“Not bad news, I hope.” Miss Wordsworth’s concern was evident.
“It is not something I care to speak of,” Miss Laurel demurred. “I saw someone that I had not seen in some time. I had never expected to see him again.”
Him? Miss Wordsworth’s eyebrows went up another notch. Here was a mystery, but not one that would be solved easily. Probably the old story: a false lover who had jilted the girl and left for greener pastures. According to her informants at the Women’s Educational Alliance, Miss Laurel had been employed as a governess, a situation well known to leave young women prey to the male relations of their little charges.
Miss Wordsworth’s eyes hardened. If some blackguard came around Lady Margaret Hall, he would be sent packing! Miss Laurel had been seriously applying herself, with the announced intention of returning to teaching, hopefully in a school where she would continue the work of Lady Margaret Hall by preparing young women for higher studies.
Miss Wordsworth poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Miss Laurel, who accepted it gratefully.
“Thank you, Miss Wordsworth,” Miss Laurel whispered. “If I may, I think I shall retire to my room. I wish to go over some notes for tomorrow’s tutorial.”
Miss Wordsworth listened to the girls at the piano. Gertrude Bell was holding forth, while Dianna Cahill played the piano with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
“‘They intend to send a wire to the moon’” Gertrude caroled, her powerful alto ringing out over the chatter of her friends.
“‘To the moon,’” Mary echoed.
“‘And they’ll set the Thames on fire very soon …’”
“‘Very soon.’”
Miss Wordsworth frowned. The girls’ choice was not to her liking. Princess Ida had not been a great success as an opera. Mr. Gilbert’s satire on women’s education was far too pointed to be humorous, although Sir Arthur Sullivan’s melodies were pleasing to the ear. She would have to find more suitable music for the piano; perhaps some of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s other compositions.
Miss Wordsworth considered Misses Bell, Cahill, and Talbot, and decided to have a word with each of them before the lights were turned out for the night. They were being too cheerful. Miss Bell sang defiantly, Miss Talbot answered with vigor, but Miss Cahill seemed to be worried about something that had nothing to do with the music. There was definitely something going on, and Miss Wordsworth was going to ferret it out lest it reflect badly on Lady Margaret Hall.
Two miles south of Lady Margaret Hall, Dean Henry Liddell braced himself to deal with his most difficult Senior Student. Mr. Dodgson and Dean Liddell had had a stormy relationship since the Dean had taken charge in 1855. Mr. Dodgson had been tutor to the Dean’s oldest son and a willing playmate for his three eldest daughters. The excursion that had led to the story of Alice’s Adventures Underground had been one of many that Mr. Dodgson took with the Liddell children, and that particular story had been expanded and embellished, printed and illustrated, and was now part of the national consciousness. Little Alice Liddell herself had grown up and was now Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves, with two strapping sons to her credit.
In the intervening years since that summer day on the river, Mr. Dodgson had opposed many of the Dean’s reforms. He had been particularly vicious about the ambitious building program that had embellished the old quad with a new tower, in Dean Liddell’s eyes a most necessary improvement since the original tower was unsafe. Mr. Dodgson had been officious in his management of the Senior Common Room, making endless lists of wine and supplies, and constantly complaining about the quality of the food, the delivery of his letters, and the presence of workmen at his windows.
Now Mr. Dodgson had taken up a new hobbyhorse, and one that Dean Liddell could only think unsuitable for a scholar of Mr. Dodgson’s caliber. It was bad enough when he had been involved in the abduction and rescue of Lord Marbury’s daughter, but Mr. Dodgson’s explanation of his late arrival from his summer holidays the previous October seemed to have had something to do with another criminal case, and Dean Liddell suspected that there was more than just the bad weather and blockage of snow on the railroad tracks that had kept him in London two months before.
The problem before Dean Liddell was that he needed Mr. Dodgson’s advice, as much as he deplored this interest in criminal investigation. The police were unwelcome within University walls, but the death by drowning of one of the college servants could not go unnoticed. Mr. Dodgson’s medical companion might be useful in the investigation. On the other hand, Dean Liddell thought, as he watched Mr. Dodgson confer with the young man before sending him back to his inn, the young doctor was not an Oxford man but a jumped-up nobody from Edinburgh. It was all very difficult.
Dean Liddell waited until Mr. Dodgson had made his goodbyes to his guest and turned back into Tom Quad. Then he called to the scholar from the Hall steps.
“Mr. Dodgson, may I have a word?” Dean Liddell tried to keep his voice neutral, but Mr. Dodgson could sense the undertone of urgency. He diverted his steps and proceeded back around Tom Quad to the Hall, where Dean Liddell was waiting patiently for him.
“Dean, it is quite late …,” Mr. Dodgson began.
“I am all too aware of the hour,” Dean Liddell said testily. As if to answer him, Great Tom boomed out eleven strokes.
“It is also getting quite chilly,” Mr. Dodgson noted.
“This will only take a moment.” Dean Liddell led the way into the opening of the connecting passage to the cloister garden, which Mr. Dodgson had once labeled “the tunnel.”
Mr. Dodgson could only follow his leader, and the two of them stood on the path between the garden and the Cathedral, with one lantern flickering over the passage.
Dean Liddell took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. “I noticed that you were somewhat forthcoming with the police,” he began.
Mr. Dodgson nodded gravely. “I had information pertinent to the case at hand,” he stated.
“And you brought forward that protégé of yours, the doctor from Portsmouth.”
“Dr. Doyle. Yes, I did. Dr. Doyle is an astute observer, who has had some experience as a police surgeon.” Mr. Dodgson’s voice took on a defensive edge.
Dean Liddell’s voice took on a magisterial tone. “I think, Mr. Dodgson, that you might leave this matter to those best suited to deal with it,” he pronounced.
“Meaning the police and the proctors?” Mr. Dodgson’s shrill tone rebounded off the walls of the passage.
“Precisely. They have been trained in criminal investigation, whereas you, sir, are a scholar and mathematician. Dabbling in crime is unworthy of your talents, Mr. Dodgson.”
Mr. Dodgon’s face could not be seen in the shadows, but his voice grew sharper as he replied. “Dean Liddell, I have been involved in this crime already. I saw the undergraduates push the bath chair from Magdalen Bridge, which apparently contained the body of that scout, Ingram. Inspector Truscott seems to suspect that I may have caused this unfortunate man to destroy himself by discharging him without cause. I cannot sit idly by and let my fate be decided by persons unknown to me. If Dr. Doyle can assist in clearing my name, as I am assured he can, then I feel obligated to let him try to do it. Besides,” he added, in a softer tone, “thanks to that wretched man’s defection, I fed Dr. Doyle an inferior dinner. He and his good wife entertained me quite lavishly when I was detained in Portsmouth last autumn, and I deeply regret that I was not able to reciprocate.”
Dean Liddell listened sympathetically to the last part of Mr. Dodgson’s speech. He might not be in favor of criminal investigation as a pastime, but he certainly understood social niceties.
“I must insist that you remain on University grounds until this matter is cleared up,” the Dean said at last. “However, I see your point about clearing your reputation. It would never do to have one of our dons accused of driving a scout to his death!”
“I never said that I …” Mr. Dodgson protested.
Dean Liddell ignored t
he interruption. “As for your social dilemma, we can have the young man to dine with us in Hall tomorrow.”
“That is quite handsome of you, Dean,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I shall inform Dr. Doyle of the invitation. I assume, sir, that Dr. Doyle has your permission to investigate the matter of the thefts from the west wing of Tom Quad.”
Dean Liddell let out an exasperated sigh. “If your Scottish friend finds anything pertinent to the death of this unhappy man, of course he must lay it before the proper authorities,” he told Mr. Dodgson, as he led the way back to Tom Quad. “But I cannot like your indulgence in this sort of thing, Dodgson. You should leave criminal investigation to the police and the proctors, and be content to write your lovely tales and mathematical puzzles.”
Mr. Dodgson watched with seething resentment as Dean Liddell marched down to the door of the deanery, where Mrs. Liddell waited to find out what had drawn her husband out at this hour of the night. The Dean, however, smiled to himself in the darkness. He had handled Mr. Dodgson quite well, he thought. Mr. Dodgson would undoubtedly take action now that he had been told to refrain from investigating Ingram’s death. The Dean greeted his wife with the news that there had been an unpleasant incident, but the unfortunate matter was in good hands.
Mr. Dodgson took all of two minutes to decide on his next course of action. He had never been one to shirk his duty. It was clearly his duty to remove the taint from his good name. He had deliberately avoided mentioning the matter of Miss Cahill and her photograph to the Dean. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!”
Now it was late, and Mr. Dodgson had had a strenuous day. He hoped that Telling had removed the remains of the disastrous dinner from his rooms, and that the next day would bring enlightenment.
He climbed the stairs to his own rooms and looked about him. His eye fell on the manuscript left by Dr. Doyle in its marbled portfolio. Mr. Dodgson opened the folder, his heart sinking. The last time he had tried to read one of Dr. Doyle’s longer effusions, it had nearly put him to sleep.
This one seemed even less promising. The opening sentence read: “In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine at the University of London and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army.” The next two pages detailed the career of this unpromising surgeon.
Mr. Dodgson closed his eyes for a moment and wondered what he should do. Dr. Doyle clearly expected him to read this manuscript, and he had given his word that he would do so, but unbidden thoughts came tumbling through his head. Why had Miss Cahill been singled out from the other women students at Oxford for calumny? What part did the photograph play in the sinister plot? If Ingram was behind it, who had killed Ingram?
With all this running through his brain, Mr. Dodgson gave up on the manuscript. He could not deal with this John Watson, M.D., and his search for lodgings right now. He laid the manuscript aside, promising himself that he would read it before Dr. Doyle left Oxford.
Dr. Doyle and his wife could see the lights in Mr. Dodgson’s windows across the road from their rooms at the White Hart as they prepared for bed.
“I’ll have to send a telegram tomorrow,” Dr. Doyle decided, as he struggled into his nightshirt. “I only hope the Ma’am will understand that I must give whatever assistance I can to the police.”
“And to Miss Cahill,” Touie added, braiding up her hair as she did every night before retiring. “You know, Arthur, I’ve been thinking about that photograph.”
“Rather murky, wasn’t it?” Dr. Doyle folded his jacket and laid it across the rack provided by the White Hart.
“Yes, but I wondered … where was the nursemaid?”
“What nursemaid?”
“Why, the one who dressed the child, of course.” Touie snuggled under the bedclothes, as her husband proceeded to disrobe. “You wouldn’t think of such things, but I remember the dresses I had to wear when I was a child, and I wasn’t a vicar’s daughter, either, but the child of a moderately well-to-do gentleman. I remember being laced and buttoned, and I could get out of the dress easily enough, but I couldn’t do the buttons and laces myself to get in.”
Dr. Doyle blew out the bedside lamp. “Well, do you think you could get out of your dress now?”
Touie’s answer was a giggle in the darkness.
There was no such diversion at the headquarters of the Oxford Constabulary, a small apartment just off Blue Boar Lane, conveniently next to one of the best pubs in town. Here Chief Inspector Wheeler listened as Inspector Truscott presented the facts.
“And that’s where it stands, sir,” he concluded. “Body of one James Ingram, drowned in the river, now in the mortuary at Christ Church awaiting autopsy. Carried into the lane via bath chair, as evidenced by dampness of the seat of the chair and straws from the chair found on the body. Corroboration by Mr. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, Senior Student of Christ Church, who claims that he saw undergraduates pushing said chair from Magdalen Bridge to the lane behind the college.” Truscott shut his notebook with a decided slap of disgust.
Inspector Wheeler frowned. “Transporting a body is interfering with evidence,” he stated flatly. “It’s not a student lark or a rag. And what’s this about some doctor putting his oar in?”
“Visiting from Portsmouth.” Truscott consulted his notes again. “Friend of this Dodgson.”
“What else?” Wheeler growled.
“Statements taken from undergraduates seem to indicate that this Ingram might have been behind a series of thefts in the students’ rooms.”
“Thefts?” Wheeler echoed. “Why weren’t we called in?”
Truscott’s said gravely, “It’s the University, sir. They won’t call in the police until they have to. I’ll have one of the constables go around the pawnshops tomorrow and see where that leads us.”
“Up the garden path, more likely than not.” Chief Inspector Wheeler shifted uneasily in his chair. “What do you say, Truscott? Is this Dodgson involved in this or not?”
“He’s known for writing little puzzles, sir. I’d say, if anyone were to be called in on this thieving business, it would be him and not the proctors.”
“Proctors!” Wheeler snorted his disdain. “Fat lot of good they’ve been. Students grabbing bodies up out of the river, hauling them here and there, and where are the proctors? Chasing whores, that’s where!” It was a sore point, as it was with all good citizens of Oxford, that the proctors had the right to enter any residence in search of miscreants and haul them away to be jailed, fined, or stand before a magistrate.
Truscott put his notebook away in his pocket. “Do we call in Scotland Yard, sir?”
Wheeler’s face contorted in fury. “We do not! This is the sort of thing we can handle by ourselves, without some jack-a-dandy from London telling us how to run our own cases. Truscott, you take as many men as we can spare and look into this Ingram fellow. I want this cleared up, and quickly!” He pounded the table for emphasis.
“Yes, Chief Inspector.” Truscott let himself out of the room, to find Sergeant Everett gazing at him in sympathy.
“What do we do now, sir?”
“We sleep on it,” Truscott said. “Things always look better in the morning.”
In their rooms in Tom Quad, three undergraduates held a council of war.
“What business was it of yours to go blabbing to the police?” Farlow turned on his least reliable companion in crime and grabbed him by the front of his gown. Chatsworth wriggled between them to separate the former friends.
Martin smoothed out his shirtfront with an air of martyrdom. “I had information pertinent to the inquiry,” he said, with wounded dignity. “Ingram was a thief. It is perfectly possible that someone found out about it …”
“And threw him into the river? For a few trumpery trinkets?” Farlow laughed mirthlessly.
“And how did you know he was there in the first place?” Martin asked.
“What does that matter? I was walking along, and there he was; and I thought
it would be a good rag, that’s all.” Farlow shrugged apologetically at his old schoolmate.
Martin was not to be cajoled. “I still think you might have told me that the body we were supposedly inserting into the job lot for the medical students to have a go at was someone we knew. I don’t think that’s at all funny, even if you do.”
“Couldn’t you just see it? Old Kitchin, nattering away, and someone says, ‘This is Ingram!’” Farlow fairly beamed with joy at the discomforture of the earnest medical students, most of whom were far below him on the social ladder.
“I just wish you’d left me out of it, Nev, cousin or no cousin. You’ll go too far one of these days.” The prospective vicar sat back in a fit of sulks.
“He’s upset because he’s afraid his new inamorata will find out,” Chatsworth commented, lighting one of his long, thin cheroots. “The one he bumped into in quad this afternoon.” Chatsworth blew a smoke ring. “You know, I do believe we saw them at the Balliol lectures last term perched up on the dais with Briggs. They’re from Lady Margaret Hall. The blond’s all right, I suppose, if you like them well-stuffed.”
“Her name is Dianna,” Martin breathed.
“Bother girls!” Farlow dismissed the entire sex with one wave of his arms. “More to the point, Greg, are you rowing with us tomorrow? We need you!”
Young Mr. Martin considered his situation. Which was more important, personal integrity or the honor of the college?
“All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll be at the boathouse tomorrow. But don’t think for one moment that you can bamboozle me into taking part in another rag like this one.”
He slammed out of the room, leaving Farlow and Chatsworth to their brandy, their cigars, and their thoughts.
Chapter 11
The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 11