The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “My parents,” Dianna put in. “And I think, some other people. I don’t remember everything, only that there were too many grownups and no other children.”

  “And I left the book and was going to leave when I saw a child—”

  “That was me!”

  “—and I suggested that I might amuse her, since she seemed rather lonely.”

  “And we came up here,” Dianna finished, “and you showed me all your pretty things, and we had a lovely time. I especially remember the jam cakes.”

  “But … the photograph …” Dr. Doyle prompted them.

  “Oh, yes. The photograph.” Mr. Dodgson looked at it, then went on. “At that time I was an avid photographer, using the wet-plate method. I rarely took a child who was not willing to be posed, and there was always someone about, and in this case, I suppose, I was overcome. You were a very pretty child.”

  Dianna blushed again. Miss Laurel echoed, “A very pretty child and quite clever, too.”

  “And so I suggested that you might like to remove your clothing, and I could take you in your favorite costume of nothing at all,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Now it comes back to me. I believe I was experimenting with artificial light, which would account for the shadows in the background. At that time there was no electrical light,” Mr. Dodgson reminded his audience. “I must have taken this by gaslight and with what little light was available through the windows.”

  Dr. Doyle examined the photograph with the eye of an expert. “An interesting effect. With the new electric lighting, I expect we shall see more indoor photography.”

  Touie didn’t care about photography. “And what happened then?”

  “We had jam cakes, and then Mr. Dodgson looked out into St. Aldgates and saw that my uncle Roswell’s carriage had come for my parents; so I went back to the deanery, and that was the end of it,” Dianna said with a shrug. “The next day we were off to my father’s new living, which was in Northumberland on the coast, quite remote, and many of the people were Chapel, so his congregation was quite small.”

  “And you told no one about your adventure with Mr. Dodgson?” Dr. Doyle was pursuing his own train of thought.

  “There was no one to tell.” Dianna looked blankly at her two friends. “It was a small, out-of-the-way parish, there were no children of my own age among the gentry, and the village children were considered beneath my touch. My mother educated me at home, with the help of my father, of course. I had almost forgotten that this photograph even existed until the letter came.”

  Dr. Doyle pulled at his mustache. “How many people knew about it then?”

  Mr. Dodgson began to tick them off on his fingers. “Myself, of course, and the Reverend and Mrs. Cahill, for I asked their permission before taking Miss Dianna to tea, and I mentioned that I might wish to take her photograph. Mrs. Liddell and the Dean were present, and Mrs. Liddell encouraged Mrs. Cahill to permit the child to come to my rooms.” The memory came back, and Mr. Dodgson frowned again. “Mrs. Liddell would not let her younger daughters come up, since they were becoming young ladies; but as I now recall; she took it upon herself to assure Mrs. Cahill that I was a noted photographer, who had taken the likenesses of several celebrated poets and artists, and that to have one’s photograph taken by me was something of an honor.”

  “And so it was,” Miss Laurel murmured.

  “I felt that such reassurance was unnecessary,” Mr. Dodgson said testily. “I would never take a photograph of a child who would not pose willingly or was in the least way uncomfortable.” He closed his mouth over the unworthy thought that Mrs. Liddell had been puffing him off to her guests as a minor literary lion. The atmosphere between Mr. Dodgson and Mrs. Liddell had never been cordial, and in the early 1870s there was a distinct coolness between the Dean and his most persistent critic. For Mrs. Liddell to refuse to allow her daughters to accompany him to his rooms and then allow a stranger to be photographed was an implied insult to both the photographer and the subject.

  Dr. Doyle was examining the photograph. “If I may say so, sir, this is an exceptionally fine photograph. The quality of the printing, the texture, so to speak, is unusual, and the lighting effect is superb. How many prints were made?”

  “I think I made one for myself and one to send to the child,” Mr. Dodgson said, after a moment’s recollection. “I often sent my prints to be colored, but at the time I did not like the deep shadows that draw your attention, and I did not do so with this one.” He felt the paper and frowned in puzzlement. “But this is not my print,” he complained. “This is not the paper I used for my prints at all. It is coarser, and the definition is not as fine as I was used to getting.”

  “And what did you do with the prints?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “Eh?” Mr. Dodgson considered the question. “I usually sent a print to the child, but since your parents were only visiting, Miss Cahill, it is possible that I sent it to the relations—”

  “My uncle and aunt Roswell,” Dianna interrupted.

  “But it was so long ago,” Mr. Dodgson said apologetically, “that I really could not say.”

  “What about your own print?” Dr. Doyle asked. “Where would that have been kept?”

  “In my albums,” Mr. Dodgson said, turning to one of the bookcases. There were thirty small albums, marked with the dates, beginning with 1858 and ending in 1880. “It would be in, let me see … 1872, 1873?”

  “I think 1873,” Dianna said.

  Mr. Dodgson frowned again. “Those albums have been disarranged,” he said. “I cannot believe …” He pulled out the appropriate album, carried it to the desk, and laid it down reverently. The rest of the group crowded around him as he turned over the pages, careful not to tear the fragile paper.

  “There is the last photograph I took of Miss Alice Liddell,” he murmured. “And here is Miss Isa … and Miss Terry …”

  “But where is Dianna?” Gertrude had to crane her neck to see over the heads of Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle.

  “Look here!” Touie pointed to a page with an obvious gap, where one square was darker than the rest of the page.

  “Oh dear!” Mr. Dodgson moaned.

  “And that explains where this photograph came from,” Dr. Doyle said.

  “But … that would mean that Mr. Dodgson sent the photograph, and we know that he did not,” Dianna said.

  Mr. Dodgson’s face grew grim. “What may be deduced is that someone entered these rooms, looked into my albums, abstracted this particular photograph, and purloined it for the purpose of making a copy to send to you, Miss Cahill, so that you would be frightened into leaving Oxford. That is intolerable, and I will not rest until I have gotten to the bottom of it!”

  “It seems a drastic step to take, to threaten to disgrace a whole school so that one student should leave it,” Dr. Doyle said. “Miss Cahill, can you shed any light on this matter? Have you any enemies who would descend to this sort of crime?”

  Dianna’s eyes filled with tears of mortification. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt me,” she sniffled.

  Miss Laurel handed her a handkerchief from her reticule. “Miss Cahill is well-liked by everyone at Lady Margaret Hall,” she said severely. “There’s nothing behind this but spite.”

  Gertrude was also thinking. “Maybe not,” she said. “What about that uncle of yours? The one who’s paying your fees?”

  “Uncle Roswell?” Dianna quavered, applying the handkerchief to her nose. “What has he to do with anything?”

  “He’s rich,” Gertrude said succinctly.

  “Yes, but he’s not a blood relation, and he’s quite healthy, so there’s no question of an inheritance.… Oh!” Dianna stopped sniffling and sat up straight.

  “What is it?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “When I came up there was a reporter who went to Uncle Roswell and asked his opinion of female scholars. Uncle Roswell allowed himself to be quoted as saying that he was in favor of University education, and that he would offer a large sum
to any of his nieces or nephews who won honors at Oxford.”

  “Roswell … Roswell …,” Mr. Dodgson muttered to himself.

  “The Roswell Glass Works,” Dianna said helpfully. “His wife is my mother’s sister. I believe he helped my father financially when he began his research into the trading cities of Northumbria. My father is an expert on the Viking invasions of Britain,” she added with pride.

  “And Mr. Roswell is paying for your education?” Mr. Dodgson brought her back to the point.

  “Oh, yes.” Dianna smiled suddenly. “And if I do well, I shall have my own income, as Uncle Roswell promised.”

  Mr. Dodgson mulled this over. “Who else would benefit from this generous offer?”

  Dianna concentrated. “I’m not at all sure,” she said at last. “My uncle Roswell is the eldest in his family. There is one brother who went to America just after their Civil War, and I believe he is doing quite well. He has a son of age to be in college, but Mr. Roswell does not approve of the institution. It is some sort of school for chemists, called Cornell College.”

  “So you would be the sole beneficiary of this offer?” Mr. Dodgson pursued this line of thought.

  “I suppose I would. Although …” Dianna paused. “There might be someone else; but every time I asked about her, I was told she was gone and not to ask any more questions.”

  “Oh?” Dr. Doyle’s eyebrows went up.

  “I think Mr. Roswell had a sister, but she must be dead. There is a very old photograph taken when Mr. Roswell was at the great exhibition at the Crystal Palace,” Dianna explained. “I saw it once and asked about it. Mr. Roswell was with a boy, who is the American brother, and a girl, who must have been his sister, but Aunt Roswell said I was not to ask about her, not ever. She looked quite pretty.”

  The sounds of Great Tom ringing the hour of five reverberated through the rooms.

  Miss Laurel made fussy noises, reminiscent of a mother hen calling to her chicks. “We must be back at Lady Margaret Hall for dinner,” she reminded her charges. “It is nearly an hour’s walk back to our college.”

  The three girls stood up and collected their assorted wraps. Mr. Dodgson escorted them down the stairs and along the path to the great carved gate that led into the busy street.

  “I shall do everything in my power to discover this miserable blackguard,” he promised Dianna. “There are several points of interest in your story that may lead to the unraveling of this mystery. In the meanwhile, I suggest that you concentrate your attention on passing your examinations and earning the bounty offered by your generous relation.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Dianna curtsied and shook Mr. Dodgson’s hand. Gertrude and Mary followed her, and Mr. Dodgson stood aside to let Miss Laurel take her place beside her charges. His eye was caught by a black coat and bowler hat.

  “Here! You!” Mr. Dodgson accosted the owner of the black coat, who turned and faced him.

  “Are you talking to me?” Ingram asked truculently.

  “Yes, you! You are a scout, are you not?” Mr. Dodgson’s shrill voice rang out over the hubbub of St. Aldgates, drawing the attention of the students as they flowed in and out of the gate. “You are the one who served us tea. What is your name?”

  “Ingram. What is it to you?”

  “Scouts are not to use Tom Gate but are to use the gate at the other end of the quad.” Mr. Dodgson spoke as one who lays down the law and quotes from the Book of Regulations for Scouts.

  “And what difference does it make which gate I use?” Ingram was becoming abusive. “A scout’s as good as any don any day and better than some I could name. I don’t photograph little girls, and I don’t put on airs, pretending to be what I’m not.” He glared at Mr. Dodgson, as if daring him to refute the charges and let his eyes drift toward the four women behind him.

  “You have b-b-een in my rooms,” Mr. Dodgson declared suddenly. “How d-dare you!” His voice grew loud and shrill, as the true infamy of Ingram’s crime burst upon him.

  “Mr. Dodgson …” Dr. Doyle was uncomfortably aware that they were drawing the attention of the entire crowd. “You cannot accuse a man without proof.”

  “For all I know you are the thief who has b-been abstracting small articles from Tom Quad,” Mr. Dodgson sputtered. “You are d-discharged! You may collect whatever money is owed you, and you will be off by tomorrow! Without a character!”

  “And good riddance!” Ingram shot back. “If you want to talk to me, be at Magdalen Bridge at six o’clock, and we can have words there!”

  Miss Laurel hustled the other girls northward toward the High, as Ingram turned back to the Porter’s Lodge, and Mr. Dodgson seethed.

  “Mr. Dodgson?” Dr. Doyle interposed himself between the don and the scout.

  “Yes? What is it?” Mr. Dodgson snapped.

  Dr. Doyle took a deep breath and tried to soothe the agitated don. “Why don’t you come and have a small sherry with me at the White Hart, while Touie makes herself presentable for dinner. We can go over this blackmail business and see if we can make any sense of it. And besides,” he added, as he helped the older man through the tangle of traffic, “I have something to show you. A new story I have written, something quite different from anything I’ve ever tried before.”

  Mr. Dodgson allowed himself to be removed from the crowd. “I shall be delighted to read it,” he said. “And I, too, have noticed certain points in Miss Cahill’s story. We shall discuss it over some sherry. And then we shall have dinner and discuss your new endeavor.”

  Ingram watched from the Porter’s Lodge as the four ladies made their way along St. Aldgates and turned into High Street. He was sure his message had been received. Now all he had to do was decide how to use the tool that had been delivered into his hands.

  Chapter 5

  Great Tom’s sonorous tones boomed out over St. Aldgates. Tradesmen and workmen who had stopped for a four o’clock tea now went back to their labors, eager to take advantage of the extra hours of daylight. Street vendors enticed students with savory odors from baskets of hot potatoes or sausages to be carried back to their rooms for a late afternoon snack. Shopkeepers stayed open to make the last sales of the day.

  The taverns and pubs were doing a brisk business. Tucked in and around the colleges, in the squalid lanes behind Christ Church and around Carfax, the worker bees of the Oxford hive found places to sit and have a quiet pint and some bread and cheese, while more sedate dons had their mid-afternoon refreshment in more gracious surroundings. In Senior Common Rooms around Oxford, tea, sherry, biscuits, and cakes were ingested along with weighty commentary and crisply enunciated witticisms. Undergraduates in their gowns and mortarboards hurried back to their respective colleges to devour hot pies and sandwiches that would stave off the pangs of hunger until the ceremonies of dinner in Hall at seven-thirty.

  A few hardy souls could be seen on the river, bending over their sculls. Boating practice was beginning in earnest, and each college wanted the title of Head of the River. As the final notes of the great bell hung in the air, the rowers pulled in their oars and grounded the boats. It was time to rest from their labors and dress for dinner.

  Mr. Dodgson had not intended to accompany his young guests across the road, but the encounter with Ingram had shaken him more than he liked. He allowed Dr. Doyle to see him through the traffic and into the busy inn opposite Christ Church.

  According to its prospectus, the White Hart served tea every afternoon in the lounge. Here Dr. Doyle commandeered three chairs and a small table.

  Touie shook her head when her husband offered her a seat. “I must go up to our room,” she explained. “I want to change for dinner, and I must make sure the maid has put our things out correctly. And besides, Mr. Dodgson, I know that Arthur wants to tell you about his new story.” She merged with the crowd of visitors who filled the lounge, leaving Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle together.

  Mr. Dodgson nodded mutely. A waiter materialized out of the crowd and stood in front of them r
eady for instructions.

  “Sherry,” Dr. Doyle ordered, before Mr. Dodgson could protest. “It is medicinal, sir. You have had a shock.”

  “I certainly have!” Mr. Dodgson agreed. “To think that one of my photographs should be used for such a purpose! And the cheek of it! Removing it from my very rooms!”

  “It was not the photograph itself,” Dr. Doyle said. “It is the combination of the photograph and the text that makes the thing so vile. Who could have written such a thing?”

  “Have you got the … the document?”

  “Here it is. I picked it up after Miss Cahill laid it on your desk. I thought we might be able to go over the two items more carefully together.” Dr. Doyle fished them out of his jacket pocket and handed them to the older man. “Although,” Dr. Doyle added, “one can hardly call this room private.”

  “There is nothing more private than a public lounge,” Mr. Dodgson observed, with a glance at the crowd in the room. “Let us see this page.”

  Mr. Dodgson could barely bring himself to look at the galley-proof sheet that Dr. Doyle handed him. He held it at arms’ length, as if to distance himself from the sentiments expressed.

  “Most interesting,” he said at last, laying down the galley proofs and taking up the letter. “The hand is copperplate, of the sort used by schoolboys when doing impositions. The paper may be found at any stationers in Oxford. The envelope is of the same grade as the notepaper.”

  “Well, you can’t expect our blackmailer to be so generous as to leave clues to his identity,” Dr. Doyle said, with an ironic twitch of his mustache.

  “But he has,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out. “Every writer has certain phrases, little expressions and tricks of syntax that mark him as an individual. Even you, Dr. Doyle, are beginning to show the elements of a particular style.”