Unseemly Ambition (22 page)

Letitia Wells smiled. “Ever since the
announcement that Candidate Sanders will be our guest speaker, we
have doubled our ticket sales for the event. So you’ll
come?”

“
I wouldn’t miss it for the
world,” Concordia said.

The benefit luncheon had been moved to
the Yacht Club to accommodate the larger crowd, and they rode there
in Mr. Flynn’s carriage.

“
Begor
, you look absolutely lovely, Letitia,” Flynn said with a
smile. “I’ll have a time of it, with other fellows trying to get a
look-in.” He turned to Concordia. “And how nice ’tis to see your
charming daughter. You two could be sisters, you both look so
young.”

Concordia’s stifled snort
came out as a cough. They didn’t look anything alike, and neither
of them were what one would call “young” any more. What was the
word used to refer to an Irishman’s false
flattery—
blarney
?
Most definitely.

As they pulled up to the building,
Concordia stared at the structure, appreciating the grandeur of the
marble pillars—adorned with banners of the club’s colors—flanking
the wide steps and reaching to the vaulted windows of the
building’s mezzanine level. “Impressive,” she murmured to her
mother, as Mr. Flynn helped each of them out of the
vehicle.

“
The interior is equally
remarkable,” Mrs. Wells said. “We were fortunate to get this venue
at the last minute. Thank heaven the regatta season has not yet
started.”

The dining hall was tastefully decked
out for the event. Concordia had expected a nautical
theme—seashells, rope nets, semaphore flags and the like—but was
pleased to see crisp white linens, swathes of pale green tulle, and
generous vases of bright spring blooms adorning each table. Not a
seashell or barnacle in sight.

Mrs. Wells had arranged for Concordia
to be seated with Miss Pomeroy and Randolph Maynard, although the
rest of her table companions were unfamiliar to her. She attempted
a cordial exchange with Dean Maynard, but he merely grunted and
turned to the man on his left.

“
Excuse me, miss—you
dropped this,” said a familiar voice.

Startled, Concordia turned to see Ben
Rosen at her elbow, holding out a slip of paper. Yes, of course: he
must be here to do a story on the event. The newspaperman gave her
a quick wink and left it on her saucer. She watched him walk over
to Mr. Sanders and Mr. Flynn, pulling out his notebook and pencil
stub from the rim of his bowler.

Miss Pomeroy looked at her curiously.
“I didn’t notice you drop anything.”

Concordia glanced quickly at the scrap
before putting it in her purse. “I’m always dropping something,”
she said with a sheepish laugh.

Gertrude Pomeroy nodded
sympathetically as she pushed her spectacles back into place. “So
am I, dear.”

But all through the salad and entree
courses, as Concordia made small talk with the lady principal, she
kept thinking about Rosen’s note.

Have urgent information.
Can’t reach Miss H. Watch for my signal and meet me at the
gardener’s shed.

Perhaps he’d learned something about
the Inner Circle? She chafed at the wait.

The luncheon drew a varied gathering:
society ladies, the usual philanthropic well-to-do families…and
politicians. Always politicians. Even Mr. Sanders’ opponent, Mr.
Quint, attended the function, though he was a bit late. Concordia
saw both Flynn and Isley glare at the man when he came in. Quint
hesitated, glancing uncertainly their way before being seated. The
plight of Irish orphans must be close to the man’s heart for him to
risk straying into Sanders’ territory, Concordia
thought.

After the main course came the
speeches: from her mother, thanking the volunteers and attendees,
from Mr. Sanders, speaking of the privilege of service to others,
and from Mr. Flynn, talking about the desperate plight of orphaned
children back in his homeland. Listening to Flynn, in his lilting
Irish brogue, she felt as if she were really there, breathing in
the smoky peat fires, feeling the sharp hunger pangs of the
children. She was embarrassed to find that her eyes prickled with
tears.

Concordia sniffed into her
handkerchief and observed the Isleys, who sat next to her mother at
the head table. Both were absorbed in the speech: Lily, mouth
parted in a half-smile, hand stroking her water glass; Barton
leaning forward, chin resting thoughtfully on his palm. If Flynn
could coax money out of Isley, his charm knew no bounds.

After a round of enthusiastic
applause, it was time for a break before the dessert course, giving
guests the opportunity to mingle and perhaps put money in the
ribbon-wrapped pails distributed throughout the room. Flynn got up
to circulate among the crowd.

Concordia made her way over to
congratulate her mother. “You spoke beautifully.”

“
Indeed.” Lady Dunwick was
at her elbow. She extended a gloved hand. “Letitia, such a lovely
function. It looks to be a rousing success.”

Mrs. Wells blushed.

Lady Dunwick turned to Concordia. “I
want to thank you for recommending my niece to your lady principal.
Charlotte starts at the college next week.”

“
It was my pleasure,”
Concordia said. It would be nice to see Charlotte Crandall
again.

Lady Dunwick patted her on the arm.
“If you should ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call
upon me.”

“
Thank you.” Concordia
said, catching sight of Rosen across the room. The man raised his
bowler hat in her direction before stepping outside.

“
If you’ll excuse me,” she
said to her mother, “I think I’ll get a little fresh air before the
dessert course.”

Mother, engrossed now in conversation
with Sir Anthony, gave barely a nod as Concordia headed for the
exit.

But fresh air was not easily come by,
as the press of people made navigating the room exceedingly
difficult. She found herself dodging tables, chairs, waiters
clearing plates, and elderly patrons who moved at a snail’s pace.
As she tried to squeeze past one lady in an enormous floral hat,
Concordia’s parasol caught on a table skirt. The tea service came
along with it and crashed to the floor.

Mercy,
why was she carrying this blasted thing anyway?

“
I-I am s-so sorry,”
Concordia stammered. A waiter hurried to clear the mess with a
resigned sigh.

By the time Concordia reached an exit,
it had been several minutes since she’d seen Mr. Rosen. She hoped
they would have time to talk before she was missed.

Now to find the shed. She followed the
gravel path to the arbor, looking around. On such a temperate day,
many others were out as well, strolling along the paths or seated
on benches, admiring the sweep of tulip beds.

Where was the
shed?

Stepping off the path, Concordia found
it a few minutes later, tucked behind a lattice fence. She glanced
quickly behind her before going through the gate. It would not do
to be seen alone in such a secluded spot, as if she were keeping a
lovers’ tryst.

“
Mr. Rosen?” she murmured
into the gloom. Silence.

The shed door was already open, and
she pulled it wider. She smothered a yelp as she stumbled over a
shovel in the dim light. Then she noticed something dark at her
feet. Mr. Rosen’s bowler.

She picked up the hat and brushed it
off. She had a bad feeling about this. “Mr. Rosen?” she called a
little louder, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. She
raised her parasol handle, ready to swing it if need be.

Then she saw him, slumped over a
wheelbarrow. “Mr. Rosen!”

The man was unconscious, the back of
his head encrusted with dirt and blood. Concordia tentatively
leaned closer. He was still breathing, but barely.

“
Stay calm,” Concordia
said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’m going for
help.”

She turned toward the door just as a
very tall shadow crossed through it. She squeaked in
fright.

“
What in blazes is going on
here?” demanded a voice.

Concordia’s knees went weak with
relief as she recognized it. “Mr. Maynard, thank goodness. It’s Mr.
Rosen. It looks as if he’s been attacked.”

Maynard crossed into the light of the
shed’s window. He gave a snort. “Come now, Miss Wells, let us not
be overly dramatic.” He went over to Rosen and felt his pulse.
“He’s still alive. It was most likely an accident, but just in
case—we cannot put our young lady professors in danger from
marauders—I’ll stay with him while you go get help. Doctor Ruggers
is at table six; bring him back with you. But for heaven’s sake, be
discreet about it. There are nearly two hundred guests. We don’t
need a panic—or a scandal.” His jaw clenched. “Later, you can tell
me what one of our respectable teachers was doing in a secluded
shed with a newspaper reporter. Go!”

Concordia ran.

By the time Concordia returned with
the doctor, Maynard had shifted Rosen to a prone position on the
dirt floor, carefully supporting the man’s head with his rolled-up
jacket. The doctor set his bag down and crouched as best as he
could within the cramped confines of the shed.

He looked up at Concordia. “When did
this happen?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I
saw him walking this way not more than half an hour
ago.”

“
Should we summon an
ambulance?” Maynard asked.

After a careful examination, the
doctor shook his head and put his instruments back in the bag. “His
skull is fractured. There was nothing more we could have
done.”

“
Was
?” Concordia repeated.

“
The man is dead.” The
doctor stood and brushed off the dirt from his knees. “Have you
called the police? This was no accident.”

Maynard gave Concordia a startled
glance. Concordia nodded, though the sight of the dead newspaperman
chilled her. The gardener would never leave a shovel lying upon the
ground to be tripped over, and it was too much of a coincidence
that Rosen had been anxious to pass along information to her but
now could not.

Rosen, who had winked at her just an
hour before. She swallowed.

It was the Inner Circle. She was sure
of it.

In the gloom of the shed, she gripped
the door and took a slow breath to steady her knees.

The perceptive doctor was quick to
support her elbow. “Here, miss,” he said kindly, leading her over
to a stone bench beyond the gate. “You rest here. We’ll take care
of everything, although I suppose the police will want to ask you a
question or two. Try not to worry.”

Concordia made no protest, but sank
onto the bench. The cool stone felt like the only solid thing she
had to cling to.

The next hour was a flurry of people
coming and going; the gardener and building custodian, to watch
over the body until the police arrived; Maynard and the doctor,
bringing Flynn back with them; uniformed policemen, talking with
the men and giving Concordia an occasional curious glance;
stretcher-bearers, to remove the now-shrouded form. Concordia
watched it all with a sense of detachment, as if a play-acting
scene were going on. How odd, this sensation of feeling
nothing.

Concordia had hoped that Lieutenant
Capshaw would come, but a different policeman arrived. He was a
short, thin man, with a youth’s complexion and a hesitant manner,
dressed in a uniform that seemed two sizes too large for
him.

He approached her.

“
You are Miss Wells?” he
asked, his Adams’ apple bobbing along his throat.

Concordia nodded.

“
Sergeant O’Neil, miss. I
need to ask you a few questions.” He paused. “Can I get you some
water? You look pale.”

She shook her head.

“
How did you know Mr.
Rosen?”

“
He was a newspaper
reporter, and frequently came to our school functions to cover
events for the
Courant
.”

“
Your
school
, miss?” the man asked in
confusion.

“
Hartford Women’s College.
I teach there.”

“
I see.” He scribbled a
note and then observed her more carefully. “I never met a college
lady before.”

As there didn’t seem any good answer
to that, Concordia stayed silent. The man was obviously young. Why
hadn’t they sent someone with more experience to investigate a
murder?

“
And what brought you to
the shed, Miss Wells?”

Concordia had been dreading the
question ever since she saw O’Neil. If it had been Capshaw in
charge, she would be eager to share everything she knew. But she
remembered her conversation with Miss Hamilton:

If the Black Scroll
membership includes men in law enforcement, could it be behind the
removal of Capshaw from Florence’s murder investigation?

A disturbing thought, is
it not?

Most disturbing.