The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “Naught but rubbish!” Sergeant Everett’s face showed what he thought of careless people who threw trash over Magdalen Bridge. “Look at that! Beer bottles, ginger-beer bottles, wine bottles. Chicken bones, a marrow bone, chop bones. Cigar ends without number.” The sergeant indicated a pile of remains.

  “Cigar ends?” Dr. Doyle’s face lit up. “I’ve made something of a study of cigars.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary in these,” Truscott said. “No telling how long they’ve been there.”

  “Actually,” Dr. Doyle said, peering at the collection of butts in front of him, “we can. Cigars are merely leaves, leaves rot at a given rate, and there has been no rain for at least a day. Ergo, we can assume that these were thrown here in the last two days. Can you tell me exactly where these cigars came from?”

  “Do you mean which shop?” Sergeant Everett asked incredulously.

  “Of course not. Can your men tell me where each of these was found?” Dr. Doyle eyed the mess and looked for something to separate it out into component parts.

  Truscott and Everett stared at each other. Then Everett said, “I can ask the men, but I don’t see how this will help us.”

  Dr. Doyle separated the cigars into several piles, using a handy twig. “These are nearly disintegrated,” he said, indicating a pile of soggy leaves. “They have clearly been here for some time. Whereas these,” he pointed to the line of well-formed ends he had sorted out of the general mess, “were deposited here no later than last night.”

  “And now all we have to do is find the ones who smoked ’em?” Inspector Truscott was not looking forward to interviewing the entire population of Oxford on its smoking habits

  “That might be easier than you think,” Dr. Doyle said. “Look here, Inspector. I don’t think you’ll find this in every humidor in Oxford.” He rolled one long, thin cigar aside. “The rest of these are common enough, but this is an American cigar, what they call a cheroot. Not at all the sort of thing you’d expect a don to smoke.”

  “Not even the sort of thing an Oxford tobacconist would have in stock,” Truscott admitted. “Now, who’d smoke a thing like that?”

  “An American,” Sergeant Everett replied.

  “Or someone who’d formed a taste for them in America,” Dr. Doyle amended. “Where, exactly, did this object come to light?”

  Everett repeated the question to his men under the bridge. Constable Effingham shouted up from below the arch. “Hoy! I’ve found another one!”

  Dr. Doyle followed Inspector Truscott and Sergeant Everett down the stairs to the boat landing, and under the bridge itself, where Constable Effingham stood guard over his prize.

  “Long, thin American cigar,” he announced, pointing to it.

  Dr. Doyle squatted to examine the cigar stub. “Right here,” he mumbled. “And here’s a footprint, too. How convenient!”

  “Too convenient,” Truscott grumbled.

  “Someone stood here, smoking this long cheroot,” Dr. Doyle said. He peered about. “What was he doing here?”

  “Waiting for someone?” Sergeant Everett offered.

  “Waiting for who?” Inspector Truscott countered.

  “Waiting for Ingram,” Dr. Doyle pronounced. “Ingram had uttered a challenge, in the middle of St. Aldgates, that he’d be under Magdalen Bridge at six o’clock. Clearly, he meant that challenge for someone in St. Aldgates that afternoon.”

  “Which might be anyone,” Inspector Truscott objected, “including your Mr. Dodgson.”

  “This cigar end clearly exonerates Mr. Dodgson,” Dr. Doyle stated firmly. “Mr. Dodgson does not use tobacco. He loathes it in any form, as I have found out to my dismay!” He smiled ruefully as he recalled his unceremonious ouster from Mr. Dodgson’s rooms the night before. “Besides, he insists he was on the bridge, not under it.”

  Inspector Truscott nodded. “So now we are looking for someone who smokes this particular brand of American cigar, who was under Magdalen Bridge at six o’clock last night. Everett?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Have your men go ’round to the tobacconists and find out who likes this sort of cigar.” Truscott turned to Dr. Doyle. “Does that satisfy you, sir?”

  Dr. Doyle frowned as he looked at the footprint. He placed himself in the position the smoker must have taken. “Someone stood here and smoked the cheroot. Then he left. Then some undergraduates came back and found Ingram, put him into a bath chair, and carried him off to Christ Church.” He looked at Inspector Truscott. “Surely someone must have noticed all this coming and going.”

  “Someone did,” Truscott pointed out. “Your Mr. Dodgson saw the undergraduates.”

  “And how did they know there was a body under the bridge?” Dr. Doyle pursued the question.

  “Because they put it there or saw someone else put it there,” Inspector Truscott answered grimly. “If our cheroot smoker didn’t do it himself, then he saw who did. Sergeant, start your search at St. Aldgates, at that little shop across from Christ Church, and see if that old body that keeps it knows of an undergraduate who fancies American cheroots.”

  “Of course, this doesn’t tell us much about why Ingram blasted out his challenge in that public way,” Truscott complained, as they made their way back to the street.

  “He couldn’t speak with the person he was addressing directly,” Dr. Doyle said slowly. “That eliminates Mr. Dodgson completely. Why shout at the man to meet him in an hour’s time, when they were talking right then and there?”

  “And anyone might have heard him on the street,” Everett reminded them.

  “Or even in the college,” Dr. Doyle said suddenly. “On such a fine day, all the windows would be open.”

  Inspector Truscott turned on his tormentor. “You’ve been no help at all,” he scolded Dr. Doyle. “First you narrow things down, then you open them up again!”

  “One must consider all the possibilities,” Dr. Doyle said cheerfully. “As to motive, there is always that mysterious suitcase of secrets that Ingram kept under the bed.”

  “There is that,” Inspector Truscott admitted. “And I daresay you’ll be wanting a peep inside that, too.”

  Dr. Doyle tried to look modest, and succeeded in looking smug. “I have a good idea what you’ll find,” he said. “Letters and photographs. Things that were supposed to have been thrown away, but have been carefully preserved by our thrifty friend, Ingram, against a rainy day.”

  “And who, may I ask, was he supposed to have his hooks into at Christ Church?” Inspector Truscott ask scornfully. “The young gentlemen aren’t likely to have the kind of money Ingram was after, and I can’t imagine what the dons would be up to that would lay them open to blackmail.”

  Dr. Doyle frowned. Mr. Dodgson had deliberately refrained from mentioning Miss Cahill and her photograph to Inspector Truscott; but if that photograph was in Ingram’s cache of secrets, it would look even worse for him than if the police found it on their own.

  “There may be a photograph in that suitcase that was removed from the rooms of one of the dons,” Dr. Doyle said slowly. “It was copied by Ingram, with his very expensive camera, and the copy was used to threaten someone. I cannot tell you more than that, Inspector. It is not my secret, and the photograph is quite innocent, I can assure you. It would simply lead to embarrassment on all sides if the object were to be made public.”

  Inspector Truscott frowned. “By now Chief Inspector Wheeler should have that suitcase open,” he said. “If you insist on it, you can come along, and we’ll see what little bombshells our friend Ingram had tucked away in it.”

  “And take the cheroots with you,” Dr. Doyle added. Everett obligingly tore a page out of his ever-present notebook, slid it under the offensive cigar ends, and folded the ends of the page.

  Back at Blue Boar Lane, Chief Inspector Wheeler was not pleased to see a stranger following Inspector Truscott into his office. The indispensable Constable Effingham had exerted himself, and the suitcase was open for i
nspection.

  Truscott made the necessary introductions. “This is Dr. Doyle, who is acting for Christ Church,” he told his chief. “He says there’s a photograph in this suitcase that might embarrass someone there.”

  “There’s a good deal more than that!” Chief Inspector Wheeler scowled at the suitcase. “I feel like washing my hands after touching some of this stuff.”

  Dr. Doyle had no such distaste. He eagerly picked through the debris before him. “My, my, what things people will leave about! Here’s a draft of a letter to someone … ‘My dear, dear boy … ’?” He scanned the letter, which had folds, as if it had been crumpled and discarded. He pointed to the heading on the stationery. “Whites. Ingram’s last place of employment.”

  “Where he took advantage of the situation to pick up little tidbits like this,” Inspector Truscott said. “Here’s a packet of promissory notes. Gambling debts, I should think.”

  “Whose?” Dr. Doyle craned his neck to see.

  “Ingram wasn’t kind enough to label ’em. I suppose he knew whose they were. Didn’t you say something about photographs?”

  “Not many of those,” Chief Inspector Wheeler said, with some relief. “Just this one, of a pair courting in the park, you might say. And this one.” He tapped the photograph that Dr. Doyle had been certain would be there.

  “That photograph was taken fifteen years ago,” Dr. Doyle stated. “Ingram removed it from the albums of—”

  “Mr. Dodgson,” Inspector Truscott finished for him.

  “I did not say …”

  Inspector Truscott looked at his chief then handed the photograph to Dr. Doyle. “This being stolen property, I can ask you to return it to its rightful owner,” he said solemnly. “And tell your friend to take better care of his belongings.”

  Dr. Doyle accepted the photograph with a grateful smile. “Mr. Dodgson will be most relieved,” he said.

  “And the little girl?” Inspector Truscott hinted.

  “Is now a young woman,” Dr. Doyle told him. “Ingram had given a copy of this photograph to someone, who was using it to threaten her.”

  “Which might make her a suspect,” Truscott reminded him.

  “Hardly likely,” Chief Inspector Wheeler scoffed. “You can barely see who this little girl is, except for her being stark naked. She could be almost anyone! Truscott, I want this … stuff … destroyed. Burn the papers; get rid of it all.”

  “What about the ones who wrote ’em?” Truscott asked.

  “What of ’em?” Chief Inspector Wheeler echoed. “Most of this stuff is trash. No names, perhaps a hint here and there, but there’s nothing to tell who, if anyone, this was meant for.”

  “In other words, these would be embarrassing to their original owners but not so much that they would take to murder,” Dr. Doyle observed. “Ingram was not a brave man, in my opinion. Most of this is, as you pointed out, open to interpretation. Ingram might have been saving these bits and pieces for future use. I agree, Chief Inspector, burning is the best cure for this sort of disease of the mind.”

  “So glad to have your medical opinion, Doctor.” Chief Inspector Wheeler rose with ponderous dignity. “Now that you’ve got what you’ve come for, you may leave. Truscott, show the man out.”

  Inspector Truscott opened the door, and Dr. Doyle had no choice but to leave with as much aplomb as he could muster.

  Truscott shut the door pointedly behind the doctor. “I’ve had my men out, sir,” he reported. “There is a pawnbroker’s shop in the lane next to Ingram’s lodgings. We found several rather pretty pieces of jewelry, all pawned by Ingram in the last three months.”

  “So he was a thief as well as a blackmailer.” Chief Inspector Wheeler grunted. “You don’t throw a man into the river for lifting your watch or your studs.”

  “And speaking of watches,” Truscott continued, “we’ve got Ingram’s. Very nice, that watch. And it was his, not stolen. There’s an inscription: ‘To James Ingram.’ I’d say it was given for services rendered.”

  “What sort of services?” Wheeler asked suspiciously.

  “What indeed?” Truscott’s eyebrows were the only things that moved in his immobile face. “The crest is indeed Berwick, sir.”

  “Berwick? As in Lord Berwick? The one who married the actress?” Wheeler frowned. “What’s he to do with anything?”

  “His son’s at Christ Church now,” Everett reminded them.

  “Ingram was supposed to have been in private service,” Truscott said slowly, thinking aloud. “He was tall enough for a footman. A footman has opportunities that other servants don’t to see what’s going on in a grand household. Let us suppose this Ingram’s got something on Lord Berwick. He gets a watch and a character that gets him into White’s. What’s he doing here in Oxford, where there’s lean pickings for a man of his, um, talents?”

  “He’s still working for Berwick,” Wheeler surmised. “Berwick’s one of His Royal Highness’s cronies. Marlborough House set, and all that, and a known gambler.”

  “And that explains what the sergeant-major’s business is with Ingram,” Truscott said, with a satisfied nod. “Berwick and his friends in London want information on the odds for Eights Week. They send Ingram, and a few more like him, to take up vacant posts in colleges that have likely teams. Then they either nobble the likely winners or fix the odds.”

  Sergeant Everett looked puzzled. “Why not ask this young Far-low lad? He’s likeliest to know what’s what, being a Blue himself.”

  Inspector Truscott considered the problem, then shook his head. “That would never do,” he said. “A gentleman don’t ask his son to be a spy. They save that sort of thing for the servants.”

  Chief Inspector Wheeler scowled in disgust. “Call themselves noble sportsmen, do they?” he snorted.

  “They don’t. The newspapers do,” Truscott pointed out. “But what does all this have to do with Ingram’s being bashed on the head and shoved into the river?”

  “I don’t know,” Chief Inspector Wheeler said, “but I want you to go and find out.”

  Dr. Doyle, listening at the door, nodded to himself, and stepped out of the way as inspector Truscott marched out of Chief Inspector Wheeler’s office. He was beginning to get an idea of what had happened under Magdalen Bridge. He felt the photograph in his pocket, and smiled under his mustache. Mr. Dodgson would be very pleased to know that his photograph was safely out of the hands of the police, as would Miss Cahill.

  Dr. Doyle strode jauntily into the afternoon sunlight of St. Aldgates. He had the photograph. He had proven that Mr. Dodgson was innocent of the crime of murder, and that he was in no way responsible for what had happened to the wretched scout. The only thing left to do was to find the author of that infamous text, and he could go on to his mother’s cottage secure in the knowledge that he had fulfilled his obligations to his host.

  There was still the question of who had sent Ingram into the river and why. Dr. Doyle had a few thoughts on that matter, but he would consult with Mr. Dodgson before he went ahead.

  He glanced up at Great Tom, which was sounding the hour of three, and wondered how Touie was doing at Lady Margaret Hall. If he was right, the answer to part of the question lay there.

  Dr. Doyle shouldered his way through a crowd of undergraduates and looked about Tom Quad for Mr. Dodgson. He had news to impart, and there was no time to lose.

  Chapter 22

  Touie had followed the bath chair around the Broad Walk and up the same path that her husband was to take a little later. The chair, a cumbersome object that teetered dangerously on three wheels, was pushed laboriously by the chairman, a skinny specimen who wheezed mightily as he trundled Miss Cahill along Longwall Steet. Had Dr. Doyle been there, he would have informed Touie that the street was named for the remnant of the old walled town of Oxford, which made the street so narrow. Touie was more concerned about avoiding the large horses that seemed to fill the street, making pedestrian traffic nearly impossible.

  “
How much longer is it?” Touie asked, skirting a malodorous heap left by one of the cart horses.

  “We come to the end of Longwall, then continue on St. Cross Road,” Dianna said, from the depths of the chair. “I wish you hadn’t cut my corsets. Then I could walk, instead of being pushed like a baby.”

  “I am sorry about the corsets, but you couldn’t breathe with them so tight,” Touie said severely. “Arthur says that tight lacing is responsible for more female ailments than anything else,” she pronounced, with the fervor of one quoting Holy Writ.

  The chairman stopped to take a breath as Longwall Street gave way to St. Cross Road. Touie peered into the bath chair to see that Dianna was properly covered.

  “How much longer?” she asked again. Her feet were beginning to ache. She had taken the precaution of wearing walking shoes, but even the most sensible of footwear would pinch after a while. Touie had been standing for most of the day, and the stone walls that hemmed in the narrow street seemed to radiate warmth. The air that had seemed so fresh had somehow become still and sultry, and there was an ominous pile of clouds starting to build up in the east.

  Once the chairman filled his lungs again, they pressed forward. They crossed the road in front of a tiny church, where Touie caught a glimpse of lawns behind one of the venerable colleges. Beyond that there was the Holywell Mill Stream and two figures in a punt, struggling against the current.

  “There are Gertrude and Mary!” Dianna leaned out of the chair. “I could have told you they’d get back before we do. Gertrude is a dab hand at sports.”

  “Where did you learn that bit of slang?” Touie giggled.

  “From Gertrude, of course.” Dianna giggled. “She’s always the one to know the latest slang. My mother would not approve of my using common talk.”

  “Your parents seem to have brought you up very carefully,” Touie commented.

  “Oh, yes,” Dianna replied. “Whitby was a very small place, and most of the people there were not the sort Mother wished me to associate with.”