The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “Then it was he who stole the wine.” Mr. Dodgson nodded, satisfied that he had been correct, and that he had done the right thing by discharging the dishonest scout.

  “It was,” Dr. Doyle confirmed. “He took the bottles to the very place where they had been bought. Snow’s man then sold them to undergraduates from other colleges, who paid well for drinking Christ Church wine.”

  “Other colleges? Outrageous!” Mr. Dodgson exclaimed.

  “What’s more, I followed a pair of undergraduates to an establishment called the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club.”

  “Oh, that place.” Mr. Dodgson’s tone was distinctly chilly.

  “You know it?”

  “It is not a place that I frequent, but I have heard that some of the younger Fellows of other colleges use the facilities. I take my exercise by walking,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “What business did Ingram have there?”

  “I suspect he was deliberately placed in Christ Church by the proprietor to ferret out information about Oxford sporting events, such as Eights Week, which would then be passed on to certain members of the sporting and gambling fraternity in London.”

  “And the bookmakers would use the information to set the odds for the wagering on the event,” Mr. Dodgson finished for him, “in the manner of horse racing. Not illegal, precisely, but certainly not done in the best houses.”

  “Quite,” Dr. Doyle agreed. “What’s more, I found evidence that Ingram was also involved in the plot to oust Miss Cahill from Oxford.”

  Mr. Dodgson’s eyebrows rose in silent interrogation.

  “I found typeset copies of the verses that defamed Lady Margaret Hall and its students in Ingram’s rooms, and I found the very shop in which the, um, material had been printed,” Dr. Doyle said, taking a swig from the jug of cider. “Mmm, this is good!” He offered the jug to Mr. Dodgson, who refused it with a shudder and a shake of his head.

  “Did you discover who had brought it into the shop?”

  “The printer described Ingram,” Dr. Doyle said. “Proof positive, in my opinion. He was up to his neck in it.”

  “But he could not have written the, um, verses himself,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out, “the reference to Sappho, for instance, and the Latin terms.”

  “I am not all that familiar with vulgar language,” Dr. Doyle said, with a glance at his prim companion, “but I don’t think the French word is used by too many servants either. The spelling and grammar were correct, which would indicate that whoever wrote it had some education.”

  “Do you know, I have a thought about that, um, screed,” Mr. Dodgson said slowly. “If the writer is, as we suspect, one of our undergraduates, his tutor would certainly be able to identify the writer.”

  They had reached the Broad Walk, and the table that had been set up for Dean Liddell and his guests. Miss Wordsworth had insisted that Miss Laurel should sit down and have a cup of tea before she went back to Lady Margaret Hall to care for Dianna. The former governess had recovered her usual composure and now sat at the farthest end of the table, consuming her meager luncheon, while the scouts hovered in the background eager to remove the table and chairs.

  The Dean stopped Mr. Dodgson as he was about to continue his stroll along the path that led from Christ Church Meadows to Magdalen Bridge.

  “Mr. Dodgson, where do you think you are going?” Dean Liddell asked, his long face registering his disapproval.

  “I have business on Magdalen Bridge,” Mr. Dodgson began.

  “Need I remind you that I requested that you remain on University grounds until this business of the dead servant is settled to the satisfaction of all parties?” Dean Liddell scowled at Dr. Doyle, as if the young man had lured the older one off the straight and narrow path of Virtue into the byways of Vice.

  Spots of color flamed on Mr. Dodgson’s cheeks. Once again Dean Liddell was reminding him of his position. He was no longer teaching; he was a Senior Student of the college, but he had never taken any but Minor Orders, and he rated below those who were fully ordained in the Church of England in the college hierarchy.

  “I beg your pardon, Dean, but I felt it necessary to examine the site of that unfortunate man’s demise myself,” Mr. Dodgson explained.

  “I suggest you let the police do that,” Dean Liddell told him. “Dr. Doyle, I trust the autopsy this morning was satisfactory?”

  “There’s no question that the man went into the river and drowned,” Dr. Doyle answered cheerfully. “However, there are indications that he was forcibly held down.”

  Miss Laurel uttered a small cry of horror. “How dreadful!”

  “Not a pleasant death,” Dr. Doyle agreed.

  “But who would do such a thing?” Dean Liddell asked. “And why?”

  Mr. Dodgson glanced at Dr. Doyle. “Ingram may have been connected with certain unsavory persons, who, in turn, may have had an interest in corrupting our young people,” Mr. Dodgson said slowly. “Dr. Doyle has uncovered evidence that links Ingram to a scheme to set odds on Eights Week, encouraging wagering on the chances of success.”

  “Then it may be a case of thieves falling out,” Dean Liddell said sharply. “If that is so, we may leave it in the hands of Inspector Truscott and his men. They are most likely to know of such ruffians and will arrest them in due course. I must remind you, Mr. Dodgson, that you are a scholar and not a policeman. You may inform the good Inspector of your findings and let him carry on from there.”

  Mr. Dodgson’s back stiffened. “I beg you pardon, Dean,” he said, “but I cannot let this situation continue for another day. I will not be accused of driving a man to take his own life, nor will I allow any further damage to the reputation of the House.” He turned to Dr. Doyle. “Since I am confined to college grounds, I must ask that you act for me. Will you now go to Magdalen Bridge and look very carefully around the stairs and at the base of the bridge?”

  “But … what should I look for?” Dr. Doyle looked puzzled.

  “You will know when you see it.”

  “How may I best get to this bridge?” Dr. Doyle looked vaguely about him.

  “You may continue along this path, then turn at the iron fence and go through Rose Lane,” Mr. Dodgson instructed him. “Magdalen Bridge is at the end of the High.” He pointed in the appropriate direction.

  Dr. Doyle settled his deerstalker cap firmly on his head, bowed to the Dean and Miss Wordsworth, and strode off in the direction of the iron gate at the end of the Broad Walk, where Merton and Magdalen students were congregating.

  Once Dr. Doyle was out of earshot, Mr. Dodgson looked from Dean Liddell to Miss Wordsworth. “I did not wish to discuss this matter before Dr. Doyle,” he said. “He is an enthusiastic investigator into mysteries, and he will not stop until he is satisfied. However, part of this puzzle concerns one of Miss Wordsworth’s young charges. The man, Ingram, may have been in possession of an object that would have damaged a young lady’s reputation. One does not wish to air one’s linen in public, as the saying goes.”

  Miss Wordsworth rose to do battle on behalf of her students. “I cannot imagine …”

  “The young lady who had the accident in the punt,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “She approached me yesterday with a most distressing tale. She claimed to be an acquaintance, one of my child friends, and I, alas, could not recall her at all!”

  “Dianna Cahill?” Miss Wordsworth frowned. “She never mentioned to anyone that she had ever met you, sir, and you are hardly a stranger at Lady Margaret Hall. You have called on Miss Rix several times.”

  “Cahill … Cahill …” Dean Liddell mused. “Of course! He is the Vicar of Whitby in Northumberland. One of the Christ Church livings,” he added.

  “I had no idea we had anything so far north as Northumberland,” Mr. Dodgson said.

  Dean Liddell looked embarrassed. “It is a very small living and not much sought after,” he said. “Mr. Cahill was one of my Old Boys from my Westminster days.”

  “Not a Christ Church man then,” Mr.
Dodgson said. “I had wondered that I had not heard of him. If his daughter is now twenty, then he must have married, oh, back in the sixties.”

  “Oh, he was not at the House,” Dean Liddell said. “Wadham, I do believe. Inclined to be Low Church in his doctrine, but otherwise quite sound. He made a rather odd marriage, but there was nothing against him otherwise. I like to maintain contact with my Old Boys; and when the living in Northumberland came vacant, I thought of him. I did not go so far as to read him in, but I did have him and his wife to tea when he came here to be presented to his living.”

  “That was the occasion on which Miss Cahill claims I made her acquaintance,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I wondered that a child should be present when there was no particular need.”

  “They didn’t want her in the house,” came a voice from the end of the table.

  “Miss Laurel?” Dean Liddell and Miss Wordsworth turned to stare at the former governess.

  “Miss Cahill said something about it,” Miss Laurel explained, “something about a difficult situation.” She seemed to shrink under the scrutiny of so many eyes.

  “Difficult?” Mr. Dodgson echoed. “I was given to understand that Miss Cahill’s maternal relations were quite worthy, if somewhat vulgar persons. A Mr. Roswell, connected with the manufacture of glass.”

  “Quite so,” Miss Wordsworth said. “Mr. Roswell is known for his philanthropy. He has served as selectman in the town, and his wife is on the committee of the Women’s Educational Alliance, which supports our efforts at Lady Margaret Hall. Miss Cahill’s expenses are paid directly by Mr. Roswell. However,” she cleared her throat and glanced at Dean Liddell again, “there is the unfortunate matter of his religious affiliation.”

  “A Catholic?” Mr. Dodgson whispered.

  “A Methodist,” Miss Wordsworth corrected him primly. “Quite strict, and very sincere. He has the greatest respect for serious studies. He offers a prize of twenty-five pounds every year for the Oxford Grammar School student who achieves the highest academic honors.”

  “A most worthy gentleman,” Mr. Dodgson murmured.

  “Well, I would not quite call him a gentleman,” Dean Liddell said, “something of a rough diamond or a glass one.” He laughed at his own wit.

  “And one cannot hold his other connections against him,” Miss Wordsworth added.

  Mr. Dodgson’s eyebrows rose in silent inquiry.

  “One should not gossip,” Miss Wordsworth went on, determined to do just that. “And in the end, all worked out well for the girl.”

  Mr. Dodgson nodded. “I was told there was a sister.”

  “Quite a charming young person,” Miss Wordsworth said. “Well, she must have been, Dean, to capture the heart of Berwick’s heir. And she on the stage!”

  Dean Liddell’s eyebrows raised and his aquiline nose seemed to elevate at the thought of the theater and its practitioners. “Lady Berwick’s theatrical past is quite forgotten. She is now much courted by fashionable society. I have had the privilege of meeting Lord and Lady Berwick when they attended the Oxford and Cambridge regatta last year with His Royal Highness. That very violent young man, Farlow, is her son. I suppose he inherits his dramatic nature from his mother.”

  Mr. Dodgson had been thinking furiously. “Dean, Miss Wordsworth, are you telling me that Mr. Farlow and Miss Cahill are, in fact, cousins?”

  “One might say that,” Miss Wordsworth conceded. “Although they are not related by blood but through marriage. Farlow’s mother is the sister of Miss Cahill’s mother’s sister’s husband.” She smiled at the working out of this complex family tree.

  “How very odd that both of them should be up at the same time!” Miss Laurel exclaimed from her place at the table.

  Miss Wordsworth ignored her. “Miss Cahill has said nothing to me about her relations, except for Mr. Roswell. I believe her father’s people are all gone, and her mother is equally alone, except for her sister. The living in Northumberland must have been seen as a godsend.”

  “Yes,” Dean Liddell said, “Mr. Cahill has been most grateful. He is something of an antiquarian, with an interest in Viking ruins, and there are a number of sites worthy of examination in his living. He has read papers before the Royal Society on the subject of archaeological exploration in the north of England.”

  “Then I met Miss Cahill on the occasion of her father’s accepting his living,” Mr. Dodgson said, glad to have clarified that knotty point. “I had completely forgotten. She, on the other hand, remembered every detail of the event.”

  “Odd, what one recalls and what one does not,” Dean Liddell said. “Do you know, I begin to remember the occasion. Mrs. Cahill explained that Lady Berwick had sent a note, announcing her intention of paying a call upon her brother, who had informed the household that she was not to be admitted under any circumstances. Mrs. Cahill seemed to be afraid that the ensuing scene would terrify the child. They were most protective of her.”

  “And so she was got out of the house,” Mr. Dodgson said. “And I happened to see her and took her to my rooms to tea. What an odd tale it is, to be sure.”

  “But what has all this to do with that unfortunate scout?” Dean Liddell asked.

  “The photograph that I took on that occasion,” Mr. Dodgson said. He swallowed, then plunged ahead. “It could have led to a misunderstanding. I have reason to believe it was removed from my rooms by that man.”

  Dean Liddell’s long face grew longer. “That might lead to the conclusion that you had a motive for removing him,” he said.

  “Oh, no!” Miss Laurel squeaked out. “Ingram was a dreadful rogue, meant for a bad end!”

  Mr. Dodgson faced the Dean. “I did not kill that man. Clearly, the only way that I can prove that I did not is to uncover the one who did. I have a hypothesis, but it is tenuous at best, and I must have more evidence. Miss Wordsworth, you must get back to Lady Margaret Hall. Tell Mrs. Doyle that we shall meet in my rooms and then go to dinner at the White Hart. I shall send Telling to bespeak …”

  “You cannot leave Tom Quad,” Dean Liddell reminded him.

  “I cannot give Dr. Doyle another inferior dinner,” Mr. Dodgson retorted.

  “Dr. Doyle may dine in Hall,” Dean Liddell decided, “but Mrs. Doyle is quite another matter. We cannot have women dining in Hall at the House.”

  Miss Wordsworth rolled her eyes at Miss Laurel as if to say, “What fools men are!” Then she said, “If you are so punctilious, then Mrs. Doyle may dine with us, and you can have Dr. Doyle with you to dine in Hall. And now, Miss Laurel and I must get back, and I must give those silly girls a strong lecture. They could all have been killed!” Miss Wordsworth strode majestically down the Broad Walk. Miss Laurel followed her leader to St Aldgates, where they could find a cab to take them back to Lady Margaret Hall.

  Dean Liddell turned to Mr. Dodgson. “I strongly suggest that you return to your own rooms, sir, and permit the police to do their job.”

  “I want a word with young Farlow,” Mr. Dodgson said. “And then I shall take your advice, Dean. I must think. There is something missing, a piece of the puzzle that I have not uncovered …”

  Dean Liddell watched as Mr. Dodgson ambled away. Then he gave a nod to summon Telling and the scouts.

  “There will be one extra at the High Table tonight,” he informed Telling. “Mr. Dodgson’s guest will be dining in Hall. I trust we have a better dinner than was served last night?”

  Telling realized the honor of Christ Church was at stake. Never let it be said that the House provided an inferior meal to its guests!

  “I shall see to it, sir.”

  Dean Liddell proceeded back to Tom Quad. He would deal with Farlow, Chatsworth, and Martin in due course. He only hoped that the brash young Scot would behave with proper decorum when admitted to the Senior Common Room. As for Mr. Dodgson, it was Dean Liddell’s sincere wish that the old scholar would devote himself to mathematical puzzles and photographing little girls and leave the criminals to the police.

>   Both Dean Liddell and Inspector Truscott would have been horrified to know that their thoughts on this matter were identical.

  Chapter 21

  Dr. Doyle followed the path around the iron fence of the Botanic Gardens and emerged onto High Street. The afternoon traffic had increased to the point where it was nearly impossible to see across the road. Large drays, movers’ vans, farmers’ wagons, and donkey carts all tried to get over the narrow bridge that spanned the Cherwell. The drivers cracked their whips and swore at the blue-coated constables who swarmed up and down the stairs that led to a flotilla of rowboats anchored under the bridge.

  He darted across the road, under the nose of a surprised Percheron team pulling a load of furniture. The driver struggled to control his horses as Dr. Doyle waved at the policemen who had congregated on the steps leading to the boat landing under the bridge.

  “Inspector Truscott!” He hailed the stolid policeman, who greeted him with muted enthusiasm.

  “Dr. Doyle, how are you getting on?” Inspector Truscott turned back to his own men. “Look sharp there!”

  “I’ve found out a few things about Ingram,” Dr. Doyle began.

  Inspector Truscott cut him off. “You needn’t tell me that he’d been hand in glove with Sergeant-Major Howard and his lot,” he said, before Dr. Doyle could continue. “He’s been identified as having been present at two illegal prizefights that we know of, and a few we’re not supposed to know of, but we do anyway.”

  “If they are illegal—” Dr. Doyle began indignantly.

  “Why don’t we shut ’em down?” Inspector Truscott shrugged. “Young gentlemen will have their fun, sir, and the sergeant-major’s straight. He’s been of assistance to us in other matters, and we don’t bother him.”

  “I see.” Dr. Doyle realized that in this case, rank did indeed have its privileges, and nobly born undergraduates seeking harmless entertainment would not be threatened by the Oxford Constabulary, particularly when the University proctors were so vigilant. He looked over the parapet of the bridge. “Have your men found anything?”