The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “Oh? Did you know the man?” Truscott shot his underling a searching glance.

  “Not to do more than speak to,” Everett confessed. “Now I think on it, I may have seen him at the sergeant-major’s.”

  “And just what were you doing there, Sergeant?” Truscott asked sharply.

  “I was there in the pursuit of my duties,” Everett stated stolidly. “We had had a tip that there was to be an illegal boxing match on the premises, and that wouldn’t do; so I felt it my duty to inform the sergeant-major that we was on to him, and that he might be in difficulties if he persisted in staging such a bout of fisticuffs.”

  “And Ingram was present?” Truscott mulled this over.

  “I couldn’t say for certain. There were several other persons present as well,” Everett said defensively.

  “And you had no way of knowing the fellow would be thrown into the river and drowned,” Truscott finished for him. “When was this warning delivered?”

  Everett frowned. “Maybe two weeks ago.”

  Truscott nodded sagely. “So, Sergeant-Major Willy Howard is up to his stiff neck in something,” he said knowingly.

  “The sergeant-major’s establishment is something of an institution,” Everett reminded his superior. “Young gentlemen of the University have been going there ever since the sergeant-major put up his shingle. There’s some as says he’s been financed by certain toffs in London as want to keep their eyes on things, so to speak. I’ve also heard that a few of the older chaps, dons and suchlike, may be seen there, keeping fit, so to speak.”

  Inspector Truscott drew in his considerable stomach. “I’m not saying there’s anything amiss with the sergeant-major’s establishment,” he said. “But I strongly suggest that we have a word with the sergeant-major before the day’s out.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Sergeant Everett agreed.

  The heavy suitcase was carried down the rickety stairs by one of Everett’s constables and placed into a wheelbarrow. Sergeant Everett and Inspector Truscott followed at a measured pace, threading their way along St. Aldgates between carts, carriages, and passersby. They did not notice Dr. Doyle and the two undergraduates as they passed on their way to the Covered Market, so intent were they on their own conversation.

  “Have you heard from the men at Magdalen Bridge?” Truscott demanded.

  “They’ve found a good deal of mud and not much else,” Everett confessed. “The landing’s stone, with no tracks we could see. I’ve had them collect all the trash they could find; but apart from the usual cigar ends, there was nothing that you could call a clue.”

  Truscott made a noise of exasperation. “Tchah! What about those waterweeds that Scottish chap was going on about? The stuff in Ingram’s insides?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir,” Everett reported.

  Truscott made another impatient noise. “What about the bath chair? Whose is that?”

  Everett consulted his notebook. “By its number plate, we traced it back to one particular chairman, to wit, Henry Jones. He stated that he put it in its rightful spot at Magdalen Bridge, where he puts all his chairs at the end of the working day. He was most annoyed to find out that it had been used and for what purpose. He didn’t like having dead corpses carried about in one of his chairs.”

  Truscott stifled a laugh. “Tell him he can use the chair again, but he don’t have to tell anyone what went in it.”

  Everett scowled. “Mr. Dodgson stated that he saw students pushing the chair. They must have brought it to Christ Church for a reason. If they was from Magdalen or Merton, they’d have kept to the High and not bothered to run the chair all the way to the Broad Walk.”

  “Meaning, I take it, that the students in question must have been from Christ Church,” Truscott finished for him. “The thought had occurred to me, Everett.”

  “It beats me what they thought they were playing at,” Everett complained.

  “Students have been known to play practical jokes,” Truscott said sagely. “Perhaps one of these young sprigs came across Ingram, just floating there in the water, and thought it would be funny to transport the body and place it somewhere else.”

  “Strange sense of humor,” Everett said, his nose wrinkling with distaste.

  “But typical,” Truscott added.

  By now they had reached Blue Boar Lane, a narrow street off St. Aldgates, where the headquarters of the Oxford Constabulary occupied a suite of three small rooms. The largest of these was for the processing of such prisoners as had to be detained for the city magistrate. Inspector Truscott had to share the second room with the rest of the Oxford Constabulary. Only Chief Inspector Wheeler had the dignity of his own room, and it was there that the suspicious suitcase was brought for inspection.

  Chief Inspector Wheeler regarded the box with the expression of one who expects to be blown up at any moment. “No keys?” he asked.

  “No keys were found on the person of the deceased,” Truscott reported. “No keys were found in the room used by the deceased.”

  “Then the keys were stolen by someone else,” Chief Inspector Wheeler concluded.

  “So it would seem, sir.”

  “We’ll have to get it open,” Wheeler said, “one way or another.”

  “I’d advise a locksmith, sir,” Inspector Truscott said. “That way, there would be less chance of damaging any evidence inside it.”

  “Easier to break the lock,” Chief Inspector Wheeler countered. “We’ll do it as soon as Effingham gets here.” He looked sharply at Truscott and Everett. “Has a watch been set on the rooms previously used by this Ingram?”

  “I’ve got a constable watching the street,” Truscott assured him. “If anyone approaches, we’ll nab him.”

  “Hmmm. I should hope so.” Wheeler eyed the chest again. “You say this fellow Ingram was a blackmailer?”

  “According to Dr. Doyle.” Truscott cleared his throat. “I have taken the liberty of contacting the Portsmouth Constabulary through the telephone, sir.”

  “Telephone, eh?” Wheeler raised his sandy brows. “Useful thing, the telephone. What do they have to say about the inquisitive Dr. Doyle?”

  Truscott shrugged. “He’s acted as police surgeon on several cases. He’s well-known in Portsmouth. He fancies himself a detective of sorts.”

  “Not my sort!” Wheeler growled. “Look here, Truscott, we don’t want outsiders mixing into our affairs. Get this solved quickly, before the Chief Constable sends for Scotland Yard over my head.”

  “In that case, sir, I may have to consult with this Doyle,” Truscott said. “He’s onto something. What do you make of this?” He handed the printed sheet with Ingram’s scrawled notations on the blank side to the Chief Inspector, who scowled back.

  “Notes. Additions. What of it?”

  “Look at the printing on the reverse side, sir.”

  Chief Inspector Wheeler’s scowl deepened, and the man’s complexion turned brick red as the full import of what he was reading took hold. “This is disgusting!” he pronounced.

  “I didn’t understand some of the words,” Inspector Truscott said innocently, “but from the context, I’d say it’s about corrupting young girls.”

  Everett took the paper from Chief Inspector Wheeler’s trembling fingers. “‘Observe Miss Dye,’” he read aloud, “‘the little honey, opening her hairless …’”

  “This is totally disgusting!” Chief Inspector Wheeler broke in. “If that’s the sort of thing Ingram has in that chest …” He took a deep breath and eyed the suitcase as if it were about to explode.

  “We don’t know that it’s his,” Truscott corrected him. “For all we know, it might well have been in some undergraduate’s rooms, and he could have simply taken the paper to write on the blank side. Here are his calculations, as you see.” Truscott turned the paper over to the scrawled numbers.

  “Fine thing for young gentlemen to be reading,” fumed Wheeler.

  “Or writing,” Everett added, with a censorious fr
own.

  Truscott looked thoughtfully at the printed sheet before them. “This seems to refer to an illustration of some kind,” he said. “Dr. Doyle found a camera, and there are indications that Ingram had set up some sort of way of copying a photograph on a table near his window. May we suppose that there was a photograph that would accompany this writing?”

  Wheeler nodded. “Or some other kind of drawing,” he amended. “In that case, the subject of the illustration might have a very good reason to kill Ingram.”

  Truscott shook his head. “The text refers to a female,” he objected. “Ingram was a good six feet tall. Not many women would be able to drown an able-bodied man that tall …”

  “Not without some help,” Everett put in. “But there were marks on the body … she could have whacked him over the noggin and held him down with the oar.”

  “Or he,” Truscott reminded him. “Young ladies have brothers, fathers, and even husbands. Any of them could have taken his revenge on the man who was trying to blackmail their near and dear one.”

  “All this is based on assumptions,” Wheeler said. “What we need are facts!” He scrabbled about in the papers on his desk. “What about this business of the thefts at Christ Church?” He read over one of the carefully written reports. “Was this Ingram stealing, do you think?”

  Everett looked smugly at his superiors. “I’ve got Oakley out this morning, checking our usual sources. James Ingram was known to two of them, and we’ve got a little list of his recent loot. I think we’ve got our thief, sir.”

  “People don’t knock a man on the head and drown him for the sake of a few trinkets,” Wheeler snarled. He looked at the list of Ingram’s personal belongings again.

  “Unless the trinkets had deep and personal meaning,” Truscott put in. “He was wearing an unusually fine watch.”

  “With a crest,” Everett added. “Which crest, if you don’t mind the interruption, I have taken the liberty of identifying.”

  Chief Inspector Wheeler and Inspector Truscott looked sharply at the sergeant. “I thought I knew the crest, sir,” Sergeant Everett said staunchly. “My dad was a carrier in these parts, and he let me come along with him on his rounds to help with the bundles and crates. I learned most of the crests hereabouts from the gates and suchlike, and it came to me that I’d seen that crest before. It’s the Berwick crest, which is a bear, standing up, carrying a spear.”

  “Berwick?” Inspector Truscott frowned. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  Sergeant Everett consulted his notebook. “Lord Nevil Farlow, son of Lord Berwick. He’s got rooms on the staircase served by the late Ingram.”

  “What’s he got to say about all this?” Wheeler growled.

  “Nothing,” Truscott said. “He wasn’t available for questioning last night.”

  Wheeler’s frown deepened. “Anything known about him? Has he been up before the proctors or the magistrate? Youthful high spirits, that sort of thing?”

  Truscott paused before speaking. “He’s known as a sportsman,” he said at last. “Well thought of, but a nasty temper when crossed. He’s a Blue on the cricket team, and Christ Church is heavily favored to win Head of the River again this year thanks to him.”

  Everett cleared his throat. “Ahem! On the occasion I spoke of, when I visited the sergeant-major’s establishment during a prizefight, I noticed a number of young men present. Lord Nevil Farlow was one of them. He’s hard to miss.”

  “Then perhaps you’d best have a word with the sergeant-major,” Truscott decided. “If this Ingram was connected with gambling, he’d be sure to know about it.”

  Everett nodded gravely. “The sergeant-major’s closemouthed, but he’ll talk to me. I’ll see him after I check on the men at Magdalen Bridge. They may have come up with something by now.”

  “And what about this young fellow, Farlow?” Chief Inspector Wheeler asked.

  “I shall have to deal with him myself,” Truscott said, adjusting his bowler hat and shrugging himself into better adjustment with his coat. “I shall go to Christ Church, find young Farlow, and ask him a few questions.”

  “And what if he decides not to answer?” Sergeant Everett asked.

  “Then I will know he has something to hide,” the Inspector said grimly. “And I will find out what it is.”

  He settled his hat firmly on his head and marched back to St. Aldgates. He would have to take the long way around, back through Tom Gate, and he would have to run the gauntlet of scouts; but he would question this young man, and he would get his answers, lord’s son or no lord’s son!

  It took Inspector Truscott nearly an hour before he could find anyone with the authority to allow him to question Lord Nevil Farlow. By that time the young man had taken himself and his grievances to the boathouse, where he and his crew assembled to row down the River Cherwell.

  Inspector Truscott gave it up as a bad job. He would have to question young Farlow later when he came off the river. Instead, he decided to join Everett and his men at Magdalen Bridge. There may have been some small piece of evidence they had overlooked.

  At the same time, in the library at Lady Margaret Hall, Gertrude Bell yawned and stretched and drew the attention of the other girls.

  “Miss Bell,” Miss Laurel chided her, “the rest of us are trying to study.”

  “It’s too hot,” Gertrude complained. “I’ve been swotting away at Charles the First all morning. I simply cannot agree with Professor Soames’s assessment of him. He wasn’t a martyr to anything. He was a very silly little man with an absolute shrew of a wife, and I can certainly understand why Oliver Cromwell thought he had to be executed.”

  “Gertrude!” Dianna exclaimed.

  “Miss Bell!” Miss Laurel was thoroughly outraged. “Dr. Soames is the leading expert on the reign of King Charles the First.”

  “He may well be, but he’s wrong for all of that,” Gertrude said stoutly. “Mary, Dianna, I have got to get out of here. Come on, let’s get the punt out now.”

  “Now?” Dianna squeaked.

  “Now,” Gertrude said firmly. “Dianna, you must conquer your fear of water. Mary and I will be with you, and Miss Laurel will be on the bank. It’s not as if we’re going to be in deep water, after all.”

  “But …” Dianna allowed herself to be swept away by her more dashing classmate.

  “And I shall wear my bloomer suit,” Gertrude announced.

  “Gertrude!” Mary gasped. “You can’t!”

  “Why not? It’s perfectly proper for sporting activities. We’ll be in the boat, so no one will be able to see my legs … all right, limbs,” she amended, before Miss Laurel could correct her.

  “Are you sure you can manage a punt by yourself?” Miss Laurel asked.

  Gertrude’s green eyes fairly flashed as she retorted, “I can do anything I set my mind to!”

  “But have you ever been out in a punt?” Mary persisted.

  “It’s easy enough to do,” Gertrude said. “There’s the pole, and there’s the paddle. I’ll use the pole in the back, and you steer with the paddle, Mary.”

  “And what do I do?” Dianna asked.

  “You act as ballast,” Gertrude said with a laugh. “Come on, girls. We’re not going to let those men get the better of us, are we?”

  “Certainly not!” Dianna took a deep breath, straining the laces of her corset.

  “But you must not go beyond Magdalen Bridge,” Miss Laurel warned them. “The men are out practicing for Eights Week, and they will be very cross if you disturb them.”

  “Pooh!” Gertrude waved a hand at an imaginary rower. “Let them watch out for us. Come along, Mary, Dianna. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors. Let’s go on the river!”

  Chapter 19

  Great Tom boomed out the hour of noon, and all across Oxford undergraduates and dons, tradesmen and manual workers, market women and ladies of higher standing stopped whatever they were doing and considered the noonday meal.

  For the students lun
cheon might consist of a hurried sandwich taken in quick bites between lectures and tutorials. The dons were more apt to regard luncheon as a social occasion, not quite so formal as dining in Hall, when they might pay a call on a colleague in another college and chat over a well-turned omelet or a cold bird. The wives of respectable tradesmen entertained one another at luncheon parties that displayed the hostess’s fine china and silver without the onerous presence of the male of the species, who might take his midday meal at the back of the shop rather than coming home.

  The men who had spent the morning toiling on the streets, walls, and roofs of Oxford had no illusions of gentility. For them a piece of cold meat pie, a slab of bread and cheese, and a draught of local ale served to keep body and soul together until they could get back to the cottages, shacks, and hovels that lurked in the corners of the great colleges.

  For those who could afford the luxury of an afternoon not burdened by physical or mental labor, the river beckoned. The sun had warmed the cold stones of Oxford to the point where youthful undergraduates tended to open their collars and gowns, and elderly dons wished that they could do the same without loss to their dignity. Even the stately Dean Liddell had decided to hold his luncheon meeting with the heads of Keble and Lady Margaret Hall al fresco on such a fine day and had ordered that a table should be set for them out of doors in the shade of the elms that he himself had planted.

  The broad green lawns of Christ Church Meadows were dotted with clumps of students, their gowns thrown open to reveal tweed waistcoats or hand-knitted pullovers in startling combinations of colors, munching on bread and cheese and swilling beer and cider from bottles. Youthful voices were raised in dispute, whether on some academic point or on the merits of one cricket team over another. It was spring, and the young men of Oxford were sowing their wild oats.

  There were few bonnets or flowered straw hats on Christ Church Meadows that afternoon. The serious young ladies of Somerville and Lady Margaret Hall were not to be lured out even on this glorious day. They were safely behind the walls of their colleges, enjoying the sunshine in cloistered gardens. The only females present on Christ Church Meadows that afternoon were Mrs. Doyle and two or three stout, provincial-looking matrons, clearly visitors being entertained by their long-suffering sons. They sat stiffly in folding chairs, while their menfolk sprawled at their feet. Christ Church scouts were very much in evidence, scurrying between the kitchens and the meadows with baskets and canvas folding stools.