The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “Go along, Arthur,” she whispered. “Mrs. Gelbart has been telling me about her son and his new living.” She smiled at a stout woman in a ribbon-trimmed bonnet and paisley shawl with whom she had apparently struck up a friendship. “She and her husband are staying at the White Hart, and they can see me back there.”

  “You’re sure?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “You must help Mr. Dodgson,” Touie said, with a smile. “But you must tell me all about it when you come back to our rooms.”

  Dr. Doyle gave in and followed the crowd back into Tom Quad and to the shallow steps that led up to the Hall, the oldest and largest single area in Christ Church. Telling and Seward stood at the doors, as if to say, Enter and be awed!

  Inspector Truscott refused to be awed. The stained-glass windows were dark by now; the polished tables lay bare, without their usual quota of napery and tableware; the painted portraits of notable graduates of Christ Church were nearly invisible in the shadows cast by the oil lamps that hung from the famous hammer beams of the ceiling.

  Dean Liddell and Mr. Seward arranged themselves behind Telling and regarded Inspector Truscott with the look one gives an unwanted door-to-door salesman. Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle edged into the Hall and lurked in the shadows behind the Dean and the proctor. Inspector Truscott ignored them all. Instead, the Inspector sat down on one of the long benches and indicated that Telling should do the same. Telling remained standing, his face impassive, as any good butler’s would be under similar circumstances.

  “Now,” he said firmly. “Who was this Ingram, and how did he get into the lane?”

  “He was a scout,” Telling said. “One of our servants,” he added, condescendingly.

  “Who hired him?” Truscott shot out.

  “I did,” Mr. Dodgson said, stepping out of the shadowy nook where he had effaced himself. “I am in charge of hiring all the college scouts in my capacity as curator of the Senior Common Room.”

  Inspector Truscott noticed someone lurking behind Mr. Dodgson. “Isn’t that the doctor? What’s he doing here?”

  “Dr. Doyle thought he might be able to add more to what is known.” Mr. Dodgson stepped aside to let Dr. Doyle touch his hat to the police and the two senior servants.

  “I don’t see how, considering he never clapped eyes on Ingram until today,” Telling said snidely, allowing himself one moment of human emotion. He instantly regretted it, and the impassive expression of the butler took over once again.

  “But there were certain indications that led me to conclusions,” Dr. Doyle defended himself.

  Inspector Truscott sighed. “Very well, Doctor, what did you notice, aside from the fact that the man was dead and that he had dirt under his nails?”

  Dr. Doyle tugged at his mustache. “I know very little of college protocol,” he admitted. “My days as an undergraduate were spent in Edinburgh, and I did not live in college but in digs. But I was struck by Ingram’s manner toward his superiors. He was surly and rude.”

  Telling shrugged. “Some of our scouts have been with us for so long that they take a fatherly interest in undergraduates.”

  “Did Ingram?” Inspector Truscott wanted to know. He took out his notebook again.

  “Ingram was new,” Mr. Dodgson said, looking at Telling for reassurance. “I believe he was taken on after Christmas, for Hilary term. We were rather short of staff, due to the dreadful weather. Several of our scouts had been given permission to go home for the holidays, and two did not return, having contracted pleuresy and catarrh. They had to be replaced quickly, and Ingram was hired to take the place of, um …” He looked at Telling again.

  “Jackson,” Telling supplied.

  “And I suppose this Jackson will confirm that he really was ill.” Inspector Truscott’s tone implied that the unknown Jackson might have been malingering.

  Telling looked at Inspector Truscott with great pity. “As to that I could not say, but it was a very hard winter, as you may recall. In fact”—he turned to Mr. Dodgson—“Jackson has written to ask if he may take up his duties here again. He was with us for some time, sir, and I was sorry to have to replace him; but Hilary term was upon us, and Ingram’s references were in order.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d have them handy?” Inspector Truscott eyed Telling with misgiving. Clearly this man would do anything to uphold the honor of Christ Church.

  “I could not say.” Telling’s face was that of the perfect butler, betraying nothing.

  “So you hired this man on the strength of his references,” Truscott summed it up. “Where had he worked before?”

  “He came with a letter from White’s in London. He was recommended to apply here after he had looked for a position at Vincent’s, where there were no openings. Vincent’s is a club for the sporting gentlemen in Oxford,” Telling added.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Inspector Truscott admitted.

  Telling went on, “If I had had any doubts about Ingram, I would never have taken him on. He knew his work, and he did it.”

  “What, exactly, did he do?” Inspector Truscott looked about the Hall.

  Telling smiled smugly. “Scouts are expected to keep the students’ rooms in order. They make up the beds, do the dusting, perform all the services expected of a gentleman’s attendant. Young gentlemen can be untidy.”

  Inspector Truscott allowed himself a small smile. His own sons kept their room in the small detached house in Jericho in a constant turmoil.

  “Is that all that Ingram was supposed to do? Keep the rooms tidy?”

  “Our scouts also serve meals in Hall and in rooms, should any student care to dine privately,” Telling explained.

  “And they occasionally run errands for students, should they be called on to do so,” Seward added.

  “Errands that take them out of the college grounds?” Inspector Truscott was on the trail of something. “What was Ingram doing by the river?”

  “That, Inspector, is the question!” Everyone turned to look at Mr. Dodgson, who tapped the table with one gray-gloved finger. “I last saw Ingram alive as the clock was striking five in St. Aldgates, as Dr. Doyle here will confirm. He was supposed to serve my dinner at seven. Mr. Telling will tell you that he was not in the kitchens, for my dinner was not served until nearly eight o’clock.”

  Telling and Doyle both nodded in agreement.

  “Therefore,” Mr. Dodgson continued, “we can place the probable time of death between five o’clock and eight forty-five, which is when I saw the body being removed from Magdalen Bridge.”

  “That’s very interesting, but what was he doing?” Inspector Truscott asked. “Aside from being drowned, of course.”

  Mr. Dodgson frowned slightly. “Before he took leave of us, he said something quite odd. Do you recall, Dr. Doyle? He said, ‘If you wish to speak to me, be at Magdalen Bridge at six o’clock.’ At the time I was quite annoyed with him, and there was no reason for me to go all the way to Magdalen Bridge to speak with him, assuming that I wished to do so.”

  “He must have meant that invitation for someone else,” Dr. Doyle pointed out.

  “Any idea who?” Inspector Truscott asked sarcastically.

  Dr. Doyle looked at Mr. Dodgson, then back at the Inspector. “It was going on five o’clock. The street was quite full of all sorts of people. I suppose Ingram might have seen someone, or recognized someone, and made the appointment for them to meet at six.”

  “There would be few persons out at that time,” Mr. Dodgson put in. “Most of the citizens go home to their suppers by then, and there are no colleges whose dining halls have a view of the bridge. The trees and shrubs are in full leaf, and the shrubbery conceals the steps down to the boats under the bridge.”

  “And Ingram could meet someone for a nice, quiet chat,” Truscott finished. “Now, if one of you could tell me just who the someone was, we could all go home.”

  Mr. Dodgson shook his head with a puzzled frown. “I cannot tell you more,” he said. “Perhaps Dr. Doyle�
��s autopsy will give more information tomorrow.”

  Inspector Truscott’s face wrinkled into a grimace that passed as a smile. “Thank you, gentlemen. You have been most helpful.” His tone implied otherwise. “Sergeant!” Truscott shouted. Everett appeared at the door. “Sergeant, I want to speak with everyone who had rooms where this Ingram worked.”

  “That would include me,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Ingram was posted at the west side of Tom Quad where I have my rooms.”

  “And you’ve given me your statement, sir,” Truscott assured him. “Now, if you will let me do my job, you can go back to those rooms, and a good night to you, too, Dr. Doyle.”

  Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle were firmly shown out by Sergeant Everett, who looked over the sea of black-gowned scholars and undergraduates.

  One young man shoved to the front of the crowd, while the dons muttered behind him.

  “I have important evidence,” he announced.

  “And who are you, sir?” Sergeant Everett inquired.

  “Martin, Gregory Martin,” the young man explained. “Ingram was the scout on my staircase. He was always poking about where he wasn’t expected or wanted. I’m sure he took things …”

  Mr. Dodgson interrupted the impassioned undergraduate. “What is this? I was informed that there had been reports of thefts on Ingram’s staircase.”

  Martin turned to the older man. “Yes, I told Telling about it. Things were missing, like my studs.” He took a deep breath and went on. “And it occurred to me that if Ingram was pinching things, then maybe one of his, er, mob, found out that he’d been, er, copping out on him, and, ah, grassed on him.” He looked from Sergeant Everett to Mr. Dodgson, waiting for applause at this example of logic, his blue eyes bright behind his spectacles.

  “Where on earth did you learn thieve’s slang?” Dr. Doyle exclaimed.

  Martin’s face grew pink with embarrassment. “I’m going into Orders soon, and my living includes some rather unsavory areas near Birmingham,” he confessed. “And I thought I should learn some of the, er, lingo. In order to be able to speak with my parishioners, you see,” he explained earnestly.

  “And just how did you acquire this linguistic knowledge?” Mr. Dodgson queried.

  Mr. Martin grew even pinker. “There are certain, ah, books,” he said. “Crime stories, and so forth.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Dodgson considered Mr. Martin for a moment. “I think you should tell the good Inspector what you suspect about Ingram,” he decided. “It is possible that the police will discover that this is a very ordinary, sordid misunderstanding between villains.” Young Mr. Martin looked eagerly at Sergeant Everett.

  “If you please, young man, I’ll have a word with the Inspector.” Sergeant Everett ducked back into the Hall, leaving Martin to wilt under the glares directed at him by Senior Students and classmates alike.

  “Do you think this is the result of a quarrel between villains?” Dr. Doyle followed Mr. Dodgson across Tom Quad and back to the gate.

  “I think there is more to it than that,” Mr. Dodgson said firmly. “When I accused Ingram of the thefts, I may have been overwrought; but I am more and more convinced that I was right, and he was the thief. He may well have been behind the theft of the wine, although I do not understand why he should remove the bottles, only to sell them where they would be likely to be recognized. And then there is the matter of Miss Cahill …” Mr. Dodgson’s voice drifted off as he mumbled to himself.

  “What does Ingram have to do with Miss Cahill and her difficulties?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “I do not know that Ingram’s death has anything to do with either the thefts or Miss Cahill. I suspect that one or the other might be at the bottom of the matter, but there is as yet no proof of anything. If Inspector Truscott and his men find a pawnshop ticket in Ingram’s possessions, then they will find proof of something … but what, I could not say. Good night, Dr. Doyle. We shall meet tomorrow morning, when we will discuss these matters further.”

  “Will you breakfast with Touie and me at the White Hart?” Dr. Doyle offered.

  “Perhaps you should come to me,” Mr. Dodgson countered. “I do owe you a meal, and this time, Telling will serve it himself.”

  Dr. Doyle nodded. “Very well, sir. I will not continue my journey until we have solved this mystery, one way or another!”

  Mr. Dodgson smiled suddenly in the darkness. “Dr. Doyle,” he said, “I have been a dreadful host to you and your good wife. You must not let me hold you from your family obligations any longer.”

  “Nonsense!” Dr. Doyle said forcefully. “You know me, sir. I am like the sleuthhound when the game is afoot. I shall meet you here for breakfast, sir, and we will decide on a course of action that will uncover the truth of Ingram’s crimes.”

  “Indeed, I believe we will,” Mr. Dodgson said. “And I shall read your newest manuscript tonight, Dr. Doyle. It is the least I can do for Dicky Doyle’s nephew.”

  Chapter 10

  The May evening turned into a chilly night, as Oxford, both Town and Gown, settled into its usual routines. Behind the stone walls and redbrick edifices, students pored over their essays and dons disputed their theories until well after midnight. The unfortunate demise of a college servant was not so important as the declension of Latin verbs or the inner meaning of the verses of Dante in the eyes of those undergraduates who might be asked to discourse on these in the very near future. To the learned scholars, scouts were part of the furniture, the wheels that kept the college going. The death of one scout was an inconvenience, not so important as the state of the Flemish economy during the Wars of the Roses, or the origin of the Hungarian language, or the underlying meaning in the poems of William Blake.

  Not everyone connected with the University was engaged in scholarship. The proctors knew just which billiard halls, taverns, and houses of pleasure catered to the sprigs of the aristocracy who came to Oxford, not for learning, but for sport of one kind or another. On this night as every night, they made their rounds, scooping up young men engaged in cards or dice, or dallying with young women. If any of these young men knew or cared that a servant had been taken out of the river and transported to Christ Church, they did not say so. They were sent back to their colleges to be fined, gated, or rusticated, as their preceptors saw fit.

  None of the young ladies at Lady Margaret Hall were among those engaged in sport or dalliance. Miss Wordsworth’s charges were safely indoors by nine o’clock, chattering away in the Junior Common Room as if they were debutantes and not the standard-bearers of the New Woman, blazing a path for the next generation of female scholars. Several of the undergraduates were clustered around the piano, singing. Others were engaged in fancywork, embroidery and crochet. While none could be called beauties, the ladies of Lady Margaret Hall would eventually be able to grace any dinner table in any corner of the Empire, holding their own with the Empire builders around them. Miss Wordsworth smiled fondly on the scene, mentally checking over the roster of young ladies, as she sat and dispensed both tea and advice from her post at the table where tea and cakes were made available to the ever-hungry students.

  “Miss Laurel.” Miss Wordsworth beckoned the oldest of her students over to the table.

  “Yes, Miss Wordsworth?” Miss Laurel looked up from her book.

  “You accompanied Miss Cahill, Miss Bell, and Miss Talbot to the Cathedral this afternoon,” Miss Wordsworth noted. “Did they have a good afternoon at Christ Church?”

  “It was most interesting,” Miss Laurel said. “We examined the stained glass in the Cathedral, and we met Mr. Dodgson. It seems Miss Cahill had a previous acquaintance with Mr. Dodgson, and he kindly invited Miss Cahill to tea.”

  “Mr. Dodgson?” Miss Wordsworth’s eyebrows rose and the very ribbons on her cap rustled in curiosity. “I had no idea that Miss Cahill had acquaintance with Mr. Dodgson. He has never mentioned such a thing to me.”

  Miss Laurel looked blankly at her mentor. “Miss Cahill’s acquaintance, if such you may
call it, was quite brief. Mr. Dodgson photographed her when she was small, during a visit her parents paid to Oxford. He was entertaining guests, a Dr. Doyle and his wife; and I assumed that under those circumstances, I could allow the young ladies to go to his rooms for tea. I hope I did the correct thing.”

  Miss Wordsworth smiled graciously. “Of course, Miss Laurel. Mr. Dodgson is well known to us, and since there was another woman present, our rules could be relaxed. I see no harm in Miss Cahill’s recalling the occasion of their meeting.”

  Miss Laurel smiled gratefully at Miss Wordsworth. “Nor did I. It was a most pleasant afternoon.”

  “And the conversation …?” Miss Wordsworth’s eyebrows raised in inquiry.

  Miss Laurel wetted her suddenly dry lips. “Miss Cahill recalled how Mr. Dodgson had taken her photograph on the occasion of her parents’ visit to Oxford when she was a child,” Miss Laurel repeated. She briefly considered relating the rest of the afternoon’s disclosures but decided against it. Miss Wordsworth was not to know that one of her students had placed herself in a position to be blackmailed, and the nature of the blackmail was such that it would only bring pain to Miss Wordsworth and dishonor upon the school. Better to be silent and let Mr. Dodgson and his redoubtable ally, Dr. Doyle, handle the situation.

  “I see.” Miss Wordsworth saw that there was more to it, but that she would get nothing out of Miss Laurel by direct questioning. She tried another approach. “I could not help but notice that you were upset at dinner, Miss Laurel,” Miss Wordsworth said, lowering her voice so that they would not be overheard by the girls. “Surely, nothing occurred during this tea party that would shock or offend our students! Mr. Dodgson has the habit of striking up friendships with young children, but I have never heard of him taking any liberties with our undergraduates. You know that Miss Rix is a particular favorite of his, and that she may prevail upon him to lecture here on logic and mathematics.”

  Miss Laurel looked at Miss Wordsworth in astonishment. “Mr. Dodgson was quite kind,” she said. “Oh, my, Miss Wordsworth! You must not think … that is, nothing was said …” She lost herself in a series of half sentences. “No, ma’am. Nothing like that! Only I have had something of a shock.”