The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “My, my,” Dr. Doyle commented. He held up a copy of the Illustrated London News. “Mr. Ingram seems to have taken an interest in the fashionable life.” He frowned as he read scrawled comments over some of the well-bred and well-connected personages depicted therein.

  “Checking up on his old employers?” Inspector Truscott’s eyebrows went up as he scanned the newspaper.

  “More likely targeting new victims,” Dr. Doyle said. “He’s got some nasty things to say. This chap’s labeled bugger, and this lady’s got whore written over her pretty face. And here’s Lord Berwick, disfigured with the word hypocrite.”

  Inspector Truscott turned to his faithful sergeant. “Everett, take these papers over to Headquarters. Anything else I should know about?” Truscott glared at Dr. Doyle.

  “You might consider the possibility that Ingram was a habitual gambler, who financed his addiction with petty thefts, as witnessed by these pawn tickets in his wardrobe drawers. He used scraps from the students’ wastebaskets for his calculations. A thrifty man, our Mr. Ingram, except for his betting, of course.”

  “It’s something to think of,” Inspector Truscott said slowly. “Now, young man, I suggest that you and your lovely lady take yourself off and leave the detective work to those who know it best. If, as you say, Ingram was mixed up with gambling, I know exactly who to talk to. I’ll just have a word with the sergeant-major, and we’ll settle this right and proper, with no fuss.”

  “No fuss?” Dr. Doyle was indignant. “Whether or not Ingram was a thief and a blackmailer is not important. He was a human being and as such had the right to life, however vile that life might seem to me and you, and whatever misery he might have inflicted on others.”

  “That’s a fine speech, young man,” Truscott said, “but we’re not in court, and you’re no barrister. Leave this business to the professionals, sir.”

  Dr. Doyle’s mustache began to bristle in indignation. “Inspector, I have been asked by the Dean of Christ Church to assist you in this matter,” he said. “I have given you the benefit of my expertise. If you do not choose to take what I offer, then I can only say good morning and leave you to your fruitless search for Ingram’s murderer.”

  “And you think you can find out who knocked this scout on the head and dragged him into the river?” Truscott asked with awful sarcasm.

  “I think between us, Mr. Dodgson and I can discover what happened to Ingram,” Dr. Doyle amended. “I suggest you open that box very carefully, Inspector, and use its contents wisely. There may be a bomb inside.”

  Inspector Truscott regarded the suitcase with suspicious eyes as Dr. Doyle made his way down the stairs, out into the lane, and from there back to St. Aldgates.

  The young Scot stood in the sunlight for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Where to now? he asked himself. Should he pursue the errant wine or go after the missing jewelry?

  Mr. Dodgson had mentioned Snow and the Covered Market. The White Hart lay on his way to High Street. Dr. Doyle decided to continue his search at the White Hart.

  Nevil Farlow and Minnie Chatsworth had partaken of an ample breakfast in Hall and were proceeding to their rooms to change into their boating clothes. Now they stood at the corner of Tom Quad and watched Dr. Doyle as he stood on St. Aldgates.

  “What did I tell you?” Chatsworth said, in gloomy triumph. “I can see Ingram’s rooms from my window. He was up to something; I know he was.”

  “We can’t go up there now,” Farlow told him. “Not with the police all over the place. Look, Minnie, there’s that Scotsman, the one who’s tagging along after old Dodgson. I wonder what he’s up to?”

  “He’s heading for the White Hart,” Chatsworth observed.

  “Wants a drink, I suppose, after being with that policeman all morning. Look, there goes Ingram!” Farlow and Chatsworth shrank back against the wall of the mortuary and shuddered as the remains of James Ingram were carried out of the mortuary and back into the lane, where a police wagon waited to take the body to the Oxford morgue until the Coroner’s Inquest, after which he could be decently interred.

  Chatsworth looked away from the wagon in the lane. “I wonder if that Scottish chap knows something we don’t,” he mused.

  Farlow scowled. “We’d better follow him,” he decided.

  “I thought we were going out on the river,” Chatsworth reminded his friend.

  “Not until we find out what that Scotsman knows about Ingram,” Farlow decided. “We’ll wait outside the White Hart.”

  “And then what?”

  Farlow looked at his follower in exasperation. “And then, when we find out what he knows, we stop him from finding out any more, of course. He’s not a gentleman; he’s only a doctor. He’ll do as he’s told!”

  With the supreme arrogance of one who had never been thwarted in anything, Nevil Farlow led his friend across St. Aldgates to wait for Dr. Doyle to finish whatever business had taken him to the White Hart.

  Chapter 13

  It was now midmorning, and the population of St. Aldgates had increased considerably. Students from Pembroke and Christ Church strode along the narrow pavement on their way toward High Street and their lectures. Stout housewives emerged from the squalid lanes south of Christ Church to eke out a few coins with a day’s work scrubbing out the kitchens of more prosperous neighbors. Men in corduroy trousers and velveteen waistcoats toiled on the roofs or walls or pavements, repairing the ravages of the previous winter. Oxford was humming, and Dr. Doyle had to thread his way through the crowd. Behind him, Farlow and Chatsworth strolled, trying to look innocent and succeeding only in looking furtive.

  Dr. Doyle’s attention was on the White Hart. He ignored the tiny shop opposite Christ Church, where an old woman stood guard over her supply of barley sugar and other sweets. He fended off the importuning children, who offered him everything from pen wipers to peppermints. His goal was the bar of the White Hart, which was relatively empty at that hour of the morning. Only one man sat in a corner, nursing a glass of something brown. The barman stood at his post, however, busily polishing glassware so as to be ready for the luncheon patrons.

  Dr. Doyle regarded the day bartender with care. This was not the harried night man, but a stout, jovial fellow, whose rotund figure and reddened nose led the doctor to believe that he had sampled some of the inn’s wares fairly recently.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Doyle greeted the barman.

  “And what may I give you today, sir?” The barman stopped polishing his glassware long enough to nod to this potential customer.

  “I’ll have a pint of your best bitter, if you please.” Dr. Doyle watched as the barman operated the taps and produced the required beverage. He tried a sip, nodded, and pronounced it acceptable. “Not that I would be able to judge,” Dr. Doyle said modestly. “Now there are some, I daresay, who could tell whether that beer came from near Oxford or elsewhere. I’ve even heard that some fellows can distinguish one field of hops from another.”

  The barman nodded sagely. “That’s a fact, sir. There are those with such a palate that they can tell if the beer’s been drawn today or leftover. And some of them will complain if they get bottled, saying that it’s none so good as what’s in the wood. There’s a rhyme for you!” He punctuated his joke with a flourish of his dishcloth.

  “Ah.” Dr. Doyle sipped his beer carefully. “And then there are the wine fanciers. Don’t get many of those here, I daresay.” He looked about the room as if to say, Wine drinkers stay behind the college walls.

  “Now there you are mistaken, sir.” The barman put down his cloth ready to do battle for the reputation of his establishment. “Many of the Fellows of the University bring their friends here, and if I may say so, sir, we can usually supply what is wanted. Mr. Jellicoe, our proprietor, has laid down a fine cellar, sir. Sherry, port, Madiera, all you have to do is ask, and we can provide it.”

  “Sherry, you say?” Dr. Doyle frowned. “I heard there was a bit of bother last night about the sherry.�
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  “One of the old chaps across the way said it was pinched from his cellars!” The day barman had clearly been briefed by the night man. “As if Mr. Jellicoe would stoop to buying wine from any but our own man!”

  “Really?” Dr. Doyle looked skeptical. “But wouldn’t it be a temptation for a barman to buy a bottle or two, if it were offered by someone you knew, if the price were right? You could charge the same for a drink as for the usual stock and pocket the difference yourself.” Dr. Doyle watched the bartender over the rim of his glass.

  The barman drew himself up, the picture of outraged professional pride. “Mr. Jellicoe would never purchase stolen goods, not poached game nor pinched wine! You may ask at Mr. Snow’s, in the Covered Market, which is where Mr. Jellicoe has done his business these ten years past, if you like. And none of us what works for him would do so either!” He glared fiercely at Dr. Doyle, daring him to say otherwise.

  Dr. Doyle looked properly abashed. “I only wondered because I thought it might be a dreadful temptation,” he said. “All those dons sitting behind the walls across the road, swilling down the port …” He stopped before the barman’s disapproving frown.

  “The gentlemen of Christ Church,” the barman said with withering scorn, “are known as great scholars, and the White Hart is proud to be of service to them. Good morning, sir!” Clearly the barman wanted nothing to do with such a Philistine as Dr. Doyle, who paid for his drink and left the White Hart still puzzled. His first thought had been that the barman at the White Hart had purchased the wine, thinking to make an easy few shillings’ profit. Clearly, this was not the case. The next step, he decided, would be to go to the source of the wine. To this end, Dr. Doyle headed north on St. Aldgates to the High Street and turned right. The gates of the Covered Market were open to all, and apparently, the entire town was heading there this morning. Dr. Doyle joined the throng, with Farlow and Chatsworth close behind him.

  The good citizens of Oxford relied on the market for their daily shopping. Beneath the iron roof with its glass panes were stalls where the local farmers hawked their produce, butchers proclaimed the virtues of their meats, and wine merchants praised their vintages. Dairymen extolled the flavor of their cheeses; bakers produced loaves for consumption on the premises or to be taken back to digs. Poor scholars could buy their meager meals ready cooked; and more affluent citizens could send housekeepers, cooks, and butlers to order their provisions. On this day, with graduation parties near at hand and an influx of guests in the offing, both Town and Gown wanted to top up their supplies. The market was correspondingly packed with humanity.

  Dr. Doyle threaded his way between stout housewives and superior servants carrying wicker baskets loaded with the day’s supply of vegetables, meats, and whatever else their households might require. College scouts, in their distinctive long black coats and black bowler hats, argued with butchers and grocers to get the most for the least amount of their college’s funds. Representatives from the White Hart, the Mitre, and the Randolph Hotel were making their latest purchases, to be sent directly to the kitchens of those establishments before the luncheon crowd descended upon them.

  Dr. Doyle’s ears were assaulted by the sound of voices rebounding off the iron-and-glass roof. He looked about him, trying to get his bearings. He spotted his destination along one wall. Mr. Snow had taken a large stand in the Covered Market, where his stock of bottles and crates could be easily seen. Mr. Snow himself, correctly attired in cutaway coat and striped trousers, stood ready to greet anyone who wished to purchase wine, while his lanky assistant, a sly-looking youth who had discarded the jacket of his checked suit of dittoes, the better to display well-muscled arms under rolled-up shirtsleeves, lurked in the background.

  Dr. Doyle edged around a well-upholstered woman arguing over some fowls with a butcher and very nearly bumped into Mr. Snow. “Good morning,” he said politely.

  “And a fine spring day it is,” Mr. Snow agreed. “And what may I do for you, sir?”

  Dr. Doyle smiled cheerily. “I am visiting a friend here in Oxford, and he recommended your selection of wines. I thought I might buy a bottle of port, to present to a relation of mine in the north of England.” Dr. Doyle looked over the stock, as if he knew everything there was to know about wine.

  “Indeed, I may be able to accommodate you. May I ask which of my customers it was who suggested that you visit my stand?” Mr. Snow scanned his rack for a likely bottle to offer.

  “It was Mr. Dodgson, of Christ Church …,” Dr. Doyle said casually. Mr. Snow reacted as if someone had handed him a cup of vinegar and told him it was champagne. His face contracted, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth pursed into a round bow of distaste.

  “I have had dealings with Mr. Dodgson since his taking the curatorship,” Mr. Snow said finally. “He has ordered from me many times. But he can be extremely trying.”

  “Mr. Dodgson is, um, exacting,” Dr. Doyle said diplomatically.

  “Mr. Dodgson is a persnickety old codger,” Mr. Snow declared. “My dealings with Mr. Vere Bayne were of a different sort altogether. Mr. Vere Bayne ordered the wine, which I then delivered. Mr. Vere Bayne accepted my decisions as to vintage and price. Mr. Vere Bayne then paid the amounts I charged without complaint.”

  “Mr. Dodgson is more precise,” Dr. Doyle murmured.

  Mr. Snow’s jowls quivered in exasperation. “Is Mr. Dodgson a good friend of yours, sir?”

  “An acquaintance of sorts,” Dr. Doyle said, with a depreciating grin. “I am all too aware of his, um, mannerisms.”

  Mr. Snow lowered his voice. “Let me tell you, sir, I have never had so exacting a customer as Mr. Dodgson. Mr. Dodgson must question every order, must taste every vintage, before he will pronounce it good enough for his cellars.” Clearly Mr. Snow felt affronted that he should be questioned as to the quality of his wares. “As for the charges, he must add every bill himself, not once, but three times, before paying it.”

  “Mr. Dodgson is a mathematician,” Dr. Doyle reminded the enraged merchant.

  “That does not entitle him to question my addition,” Mr. Snow said indignantly. “As for his claim that we have sent double the order, that is ridiculous, and so I told him.”

  “Mr. Snow!” A stout man in the black coat and bowler hat worn by scouts called for attention.

  “If you will care to make your selection, my boy here will assist you.” Mr. Snow hurried to attend to the next customer. “Find the gentleman a nice bottle of port, Fred.”

  Behind him, Dr. Doyle thought he heard a stifled snort from Mr. Snow’s shop assistant. “Do you know something about Mr. Dodgson’s wine?” Dr. Doyle asked, assessing the smirking Fred as being one who would go along with Ingram’s schemes.

  “Only that Mr. Snow don’t know all that passes at Christ Church,” Fred said with a wink.

  Dr. Doyle put on a knowing grin. “Aha! Let me guess … one of the scouts came to you with a little proposition, eh? That he could get you the Christ Church wine, which you could then sell on your own, and the pair of you would split the proceeds?”

  “Oh, you are a sharp one, you are,” the assistant said. “You’re that sharp, you’ll be cut one of these days.”

  “Not so badly as you,” Dr. Doyle retorted. “What’s more, I’ll bet you anything you like that I can name the scout.”

  “And how would you know that, what’s never been here before?” The assistant summed up Dr. Doyle with one sharp look.

  “Haven’t you heard that Ingram was found dead behind Christ Church last night?” Dr. Doyle watched as incredulity, then horror, then guilt chased each other across the assistant’s face.

  “I didn’t know it was him!” the assistant burst out. “I heard there was a man found in the lane behind Christ Church, but no name was mentioned. I didn’t have nothing to do with that!”

  “No one is saying that you did,” Dr. Doyle said. “Ingram seems to have had a finger in a number of pies. Just how long did you expect to get away with this lit
tle scheme? Mr. Snow must keep the accounts. Sooner or later he would realize that the tally of bottles sold did not match the inventory.”

  “That was Ingram’s idea,” the assistant said hurriedly. “See, he’d bring me the bottles, then he’d have me furnish the same wine to the undergraduates, for their parties and suchlike. He’d had a word with some of the scouts from other colleges, and they’d pay me on the sly. Then Ingram and me, we’d split the coin, and we’d both be the richer for it; and Mr. Snow none the wiser since the transaction never appeared on his books. It was all Ingram’s idea,” he repeated.

  “He seems to have had a remarkable ability to work out criminal schemes,” Dr. Doyle observed. “I wonder why he needed you since he could just as easily have handed the wine over himself.”

  “But you see, the wine had to come from Mr. Snow,” Fred pointed out. “Otherwise the scouts would have twigged it wasn’t prime stock, and that wouldn’t have done at all. Mr. Snow’s got a good reputation, and wine from Mr. Snow is always of the best.”

  “Which would be well-known to everyone in Oxford,” Dr. Doyle said, with a nod of appreciation for the plan. “Very clever.”

  “Aye, quite the lad he was, was Ingram,” the assistant agreed. “But I didn’t have anything to do with him being dead. Ask Mr. Snow! I was here until we close, which is seven in the evening, and then I went straight home, which is with my mum, behind Pembroke.”

  “I did not mention when Ingram was found,” Dr. Doyle remarked. “I don’t suppose you happened to see him yesterday?”

  Fred made a show of handing Dr. Doyle one of the bottles standing on a crate. “Now this here is a nice little bottle, a good year; our dons find it very palatable,” he said loudly, conscious of Mr. Snow’s eye on him. Mr. Snow’s attention wandered again. Fred lowered his voice. “Ingram came to the market just after five to fetch a meat pie for his tea. He come over to this stand in a right temper, growling about how he’d been given the sack and how he’d make someone pay dearly. And then he went off, and I never saw him again.”