Chapter 12 #2
Thus far, the only thing she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt—no matter what the coroner’s office might “independently find”—was that a girl had been strangled.
An unknown girl, who was not a Wellesley student but somehow found herself on the campus.
She had been assaulted by another unknown person strong enough to strangle someone, and cold-blooded enough to toss her body into Lake Waban.
It did not make a pretty picture.
Marigold slowed as the path skirted by the tall rotunda at the entrance to the boathouse.
Days ago it had seemed lofty and inspiring, but today it was full of slippery, sinister shadows that kept her from lingering.
Indeed, the starkness of the fall afternoon seemed to cast a pall over the boathouse, which had before been such a source of ease and joy—and would be again, she was determined, once this terrible murder was solved, and the murderer brought to justice.
She pedaled on toward the Music Hall on the south side of the path, passing by the fork that led away from the shore, up toward Stone Hall.
Just past that fork, Marigold paused along the edge of the changing wood, trying to find ease in the rich riot of fall color, when a spark of refracted light caught her eye.
Marigold muttered an irreverent prayer that forbade the object from being another hat.
And was calmed, and then swiftly alarmed to see a dark glove—the empty fingers outstretched on the damp ground. A right-hand glove in black suede. Identical to the left-hand black suede glove the strangled girl had still been wearing.
Could she have been strangled with this glove?
No. It was impossible, surely—the glove was too small, and Dr. Barker had quite specifically noticed the handprints on the girl’s neck.
But they had also noted signs of a struggle—the bruising at her wrists and the ripped buttons on the jacket and skirt waist. Had that struggle happened here?
Mindful of her foot placement, Marigold carefully moved her bicycle off to the side of the path and picked up the glove before she began to methodically survey the ground for anything resembling a black button.
Or rather, she looked steadfastly for the brown dirt of the path, because she knew her clever, curious brain would do the rest of the job for her and find the thing that did not belong—as long as she didn’t look for it.
And there it was on her third pass—the small, shining, glass beaded button that must have first caught her eye. As small as a pea, easy to miss amongst the pebbles and berries and fallen leaves, and yet unmistakable. Ripped from the rounded neckline of the girl’s jacket.
This was the place, then, where the murder had begun, even if it had ended in the boathouse.
Marigold looked back to see if she could make out the roof of the boathouse’s rotunda, before she looked ahead in the other direction to where the path curved back toward the main road and the East Lodge, gauging the distance between the two—she was far closer to the lodge than the boathouse.
But the boathouse was where the body of the girl who had lost—or been forced to lose—this glove was found.
It seemed too great a distance for someone as diminutive and frail as Professor Currier to manage—even on her own, not to mention hauling the body of a young woman.
But who knew, perhaps the professor’s frailty was all for show?
In contrast, any number of strong athletic Wellesley women, whose curriculum was famed for favoring physical exercise, would likely have been able to manage the distance.
Sarah Appleton’s patrician physique came strongly to mind.
And there was her distant cousin’s evident antipathy for universal suffrage to be considered as well.
Yet, for all her own antipathy for Sarah, Marigold could not picture the young scholar doing something so obvious or vulgar as giving way to the brute force required to strangle someone. Sarah was all for passive aggression, not active violence.
But practical consideration before the hypothetical—Marigold turned in the direction of the East Lodge.
If the girl had fought her assailant here, on the very public pathway, perhaps someone—especially the lodge keepers, protective Mr. and Mrs. Breyer—might have had some sight of such a person.
Or had heard something—surely the girl would have called out in her fright?
Or perhaps not, if she was with someone she knew. And trusted.
Marigold almost thought of calling out herself—of trying the distance—but as she looked, just over the knoll, four young collegians came into sight.
And in the other direction, larger groups of girls—clearly mindful of the direction not to wander outside alone—walked across the lawns closer to College Hall.
The path was far too well used to have allowed an altercation, in which the buttons were torn off a girl’s coat, to go unnoticed—unless it had happened later, at night, when the cover of dark would have cloaked their passage.
And when even a seemingly frail person could have taken their time—or slowly coerced their protégée to go the rest of the distance.
But the reminder of the coming night had Marigold stowing the artifacts of the murder safely in her pocket and setting off for the entrance lodge.
And after she had spoken to the Breyers, she would see Isabella, who with any luck, would be able to help shed light on a new avenue of inquiry with the clothes.
Well-dressed young women, with eight-dollar hats from Jordan Marsh and velvet jackets with expensive glass bead buttons, didn’t just disappear without anyone—someone—noticing.
She came to the joining of the path with the carriage road and was about to turn to head toward East Lodge when a deep voice called her name. “Miss Manners?”
Marigold instantly recognized the tall, handsome journalist from the boardinghouse, who jogged to her side, lest she pedal off without speaking to him. “It is Miss Manners, isn’t it?”
There was no way of politely evading the introduction—and no real reason to do so. She was safely within sight of the lodge. “Sir?”
“James Wilkerson.” He doffed his hat and introduced himself with an equitable offer of a handshake. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself the other evening. You left before I could get in a word edgewise.”
“Mr. Wilkerson.” Marigold shook his proffered hand—a handshake was very often a good measure of a man. Too hard and one knew he was aggressive. Too soft and he might be wishy-washy—or might not respect women enough to give them an actual handshake. Too limp—well, that one spoke for itself.
His handshake was exactly firm enough and exactly quick enough to inspire some small confidence. “It is Miss Marigold Manners, isn’t it? I thought I recognized you from the paper.”
“It is.” Marigold dismounted her bicycle keeping the machine safely between them—a precaution she had learned on Great Misery. “What might I do for you, Mr. Wilkerson?”
His smile was a bonfire of pleasure—bright, even teeth gleamed in the afternoon sun. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Manners. I understand you’re the one who pulled her out—the jumper.”
All confidence in the fellow fled. “The jumper?” Marigold heard herself repeat with barely disguised contempt.
“The suicide.” He was indifferent to her outrage. “I’m a journalist, Miss Manners, sent down from Boston to cover this incident. You were the one that pulled her out, weren’t you?”
Marigold was compelled to set the record straight. “There is no evidence to suggest that the poor creature jumped, Mr. Wilkerson. Indeed, Lake Waban hardly holds a bluff that counts as height enough from which to jump.”
“Now, that’s the kind of information that might come in handy.” His smile, she supposed, was meant to be her reward for being so clever. “So, you didn’t see her throw herself in?”
“Again.” Marigold firmed her voice. “There is no evidence to suggest that the unfortunate young woman did herself in. As a journalist, you should know better than to jump to unfounded conclusions. What newspaper did you say you wrote for?”
“Come on, Miss Manners,” the fellow cajoled with easy confidence. “What else could it be but a suicide? Place like this?”
“A place like this?” She did not care if her voice was frosted with a rime of outrage. “A temple to the education of women? A place of learning and erudition?”
“You must know what people say about this place, don’t you?” His smile became so kind it was almost patronizing. “All these women closeted up together—it’s unnatural.”
“But not unnatural for young men to be closeted up together at Harvard, or Brown, or Yale? No? What is your excuse for any bad thing that happens in those places?”
“All right now.” His chagrin was almost gracious. “I take your point, Miss Manners—which is why I’d like to interview you. If you don’t mind my saying, you’re quite a gal. Our readers are curious about what happened, and you, Miss Marigold Manners, seem to have all the answers.”