Chapter 28 #2
May Barnacle, with her access to the professor’s room and possessions, and her knowledge of the professor’s habits, came swiftly back to mind. As did the opinionated members of the Société des Belles Lettres—she had not forgotten them.
And secondly, for her own part, Marigold was taken not only by the quiet conviction in Dr. Barker’s voice but by the realization that she had thought about the accusation in the tabloid from the wrong point of view—it affected not only Professor Currier but nearly everyone in the faculty.
Female academics were barred by tradition from marrying, which left them open to accusations of being either dried-up old spinsters, full of bitterness and disappointed hopes, or unnatural beings who didn’t want the company of a man.
They were left vulnerable to derision and calumny no matter what they did.
And this was the future Marigold had wanted for herself—this independent, intellectual life, free from the unequal dictates of marriage. But this independent life had its own costs—accusations that were so commonplace they were shopworn.
But they could still do horrible damage—yesterday’s events were evidence of that.
And there was still a part of the sequence of events of the day before that Marigold was curious about.
“So, this feeling of palpitations was not new?” she asked Professor Currier before she turned to Dr. Barker. “She was under your care for this condition well before Valentine showed up in Wellesley?”
“Yes,” Dr. Barker confirmed. “I’ve been treating Imogen for arrhythmia—the disturbance in cardiac rhythm—for quite some time.”
“When I escorted you home from your sister’s house,” Marigold asked the professor, “was that what made you feel unwell?”
“Yes. As I have grown older, my heart’s weakness manifests itself in tiredness—weariness,” the professor explained.
“Did you take your medicine then, that day, as you had intended?”
“No, actually.” The professor seemed to have surprised herself with this admission.
“I found myself revived somewhat by our cook’s soup.
Miss Lucy Dove—although you seemed to already be acquainted with her.
” Professor Currier’s brows rose in question.
“She made me the bone broth she mentioned, and I found myself refreshed enough to go up to my room, without feeling the need for the medication. Perhaps it was the broth, perhaps I just needed rest.”
“But rest wasn’t enough yesterday? What happened then?”
“Mrs. Barnacle brought me the copy of the tabloid,” the professor said simply before she closed her eyes momentarily. “Well, you can imagine.”
“So, you took your regular dose of the medicine?” Marigold asked Professor Currier. “Two granules of the atropine?”
“Only one, to start. May saw me measure it out—with a glass of water. But instead of regulating my pulse, it became even more erratic. I felt faint and frankly nauseated. Quite distressed.”
“So, Mrs. Barnacle was there?”
“Initially. She left me to rest.”
How convenient. Certainly, Mrs. Barnacle ought now be treated with some suspicion.
But Marigold had another question that had arisen from the professor’s statements yesterday. She took her own leap—of both logic and faith. “Is that when you saw him?”
Dr. Barker looked at Marigold sharply, but Marigold just let the question hang without any explanation or prompting.
“Yes,” the professor admitted. “Yes, at least, I thought I did see him. But I heard what Lucy Dove said yesterday—I wasn’t entirely insensate—that there was no one there in the room with me.
But I could swear he came and stood directly in front of me.
I must have imagined it, or worse, hallucinated him.
Your Miss Rautencranz said I was confused—she must have been right. ”
“And exactly who did you see?” Marigold wanted to be completely sure she understood the professor.
“Wilkie Valentine.” Imogen Currier all but whispered the name, as if she couldn’t even bear to hear it. “I thought he had come back. Of course, it couldn’t have been him—he’s run off, you said, escaped across the ocean.”
Marigold was no longer entirely sure—he could not be in two places at the same time. “What was he wearing, when you saw him in your room?”
“Why … I don’t know. He gave me such a fright perhaps I fainted.” She shook her head, as if in disbelief. “He couldn’t possibly have been there, so what does it matter?”
“Indulge me, please,” was all Marigold could think to say. “If you close your eyes and imagine him in front of you the way he looked yesterday, what color were his eyes? What was he wearing? A coat? A color?”
“A camel hair coat. And a dark hat.”
A spike of dreadful, dawning horror rove through Marigold. Every fiber of her being radiated new alarm. Even as she tried to tell herself that camel hair coats were commonplace and many men wore dark homburg hats, she also knew there were no coincidences.
She made herself speak calmly. “What did Wilkie Valentine wear the first time he came to you with his accusations and anger?”
“The same thing, I suppose,” Professor Currier said, before she frowned.
“Which is why I am sure I imagined him that way yesterday. He had made an impression on me the first time I saw him—a handsome young man, so well-spoken and polite, so gentlemanly. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, if ever there was. A wolf in search of money.”
Marigold could say nothing in response, for hadn’t she had exactly the same impression? And there were no coincidences when it came to murder.
Professor Currier went on. “I told him I had paid all the money for him I was able when he was an infant and that surely he was the responsibility of the Valentines now.”
Marigold was distracted back to another question. “Was Olivia Thayer likely to come into any money? If she had married Valentine and they had eloped to Europe as Valentine planned, might she have expected some money from her parents or from you?”
Professor Currier frowned, as if she had not thought of this before. “Certainly—neither her parents nor I would ever have abandoned her, however much we might have disagreed with her actions. She was my heir—in property as well as intellectually—so she might pursue an independent, academic life.”
“Did Valentine know that? Did he think he might expect money from the Thayers as well?”
“I don’t know, she might have told him, although frankly, there isn’t much—we are modest people, of modest means.
Our father’s estate was modest, as well—mostly spent on our educations.
I live very frugally in my boardinghouse, which is comfortable but not lavish by any stretch of the imagination, while my sister lives entirely economically in her husband’s family house.
I don’t believe they light a fire before the first of December, no matter how hard the weather turns.
But I didn’t tell him about Almira—I didn’t want him to darken her door with his threats and innuendo too. ”
“But he found her—or at least Olivia—anyway? How did he even know where to find you? Richmond is a very long way away.”
“I suppose it was because I had signed the papers the Valentines insisted upon, relinquishing any familial rights to the boy. But that seemed eminently practical at the time. The Valentines were far more wealthy than we, my sister and I, despite the war. Or perhaps because of it.”
“So, he came to you this fall, accusing you of being his mother and abandoning him?”
“Essentially.”
“And he asked you for money?”
“Demanded it,” the professor corrected. “Said he would ruin me.” Imogen Currier sighed again.
“I frankly didn’t think it was possible—how could he ruin me?
I do almost nothing to draw attention to myself.
I have taught at Wellesley for nearly twenty-nine years.
I have devoted myself to my students. I have earned the respect of both my fellow faculty members and the administration. ”
“Naturally,” Marigold agreed before asking, “So you told him no?”
“I did. But he swore that he would find a way to make me pay. And he did.” Professor Currier took a long regretful breath. “He found Olivia. And the tabloids.”
It broke Marigold’s heart anew to think that Olivia herself had not mattered—that this vibrant girl with all she had to offer the world, all her passion and intelligence, had been nothing more than a pawn to the man. Just another girl to be disposed of in the water. Tossed away.
The poor girl.
“But I never said a word about her to him, I’m sure!
” the professor continued. “Or my sister—nothing about the Thayers at all. I can only assume that Valentine watched me and saw me with Olivia, coming to campus to sit in on classes. And he horned in with his flattery and his anger and his resentment, all hidden behind a veneer of false charm.”
“Yes.” Marigold could just picture him, flattering and charming his way along the campus paths to the very door of College Hall.
Such arrogance. Such conceit.
Such murderous intent.
Which gave rise to another, conflicting thought. “What would have happened, I wonder, if he had convinced Olivia to go with him—if she had succumbed to his blandishments and agreed to elope to Europe?”
Professor Currier shook her head. “It is a blessing perhaps that we will never know. That he didn’t have the chance to ruin her and abandon her—for I am quite convinced he never meant to marry her. That he felt nothing for her, really.”
“But why didn’t he?” Marigold finally asked.
“He had bought her a ring—surely that demonstrates some seriousness.” Although, the issue of the second Mrs. Valentine—whoever she was—boarding the Cunard liner remained unresolved.
“Why would a man who had everything—the Valentines had wealth and privilege, you said. He seems an educated man, who could certainly be able to make his way in the world without resorting to blackmail threats. It seems such a low ambition.”
“Low, wicked, and hateful,” Professor Currier confirmed. “He said he was out of money—or nearly so. He didn’t say why. But he was clearly so deeply resentful. And in the end, revengeful.”