Unseemly Ambition (41 page)

With a heavy
oomph
of pain, he was on
the ground, bringing Concordia down with him. She winced as she
fell on her sore shoulder.
Ow.
Her hand hurt, too.

No wonder ladies don’t usually throw
punches.

Flynn gave her a vicious
slap that made her ears ring. He hauled her to her feet. “Egad,
’tis only one way to deal with
you
,” he huffed, and raised his hand
again. Concordia flinched.

“
Sir
!” came an outraged voice. Flynn’s driver had caught up to
them. “Hittin’ a
lady
?”

Flynn lowered his hand. “Never you
mind,” he barked, keeping a firm grip on Concordia’s arm and
steering her back to the carriage. “Why didn’t you go after the
other one?”

The driver snorted. “And
how was I gonna do
that
? The coach don’t have wings, ya know. ’Sides, we’ll be able
to catch up wi’ her. The creek borders the far side of the field
about a mile fro’ here, and wi’ all the rain we’ve had, she won’t
be able to cross it. She’ll have to double back to the
bridge.”

Concordia’s heart sank. She prayed the
man was wrong, and Charlotte would make it through.

Flynn nodded stiffly. “Turn the
carriage around, and be quick about it. We’re going back to the
house.”

Driving along the quiet road at this
hour of the morning would have been pleasant if Randolph Maynard
wasn’t so worried. As he tapped the reins along Ransom’s flanks
once more to urge him on, Maynard considered what had prompted Miss
Crandall to take Chestnut in the middle of the night. None of the
possibilities were reassuring. From what little he’d observed of
Charlotte Crandall, he found her sober and intelligent, not given
to reckless impulses like this. But at least they knew she’d
returned to campus. What worried him most was that Miss Wells had
not come back at all.

The side road he’d just turned on was
darker and narrower. The houses here weren’t yet wired for
electricity. With only carriage lanterns for illumination, Maynard
was forced to slow down.

He gritted his teeth at the slower
pace. It would be at least twenty minutes before he got to the
bridge, and another ten after that.

As Maynard squinted into
the dark, he saw a glimmer in the distance. He slowed the vehicle,
and listened. He was sure he heard the
clop-clop-clop
of another horse. Soon
his lanterns picked out the white blaze of Chestnut’s
forehead.

“
Miss Crandall?” he called
out, not able to see, but his voice projecting into the
stillness.

“
Oh, thank heavens,” came a
lady’s weary voice.

“
What in tarnation did you
think you were doing?” Maynard demanded, as he assisted a tired and
muddy Charlotte, who was nearly falling off her equally tired and
muddy horse.

“
I’ve been trying to find
help.”

“
These are summer
residences along this stretch.” Maynard led the fatigued horse
through a pasture gate. “They haven’t been opened yet for the
season.” He pumped some water into the trough, removed the saddle
and bridle, and turned the animal loose.

“
Will he be all right, just
left here?” Charlotte asked anxiously, as they closed the gate and
returned to the carriage.

“
He’ll be fine. This is
Frank Pennington’s place. He won’t mind. Besides, it’s only
temporary.”

“
Now,” he continued, after
he had helped Charlotte up to the seat and grabbed the reins, “I
assume we’re heading back to my house to rescue Miss Wells. In the
meantime, why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

“
You’re going to find it
difficult to believe,” Charlotte said wearily.

“
Try me,” Maynard
said.

Thou know’st we work by
wit, and not by witchcraft.

Othello
, II.iii

With a sinking heart, Concordia saw
the carriage drive was empty when they pulled up in front of the
Maynard house. Except for the driver, she and Flynn were
alone.

Flynn unceremoniously
dragged her out of the carriage. “Bring the lantern,” he called to
his driver. He glared at Concordia. “I’ll be putting
you
where you canno’ cause
me further trouble. There will be no window to climb out of this
time.”

Her new place of imprisonment looked
to be far less congenial than Dean Maynard’s bedroom. In the dim
light of the single lantern, she could see they were headed for the
root cellar. A wooden double door with a stout outer latch opened
wide to a sloping entrance, stretching ten feet below
ground.

“
What are your intentions,
Mr. Flynn?” Concordia said bluntly. She observed the driver, eyeing
her uneasily. Perhaps here was a possible ally?

Flynn took the lantern from the
driver. “Unhitch one of the horses and wait at the bridge for the
other young lady. Dunna come back without her.”

With a nervous tip of his cap, the man
left. Flynn prodded Concordia toward the cellar opening.

“
My intentions, Miss Wells?
Why, your untimely demise, of course.” He adopted a sorrowful look.
“I grieve already for your poor ma. But ne’er fear. I’ll be there
to comfort her in her time of need.”

She suppressed a shiver at the thought
of no one else knowing who this man really was. Especially her
mother.

But Concordia had no intention of
meekly going to her Eternal Reward. She had to stall for time,
hoping Charlotte would bring back help.

“
But you’ll have Hitchcock
do your dirty work for you,” she responded tartly. “As you did with
Florence Willoughby.”

“
Aye, indeed—Florence,” he
said casually, as if she were an item he had misplaced and
forgotten. “Quite careless of me to be givin’ her access to the
room where we stored our materials. To be sure, I didn’t realize
until too late that she had engaged in a nasty bit of eavesdropping
as well.” He scowled. “And then she had the audacity to extort
money from
me,
no
less! After all I had done for her: ball gowns, baubles, theater
tickets.” He shrugged. “‘Eaten bread is soon forgotten,’ as they
say. God’s truth, I did what I had to do.”

“
And was that the case with
Eli?” Concordia asked contemptuously. “Following him back to the
train, then having him arrested. No doubt you needed time to find
out who he was and why he’d been following you, but why try to kill
him? He’s just a child.”

Flynn gave her an unreadable look. “I
learned he was associated with that policeman—Capshaw. I couldn’t
take a chance.”

“
It must have been quite a
shock when you saw him alive in the Capshaw’s living room,”
Concordia said coldly.

“
The boy and Miss Hamilton
were full of surprises,” Flynn admitted. He gave Concordia a hard
look. “She’s not who she appears to be, is she?”

When Concordia didn’t answer, he
prodded her through the hatch.

Even as she inched along the dark,
sloping dirt floor of the root cellar, Flynn at her back, Concordia
tried to keep him talking. “You were sufficiently worried about
Miss Hamilton to stage the ‘accident’ at the trolley stop. And when
she survived that, you brought Hitchcock out of hiding in an
attempt to silence her once and for all.”

“
Did I now? You have all
the answers, don’t you?” Flynn sneered.

Concordia ignored the jibe. “But you
had to do some of the dirty work yourself, didn’t you? Ben Rosen’s
murder. He wasn’t garroted as Florence had been. You must have seen
Rosen approach me at the luncheon, so you attacked him in the
gardener’s shed just before I arrived. What did you fear he would
tell me? Had he learned of your connection to Florence? Possibly
the identities of Inner Circle members?”

Flynn’s brief look of surprise
confirmed that Concordia’s guess had hit the mark, but he merely
grunted and prodded her toward the back wall.

Concordia continued on. “What I don’t
understand is how this is connected to setting bombs at the
senatorial debate and getting Barton Isley elected.”

Her words had the intended
effect of stopping Flynn cold. “How in blazes do you know about
that?” He hesitated. “Ah, the noise outside the balcony. Hmm, it
seems that our lady professor has been engaging in some unseemly
snooping. Well, well, aren’t you a resourceful
cailin
.”

“
No matter what you told
Isley, you know a great many people will be wounded or killed by
the blast,” Concordia pressed. “Have you no conscience? What do you
hope to gain?”

“
More than you, my dear,
could understand.” Flynn’s face creased in a mock-paternal frown.
“You modern women may well say that you know the ways of the world,
but sadly deficient you are in seeing beyond your parlors and
kitchens.”

“
Humor me,” Concordia said,
trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I may as well know
the truth. I’m going to die, anyway.”

Flynn gave her a wary look.

They were at the bottom of
the cellar now, and Flynn released her elbow. Through the open
hatch door behind him, Concordia could see the light of pre-dawn
streak the sky. She leaned back against a bin, groping behind her
in the dark for something,
anything
, that would serve as a
weapon. A crowbar? A spade? This time of year, the bins that
usually held potatoes, carrots and other vegetables were
bare.

Concordia persisted. “I
already know about the Inner Circle. At first I thought that Isley
was in charge, but it’s clear they do
your
bidding.”

Flynn puffed up in pride.
“Indeed, now it serves
my
purposes, although it was Barton’s creation. He
had oh-so-high ideals when he formed it. Wanted to fight the
corruption and inefficiency of our local government. He hand-picked
a few men from the Black Scroll Order who professed the same
ideals. Ironic, is it not? Such naïveté. I have shaped it into a
more practical, effective entity.”

“
And the Black Scroll’s
general membership does not know of the Inner Circle’s existence,”
Concordia said.

Flynn cocked an eyebrow. “Naturally.
The Black Scroll Brotherhood would never approve. I want to keep
the Brothers on my side; their oaths have proved eminently useful.
The police turned a blind eye on several occasions.”

“
No doubt the investigators
of the
Gascogne
explosion turned a blind eye, too?” Concordia asked,
remembering what Miss Hamilton had learned. She continued exploring
the bins behind her in the dark, her hands skimming along the
surfaces.

Flynn scowled. “Apparently Florence
passed on more information before her death than I’d anticipated.
Or perhaps it was your resourceful Miss Hamilton who figured it
out.”

Concordia went on as if he hadn’t
spoken. “And because Lieutenant Capshaw was learning more about the
Willoughbys in the course of investigating Florence’s murder, you
arranged for him to be removed from the case and replaced by
someone less experienced, didn’t you?”

Flynn gave her a mocking
smile.

“
Capshaw is out of my hair
completely, now,” he said. “He’s been fired.”

Concordia felt a twist of pity for
Sophia, and fear for them all. How does one defend against a
powerful few, working in secret, manipulating people to their
will?

She couldn’t despair. Somehow she
would get out of this.

She heard a slight rustle outside. A
night animal? Flynn’s driver? Or perhaps it was Charlotte, bringing
rescue? Flynn seemed not to notice.

She had to keep him
talking.

“
What about Barton Isley?”
she asked. “Does he know you had Florence killed, and murdered Mr.
Rosen yourself? Does he know of your attempts to kill Eli and Miss
Hamilton?”

“
Isley?” Flynn said
derisively. “Of course not. He would never agree to such tactics,
and I rely heavily upon his business acumen and considerable social
connections. ’Tis a nuisance to cater to such a highly-principled
fellow. Barton doesn’t possess the steely resolve to do what needs
to be done. We have a saying: ‘Soft words butter no
parsnips.’”

A very different saying had
come to Concordia’s mind:
Men’s natures
wrangle with inferior things, though great ones are their
object.
The man whom Flynn considered
“highly-principled” was part of the conspiracy to set bombs at a
public function. If the situation weren’t so dire it would be
laughable.

“
But he’ll make an
excellent candidate for the state senate seat,” Flynn went on
boastfully. “He was doing quite well before he withdrew from the
race, to be bursar at your school. He has since regretted that
decision.”

“
How does bombing the rally
get Isley back in the race?”