The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  Constable Effingham frowned. This was serious! He sent the boy to Constabulary Headquarters in Blue Boar Lane and proceeded to the scene of the crime, followed by the entire population of the White Hart.

  Dr. Doyle and Touie had just arrived at the White Hart when the procession down St. Aldgates and toward the lane began.

  “What’s going on?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “Dead man found behind Christ Church,” someone reported.

  “I may be needed,” Dr. Doyle told Touie.

  “Surely, not if he’s already dead,” Touie pointed out.

  “Someone may fall into a faint,” Dr. Doyle said hopefully.

  Touie followed her husband down St. Aldgates and through the crowd into the lane. Nothing she said or did would ever dissuade him from doing what he wanted to do, and she would prefer to be with him rather than be left alone among strangers.

  Mr. Dodgson found himself in the unenviable position of being the center of attention. He stood beside the body as the crowd grew larger. Lanterns shed some light on the black-clad form at his feet, while more light streamed out of the windows of the college.

  Constable Effingham thrust his way through the crowd, pushing aside the curious onlookers with his baton.

  “Wot’s all this, then?” the constable demanded, fixing his gaze on Mr. Dodgson and the inert figure at his feet.

  “This man is …,” Mr. Dodgson began.

  Dean Liddell marched into the lane from behind the small mortuary that backed the mews where the college horses had been stabled, followed by the proctor, Mr. Seward, and the ever-present Telling.

  “Mr. Dodgson,” he began, somewhat breathlessly, “what is this about a body?”

  “Good lord! Mr. Dodgson? Have you found another one?” Dr. Doyle’s unmistakable Scottish burr rang over the buzz of the crowd. The young man had wriggled his way to the fore, dragging Touie with him.

  “’Oo is it, then?” Constable Effingham demanded.

  “It ap-pears to be one of our scouts. I b-believe his name was Ingram,” Mr. Dodgson began.

  “Ingram!” That was Telling, frowning grimly at the defunct scout. “What does he think he’s playing at?”

  “He is not p-playing.” Mr. Dodgson struggled to control his stammer. “He is very d-dead.”

  Dr. Doyle squatted to examine the body. “Here, let’s have a look.” He motioned one of the townsmen to bring his lantern closer. “This is quite interesting.”

  “’Ow did ’e die?” Constable Effingham asked.

  “I can’t say without an autopsy, but he appears to have been in the river.” Dr. Doyle pointed to the man’s soaking-wet jacket and trousers. “Here’s waterweed, and there’s more on his hands and ground under his nails.”

  “Dear me,” Mr. Dodgson said, in distress. “I spoke very sharply to him just this afternoon. In p-point of fact, I had to discharge him. For insolence,” he added, with an apologetic look at Dean Liddell.

  “Did you now?” Constable Effingham had his notebook out and was carefully inscribing this information.

  “Not a suicide, surely!” Dean Liddell exclaimed.

  “He did not strike me as the sort of man who would jump into the river because he had been sacked from his job,” Dr. Doyle said. “Quite the opposite, I think.”

  Telling agreed. “He did not return to Christ Church this evening,” he told the constable.

  “Then ’oo was the last to see ’im?” Constable Effingham looked about, in case some witness should come forward. None did. He turned back to Mr. Dodgson with a ferocious scowl. “Wot did you think you was doing, out ’ere in the fog?”

  “I was walking,” Mr. Dodgson said testily. “I was near Magdalen Bridge, and I thought I saw some students pushing a bath chair. I could only assume that they were bent on some mischief, so I followed them to stop them if I could.”

  Doyle pointed to the ground near the body. “Tracks,” he said crisply. “At least three men and the wheels of the chair. They stop there.” He pointed to the chair, still canted over on its side.

  “No other footprints?” Mr. Dodgson peered at the ground.

  “Effaced by this crowd.” Dr. Doyle grimaced, frustrated by the lack of evidence.

  Constable Effingham looked over the crowd and saw reinforcements arriving. “Everybody clear away,” he ordered.

  The crowd took two paces back then parted so that a second group of policemen could advance into the lane, led by Inspector Truscott of the Oxford Constabulary.

  “Constable, what have we here?” Inspector Truscott, a tall man in the pepper-and-salt sack suit worn by every office worker from Plymouth to Glasgow took over the investigation with quiet authority.

  Effingham saluted and reverted to the official formula he had memorized. “Body of college scout, name of Ingram, as identified by this gentleman,” he stated, in his most official tones.

  Inspector Truscott eyed the man squatting down beside the body. “And who are you?” he demanded.

  “Dr. Doyle. Arthur Conan Doyle, of Portsmouth,” Dr. Doyle stood up and introduced himself.

  “Indeed.” Inspector Truscott knelt and gave the late Ingram a cursory look. “And what can you tell us, Dr. Doyle?”

  “Without a proper autopsy, I can’t tell much,” Dr. Doyle admitted. “However, I don’t think he fell into the river accidentally, and I’m sure he was held under for some time.”

  “And what makes you think that?” Inspector Truscott regarded the visitor with a quizzical air.

  “Look here,” Dr. Doyle squatted down again. “Look at the hands.” He picked up one of the limp arms to exhibit them. “Under the nails. Dirt is ground in, and there are pieces of grass and weed, also ground in, as if the victim had been clutching at the bank of the river.” Dr. Doyle whipped out his trusty magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket to demonstrate. “He’d hardly try to get out if he’d just pitched himself in.”

  “Quite so.” Inspector Truscott took a better look at the young man in the dress suit and deerstalker cap.

  “Dr. Doyle has had a good deal of experience in forensic examinations.” Mr. Dodgson put in a good word for his protégé. “He has assisted the police in Portsmouth and Brighton on several occasions.”

  “In that case,” Dean Liddell announced, as he decided to make his presence felt, “perhaps this young man might give us the benefit of his expertise. Inspector …ah …?”

  “Truscott. Oxford Constabulary.” He stood up, eye to eye with the stately Dean of Christ Church. “And this is a matter for the police, sir. We will remove the body.”

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector, but this man was an employee of Christ Church, which makes it a University matter,” the Dean demurred. “And we have our own mortuary right here where we may perform the autopsy tomorrow morning under the direction of our own pathologist. Naturally, we shall report our findings to the police.”

  Inspector Truscott’s expression hardened. Constable Effingham glanced at the uniformed sergeant who had accompanied the Inspector. Clearly, the Oxford Constabulary had its rights and privileges, and the old Town versus Gown battle was about to be joined again.

  “Dean, Inspector,” Mr. Dodgson put in, “may I suggest that this unfortunate man be removed from this place as soon as possible? It is getting late and nothing can be gained by wrangling over who has the honor of the autopsy.”

  “And what do you propose?” Dean Liddell asked, annoyed at being interrupted by a mere don, and one with whom he had had many disputes on college matters.

  “That our own Dr. Kitchin should conduct the autopsy, as he would in any case, but that Dr. Doyle should assist and that a police surgeon should also be present,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I shall be glad to give my statement to Inspector Truscott. As I told this constable, I saw some students near Magdalen Bridge. I suspect it is they who found this unfortunate man. I would not like to think it of our undergraduates, but one of them might have felt it necessary to convey the man here. Perhaps they did not know t
he gravity of their offense.”

  “You had words with the man,” Constable Effingham referred to his notes.

  “That ’e did!” A woman in a checked shirt and flowered skirt corroborated it. “Right in the street! Nice way for a gentleman to carry on, I says.”

  “I was upset,” Mr. Dodgson tried to defend himself.

  “This fellow had been extremely rude,” Dr. Doyle defended his mentor. “And there was a possibility that he might have been behind certain thefts that were reported to Mr. Dodgson earlier in the day.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be a good reason to sack a man in the middle of the street,” Truscott commented. “I’ll have to speak with anyone who knew this man. What were his duties? Where did he live?”

  Before he could continue, Dean Liddell took over. “This outrage took place on University grounds, and it was perpetrated on a University employee,” he pronounced loftily. “We will conduct the investigation, Inspector, although you and your men may inform us of anything you find outside the college grounds.”

  Inspector Truscott’s face began to redden as he listened to Dean Liddell’s measured tones. In a voice trembling with suppressed rage, he replied, “Sir, this body may be that of a University employee, but it was not found on University property. This lane divides the University from the town, and this body is lying upon it. Therefore, sir, I respectfully suggest that you leave the detecting to those who are trained to do it and return to your own bailiwick. I would not venture to instruct you in Greek, sir; do not try to tell me how to do my job.”

  Dean Liddell’s tone was frosty. “Inspector Truscott, I will have you know that we have among us a master of logic, who has taken part in at least one major criminal investigation.” He gazed on Mr. Dodgson, who blinked back in some confusion. “Apparently he has also taken it upon himself to conduct a small investigation of his own.” He glared at Mr. Dodgson. “Telling has informed me of your conversation this morning regarding the thefts in Tom Quad.”

  “What investigation?” Inspector Truscott broke in. “What thefts?”

  “Small objects were reported missing,” Mr. Dodgson confessed. “We did not feel this was a matter for the police.”

  “Or, apparently, for me!” Dean Liddell snapped. “Well, Mr. Dodgson, I am inclined to let Mr. Seward take over from you in this matter. He is our proctor,” the Dean explained to Truscott, “and as such is responsible for the behavior of our students, whether in the town or the University.”

  Inspector Truscott and Mr. Seward scowled at each other. Proctors had been known to usurp the authority of the town police, arresting prostitutes and pickpockets and removing drunken students from the custody of the constables.

  “This isn’t a student rag,” Truscott reminded the crowd. “This is murder, if this Dr. Doyle is right. And for all I know, one of you might have done it.” He looked around the crowd. The students drew back into the shadow of the college walls. The townspeople stepped to their side of the lane. Only the sprawling body of Ingram stayed in its place.

  Telling took over. At his signal, three large men in the soiled aprons worn by the college cooks came forward to remove the late Ingram from the road, while Inspector Truscott’s men pulled the official ambulance out of the lane.

  Inspector Truscott gave in. “Take him to your mortuary,” he ordered. “And don’t do a thing to him until I can get the police surgeon in to give him a proper autopsy!”

  Ingram was borne off, to be laid on a wooden table in the small stone building that had been the site of anatomy classes for the past three hundred years.

  “And now, Mr. Dodgson, perhaps you can tell me some more about this Ingram,” Truscott said.

  “I will be glad to give you my statement, sir, but not in this lane. If you wish, you may come to my rooms and we shall have some hot tea. Dr. Doyle, if you would care for something more stimulating, I have some sherry. Good sherry,” he added.

  Dean Liddell stepped back into the discussion. “If Inspector Truscott is to conduct any investigation, it should not be done in your rooms, Mr. Dodgson, but in Hall, where the students may be summoned by our own proctor.”

  Dr. Doyle tried to find Touie, who had worked her way through the crowd. He now looked questioningly at Mr. Dodgson, as if to ask, “What about my wife?”

  “Perhaps you should see your wife back to her rooms and then come back to the Hall,” Mr. Dodgson answered the unspoken question. It was as much of an apology as he could give, and Dr. Doyle accepted it as such.

  “I would like to speak to the inspector myself,” he said.

  The townspeople drifted back to the other side of the lane and dispersed into their own hovels. The undergraduates and Senior Students moved back to Tom and Peckwater Quads, behind the walls of Christ Church. Once again silence reigned in the college.

  One man remained in the shadows, a burly figure with a military air about him. “Damned greedy bastard,” he swore. “Now it’s all to do over again. The gentlemen are not going to like this, not one bit.”

  Chapter 9

  Inspector Truscott followed Dean Liddell and his entourage through the back gate behind the mews into Tom Quad, while the body of the late James Ingram was deposited in the mortuary.

  Sergeant Everett approached his superior officer with a deferential cough.

  “We’ve interviewed everyone in the lane, sir. No one saw anything until this gentleman here”—he indicated Mr. Dodgson—“gave the alarm.”

  Inspector Truscott turned to Dean Liddell. “In that case, I will want to interview everyone who knew the deceased,” he said. “It would be convenient if I could do so on the college premises. Otherwise, the interviews would have to take place at Headquarters in Blue Boar Lane.”

  Dean Liddell’s expression made it clear that neither of these choices was a good one. “Can this not wait until morning?” he asked.

  “The sooner the better,” Inspector Truscott replied. “The usual procedure in these cases is to conduct the interviews in the home of the deceased, but in this case, the deceased had no proper home.”

  Telling glanced at Dean Liddell and said, “Ingram had rooms in the lodging house across the lane.” He pointed to a window directly opposite the walls of Christ Church. “Several of our scouts who do not live in the college have rooms there. Mrs. Perkins is the widow of one of our old scouts, and we often send customers her way.”

  “No family?” Inspector Truscott had his notebook out and was jotting cryptic notes. “Did he never tell you of any kin hereabouts?”

  “We did not converse,” Telling said loftily. “But when he applied for the position, he mentioned that he had once been in private service near Oxford.”

  “Indeed.” Inspector Truscott’s voice was noncommittal.

  Dean Liddell had conferred with Seward. Now he turned to Inspector Truscott and said, “You may conduct your interviews in Hall. Mr. Seward and I will be present, of course.”

  Truscott’s face betrayed no hint of emotion at the news that he would be merely tolerated on the college grounds.

  “Sergeant Everett,” he said crisply, “there is a bath chair here. Find out where it came from, who owns it, and who brought it here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Everett leaned over the chair and noted the number on the brass plate on the overhanging hood. Each chair would be registered to one or another chairman, just as the cabs were registered. It would be easy to find out whose this chair was.

  “B-but I was certain there were undergraduates …” Mr. Dodgson tried to explain.

  Truscott ignored him and turned to the rest of the scholars of Christ Church. The quad was filled with men, young and old, in subfusc and tweeds, all chattering among themselves. Undergraduates, drawn by the noise, filled the quad, buzzing with excitement. Senior Students were more circumspect, although just as curious. They clustered around Dean Liddell as he and Inspector Truscott rounded the corner of the morgue and stepped onto the stone-flagged path around the grassy lawn in the middle
of the quad.

  “Is it true that one of our students is accused of murder?” That was Vere Bayne, the former curator of the Senior Common Room.

  “We shall all be killed in our beds!” Mr. Duckworth declared, in a voice quavering with fear.

  “Nonsense!” Dean Liddell’s forthright tone cut through the hubbub. “Gentlemen, this is Inspector Truscott. He is the policeman in charge of this unfortunate business. It seems that one of our scouts had a fatal accident and drowned in the river. According to Mr. Dodgson, some students must have thought it a lark to transport the body and drop it in our lane. This is most serious. The removal of a body from the scene of the crime is itself a crime. It is also irreligious, a desecration of human dignity, and hardly a matter for levity.” The Dean stared at some very young men who were tittering among themselves. “If there is anyone here who has any information about this man”—he turned to Seward who gave him the name—“Ingram …”

  “Wasn’t he the scout on the west side of Tom Quad?” someone piped up.

  “Tall chap? Po-faced? Nasty tongue in his head?” The descriptions came from various directions.

  “So it would appear.” Inspector Truscott was taking notes in the small notebook carried by all members of the Oxford Constabulary.

  Telling had overseen the depositing of the body in the mortuary. Now he approached Inspector Truscott deferentially but with a certain dignity.

  “If I may have a word, Inspector …”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “In private?” Telling hinted. Inspector Truscott nodded gravely. He turned his attention to the gathering before him.

  “I must ask that anyone with any information about this man Ingram come forward now. I will be in this Hall.…?” He turned to Seward, who nodded back. “Very well. Gentlemen, I will be taking your statements in Hall. Dean Liddell will also be present, as will your own proctor.” He did not mention Mr. Dodgson, who edged through the crowd with a worried frown.

  Dr. Doyle was torn between his duty to his wife and his desire to continue with his investigations. Touie came to his rescue.