The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “Indeed?” Dr. Doyle raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye, my mother, bless her soul, was in service. Willy, she told me, always remember your place. Pity is that she never saw me in my uniform. She was a grand woman, my mother.” The sergeant-major coughed, then eyed Dr. Doyle. “What’s your part in all this?”

  Dr. Doyle touched his cheek. At least one of Farlow’s wild jabs had left its mark. He would have a dandy bruise to explain to Touie.

  “Mr. Dodgson is a friend of mine,” he said. “He’s been accused of driving Ingram to his death.”

  The sergeant-major gave a crack of laughter. “Driving Ingram to jump into the river? Haw! The shoe’d be on the other foot, I’d say. It would be Ingram who did the driving, were I asked my opinion, which I am not.”

  “Indeed?” Dr. Doyle cocked his head expectantly.

  “From the hints he dropped, I’d say he wouldn’t be above putting the black on someone,” the sergeant-major said, with a knowing look. “He seemed to have it in for his betters. Hypocrites, he’d call ’em.”

  “If our friend Ingram had a line in blackmail,” Dr. Doyle said slowly, “he might have had enemies. What do you say to that, Sergeant-Major?”

  The sergeant-major stood up to dismiss his unwanted caller. “I say that if, as you say, Ingram was playing that game, he got what he deserved. I don’t know who killed him, and I can tell you straight out that I didn’t nor did I ask anyone else to. In point of fact, I’m now going to have to tell some gentlemen in London that their scheme’s been rumbled, and they’ll have to find another way of setting their odds. And if this Inspector Truscott comes along, I’ll tell him the same. Good day, Dr. Doyle.”

  “Good day, Sergeant-Major.” Dr. Doyle did not quite salute, but he turned smartly on his heels and reached for the door.

  “And you take care, Dr. Doyle,” the sergeant-major called after him. “Lord Farlow don’t always play by the Marquis of Queensberry rules.”

  “I will bear that in mind, sir.” Dr. Doyle touched his cheek again. I’d best put some plaster on this before Touie sees me, he thought. What was it she’d called out? Something about a picnic on the Meadows? He turned to the sergeant-major.

  “One more thing, sir. If someone told you they were having a picnic in the Meadows, where would you go?”

  “Why, Christ Church Meadows, of course!” The sergeant-major shrugged at the ignorance of strangers to Oxford, and Dr. Doyle decided on his next course of action. He would go back to the White Hart, change his shirt, and make some notes for Mr. Dodgson. Then he could go to Christ Church Meadows and meet his wife and Mr. Dodgson on the green, where they could exchange information.

  I only hope Touie is not too bored with the old gentleman, Dr. Doyle thought. I wonder what sort of a day she’s having with him?

  Chapter 16

  After Dr. Doyle had left for his autopsy appointment, Touie and Mr. Dodgson stared blankly at each other for a few moments.

  “Arthur can be enthusiastic,” Touie said finally, in explanation of her husband’s abrupt departure.

  “Quite.” Mr. Dodgson fussed about rearranging books and papers on his writing table and setting out his pen and inkwell. “Now, Mrs. Doyle, let us be methodical in this matter of Miss Cahill’s photograph.” He took a sheet of paper out of the appropriate pile and drew it toward him, ready to take notes.

  Touie sat up straight, strongly reminded of her brief schooldays, when she was brought before the headmistress of her day school for examinations.

  “What do we know as fact?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  “Well,” Touie said, “we know that there was a photograph, because we have seen it. And we know there were at least two prints made, yours and the one you sent to Miss Cahill. How did you know where to send it?”

  “Eh?” Mr. Dodgson looked at his guest.

  Touie blushed prettily. “What I mean to say is, if Miss Cahill’s parents were not resident here in Oxford but were only passing through, as it were, where did you send the print that you made of Miss Cahill’s photograph?”

  Mr. Dodgson considered the question. “Of course, Mrs. Doyle, the photographic process at that time was more complex than it is now. Today one may buy dry plates ready to expose or purchase a camera with the celluloid film already inserted. At that time one had to make the negative as soon as the plates were exposed, and the prints were made from that negative. I would have made the negative first, then taken a print from it and presented it to the child at the time of my making it.”

  Touie shook her head. “But you didn’t do that,” she objected. “Miss Cahill would certainly have recalled whether or not you presented her with the photograph. She remembered everything else about the visit, even if you didn’t.”

  Mr. Dodgson nodded. “I could consult my diaries,” he suggested. He turned to a large bookcase in one corner filled with leather-bound notebooks. “It would have been 1872 or thereabouts …” He found the volume and started to flip over pages. “February, Miss Cahill said. Dear me, how long ago that was!” He sighed, then frowned. “I have a notation here that I visited the Deanery and left a copy of the Italian translation of Alice for Miss Liddell, but that there were other persons present for tea and I was not to have conversation with Miss Liddell. Ah, here it is … ‘Took photographs of a very pretty child under artificial light.’ It was something I rarely did, artificial lighting for photography. I much preferred natural light, but Miss Cahill remarked that the day was inclement.”

  “And that is all?” Touie sounded disappointed, as Mr. Dodgson carefully put the notebook back in its place on the shelf.

  Mr. Dodgson sighed again. “One never realizes the effect one’s actions may have in the future. My only reason for visiting the Deanery was to present Miss Liddell with the book. She was otherwise occupied, and I did not have any conversation with her.”

  “So you amused little Dianna instead,” Touie said. “And you took the photograph, but for some reason you did not present it to the child at that time.”

  Мr. Dodgson closed his eyes in concentration, then opened them. “Now I remember,” he said. “It was February, quite a blustery day. After I had taken my photographs, the child was dressed, and her parents came to call for her to return to their lodgings.”

  “Surely not lodgings,” Touie exclaimed. “Didn’t Dianna mention something about their being on a family visit? They would have returned to the house where they were staying with Miss Cahill’s relations, whoever they were.”

  “Roswell,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I know that name. Of course, the Roswell Glass Works provided some of the glass used by Mr. Burne-Jones for the windows in the Cathedral. He is also contracted to provide window glass for the rooms, should it be needed. I have had some dealings with the firm. Mr. Roswell has the reputation for scrupulous honesty in all his business affairs, although I have heard there was some sort of scandal in his family. That was many years ago,” he added hurriedly, “and I know nothing about it.”

  Touie considered the Roswell connection. “Miss Cahill seems quite fond of her relations,” she said. “Mr. Roswell, having no children of his own, appears to have been quite generous to Miss Cahill, who is not a blood relative but a connection through marriage. Do you know anything else about him?”

  Mr. Dodgson frowned. “He sits on several town committees,” he said finally. “And I have heard it said that he is so strict a Methodist that he will not enter a theater. Of course, that is true of some of my friends as well,” he added.

  “And so you never presented the child with her photograph,” Touie got back to the original point, “because she had been taken away before you had a chance to make the print from the negative. In that case, who dressed the child?”

  Mr. Dodgson looked blank. “I have no idea,” he said at last. “There must have been a maidservant at hand, because I never took a child who was unwilling or the least bit uncomfortable, and there was always a mama or a nurse present.”

  “That’s what I told
Arthur,” Touie said. “It had occurred to me that while Miss Cahill was chattering yesterday, she never mentioned her nanny. Now most young ladies in Miss Cahill’s position would have a nurse in attendance. We shall have to ask whether she did, and who this woman was.” Mr. Dodgson’s eyebrows went up. Touie went on, “Because, you see, the question is, who knew there was a photograph taken and of what nature? Miss Cahill was a child who would not know or care whether or not the photograph could be construed as irregular in any way.”

  “Quite so,” Mr. Dodgson agreed. “Children are innocent of any pretense. And while her parents knew that I had taken her photograph, they may not have known that I would ask her to pose without the restraints of clothing. I, myself, may not have known, until I made the request; and if the child had shown any reluctance, I would never have proceeded.”

  “Therefore,” Touie concluded, “we must assume that you made the print after the child had left and sent it on. And that, sir, brings us back to the first point. How did you know where to send the print?”

  Mr. Dodgson thought for a moment. “I would have asked Dean Liddell,” he said at last. “After all, the Reverend Mr. Cahill had come to tea at the deanery, and I would have assumed that Dean Liddell would know where they were staying in Oxford.”

  “And you would have sent the print to that direction.” Touie nodded, sending the flowers bouncing on her straw hat.

  “I see where this is leading,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I sent the photograph to the residence of Mr. Roswell, but by that time Mr. and Mrs. Cahill and their daughter must have left for Mr. Cahill’s new living in Northumberland.”

  “And it is possible that they never received the photograph at all,” Touie finished triumphantly.

  Mr. Dodgson shook his head. “If Mr. or Mrs. Roswell had received it, they would have sent it on, I am sure.”

  “Perhaps they never saw it,” Touie offered. “That is, suppose one of the servants took it upon himself or herself to open the packet you sent from Christ Church to see what had been sent to Mr. and Mrs. Cahill, saw the photograph, and placed the wrong interpretation upon it?”

  Mr. Dodgson gave an indignant squawk. “What sort of interpretation could there be? The child is innocent; the photograph was pure!”

  Touie tried to soothe the agitated don. “Well, as you have seen, someone has already used the photograph in a way you did not intend. Perhaps the servants thought they were protecting Miss Cahill from embarrassment or the necessity for explanations as to how the photograph came to be taken. Or perhaps, with Mr. Roswell being such a strict Methodist, as you have told me, they might have thought he would be offended by the photograph and so kept it from him.”

  Mr. Dodgson was not to be mollified. “That is interference of the highest order,” he sputtered. “How dare they?”

  “Well, they must have,” Touie said pragmatically. “Otherwise, Miss Cahill or her parents would have received their copy of the photograph, and we wouldn’t be in this pickle, would we?”

  Mr. Dodgson nodded solemnly. “Mrs. Doyle, you are a most remarkable young woman. Let us continue along this line of reasoning. The photograph was sent to the Roswell establishment. One of the servants—”

  “The butler, if they had one, or the parlor maid if they didn’t,” Touie interrupted. Mr. Dodgson silenced her with a look.

  “A servant opened the packet, saw the photograph, and decided not to send it on but to … to do what with it?” He looked at Touie, who shrugged.

  “If such a thing were to come into my possession, I might very well try to discard it,” Touie said frankly. “It is a lovely photograph, Mr. Dodgson, but it is somewhat, um …” She searched for a diplomatic word.

  Mr. Dodgson sighed. “There are many persons in this world who will put the worst possible interpretation on the purest of intentions,” he stated. “This child was simply posing in the most natural and charming manner. I regarded her as an object to be lighted, nothing more.”

  “Well, someone did not discard this photograph,” Touie said. “Instead, they kept it.”

  “Why?” Mr. Dodgson asked. He looked at Touie and repeated the question. “Why would a servant keep this photograph in his possession all these years?”

  “Or her,” Touie reminded him. “I have been considering this problem, and do you know, I may have an answer. We know that Miss Cahill had traveled with her parents and was staying with Mr. and Mrs. Roswell, who had no children of their own. The Reverend Mr. Cahill and his wife were going to a distant living and may not have been traveling with servants, expecting to hire someone locally, particularly if, as Miss Cahill has so carefully avoided telling us, they were not circumstanced well enough to have personal servants with them.

  “It is possible that one of the maids in the Roswell household might have been impressed into the nursery, so to speak, and that this young person would have become attached to Miss Dianna Cahill. She would not wish the photograph to become the subject of ill-natured gossip for the sake of the child. She might have decided not to send the photograph on but to keep it as a memento instead.” Touie looked at Mr. Dodgson. “Does that sound reasonable, sir?”

  Mr. Dodgson considered all aspects of the proposed solution and nodded. “It is difficult to say what did or did not happen in a household some fifteen years ago,” he added. “However, what you propose is quite logical. The question before us now is, how did this photograph get into the hands of whoever sent it to Miss Cahill? You cannot have it both ways,” he said sternly, before Touie could speak again. “If a person abstracted the photograph out of regard for a child’s sensibilities fifteen years ago, why should that same person use it to such devastating effect now?”

  “There must have been two people involved,” Touie said firmly. “There was the one who kept the photograph in the first place, and there was someone else who learned of the existence of a second copy from her.”

  “Her?” Mr. Dodgson’s eyebrows raised in inquiry.

  “Of course, her,” Touie said. “It must have been the nursemaid, the girl who was here when the photograph was taken, the one who helped Miss Dianna on with her clothes and took her down to her parents while you were fussing with the negatives, and all that so that you never got the chance to give her the original print you made.” She looked triumphantly at Mr. Dodgson, waiting for applause.

  Mr. Dodgson obliged with a brief nod and a smile. “Mrs. Doyle, you may have found the answer to a part of our problem. Now all we have to do is find the nursemaid, and then find out who, if anyone, she told about the second copy.”

  Touie’s smile of triumph faded. “Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s been fifteen years. She might be anywhere by now, and she may have told any number of people about it. Maids do tend to chatter.” She frowned in thought. “It might be useful,” she said slowly, “to find out if this man Ingram, who was in your rooms, ever worked for Mr. Roswell.”

  Mr. Dodgson nodded. “I see where you are going with this. Servants talk among themselves. Ingram might have heard about this photograph from someone in a household in which he was in service.”

  “Only that still doesn’t explain why he put the photograph together with that dreadful poem to try to get poor Miss Cahill out of Oxford.” Touie sighed. “It is all so confusing.”

  “True,” Mr. Dodgson said. “It is a pity that we cannot take this information to Inspector Truscott. He might be able to send one of his men around to Mr. Roswell’s house to chat with the servants. Policemen are supposed to be good at doing that.”

  “It would do Miss Cahill no good to have the police involved in her problem,” Touie agreed. “Well, Mr. Dodgson, what shall we do now?” She looked at her elderly host expectantly.

  Mr. Dodgson suddenly realized that he had been chatting with a young woman on terms of near equality. He was overcome with a bout of shyness that brought on his stammer again.

  He came up with a plan. “Would you с-care to insp-pect the k-kitchens? They were designed by no le
ss a p-personage than Cardinal Wolsey himself and are с-considered worthy of examination.”

  Touie covered her smile with one gloved hand. “I should very much like to see the famous kitchens,” she said politely. “And perhaps we could walk in Christ Church Meadows and look at the boats on the river. And we could send a note to the White Hart to ask Arthur to join us, and we can all compare notes.”

  “An excellent plan, Mrs. Doyle.” Mr. Dodgson found his tall hat, put on his gray cotton gloves, and prepared to descend to Tom Quad, while Touie prepared to be instructed. She wondered how her husband was getting on with his assignment and hoped that he would have the time to join them for their picnic luncheon.

  “Shall we go, Mrs. Doyle?” Mr. Dodgson led his guest down the stairs into the May sunshine.

  Chapter 17

  The sun had cleared the top of the hated bell tower, and Tom Quad was filled with students in caps and gowns when Mr. Dodgson and Touie came down the stairs. The grassy lawn surrounding the famous pool seemed to sparkle in the spring sunlight. Mr. Dodgson fussed with his gloves, while Touie drank in the scene. She was all too aware that she was the only female in sight.

  “But I’m not the only female,” she amended to herself. A well-dressed woman was emerging from one of the doors opposite Mr. Dodgson’s tower.

  Mr. Dodgson looked up as the woman approached the two of them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dodgson.” The woman addressed him in the well-bred tones used by the upper segments of society toward those who were one step lower on the social ladder and held out her hand.

  “Mrs. Hargreaves! What a surprise!” Mr. Dodgson bowed slightly and accepted the three fingers held out to him. Touie coughed expectantly. Mr. Dodgson turned and made the introductions: “Mrs. Hargreaves, may I present Mrs. Doyle. Her husband is Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. Dicky Doyle’s nephew, you know.”

  “We are visiting Oxford, on our way north,” Touie explained, as Mrs. Hargreaves subjected her to a searching examination that took in her modest flowered-print dress, straw bonnet, and youthful appearance.