The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “I am so glad to have seen you, Mr. Dodgson,” Mrs. Hargreaves said, turning her attention away from the young woman to the older man. “You wrote to me asking if I could find the little book you made for me so long ago.”

  “The original story of Alice’s Adventures Underground,” Mr. Dodgson recalled. “Have you found it?”

  “I have found it. Here it is.” Mrs. Hargreaves handed him a small package wrapped in brown paper. “I was going to send it by post; but since I wanted to visit Mama today, I thought I would bring it myself.”

  Mr. Dodgson took the package reverently and undid the string. A small, vellum-bound notebook was revealed.

  Touie suddenly realized to whom she was talking. This imposing lady, dressed in the height of fashion, with a tight velvet basque, grand bustle, and draped skirt, topped off with a grand hat dripping with feathers, had once been little Alice Liddell, the darling of Christ Church.

  Mr. Dodgson stroked the book lovingly. “Thank you for permitting me to borrow it,” he said. “Some persons have requested that I make a facsimile copy by photographing the pages and having them reproduced. I would not do so if you do not wish it, of course,” he added.

  Mrs. Hargreaves smiled indulgently at her old playfellow. “I have no particular use for the book now,” she said. “My boys are rather inclined to their father’s sporting interests and would not be interested in it. If you wish, you may keep it.”

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Dodgson demurred. “I would never demand the return of a gift. The story was told at your request and was written down at your demand. I shall return this book to you when it has been duplicated.” He bowed again and turned to Touie. “Mrs. Doyle, would you excuse me? I must place this book where it will be safe. I shall be back directly.” He bustled back up the stairs, leaving Touie to face the intimidating Mrs. Hargreaves.

  There was an awkward moment of silence, as the two women gazed at each other. Then Touie blurted out, “Were you really Alice?”

  Mrs. Hargreaves laughed at the younger woman’s naïve remark. “That was over twenty years ago,” she said, with a sigh. “I was a child. Mr. Dodgson was a dear, dear playmate to my sisters and myself, but we grew up.” She shrugged. “Apparently, Mr. Dodgson never did.”

  “But surely you kept up the acquaintance,” Touie said.

  Mrs. Hargreaves shook her head. “My mother did not think it appropriate, once my sisters and I were above a certain age, to continue to go about with Mr. Dodgson. And there were other reasons for the estrangement.” She closed her lips firmly, as if locking family secrets tightly behind them.

  “Mr. Dodgson mentioned that there had been a …” Touie searched for a diplomatic way to put it. “A break of some sort,” she said finally.

  Mrs. Hargreaves sighed. “It was partially Mama’s fault. She had certain ambitions for my sisters and myself.”

  Touie nodded, slightly mystified. “I suppose every mother wishes the best for her children,” she said.

  “I suppose it was for the best,” Mrs. Hargreaves agreed. “I went for an extended visit to Wales one summer to my grandmother; and while I was away, my mother took it upon herself to remove all my childish toys and books. She even burned the correspondence I had had from Mr. Dodgson and would not let me write to him. She told me that it was because I was no longer a child but a young lady, and I suppose she was right; but at the time, I did not understand.”

  “It does seem somewhat hard-hearted of her,” Touie remarked. “I wonder that your little book survived such a sweeping, um, holocaust.”

  “Oh, that was because I had taken the book with me on my holiday,” Mrs. Hargreaves explained. “It was something of a talisman of mine.”

  “Mr. Dodgson must have been pleased with that. After all, he had written the story for you.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves smiled slightly. “Yes, and that was another matter that Mama disliked intensely. She felt it was an impertinence, that he had no right to do so; and when it was actually published, she thought it quite dreadful, an imposition on our privacy.”

  Touie frowned slightly. “But Mr. Dodgson used a nom de plume,” she observed. “The book was published under the name of Lewis Carroll.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves sighed. “It made no difference to Mama. She was affronted at the mere mention of it. And then, when it turned out to be such a success, she was even more upset.”

  Touie suppressed a desire to laugh and said, “Didn’t you feel at all impressed?” Mrs. Hargreaves stared haughtily, and Touie amended her statement. “What I mean to say is, Mr. Dodgson’s little story is quite famous all over the world. There are translations into several languages, I understand.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves shook her head. “That only made it worse! Especially when Mr. Dodson and my father were at odds about the improvements to the buildings on Tom Quad.” She gestured toward the bell tower. “Mr. Dodgson wrote a pamphlet about it. It was quite witty, but dreadfully inappropriate of him to do so.”

  “So you never spoke with Mr. Dodgson after Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland came out?” Touie asked.

  “Only the merest commonplaces,” Mrs. Hargreaves admitted. “In fact, I do believe the last time we spoke at all was …” She concentrated, then went on. “Dear me, it must have been nearly fifteen years ago. He came to the Deanery with the copy of Alice in Italian, thinking that I should like to have it because I was studying Italian at the time.”

  “But you didn’t really want it?” Touie hinted.

  “I was far too old for fairy stories by then, and I had already had quite enough of Alice and her adventures. Of course, I could not tell Mr. Dodgson so,” Mrs. Hargreaves said, with a smile of complicity, as one woman to another.

  Touie nodded, in womanly understanding. “One does hate to snub an old acquaintance,” she said. “Mr. Dodgson mentioned that he had left the Italian translation for you at the Deanery, but he didn’t tell us that he had actually spoken with you about it.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves shrugged, setting the feathers on her hat a-flutter. “I really don’t recall … there were people to tea, I think, and we couldn’t say very much.” She frowned, then said, “Now I remember. There was a little girl with the guests, and Mr. Dodgson asked if he could borrow her, as he put it, for tea. So off they went, and that was the last I saw of him, except for a brief glimpse in the quad, until today.”

  “But surely Mr. Dodgson saw you married?”

  “Why on earth should he?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked in astonishment. “It was not a college affair. Once I married Major Hargreaves, I had my own establishment to run. I only came today to pay a call on my mother and to leave off this book. Mr. Dodgson seems to feel that it should be reproduced by this new method. I have no objections to its being done, and my mother has nothing to say in the matter.”

  “How lucky, then, that your little book was preserved!” Touie exclaimed. “How fortunate for all the children who will be able to read the story as it was first told.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Mrs. Hargreaves smiled wistfully. Somewhere, under the velvet and the feathers, might be the ghost of that little girl who was such an inspiration to the shy Mr. Dodgson, Touie thought.

  “Well, I must be off,” Mrs. Hargreaves said, offering Touie two gloved fingers to shake. “My carriage will be here shortly, and it never does to keep the servants waiting.”

  Touie trotted after the other woman. “Mrs. Hargreaves, a moment of your time, if you please.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Hargreaves was not used to being accosted after she had dismissed someone.

  “I express myself badly … and I do hope you don’t think it forward of me …” Touie sputtered. “But … I wondered if you could advise me on a domestic matter.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves regarded the younger woman with astonishment. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Touie began again. “You see, Arthur, my husband, and I have a very modest establishment at present, but we have certain expectations.” Touie had no intention of elabor
ating on this information. The household at Southsea consisted of herself, her husband, her mother, and a slavey in the kitchen; and the expectations would come when Arthur’s literary genius was made manifest to the world, as Touie had every reason to believe it would.

  “But what has this to do with me?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked haughtily.

  “Servants,” Touie blurted out. “If we are to have them, I should know how to get on with them, and I don’t.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves laughed indulgently. “My dear child, I do understand your dilemma. When I married Major Hargreaves, I was put in charge of quite a large establishment, and I had no idea how to go on.”

  “Arthur says that one should always be prepared,” Touie said, as if reciting a piece of ancient wisdom from an unimpeachable source. “And so I wondered if you could give me some advice.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves stopped in midstride. “What sort of advice?”

  Touie took a deep breath. “Well, there is the matter of maids. There are ladies of my acquaintance in Portsmouth who have a housemaid and a parlor maid …”

  Mrs. Hargreaves shook her head. “A parlor maid is a poor excuse for a butler,” she stated. “Better to have a manservant, if you can afford one. A parlor maid simply advertises that one cannot keep a manservant in the house.”

  Touie nodded meekly, as befitted one being instructed. “I see. And if, in the course of time, we should set up a nursery, I don’t suppose we could ask one of the housemaids to—”

  “Certainly not!” Mrs. Hargreaves cut in indignantly. “The care of children should not be left to the housemaids. One must hire a reputable nanny, with a nursemaid to assist her. The housemaids have their own work to do. And a parlor maid, should you have one, is far too smart for the nursery. The nursemaid should be quite young and innocent.”

  “But suppose,” Touie continued, “that a child were to be brought into a household where there is no nursery.”

  “As a visitor, do you mean?” Mrs. Hargreaves considered the idea briefly then dismissed it. “Quite unlikely, Mrs. Doyle. Any respectable parents will bring someone with them to care for the child.”

  “I see.” Touie frowned. “Then one must not ask a housemaid, or a between maid to care for a small child even for a short time?”

  “Well, I suppose, if someone came to stay for an extended visit with a small child and did not bring a nurse for the child, one might do that,” Mrs. Hargreaves conceded. “But it is not done in the best circles.” Which I move in, was the unspoken coda.

  “Thank you so much for your advice,” Touie said, as Mrs. Hargreaves proceeded majestically through Tom Gate and into her carriage, just as Mr. Dodgson emerged once more into the sunlit quad.

  “Mr. Dodgson!” Touie greeted him with a wave.

  The don peered about, then found Touie at the gate, staring after the Hargreaves carriage.

  “Did you really write the story for her?” Touie asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Dodgson smiled, as he recalled that day, so many years ago, when he and Mr. Duckworth had taken the three Liddell girls on a boating picnic down the river, and he had told a long and fantastic story about a little girl named Alice who had fallen down a rabbit hole into a Wonderland.

  “She is very different now,” Touie commented.

  Mr. Dodgson’s smile faded. “Quite different,” he said. “Well, Mrs. Doyle, I have considered our little problem and have come to some conclusions.”

  “As have I, Mr. Dodgson.” Touie nodded decisively. “What shall we do now?”

  “I offered to show you the kitchens,” Mr. Dodgson reminded her. “They are considered quite extraordinary.”

  Touie smiled sweetly. “I should very much like to see the famous Christ Church kitchens,” she said. “And then we can bespeak a hamper and cloth for a picnic on Christ Church Meadows. It is getting quite warm, and we shall have a lovely day. We can leave a note with the porter for Arthur to meet us there, and we can all compare our notes.”

  “I do not usually take luncheon,” Mr. Dodgson demurred.

  “Arthur does,” Touie reminded him. “And I think I shall be rather hungry by the time we all meet. Would you be so kind as to speak to Telling about a hamper?” She smiled winningly up at Mr. Dodgson.

  “Very well, Mrs. Doyle, I shall speak to Telling.” Mr. Dodgson conceded defeat. He led the way around the quad to the vaulted entrance to the Hall, ignoring the surprised stares of the students who gawked at the female intrusion into their domains.

  “The Hall was erected in 1529,” Mr. Dodgson lectured his guest, pointing to the architectural features of the building, “at the bequest of Cardinal Wolsey. King Henry the Eighth took over construction after the cardinal’s misfortunes halted the expansion of the college. You may see the rose of the Tudors incised into the stonework.” Touie noted the decorations, then turned to see her husband running around the pathway.

  “Picnic in the Meadows!” she called out. She was answered with a frantic wave, and then Arthur was gone, running through the gap in the walls and back into the lane. Touie only hoped that he had gotten her message. Perhaps she should send a note to the White Hart anyway, just in case he had not understood her.

  “Ahem!” Mr. Dodgson coughed sharply to bring her attention back to the architecture. He led her into the Hall, down a set of stone steps, and into a vast, vaulted room, where fires burned in two huge fireplaces set along the farther wall. Cooks were already preparing chickens for the spit, to be roasted for dinner, while underlings were shredding vegetables for the steaming pots on the stoves in the center of the room.

  Touie took it all in and marveled at the chaos that went into preparation of meals for so many people at once. Mr. Dodgson, on the other hand, was more interested in finding Telling.

  The Chief Scout was looking harried. “I have a few minutes, Mr. Dodgson, but as you can see, we are shorthanded this morning, and the Dean is entertaining Miss Wordsworth, of Lady Margaret Hall, and Mr. Talbot, of Keble, with an al fresco luncheon to be set up on the Meadows. The police have been here,” he added ominously. “They wanted to know more about Ingram.”

  “Dear me.” Mr. Dodgson made unhappy noises. “This is dreadful. Telling, do you have Ingram’s letter of reference to hand?”

  “Just what that Inspector Truscott asked,” Telling said. “I have not had the opportunity to find it, things being so confused at present, but I shall do so as soon as I can find the time. Will you be dining in Hall tonight, sir, or are you planning another dinner party?”

  Mr. Dogson looked blankly at Touie, then said, “I am not sure at this moment of my plans for dinner. However, I shall certainly inform you as soon as I know.”

  Touie coughed expectantly. Mr. Dodgson looked startled, then said, “Telling, would it be possible to have some sandwiches cut and put into a basket for a picnic? Mrs. Doyle would very much like to have her luncheon on the grass.”

  “I can have a hamper made up directly.” Telling waved at one of the cooks, who dropped his chopper and came over. “Walton, make up a basket for Mr. Dodgson and his guest. And, er,” he glanced at Touie’s modest bustle, “find a camp stool for the lady.”

  “That looks delicious,” Touie said, as the cook sliced bread, inserted the meat, and looked expectantly at her with a mustard pot in his hand. “No, no mustard,” Touie instructed the cook. “Arthur dislikes mustard. Butter only and perhaps some of the apple tart I see in that corner, if there is any extra?” The cook shrugged and cut several wedges of pie, wrapping each one into a napkin, and fitting the whole into a marketing basket from a pile under the central table.

  Touie watched the proceeding carefully, thinking of Arthur and his assignment. What could he have been doing, running about in Tom Quad? “I saw Arthur just now,” she said aloud. “I only hope he has not gotten himself into some sort of difficulty. He is so impetuous!”

  “Quite unlike the stolid Inspector Truscott. I wonder how the good Inspector is getting on?” Mr. Dodgson commented.

 
; “He seems quite competent,” Touie observed, as the basket was delivered to her, and a folding stool was handed to her companion. “Shall we go, Mr. Dodgson?”

  “I shall be delighted to show you our little piece of the river, Mrs. Doyle.” Mr. Dodgson led Touie through the back door of the kitchens, across the lane, and through the turnstile to the grassy fields known as Christ Church Meadows.

  Chapter 18

  Inspector Truscott had had a busy morning.

  He had been up at dawn to direct the constables at Magdalen Bridge in their search for clues to Ingram’s murderer. He had attended the autopsy on the scout and searched his rooms, with the interfering Dr. Doyle peering over his shoulder. Once the young doctor had taken himself off, Truscott metaphorically rolled up his sleeves and set to work, feeling that now he could conduct the investigation into the death of James Ingram by the rules, as decreed by the instructions laid down by Sir Robert Peel himself. He would question everyone connected with the deceased, examine the circumstances of the death, and fix the blame on the most likely suspect. This was the so-called System, and it usually worked.

  The difficulty here, Truscott said to himself, as he prepared to follow Sergeant Everett down the stairs and back to the Oxford Constabulary Headquarters in Blue Boar Lane, is that there are no likely suspects. He said as much to the sergeant, who was overseeing the handling of the locked chest.

  “Depends on what’s in this chest, don’t it?” Everett said. “Yon Dr. Doyle seems to think Ingram was trying the black on someone.”

  “Blackmailer, eh?” Truscott grunted. “We’ll see what secrets he ferreted out.”

  “Strange that he should have that old daguerrotype out in the open,” Everett observed. “I shouldn’t think he’d have kept something like that where anyone could find it.”

  “He might have had a soft spot for the girl,” Truscott ventured.

  “Lost sweetheart?” Everett thought it over. “Don’t seem likely somehow.”