Sanbourne really had killed her child all those years ago. How different their lives would be at this moment if Maynard had assumed her innocent!

  However, they did not have that luxury.

  “Innocent or guilty, we must find her. Mr. Langdon is calling the police now,” Concordia said.

  Peter Sanbourne gave a reluctant nod and shrugged on his jacket. “I’ll go home. She may still be there.”

  Concordia turned to Maynard. “We should search the campus, in case she’s already here.”

  Chapter 34

  Week 11, Instructor Calendar December 1898

  One teaspoonful for each person and one for the pot. ~Mrs. John Sherwood

  “We will separate,” Maynard said, after they left the laboratory. “I will start with her studio and Founder’s Hall, and you can search the dining hall and infirmary.”

  “Oh no, I am not leaving you alone again,” Concordia said. “Should you be the one to find Mrs. Sanbourne, it will not be pleasant for either of you. Bursar Kimble would have plenty to say about the cost of replacing more broken equipment and furniture.”

  The dean gave a wan smile. It was as close to an expression of gratitude as she was going to get. “Very well.”

  “I do agree that her studio should be the first place we go.”

  They followed the path at a brisk pace. “You say you couldn’t find Mrs. Sanbourne last night?” Concordia asked.

  Maynard shook his head. “Just after you left, I changed my clothing and went in search of her. I even went to the Sanbourne residence when I failed to find her here. The maid told me she was out.”

  “Mrs. Sanbourne had said she and her husband would be attending the Revels. I saw neither of them there,” Concordia said. “I noticed you weren’t in attendance, either.”

  Maynard shrugged. “I was not in a celebratory mood.” He hesitated. “You may as well know, I have submitted my resignation. It is best for the college.”

  Concordia stopped. “I am sorry to hear that.” To her surprise, she actually meant it. Maynard, for all of his curmudgeonly ways, cared deeply for the school and kept things running smoothly. “Are you sure that is what’s best for the college? It will create more disruption. And for what? You have done nothing wrong. It is not uncommon for a person to have suffered past misfortune.”

  His lip curled. “That is not how the newspapers will portray it. I want to spare the school further scandal.”

  “You must realize your departure will not accomplish that. If anything, it will fuel speculation, and appear to be an admission of guilt.”

  Maynard’s hands clenched at his sides. “I am guilty. Rachel did these things because of me.”

  Concordia stood on tiptoe to meet his eye, giving him her sternest lady professor glare. “Did you rig the gun? Did you set the fire? No. You cannot be responsible for everything and everyone. That woman had free will, and she made those choices, horrible as they were. You know that. Your real reason is a cowardly one.”

  Maynard stared at her, mouth open. Concordia plowed on. “You cannot face us, now that your personal life is about to become public knowledge. So you are running away.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Think what you wish, Miss Wells.” He turned down the path to the studio door, Concordia hurrying to keep up.

  The building was unoccupied. Concordia touched the canvases and cleaning rags. All dry. The paint tubes and brushes were neatly arranged on their shelves. “I don’t believe she has been here yet today.”

  With barely a nod, Maynard headed back outside.

  They searched the library, the dining hall, even the side garden of Sycamore House, now brown and withered. No sign of her.

  Concordia shivered in her skirt and shirtwaist, wishing she had stopped for her coat. “I doubt it is useful to continue the search out of doors. It is too c-c-cold for her to be outside painting landscapes, and her supplies are still in the shed.”

  “Agreed. Where to next?” Maynard shrugged off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.

  Concordia huddled gratefully into its warmth. “The teachers’ lounge, perhaps?” Besides, she could do with a cup of tea. She checked her watch. “The police should be here soon.”

  When they reached the lounge, the door was locked. Concordia let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m surprised the custodian hasn’t unlocked it by now.”

  “He’s away this week. Just a moment.” Maynard pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed the wall switch. Electric light flooded the dim room.

  Only just visible behind a skirted table on the far side of the room, a rocking chair and a tray were overturned on the floor. Concordia’s heart beat faster. She took a few steps. “Mrs. Sanbourne?”
/>   Maynard brushed past her and crossed the room in rapid strides. “What has happ—?” He froze, staring at the floor. Concordia impatiently stepped around him, then sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of slender, paint-stained fingers, curled around a teacup.

  Rachel Sanbourne.

  Her face was contorted in a painful grimace, her stare unblinking. Concordia shuddered.

  Maynard roughly grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her away. “Get Langdon.”

  She stumbled on rubbery legs and rushed down the stairs.

  When she reached Langdon’s office, she was greeted by a welcome sight: Lieutenant Capshaw and one of his men—a sergeant, she seemed to remember. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to collapse into Capshaw’s arms and weep from the shock of what she had just seen. She clutched the door handle, trembling.

  Capshaw eased her into a chair. “Water, quick.”

  Langdon reached for the pitcher and tumbler beside his desk.

  “I was just about to leave the station to come here when President Langdon called,” Capshaw said, handing her the glass. “Easy, now.” He helped steady her shaking hands so she could sip it.

  When she had caught her breath, Capshaw asked, “Where is Mrs. Sanbourne?”

  She swallowed. “The teacher’s lounge, the floor above this.”

  Capshaw nodded to the sergeant, who was already moving toward the door. “Better get up there, Maloney.”

  “She’s…she’s dead,” Concordia said.

  Capshaw’s lips thinned in a grim line. “I gathered that.”

  “Mr. Maynard’s with her.”

  He shook his head. “You left him alone at the scene? He’s our prime suspect.”

  Concordia blinked. “Prime suspect? I don’t understand. And why were you coming here before Mr. Langdon called?”

  “I spoke with Miss Crandall last night. It took a while to collect her statement. She needed to rest frequently. She believes Mrs. Sanbourne was responsible for the fire and the gun prank.”

  “How does Charlotte know about Rachel Sanbourne?” Concordia bit her lip. Had Charlotte convinced Maynard to tell her the truth? But when would that have been? Charlotte had not been talking coherently since the fire.

  Capshaw shook his head. “Later. First, tell me what you know.”

  After Capshaw had taken down the basics of her account, he tucked his notepad back in his tunic and got up to leave. “Go back to the farmhouse and wait. I will call upon you when I am finished here, but it may be a while.” He looked her up and down. “May I suggest that you get some rest in the meantime?”

  “What about my afternoon classes?” Concordia protested.

  President Langdon shook his head. “I am canceling classes for the rest of the week until we get this sorted out. Now, do as the lieutenant says. Go and rest.”

  News of Mrs. Sanbourne’s death had spread quickly, though Concordia was too exhausted to contemplate how that had come to be. By the time she returned to the farmhouse, Ruby and the girls had already heard. Ruby shooed the hovering students out of the parlor. “Give the poor lady some air! Off with you, now. I’m sure you all have chores, and if you don’t, there’s plenty that needs doing around here.”

  Concordia gave Ruby a tired smile as the girls shuffled off. “Thank you. I don’t feel like talking about it right now.” Not that there was much to say. She’d only had a brief glance at the dead woman, which was more than sufficient. She shuddered.

  Ruby tucked the afghan more snugly around her and turned to stoke the fire. “‘Course you don’t, miss. But when you do, you’ll let me know?” Her tone sounded hopeful.

  Concordia nodded. “Is Miss Smedley here? Capshaw will want to speak with her.”

  “She’s in Miss Lovelace’s bedroom, working on their gifts for the other girls.” Ruby shook her head. “Thick as thieves, those two. Who would have believed it?”

  Concordia sighed and closed her eyes.

  The delectable aromas of vegetable soup and toast woke her. She lifted her head as Ruby set down a tray. “The police are here, talking wi’ Miss Smedley right now. I thought you might want a bit o’ something before they come to see you.”

  “Thank you. This is exactly what I need,” Concordia said, reaching for the napkin.

  “I hope you have an extra bowl, Ruby. It smells divine,” a male voice said.

  David Bradley stood in the doorway, reassuringly strong and solid and comforting. Without a care for Ruby’s sensibilities—who was backing out of the room with alacrity—he gathered Concordia in his arms and let her cry it out.

  Fortified by David’s presence and Ruby’s soup, Concordia was feeling more like herself by the time Capshaw knocked on the parlor door, his hat under his arm.

  “Come in, lieutenant,” David said, pulling up a chair.

  “Would you care for some tea?” Concordia asked, starting to get up.

  Capshaw motioned her back. “Mrs. Hitchcock has already given me an ample supply, thank you all the same.” He shook his head. “I wish you had told me about Mrs. Sanbourne, miss.”

  Concordia stared at her hands. “I wanted to.”

  “So Mr. Maynard says.” Capshaw cocked his head. “Though he did not mention how you learned of it.”

  She felt the hot flush rise to her cheeks. “Um, well, I went through his desk.”

  Capshaw shook his head. “Your association with Miss Hamilton has rubbed off on you.”

  David chuckled. “Concordia was searching desks before she took up with a lady Pinkerton, lieutenant.”

  Concordia’s blush deepened, but she did not deny it, as she had searched Miss Hamilton’s own desk, years ago.

  “How did Mrs. Sanbourne...die?” she asked quietly, in a change of subject. “Mr. Maynard pushed me out of the room very quickly.” She hardly dared hope for some natural occurrence, such as a fatal fit or something of the sort. She suspected they would not be so lucky.

  “Our theory is she drank poison,” Capshaw said, pulling out his well-worn notepad. “The doc will analyze the remnants of the teacup still gripped in her hand as well as the—” he gave a delicate cough “—body, to rule out a natural cause.”

  “Is it possible that Mrs. Sanbourne committed suicide?” David asked.

  Capshaw shrugged. “Not likely. I still think Maynard is our man. Look at the dark history they shared. He was desperate to keep it secret. Who else had such a powerful motive?”

  Concordia frowned. She could not imagine Maynard and his former wife sitting down to a cozy tea together. It was ironic that she had warned Maynard against that very thing, in fear that Mrs. Sanbourne would be the poisoner, not the other way around.

  That reminded her of something. “Poison actually came up in my last conversation with Mrs. Sanbourne.” She recounted the woman’s comments about the common poisons in artists’ paints.

  Capshaw’s eyes brightened in interest, and he scribbled a note. “That could be helpful. If she died by her own hand, a letter has yet to be discovered. Maloney is going through the Sanbourne house now.”

  “But if Mrs. Sanbourne took her own life,” David said, “why would she do so in the teachers’ lounge of the school?”

  “Perhaps as revenge upon the dean,” Concordia said. “She knew he wanted to avoid scandal here at the college.”

  Capshaw shook his head. “I’m afraid there is no preventing that now.”

  She leaned forward. “That’s why Maynard would not have killed Mrs. Sanbourne in the teacher’s lounge. It would have brought on the very scandal he has been trying to avert.”

  Capshaw looked at her pityingly. “Men do not always act prudently.”

  She did not have an answer to that.

  “Now then,” Capshaw flipped to a fresh page, “what time yesterday was your conversation with Mrs. Sanbourne?”

  “About four o’clock. I was heading to the Hall.”

  “Did anyone see her after that?” David asked.

  “A group of students spok
e with her just before supper at six o’clock, but we haven’t found anyone who saw her after that.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s like the Guryev case all over again. How do people disappear from a crowded campus and no one sees them?”

  “Sometimes people do not want to be seen, which was the case with Mr. Guryev,” Concordia said. “But as far as last night, we were all busy getting ready for the Christmas Revels. I can tell you, however, that neither of the Sanbournes attended the event.” She did not add that Maynard was not there, either. No point in making things worse for the man.

  “Speaking of Guryev, how goes the murder investigation?” David asked. “Have you found the other debt collector—what’s his name again?”

  “Ike Coutts.” Capshaw ran a hand through his bright-red hair. “Yes. And his movements are accounted for.”

  “Are you sure?” Concordia asked.

  Capshaw flushed a deep red. “It took me so long to find him because he had been arrested in New Haven for nearly killing another man. He was in jail at the time of the murders and has been there ever since.”

  “Oh.” That was certainly an unbreakable alibi. “And you said it was impossible for the first debt collector—”

  “—Barney Johns,” Capshaw interjected.

  “Mr. Johns could not have gotten on campus unobserved?”

  Capshaw shook his head. “It’s obvious by looking at him, he has no business at a women’s college. We are back to Guryev killing Oster and taking his own life. The problem is, the blueprints were never found.”

  “You are sure that Guryev’s mother didn’t return to Russia with them?” Concordia asked.

  “We searched her belongings and the steamer thoroughly—her compartment, and anywhere else she had access—before allowing her to depart.”

  “Maybe Guryev threw them into the river, before jumping in himself,” David said.

  “Or ruffians assaulted him and tossed him in there,” Concordia chimed in, “and the blueprint was lost in the process.”

  “Perhaps. We may never know.” Capshaw stood and retrieved his cap. “Unless there is a break in the case, my focus now must be solving Mrs. Sanbourne’s death.”