The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

“Dr. Doyle,” Telling announced, and left Dr. Doyle to cope with the dons, while he saw to the tea urns, muffins, and bread and butter.

  The chatter in the room ceased as the dons of Christ Church examined the young man with the air of those who have just found a strange insect in their salads. Then the elderly gentleman nearest Dr. Doyle presented himself.

  “You are the young man Charles met in Brighton last year, are you not? I am Mr. Duckworth.”

  Dr. Doyle shook the hand that was offered and bowed slightly. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  “You are a physician, I believe?” Mr. Duckworth accepted the cup of tea handed to him by the nearest scout.

  “Yes. I practice in Southsea.” Dr. Doyle wondered whether Mr. Dodgson was going to be very long with Dean Liddell. There were things he had to discuss with him, and he could hardly bring up matters like blackmail and murder in front of this gathering of scholars.

  “A practicing physician?” Mr. Duckworth’s voice was tremulous but shrill. It attracted more attention than Dr. Doyle preferred.

  “I also write,” Dr. Doyle said defensively. “Mr. Dodgson has gone so far as to recommend my stories to some of his literary friends.”

  “Then you must be a very good writer, sir, for Charles never reads fiction.”

  “So he has told me.” Dr. Doyle smiled and was offered a cup of tea, which he could not refuse.

  Another scholar, stout and bearded, joined Duckworth. “And what are you writing now, young man?” He beamed at Dr. Doyle with the air of one who questions a favorite nephew just back from school.

  “I have completed one novel,” Dr. Doyle retorted. “And I have seen several of my stories in print.”

  “And what is your subject matter?” A third don, an ascetic-looking scholar with a straggling white beard, had joined the inquisition. Dr. Doyle was forcibly reminded of his school days, where he was constantly under the supervision of priests who managed to find something wrong in everything he said or did.

  As always, when Dr. Doyle’s temper rose, so did his Scottish accent. “I have written of my travels in the Arctic Sea,” he said. “And I wrote a fictional account of the Mary Celeste …”

  “So that was you!” Mr. Duckworth exclaimed. He turned to the others. “This is the author, not J. Habakkuk Jepson!”

  “We debated the issue,” the white-bearded Mr. Vere Bayne said. “The argument was well-presented, but we were puzzled as to the feasibility of the explanation of the disappearance of the entire crew.”

  “The supernatural occurrences seemed to be somewhat exaggerated.” A tall, spare don peered over his pince-nez at Dr. Doyle, who took a step backward. The questioner stepped forward, pressing his point.

  “It was fiction,” Dr. Doyle protested.

  “But written as fact,” Mr. Duckworth pointed out.

  “And not signed,” Mr. Vere Bayne added.

  “Leaving the reader with the impression that the tale was factual.” Dr. Kitchin, the only don in the room not wearing a clerical collar, clinched the matter.

  “Which does not preclude there being a supernatural explanation of the case,” Dr. Doyle said stubbornly.

  “Are you one of those who believes in spiritualist poppycock?” Dr. Kitchin asked, with the air of one who has already made up his mind.

  Dr. Doyle had not made up his mind and said so. “I am willing to be convinced,” he said. “I am a member of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, and we have conducted several experiments with mixed success.”

  Before the discussion veered off into the merits of spiritualism, Mr. Duckworth peered at Dr. Doyle with a puzzled frown and said, “I do not recall your being up at the House.”

  “I was trained in Edinburgh,” Dr. Doyle said curtly.

  “Oh, a Scotch school.” Dr. Kitchin dismissed anything north of the Border with a wave of his hand and a shrug.

  “Might I remind you, sir,” Dr. Doyle said, rising to defend his alma mater, “that both Glasgow and Edinburgh were sending scholars out into England when Oxford was just a cattle crossing!”

  “I find it odd that Mr. Dodgson should take up with a physician from Edinburgh,” Mr. Duckworth complained.

  “He rarely takes up anyone over the age of ten, particularly those of the male sex,” Mr. Barclay Thompson, a stout man with mutton-chop whiskers sniggered.

  Dr. Doyle swallowed hard and explained, “Mr. Dodgson is acquainted with a member of my family—my uncle, in fact—the artist, Dicky Doyle, of Punch.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, Dr. Doyle, it is understandable that Mr. Dodgson would wish to further your career,” Mr. Barclay Thompson said, with a knowing smile. “Dodgson fancies himself an artist, if photography may be termed an art.”

  “Photography is a chemical process,” Mr. Duckworth admitted. “However, in the correct hands, such as my friend Dodgson’s, photography may be raised to an art. Are you a photographer, young man?”

  Before Dr. Doyle could formulate a suitable reply, Mr. Dodgson made his appearance, followed by Dean Liddell, both wearing expressions indicating great internal agony.

  Dean Liddell called the group to order. “Gentlemen,” he said gravely, “Mr. Dodgson has brought certain matters to my attention that I believe should be addressed by all of us.”

  Mr. Dodgson swallowed a gulp of tea, looking much like the Mad Hatter at the trial. “I regret to tell you that some of our undergraduates have been behaving disgracefully,” he began.

  “You needn’t interrupt our tea to tell us that,” Mr. Barclay Thompson said, with his characteristic laugh.

  “Undergraduates will always behave disgracefully,” Dr. Kitchin agreed, with a shake of his head.

  “In this case the behavior has crossed the line of what is acceptable,” Dean Liddell cut across the babble of agreement. “Did any of you witness the regrettable accident on the river this afternoon?”

  Another hubbub informed him that several of the dons had, indeed, seen the ladies in the punt and the gentlemen in the scull, and the unfortunate collision. Opinion seemed to be mixed as to whether the rowers should have ducked the ladies or whether the ladies should have known better than to go beyond Magdalen Bridge.

  Once again Dean Liddell’s voice overrode the babble. “There might have been a tragedy had not this young man”—he indicated Dr. Doyle—“acted promptly and efficiently to save a young lady’s life.”

  “Hear, hear!” There was general applause. Dr. Doyle smiled modestly and did not quite bow.

  “Ahem!” Dean Liddell brought the group back to attention. “Mr. Dodgson informs me that the young lady in question has been the subject of scurrilous attacks upon her reputation and that of her college.”

  “What!” There was another general murmur, this time of disbelief.

  “Our lads have nothing to do with the women undergraduates,” Dr. Kitchin protested. “Most of the women’s colleges are at the other end of town. They come here only for the Cathedral services, if then.”

  “I regret to tell you that the young lady in question has received a communication, and a … a piece of verse. I shall not describe it as a poem. The best that can be said about it is that it rhymes.” Mr. Dodgson produced the typeset sheet. “I have information that this was p-perpetrated by one of our undergraduates. I would like to know if any of you recognize the style.”

  Various lenses were affixed to noses or screwed into eye sockets as the dons huddled about the page and viewed it through monocles, pince-nez, or spectacles. The reactions were gratifyingly horrific.

  “Good Lord!” Dr. Kitchin exclaimed. “’Lusting after little babies, licking their vulva labies’? I suppose what is meant is labia majora, or possibly pudenda, but that would not rhyme, would it?”

  “Neither does this,” Mr. Barclay Thompson said, with a grimace. “‘Female scholars having half o’ / Pennyworth of sense will worship Sappho.’ Quite impossible!”

  “If this is what they call undergraduate humor these
days, then heaven help us!” Mr. Duckworth frowned. “The tag line is, ‘Such is the be and end all / Of instruction at Lady Margaret Hall.’ It does not scan. I cannot believe any of our students would commit such an atrocity to paper.”

  “It is unutterably offensive,” Dr. Doyle said. “I would have thought better of your young men than to imply that female students were perverse and bent on evil.”

  “Oh, that is a matter of opinion,” Mr. Vere Bayne said. “What is far more important is that this … this travesty should be published, and that the name of Christ Church should be attached to such a dreadful piece of trash. It is badly written, sir! That is far worse than the, er, content!”

  Dr. Doyle began to understand how Alice felt at the Mad Tea Party. “Do you mean to say,” he argued, “that it is acceptable to compare the ladies of today, serious scholars I am sure, to the young persons who clustered about the poetess Sappho …?”

  “Did you say ‘Sappho’?” Mr. Duckworth interrupted them. “Dear me. How odd. I would never think it of him.”

  “Of whom?” Mr. Dodgson asked eagerly.

  “Of young Mr. Martin. He was reading the latest translation and questioning some of the actual wording of the text.”

  “Do you mean that very bold young man who rescued Miss Cahill from the river?” Dean Liddell asked.

  Mr. Duckworth shrugged. “I do not know about his heroics. I do know that he is a most conscientious scholar, a linguist of sorts, collecting odd words and forms of speech. I believe he is almost looking forward to using the vulgar tongue on his prospective parishioners.” Mr. Duckworth chuckled to himself. “He even took it upon himself to compile a list of Americanisms from his friend, Chatsworth, and brought it to my attention.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Martin the young chap who accosted us last night?” Dr. Doyle asked his mentor. “He said that he believed that Ingram was the thief who was preying on the rooms in Tom Quad,” he explained to the assembled dons.

  Dean Liddell frowned. “Mr. Martin has rooms on the south side of Tom Quad,” he said, “with Mr. Chatsworth and Mr. Farlow. They are the only undergraduates on that side, as far as I am aware. Most of the undergraduates prefer Peckwater Quad,” he told Dr. Doyle. “The sound of the bell is less disturbing to younger ears.”

  “One does get used to it,” Mr. Duckworth said, with a shrug.

  “Chatsworth, Farlow, and Martin … They were in the boat that attacked the girls in the punt and pushed them into the river.”

  “They were indeed,” Dean Liddell said. “And I have been conferring with Mr. Dodgson and Mr. Seward, as proctors, as to the appropriate punishment for their actions.”

  “What did they do, precisely?” Mr. Duckworth asked.

  “I saw it all. They deliberately attacked that girl,” Dr. Doyle said. “Someone used an oar to tip her out of the punt and then tried to drown her in the weeds. If Mr. Martin had not taken the action he did, I would never have had the chance to revive her.”

  “Who was the girl?” Mr. Vere Bayle wanted to know.

  “A Miss Dianna Cahill,” Mr. Dodgson answered. “Her father has one of the parishes connected with the Cathedral.”

  Mr. Barclay Thompson frowned down at the pages. “Is she the person referred to in the opening phrase, ‘Observe Miss Dye, the little honey.…’ Where is the illustration?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Dodgson choked over his tea.

  “The text clearly indicates an illustration,” Mr. Barclay Thompson said, tapping it for emphasis. He leered at Mr. Dodgson. “One of your old photographs gone astray, Dodgson?”

  “That will do!” Dean Liddell rescued the offensive verses and returned them to Mr. Dodgson, who handed the paper back to Dr. Doyle, as if the mere touch of it polluted him. Dr. Doyle, made of sterner stuff than the shrinking scholar, merely folded the paper and put it into his breast pocket.

  “The illustration is immaterial,” Mr. Dodgson said. “What is important is that we find the p-perp-petrator of this outrage and rep-primand him. And then, Dean, I strongly suggest that we remove him from this college.”

  “As to that, Mr. Dodgson, I shall have to consider the appropriate measure to take,” Dean Liddell said.

  “I think a word with young Mr. Martin might be advisable,” Dr. Doyle suggested.

  “Perhaps we can speak with his friends, Mr. Chatsworth and Mr. Farlow as well,” Mr. Dodgson added.

  “Chatsworth and Farlow?” Dr. Doyle touched his cheek. “I’ve had more than a few words with those two. Is one of them very tall and fair, the other short and dark and slender?”

  A babble of agreement filled the room.

  “I shall send for them at once,” Dean Liddell announced. “Telling, find those three young gentlemen and bring them to my study.”

  Mr. Dodgson cleared his throat diffidently. “Ahem. If I may make a suggestion, Dean, perhaps my rooms would be more appropriate for the interview. Your study is, if I may say so, somewhat overpowering for undergraduates, and they may feel constrained in your presence.”

  Dean Liddell nodded. “In this case, Mr. Dodgson, you may be right. I shall have Seward bring the lads to your rooms, where we may interview them. Of course, I shall notify the police of any pertinent information we discover, should it be necessary.”

  “Of course, Dean.”

  Dean Liddell strode out. Mr. Dodgson bit into a muffin.

  “I have found …,” Dr. Doyle began eagerly. Mr. Dodgson held up a hand for silence.

  “We will hear what those undergraduates have to say,” Mr. Dodgson said. “And then we shall proceed from there.” He finished his muffin, swallowed the last of his tea, and followed Dean Liddell back through Tom Quad to his rooms.

  Chapter 24

  By the time they arrived at Mr. Dodgson’s rooms, Chatsworth, Farlow, and Martin had changed out of their muddied rowing clothes and were now properly dressed in the garments each considered suitable for the impending interview. Mr. Martin’s tweeds were embellished by a sleeveless pullover, hand knit by his mother. Mr. Farlow had donned his blue blazer, with the Oxford crest on the breast pocket, as a symbol of his preeminence on the field of sport. Mr. Chatsworth’s pale cream linen suit was the best Saville Row tailoring. Each young man was properly gowned; each maintained a blank expression, as if to say, “What have I done?” as they stood in a row in Mr. Dodgson’s sitting room.

  The furniture had been rearranged to accommodate the influx of people. Mr. Dodgson stood in his favorite place by the fireplace while Dean Liddell sat in the large armchair, as befitted his dignity. Dr. Doyle had taken a position near the door, with Mr. Seward, in his role as proctor, keeping a careful eye on the miscreants.

  Mr. Dodgson examined the three undergraduates carefully. “Do you know why you are here?” he asked.

  “No idea at all,” Farlow said carelessly. “Unless it’s about that silly cow who tried to run us down in her punt.”

  “That silly cow, as you so blithely express it, very nearly drowned,” Mr. Dodgson said severely.

  Mr. Martin burst out, “Is she all right?”

  “My wife has taken Miss Cahill back to her college. I can only hope that she has recovered from her shock,” Doyle told him.

  “It was only a rag,” Chatsworth protested.

  “And last night’s little adventure?” Mr. Dodgson’s expression was grim. “Was that also a rag? Moving a body is a very serious offense, young man.”

  Chatsworth tried to smile, but it turned into a smirk. “We were a little squiffy,” he began.

  “Drunkenness is no excuse,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Particularly if you purchased the wine through the late Ingram. He was removing the bottles laid aside for the Senior Common Room and selling them to a dishonest clerk, who then sold them back to you young fools at an exorbitant rate.”

  “I told you so,” Chatsworth said, with a smug glance at Farlow.

  “Minnie, will you be quiet!” Farlow hissed.

  “Mr. Farlow.” Mr. Dodgson carefully removed a piece
of paper from his inside pocket and scanned it, then laid it down on the desk, apparently unaware of three pairs of eyes following his every move. “I am given to understand that you are the leader of our oars this year.”

  “I am.” Farlow bit off the words.

  “Then you are supposed to set the moral example,” Mr. Dodgson said. “And yet you deliberately attacked the young women in that punt before the eyes of the entire college. I might add, there were persons present on Christ Church Commons this afternoon whose sole introduction to college sport may well be your disgraceful exhibition of temper!”

  A dull flush stained Farlow’s cheeks. He bit his lip to keep from shouting. “The young women had no right to be out in our way,” he said evenly. “Everyone knows that sculls take precedence over punts on the river.”

  “That may be so, but the young ladies were pulled by the current,” Dr. Doyle explained.

  “Then they ought not to have been out at all!” Farlow shot back.

  “The incident was deplorable on all sides, but most of all on yours,” Mr. Dodgson interrupted the spat. “Gentlemen of Christ Church are supposed to set the standard for the rest of the University.”

  “They really shouldn’t have got in our way,” Chatsworth backed up his friend. “And two of them just got wet and were quite all right once they dried off. How were we supposed to know that fat one couldn’t swim and wore tight corsets?”

  “She is not fat!” Martin exclaimed. “She is well-rounded.”

  “I might add,” Dr. Doyle said quietly, “that I discovered marks on Miss Cahill’s neck that indicated to me that she was struck, several times, with the oars. If the purpose of the attack was to embarrass the young ladies, why strike Miss Cahill?”

  The three young men were silent. Chatsworth automatically reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigar case.

  “I do not allow tobacco in these rooms,” Mr. Dodgson snapped, as Chatsworth took out one of his long cheroots.

  “Where did you get this cigar?” Dr. Doyle asked, stepping forward and taking the cheroot out of the young man’s fingers.

  “I have relations in America,” Chatsworth said. “One of my mother’s brothers has a cattle ranch. They sent me out last year for the Long Vac. Grand place, Wyoming! You should have come with me, Nev, you’d have liked it.”