Dr. Doyle didn’t know whether to be flattered by this encomium or not. He picked up the page and scanned it more closely than Mr. Dodgson, reminding himself that he was looking for style, not content.
“Whoever wrote this is an educated man,” he finally pronounced. “The reference to the Greek poetess Sappho would not have been made by someone without a knowledge of the Classics. There is a French term in the text, as well as the more, um, Anglo-Saxon vulgarities.”
“There are now schools in every parish,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out.
“True,” Dr. Doyle conceded. “But I can assure you, sir, that the poems of Sappho are not on the curriculum, nor is the French tongue. The national schools run more to the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and whatever poetry is taught is of the staunch and moral variety. Mr. Tennyson, Mr. Southey, Mr. Pope … definitely not Madame Sappho!”
Mr. Dodgson tapped the paper before him. “And I can assure you, Dr. Doyle, that this is not a typeface commonly used by the Oxford University Press. However, there are several printers who specialize in small press runs of pamphlets and tracts, and it is possible that one of those might have set these verses.”
Dr. Doyle frowned and pulled at his mustache. “I suppose the next step is to visit each of these establishments and question the owner,” he said at last.
“It may not be necessary to visit every printing shop in Oxford,” Mr. Dodgson said. “We may be able to make certain assumptions, based on observations. For instance, this type has been used extensively. Observe the marks of wear on the t and the e, the most commonly used letters in the English alphabet. It is possible that this font was bought cheaply, or even acquired after a bankruptcy, at sale. Ergo, we are looking for a printing shop that is using old type, a shop that is probably only marginally successful, that will set any piece for a fee.”
“If this is a sample of the product, I should think so!” Dr. Doyle said, with a brief laugh. “No reputable printer would have had anything to do with this sort of thing.” He looked over the lines, scanning for typographical errors that might indicate an apprentice hand, someone in the shop who might have been bribed or coerced into setting the pages before them.
Mr. Dodgson frowned over the blackmail note as Dr. Doyle examined the printed page. “Let us consider all the facts, Dr. Doyle, before we make our conclusions. I can add one more assumption, however. The blackmailer must still be in possession of the original photograph.”
“How do we know that?”
“I made two prints of every photograph I took,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “One must have been sent to Miss Cahill’s parents at their Oxford address, that is, the residence of Mr. Roswell. The other was the one I put into my album; the one that was taken. Now, why should the blackmailer go to all the trouble of stealing mine?” He looked at Dr. Doyle with the same expression he had bestowed on undergraduates at tutorials when waiting for the correct answer to a mathematical theorem.
“He knew of the existence of the photograph, but he did not have a print of his own,” Dr. Doyle reasoned aloud. “You yourself pointed out that the print he sent to Miss Cahill was not the one you made. He must have made a copy of the one he stole. What I do not understand is, why he did not remove the negative while he was at it.”
“Fifteen years ago, photography involved glass plates, chemicals, and a complex series of washes before one could obtain a good result,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “Many of my own efforts were worthless. I discarded almost as many glass plates as I retained.”
Dr. Doyle was still puzzled. “What about those glass plates, sir? Could not someone have removed one and made prints from it?”
Mr. Dodgson shook his head. “I think not, Dr. Doyle. My old plates are stored carefully, each glass plate carefully wrapped, since sunlight would destroy the image. It would be quite difficult for some intruder to find one plate in the locked case, unlike the albums, which are easily accessible. What is more, I do not know of many who could produce prints from them, since the method is now out of favor.”
“Of course!” Dr. Doyle nodded, comprehension finally dawning. “In your day, photography was a delicate and costly business. Now, with the celluloid film, anyone can take a photograph.”
“Indeed, anyone can,” Mr. Dodgson echoed ironically. “What I do not understand, Dr. Doyle, is the motive behind this attempt to remove Miss Cahill from Oxford by using my photograph in this clumsy threat to bring disgrace on her school.” Mr. Dodgson’s ire began building again. “It seems quite pointless to deter a young woman from scholastic achievement simply because she will benefit financially from it.”
“Unless there is someone who will lose by her gain,” Dr. Doyle said. “Or someone who may claim the prize so generously offered by Mr. Roswell.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the waiter, standing beside them with two glasses on a small tray. Dr. Doyle dismissed the waiter with a lordly, “Place it on my bill.”
“You are my guest here,” Dr. Doyle explained, as Mr. Dodgson experimentally sniffed his aperitif. “And my circumstances have improved slightly since we last met. In short, I have sold another story, and this little trip is being paid for by that sale.”
Mr. Dodgson winced internally at the reference to money, yet another of Dr. Doyle’s habits that indicated a lack of proper breeding. He decided to change the subject away from sordid blackmail and theft.
“You told me that you had written something new,” Mr. Dodgson said, taking a small sip of his sherry.
“I had hoped you would have time to read it before I left. I took your suggestion after our last meeting and wrote … Well, I will let you decide if it meets with your approval.” Dr. Doyle tossed off his drink and smiled expectantly.
Mr. Dodgson took a sip of his sherry, then another. He frowned, sipped again, and rose to his feet, his usually mild face distorted in anger. “Where did this sherry come from?” he demanded loudly, drawing the attention of the well-dressed crowd in the lounge.
Dr. Doyle stood up, conscious of being the object of disapproving glares from the tourists and commercial travelers around them. “I simply ordered a drink from the bar, sir. Is the sherry not good?”
“The sherry is very good. I should know! This sherry is that same sherry that my p-predecessor laid down at Christ Church! What is it d-doing here?” Mr. Dodgson was getting angrier by the minute, and his stammer was getting worse the angrier he got. He advanced toward the bar, with Dr. Doyle at his heels.
“Where is the p-person who p-purchases the sherry for this establishment?” Mr. Dodgson demanded.
The barman gulped at the vision of a tall and apparently demented man in clerical black bearing down upon him. “I only work here, sir. You must ask the proprietor.” He pointed in the direction of the office of the White Hart, located in a cubbyhole behind the front desk.
“Is there some difficulty?” Mr. Jellicoe, the owner and manager of the White Hart, emerged from his sanctum at the sounds of the altercation.
“The sherry served at this b-bar. Where did you g-g-et it?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice grew louder and shriller, and his stammer more and more pronounced.
Mr. Jellicoe’s face grew first pale, then red with the implications of the demand. “Are you accusing me of serving inferior wine, sir?”
“I am accusing someone of p-purchasing wine that was stolen from the Christ Church cellars,” Mr. Dodgson countered. He took a deep breath, trying to conquer his stammer. “I am not one of those who insists he can tell the difference between wine from one field and another, but I do know my own sherry; and this, sir, is the same sherry I have been drinking for the last five years! Where did you get it?”
“Mr. Dodgson!” Dr. Doyle wished he had never ordered the sherry if it was going to have this effect on the older man. He briefly wondered if Mr. Dodgson might suffer from the same sad malady as Charles Doyle, his father, who was usually confined in a hospital where he could be kept away from all drink. Mr. Dodgson had seemed to be quite
sane until he drank the sherry, but one never knew with drunkards. Only last year the elder Doyle had managed to escape his keepers and find some rum, and the results had been disastrous.
“I assure you, sir, that we purchase our supply of wine from Mr. Snow, who is the best wine merchant in Oxford,” Mr. Jellicoe stated, with immense dignity, aware that the discussion had drawn the attention of every one of his guests. “It is possible that some of the sherry purchased for your college and the sherry purchased for my humble establishment came from the same source. I suggest you look there for the answer to your mystery. Good afternoon!” He deliberately turned to the next person in the queue in front of the desk, to welcome the gentleman in the top hat and traveling cloak and the lady in the dark purple velvet to the White Hart and to apologize for the unseemly behavior of one of the more eccentric dons.
“These scholarly gentlemen can sometimes get odd notions,” Mr. Jellicoe explained, while Mr. Dodgson, still fuming, allowed himself to be led away by Dr. Doyle.
“This is our wine; I know it is,” he muttered to himself.
Dr. Doyle maneuvered his host out into the street before they could attract any more attention. “It strikes me, sir, that I may be of use to you in this business,” he said. “You cannot be seen in the sort of places where this stuff is printed, nor can you go about questioning wine merchants about their sales. I, on the other hand, am a stranger to Oxford, and no one knows me here. I can pursue these inquiries for you while you read my new manuscript. And perhaps, then, you can see your way clear to making some of the older papers in the library available for my researches.” He looked eagerly at his mentor, like a puppy enticing his master to come out and play.
Mr. Dodgson took another deep breath to calm himself. “I fear you are as practiced a blackmailer as the one we are pursuing,” he said with a rueful smile. “However, you are quite right on one point. I cannot be seen in the more questionable parts of the town. Very well, Dr. Doyle. I will read your manuscript, and you will discover what has happened to our sherry.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.” Dr. Doyle darted back into the White Hart, leaving Mr. Dodgson to mutter to himself on St. Aldgates, while he galloped up the stairs and scrambled among his luggage for that all-important portfolio.
“He’s going to read it,” Dr. Doyle told his wife, as he picked up the folder containing his manuscript. “Only, I am going to have to leave you to look at the shops alone tomorrow. I have to find out where this hotel gets its sherry. What a strange man he is! He’s convinced that someone’s been pinching the college wine from its cellars and selling it off!”
Touie sat on the bed and watched her volatile husband as he dashed back down the stairs. She was certain that Mr. Dodgson, whatever his eccentricities, meant well; and if he thought that wine had been stolen, then he was very likely correct. She thought over the story the young ladies from Lady Margaret Hall had told and suddenly realized there was a missing piece to this puzzle, something that the men would never have thought of. She would bring it up when they met Mr. Dodgson for dinner.
Dr. Doyle, meanwhile, had thrust his manuscript upon his erstwhile mentor. “I suppose I could start with a visit to your usual wine merchant,” he said. “They might still be open, and I could speak with the proprietors before dinner. Mr. Jellicoe may be quite correct when he says that the sherry at the White Hart and the sherry at Christ Church was simply part of a larger shipment.”
“I shall discuss the matter with my colleague and predecessor in the Conservatorship, Vere Bayne,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I am quite certain that he bought up a complete shipment of sherry, much to the dismay of the House. There are a number of Senior Students who do not care for sherry and prefer Madeira, of which I bought several cases myself.”
“We shall have to taste it after dinner,” Dr. Doyle said. “Now, sir, we must follow our respective leads, and Touie and I will be prompt for dinner, I assure you.”
He loped back to the White Hart, while Mr. Dodgson made his way back to Christ Church.
Neither man was in a particularly good mood. Mr. Dodgson was more and more convinced that young Dr. Doyle was becoming far too assertive for someone in a modest station of life, while Dr. Doyle was wondering whether this friendship would ever lead to literary success. However, since both were now involved in solving the two problems of the missing wine and the insidious blackmailer, each decided to continue with the planned agenda for one more day.
Ingram had watched the two men enter the White Hart before he turned into the lane off St. Aldgates and sought the comfort of his own lodgings. He heard Mrs. Perkins, his redoubtable landlady, banging pots and pans in her kitchen, but Ingram had other matters on his mind besides food.
Ingram scowled in thought. He was used to people announcing that he was discharged, only to change their minds within the hour. He had been informed that he was to remain at Christ Church until otherwise notified. He would have to get back into the good graces of Mr. Telling and hope that the eccentric Mr. Dodgson would forget that he had been removed.
Ingram considered his next move carefully. He had been successfully juggling several masters, each with his own agenda. Now it was time to strike out on his own.
He bent down and pulled a small, square case out from under his bed and set it down on the table near the window. He opened it with the key on his watch chain and smiled down at the contents. He rummaged through the packets and papers and found one particular item, a daguerrotype of a young girl taken many years before. Oh yes, he thought. This little item will be the key that unlocks the door to a fortune.
The only question in Ingram’s mind was whether his invitation had been understood. He smirked to himself and put the daguerrotype into the wardrobe drawer. He’d be at Magdalen Bridge at the appointed time. If no one came, then … He scowled to himself again. Oh, there would be someone there!
He placed his bowler hat on his head and headed out into St. Aldgates again. He had just enough time to stop by the Covered Market and have a bite to eat before his appointment.
Chapter 6
Between six and eight o’clock Oxford’s streets emptied. Black gowns and mortarboards vanished as if whisked away by some magical spell. Tradesmen and artisans alike shut their shops, packed up their tools, and retired to their domestic firesides, whether in the tangles of lanes behind the colleges or in the newly built suburbs like Jericho. Only the eating houses and taverns remained open for business, giving comfort to the transient population.
For the University, dinner was the major meal of the day, to be undertaken with the greatest of ceremony. All over Oxford, students of every stamp, from the lowliest undergraduate to the most revered and scholarly don, met for the evening meal, night after night, with great pomp. Particulars varied from college to college. The meal might be announced by trumpeters or by a stentorian steward; there might be a lengthy grace read in Latin or merely the perfunctory “For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful” in English. There might be distinctions made between those undergraduates of distinguished ancestry and those who were of more common clay, or there might be an egalitarian board, at which the students were divided according to their academic rather than their social class. Nevertheless, in colleges across the length of Oxford, dining in Hall was considered a requirement for all students; and all of them, at whatever level, had to be accounted for at that meal.
At Lady Margaret Hall, the table was set in the dining room of Talbot House, that brand-new edifice at the very end of Norham Gardens. There was no ancient grandeur here. Lady Margaret Hall was defiantly modern, and Mr. Morris’s influence was paramount in the green and gold wallpaper and the curving lines of the draperies at the windows that looked out over the back gardens that led to the River Cherwell. Cut flowers graced the table and sideboards, giving the room the air of a fashionable dining room rather than a college refectory.
Miss Wordsworth herself presided at the head of the table, with two undergraduates at eith
er side of her. It was Miss Wordsworth’s contention that good conversation was a necessity in society and that keeping her entertained at dinner was as good a way as any to attain proficiency in this art.
The young ladies filed in, dressed in modest but fashionable dinner gowns. Miss Wordsworth watched approvingly as they marched into the dining room. Then she frowned. Someone was missing!
Miss Laurel burst breathlessly into the dining room, hastily buttoning her gloves, her lace cap slightly awry over her fair hair.
“Do forgive me,” she babbled. “We were late getting back from Christ Church, and I spilled water all over my evening dress and had to find something else—”
“Quite all right, Miss Laurel,” Miss Wordsworth said, as the latecomer slid into her place at the far end of the table. She nodded to her second-in-command. “Miss Johnson, will you read the grace?”
Grace was said slowly and meaningfully here. Lady Margaret Hall had been founded to educate the daughters of the clergy of the Church of England, and Church of England ritual prevailed. Once the ceremony was out of the way, the meal could be eaten. Two scouts served the soup, fish, fowl, and roast, and the young ladies partook with hearty appetites.
Conversation at the students’ table was brisk, and Miss Wordsworth allowed the girls the opportunity to chatter. Later she would direct the discourse toward a more scholarly theme, but for now, girls would be girls, and it was better so. Miss Wordsworth had no illusions about the superiority of female over male intellect. It was her intention to provide the Church of England with worthy helpmeets for its clergymen, and to that end she would encourage her students to participate in lectures, sports, and anything else that a young curate-to-be would do.
Miss Wordsworth frowned slightly as she regarded her oldest student; Miss Laurel was apparently perturbed. She was not eating her sweet. Perhaps Miss Wordsworth would have a word with Miss Laurel before they retired for the night. She had had some doubts about this student, who was so much older than the others; but Mrs. Toynbee herself had recommended her, and she had been a steadying influence on younger, giddier girls just out of the schoolroom.
The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 6