Mr. Dodgson had had enough. “Dr. Doyle,” he said, in his most disapproving tones, “if I had known you wished to indulge in tobacco, I would have had the smoking room opened for you. You may leave these rooms now. I will have Telling see you to the gate. Good night!”
Dr. Doyle looked at his host. This was more than just rudeness; this was a positive dismissal. What could he do? He looked helplessly at Touie, put his cigar back into his breast pocket, and rose.
“This has indeed been a memorable evening, sir,” Dr. Doyle said formally, with an ironic bow. “I trust we will see you tomorrow when you are in a better humor. Good night.”
Touie smiled helplessly and took her husband’s arm. They followed Telling out the door, where they stood in confusion. Two gentlemen in evening suits and scholars’ gowns bowed as they passed on the stairs.
“Good evening,” the taller of the two greeted them. “I take it you have been dining with Dodgson.”
“If you can call it that,” Dr. Doyle said ruefully. “He just threw us out.”
The shorter, stouter man with the mutton-chop whiskers gave a sudden crack of laughter. “I daresay you wanted to smoke,” he commented. “You should have been warned. Dodgson loathes tobacco in any form.”
“But … he never said …” Dr. Doyle remembered the occasions when he had lit his pipe in the presence of the sensitive don.
“He wouldn’t,” the taller man said. “Don’t worry, young man. He’ll get over his fuss. He always does.” The scholar patted the young doctor on the shoulder, leaving the two guests to Telling’s care.
“I have never been more disappointed in a man,” fumed Dr. Doyle, as Telling led them back to Tom Gate. “Of all the cranky, testy, unpleasant old fogeys! Serving us a cold meal, late, and then denying me a cigar! We would have done better at the White Hart!”
“It was not his fault, Arthur,” Touie tried to soothe her husband. “Mr. Dodgson could not know that the very man he discharged so publicly would be the one assigned to serve his dinner. It was very bad, to be sure, but you cannot blame Mr. Dodgson for the food.”
“I can blame him for not telling me that he dislikes smoking,” Dr. Doyle said. “And dismissing us like that! We go on tomorrow, Touie, wine theft or no wine theft. Let him find his own thieves and blackmailers!” Dr. Doyle defiantly stuck his cigar into his mouth and lit it with a flourish as they marched through the gate and back into St. Aldgates.
Behind them, Mr. Dodgson slunk back into the shadows. He was chagrined that the dinner party had turned out so badly. He had wanted to demonstrate his superiority as a host and instead had revealed himself to be a foolish and proud old man. He would have to apologize to young Dr. Doyle, but not now. Perhaps he would take a walk and clear his mind. Then he could sleep on his anger and make it up to the young man in the morning. He would allow Dr. Doyle to read the proceedings of the so-called Bloody Assizes of 1685. It was the least he could do for Dicky Doyle’s nephew.
Dr. Doyle led his wife across the street, back to the White Hart. At the very least he could buy her a small sweet and a cup of tea, if the inn’s dining room was still open.
Mr. Dodgson crossed the quad and followed the lane into Christ Church Meadows. Perhaps the murmur of the river would soothe his troubled soul. He strode into the deepening mist that wreathed the grassy swath between the river and the town.
Chapter 7
The dinner hour was nearly over, but the twilight lingered. Students who had spent the day in a library or lecture hall now sought the comforts of nature in the college gardens or along the banks of the rivers, before the sounds of Great Tom should drive them behind the college walls for the rest of the night. The shops were closed, but eating places, taverns, and pubs were full of diners and drinkers, debaters and defenders of whatever the topic of debate was at the moment.
The transient guests staying at the White Hart had their choice of entertainment for the evening. According to the knowledgeable porter at the front door, the Apollo Music Hall had the usual bill of singers, dancers, comic recitations, and trained animals. For those lucky enough to receive passes from their offspring, the Oxford Union was debating Home Rule for Ireland. The Oxford University Dramatic Society was presenting Coriolanus. Two churches were presenting concerts, and the well-known preacher, Mr. Henry Liddon, was holding a lecture at St. Margaret’s Church, where he was vociferously defending the Church against Mr. Darwin’s heretical theory of evolution.
Dr. Doyle considered his options. He had thought to spend the evening in consultation with Mr. Dodgson, discussing his new story and possibly getting some more insights into the events of 1685, which were to be the focus of his historical novel. Instead he had been unceremoniously ousted from Christ Church, still hungry, and without even a cigar to console him.
“It’s too early for bed,” he complained to Touie, as they crossed the road to the White Hart. “And it’s too late to get tickets for the theater.”
“I should like to see some of the town, Arthur,” Touie said. “There is still light, and it is quite warm. I shall get my mantle and perhaps we can stroll along High Street.”
“Capital idea!” Dr. Doyle agreed. “It’s not as if this were London, where we might be in some danger. Just run up and get your wrap, and we can take our after-dinner walk.”
With Touie safely wrapped up against the rising mist, the two of them joined the steady stream of passersby who strolled northward on St. Aldgates to High Street.
“Over here is where the Bishops Latimer and Cranmer were burned at the stake,” Dr. Doyle announced, consulting his guidebook. “And that is Magdalen Bridge.” He waved toward the end of High Street.
Touie smiled and nodded. Her thoughts were far from Oxford. She had truly hoped that this brief break in their journey would provide some solace for her husband’s troubled conscience. Dr. Waller, the owner of the cottage now used by the elder Mrs. Doyle, had taken Mr. Charles Doyle from his sanctuary and brought him back to grace the family hearth. This, as far as she could tell, was not a good idea. Poor Arthur would have to discuss the matter with the well-meaning landlord and get his father back into custody. In Touie’s opinion, this dispute between Mr. Dodgson and Arthur was most unfortunate, destroying the peace of mind so necessary when dealing with persons as difficult as the elder Doyles. Touie sighed and wondered whether she could make peace between her husband and his elderly mentor before she and Arthur had to face the inevitable family unpleasantness waiting for them.
Dr. Doyle, on his part, was already regretting his hasty words. The old duffer had tried to give them a good dinner. It wasn’t his fault that the staff didn’t live up to expectations. The young man’s natural good spirits took hold, as he found a small bakeshop still open. He and Touie could have a small supper of meat pies and cider, and he would write a little note of reconciliation when he got back to the hotel.
He looked fondly at Touie. At least she had not behaved as many women would, pouting and scowling at the dreadful food and service. He tucked her hand under his arm and led her back down the High to the bakeshop. Tomorrow he would have to get back on the train and face the Ma’am. Tonight, he would enjoy himself.
Their putative host was not among the black-clad students in the High, nor was he among the strollers in St. Aldgates. He had turned east, toward the river and away from the street. Mr. Dodgson had been mortified by the failure of his attempt at sociability. His own college had let him down. He had wanted to show off before the provincial doctor, and instead he had been shown up, to use his students’ sporting phrase. What must this young man think of him? A dreadful old crosspatch, a fuddy-duddy of the worst sort! What made the situation even worse was that he had come to respect Dr. Doyle, not only as the nephew of an old friend, but as an up and coming literary figure. He must walk and think of how to make up this ridiculous quarrel.
Mr. Dodgson followed the Dead Man’s Walk toward the Botanic Gardens. Perhaps a look at the shrubbery would soothe his harried soul before the
evening mist grew to the density of a fog.
Dead Man’s Walk, the gruesomely named passage behind Merton and Corpus Christi, held a few passersby on their way toward Christ Church. Mr. Dodgson strode on, around the playing fields, where a squad of Hearties had organized a rugby game. He turned at Rose Lane, where the iron gates of the Botanic Gardens blocked his path, and headed for the High, where he could gather his thoughts on Magdalen Bridge.
The bridge across the Holywell Mill Stream was a focal point for both Town and Gown. Here young women of dubious reputations could find customers for their wares, in spite of the frowns of the college proctors and the urging of the town constables to “Move on, there!” Here chairmen gathered to put their ungainly vehicles away for the night. On a fine spring evening like this, students could gather on the bridge to rehash their debates or join in waggish conversation.
The night was closing in. The gas lamps had been lit on the bridge, sending eerie shadows across the water and making the punts under the bridge look like so many coffins.
Mr. Dodgson stared down at the punts and considered the two problems set before him that afternoon. He was convinced that the scout, Ingram, was responsible for the thefts. He had discharged Ingram out of hand, but that would only send the man elsewhere. Tomorrow, Mr. Dodgson decided, he would send Dr. Doyle out to find evidence that Ingram had pawned the small items that had been stolen. With this in hand, the thief could be turned over to the proper authorities.
That done, Mr. Dodgson turned to the second of the two problems. That a photograph he had taken should be used out of its proper context revolted him more than the meal he had just forced onto his unsuspecting guests. What was more heinous in Mr. Dodgson’s eyes was that the page of text that accompanied it smacked of scholarship. Mr. Dodgson was all too aware of the tendency to levity of most of the undergraduates at Christ Church, who were there primarily because it was expected of them rather than for any love of scholarship. Still, there were limits beyond which levity turned into something far more sinister and not humorous at all. Terrorizing female undergraduates came under that heading.
“Why?” Mr. Dodgson said aloud, as he reached the bridge. Why single out Miss Cahill, the daughter of an undistinguished clergyman, for such an attack? Why simply demand that she leave Oxford? The more logical approach would be to threaten to send the photograph to the notoriously straitlaced glass manufacturer unless a certain sum was paid, but no such request had been made. Could it be that the blackmailer’s intent was that Miss Cahill should forfeit the legacy offered by her wealthy relation, as reported in the Oxford Mail? If so, how did the blackmailer hope to gain by removing Miss Cahill from her school?
Mr. Dodgson stared down into the misty water. The only way that the blackmailer could gain, he decided, was if he belonged to the family or to the household. Clearly, some deeper investigation of Miss Cahill’s family circumstances was necessary, but Mr. Dodgson hesitated at using Dr. Doyle’s services for so delicate a matter.
Mr. Dodgson frowned into the deepening twilight. He had promised to read Dr. Doyle’s new story. He really should return to Christ Church and do it. At least he could give the young writer the benefit of his opinion, and perhaps that would make up for the wretched meal he had served him. Mr. Dodgson’s frown relaxed into a rueful smile. He rather liked the energetic Dr. Doyle, and after all, he was Dicky Doyle’s nephew.
By this time, Mr. Dodgson had reached the end of the bridge. Now he turned to go back to the High Street side. His attention was drawn to an agitation under the bridge near the stairs that led from the punts docked on the water to the street above. Two figures were struggling with something large and heavy, while a third voice was urging them onward.
The boats under the bridge bobbled and splashed. There was a hollow booming noise, as if someone were stamping on the wooden punts.
“Shh! You’re making too much noise! You’ll have the bulldogs down on us if you’re not careful!” one of the men under the bridge hissed.
“I wish you’d never got me involved in this!” A second whisper echoed under the bridge.
“Just give us a hand, and you can get back to the House.”
There was more agitated splashing and the boats joggled again under the bridge.
Mr. Dodgson was now thoroughly alarmed. He looked around for assistance, but the constables and the proctors had done their duty and chased the young women away down the High. The bridge was deserted.
“What’s going on down there?” Mr. Dodgson shouted down to the three black-gowned figures he could see in the mist.
The lines of boats jiggled and joggled, as someone clambered about in the darkness. Mr. Dodgson could hear muffled grunts and moans, as if someone under the bridge was carrying a heavy burden.
He tried to make out what was going on. Even the hardiest sportsmen had beached their boats and were making their way back to college by this time of night. Clearly, anyone under Magdalen Bridge must be up to no good.
“Who is there?” Mr. Dodgson called out sharply. “Come out, you two. I can see you!”
There was another grunt, and a creak, and steps echoed on the stone stairs leading up to the street. Mr. Dodgson peered through the rising mist. He could just make out the flapping gowns of undergraduates surrounding one of the bath chairs used to wheel the ladies of Oxford about on their social rounds.
“Stop!” Mr. Dodgson called out. The undergraduates gave the chair a shove that sent it down the High, past the iron gates and carved masonry of the Botanic Gardens.
Mr. Dodgson forgot about his guest, the terrible meal, even the matter of the blackmail. This was far more important and immediate. He was all too aware that undergraduates had deplorably low tastes and were very likely to introduce such unpleasant items as dead fish and live pigs into their college rooms. It was highly probable that these undergraduates had put something undesirable in that bath chair and were conveying it to their college; and it was up to Mr. Dodgson, as a senior member of the University, to prevent them from embarrassing themselves and their college, especially if that college happened to be Christ Church.
The undergraduates wheeled the chair along the High, around the gate that led to Rose Lane, and back toward Christ Church Meadows. They passed the stately elms planted by Dean Liddell and turned into the Broad Walk that led back around the playing fields to Christ Church and the tumbledown slums across the lane.
Mr. Dodgson loped after them, his long coat flapping around his legs, his high hat apparently held on through sheer magic. The students redoubled their efforts, pushing the chair ahead of them. The chair bounced over stones on the rough gravel path, swaying back and forth on its tiny wheels, while the students pulled, pushed, and guided it around the curved path.
Suddenly, through the mist, the sounds of the bell of Great Tom rang out. It was the hour of nine! There would be one hundred and one strokes of the bell, one for each of the original Fellows of Christ Church. All students must be within the walls of Christ Church before the sound of the last stroke died or face dreadful consequences!
The rugby players ceased their efforts and joined the strollers along Dead Man’s Walk or Merton Walk, who gathered their gowns about them and headed back to their colleges. Mr. Dodgson lost sight of the bath chair in a sea of black gowns and mist, as the last stroke of Great Tom left almost visible reverberations in the misty air.
He looked about him. He was in the lane behind the Hall, with the Cathedral doors in front of him and the grubby lodging houses and tumbledown shacks of the Oxford poor behind him.
There was silence, unnerving after the clamor of the bells. Mr. Dodgson stood in the lane at the end of the Broad Walk peering down at his feet. The bath chair had been abandoned by its abductors, who had vanished into Tom Quad. A black form lay across the lane.
“What on earth?” Mr. Dodgson knelt to turn the man over. “Help! Someone help me! There is a man injured here!” He peered more closely at the man who had been dumped at his feet, a sprawli
ng figure in a long black coat.
Heads popped out of windows as dons and undergraduates looked to see what was happening in the lane.
Mr. Dodgson waved urgently. “Someone summon the police! This man is dead!”
Chapter 8
The scholars of Christ Church were faced with a dilemma. The college rules clearly stated that all students had to be within college walls by the time Great Tom finished striking. Nevertheless, the news that there was a dead man in the lane was startling enough to evoke the curiosity of every student in the House. Undergraduates hung out the windows to see what was happening in the lane. Dons peered out from behind the gate that divided the college from the meadows. Scouts ventured into the lane, impelled by the all-too-human failing of curiosity.
In the kitchens, Telling had just finished his evening chores. The information that there was a dead man in the lane came from one of the undercooks, who was setting out the dustbins for the collectors.
“What shall we do about it?” the scullion asked.
“We must inform Dean Liddell,” Telling decided and went to the deanery to do so.
On the other side of the lane, the inhabitants of the twisted alleys were just as curious as the learned scholars within the walls of Christ Church to learn what was happening. Lights flickered in the windows of the houses on the Town side of the lane. Men in laborers’ corduroy trousers; women in full skirts, checked aprons, and shawls; even children in clean hand-me-downs filtered into the lane from St. Aldgates. More passersby from the road filled the lane, including the patrons of the White Hart and students from Pembroke College, across St. Aldgates from Christ Church. From one person to another the news was carried through the lane to St. Aldgates: There’s a dead man in the lane behind Christ Church!
The noise had reached the White Hart, where Constable Effingham had stopped on his evening rounds. A grimy urchin bounced with excitement as he reported, “There’s a dead ’un in the lane be’ind Christ Church!”
The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 8