“Quite so,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Miss Laurel might have made an excellent tutor had not James Ingram come back into her life.”
“Back?” Inspector Truscott looked puzzled. “When did he come into it at all?”
“At Berwick Place, I imagine,” Mr. Dodgson said, looking at Miss Laurel. “Is that not so? You were sent on by Mrs. Roswell to her sister-in-law, Lady Berwick.”
“And where does she come into it?” Truscott demanded.
“Lady Berwick is the sister of the philanthropic but puritanical Mr. Roswell,” Mr. Dodgson explained, “who has offered a generous gift to any of his relations who attain high honors here at Oxford.”
Miss Wordsworth was still unsatisfied. “What does this have to do with the wretched man who was found yesterday?”
“James Ingram was a footman at Berwick Place,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Inspector Truscott will undoubtedly find evidence to that effect.”
“And he was with Lady Berwick, who came to the Roswell house the day that Miss Cahill’s parents took her to tea,” Touie put it together.
“When she was merely Miss Roswell, Lady Berwick had had the temerity to perform on the stage,” Mr. Dodgson reminded them. “The theater is anathema to Mr. Roswell, and he cast her off completely, even after she had attained a title. She was coming to flaunt herself and that title in her brother’s face, and Miss Cahill was to be gotten out of the line of fire, to use a military expression.”
“But what’s all this ancient history got to do with what happened to Ingram?” Truscott asked.
“On that occasion I took a photograph of Miss Cahill, undressed,” Mr. Dodgson confessed. “It was not a good photograph, but I made two copies. One I sent, as I always do, to the child. The other I put into my personal albums, and to tell the truth, I forgot that it was there. I was much occupied with other things. I was writing my second Alice adventure, and there were college matters to attend to.” He turned to Miss Laurel. “Perhaps you can tell us what happened to the copy I sent to Mr. Roswell’s house?”
Miss Laurel moistened her lips. “I took it,” she whispered. She went on, peering up into Mr. Dodgson’s face. “I was on my way out, to go to Berwick Place, when the postman came,” she explained. “And he put the post into my hands, and I saw one packet from Christ Church, and I thought that must be the photographs. And I was curious to see how they’d come out, and I saw the one with Miss Dianna, as nature made her, so to speak. And I thought, if Mr. Roswell sees this, he’ll do to her like he did to his sister, cast her off, and her parents with her, and it will make poor Mrs. Roswell unhappy. So I took that photograph out of the packet, left the rest, and went on my way.”
“No one knew that you had abstracted the print?” Mr. Dodgson pursued the point.
“Not at Mr. Roswell’s house,” Miss Laurel said. “But later, at Berwick, James and I were talking about some of the goings-on with the grand folk that Lord and Lady Berwick had down; and he called them a pack of liars and hypocrites, who wouldn’t let the servants do what they did themselves, and how he was going to make them all pay for it one day. And I agreed and told him about Mr. Dodgson and the pictures. And so he knew that there was a photograph and who had it.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I never thought he’d do what he did with it! When we parted—”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Dodgson interrupted her. “You and Ingram. The footman and the nursemaid. Footmen are not usually allowed into the nursery, but Ingram seems to have been something of a privileged character at Berwick.”
“He would be serving in the drawing room when I brought little Master Nevil down to see his parents when they were in residence,” Miss Laurel said. “I was not bad looking then, although quite young. Too young to realize the sort of man James Ingram was,” she added bitterly.
“He took advantage of you,” Touie said sympathetically.
“And when the boy found you out, both of you were dismissed.” Mr. Dodgson was not so sympathetic.
“I was turned off without a character and without a penny,” Miss Laurel said resentfully. “So I took Master Nevil’s books and answered an advertisement for a governess.”
“Whereas Ingram got a gold watch and a much better position in London, at White’s,” Dr. Doyle finished for her, “where he could continue in his career of discovering secrets about noble gentlemen, which he could later exploit.”
“Lord Berwick is a notorious gambler,” Mr. Dodgson murmured. “I daresay he employed his old servant in many ways, not necessarily to the best interests of the club.”
“One of ’em being to find out the likely odds on rowers in Oxford for Eights Week.” Inspector Truscott took over. “We can’t pin anything on any of ’em, of course. Gentlemen will wager on almost anything, and it’s not illegal to get inside information and use it to shift the odds to their advantage.”
“However,” Dr. Doyle said, with a knowing grin, “I don’t think it will do them any good now that the scheme has been unmasked.”
“Still, it don’t explain why Ingram landed in the river,” Truscott said. “Or why this woman is accused of doing it.”
“He must have tried to get information from her,” Touie said. “Isn’t that right, Miss Laurel?”
Miss Laurel nodded. “I met him under Magdalen Bridge at six o’clock,” she said. “He was dreadful. He threatened to expose me to Miss Wordsworth as a fraud, a maid pretending to be a lady. He wanted me to find out secrets for him, to read letters and steal drafts of other letters that might otherwise go into the dustbin so that he could use them later.”
“That being his modus operandi,” Dr. Doyle said smugly to Inspector Truscott. “Ingram seems to have been a most enterprising sort. He could lift small objects to pawn, purloin unfinished letters from wastebaskets and dustbins, and steal college wine, all fueled by his hatred and resentment of his position.”
Miss Laurel swallowed hard. “I told him I would not do it. I would not spy for him, I would not be his slave or anything else. Then he said that if I did not do as he asked, he would see that I was denounced as an impostor and read out of college, and that the only thing left for me would be the streets, except that no one would have me!”
“And then you hit him?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
Miss Laurel nodded. Inspector Truscott stepped forward.
“Miss Laurel, or Lowell, I must inform you that if you speak now, anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
Miss Wordsworth had been listening carefully. Now she said, “Miss Laurel, how could you even think that we would have believed such a story? Or, even if you had been a servant, that we would have read you out of college? It would be against everything that we are trying to do here!” She glared at Inspector Truscott. “You need say nothing more, my dear, until I have spoken to my solicitor.”
Miss Laurel shook her head. “No, Miss Wordsworth. It is true. I hit him with the nearest thing I could find, which was the paddle of one of the punts lined up under Magdalen Bridge. He went into the water, and I hit him again and again. Then I threw the paddle into the river and ran back here.”
“I see.” Miss Wordsworth rose to her feet. “Inspector, take Miss Laurel if you must, but I will see to it that she has the best defense we can find for her. She was clearly trying to defend herself from a bully.”
There was a knock at the door. Telling announced, “Sergeant Everett and Mrs. Effingham.”
Inspector Truscott stepped forward. “Miss Daisy Lowell, I arrest you in the name of the Queen. I must warn you that anything you say can and will be taken down and used against you in a court of law. Sergeant Everett, you may take the prisoner.”
A stout woman in a drab dress and drabber bonnet stepped forward. Miss Laurel raised her chin and prepared to leave with the air of Mary Queen of Scots being led to the block.
Miss Wordsworth asked, “Where is she being taken?”
“Town Hall, ma’am,” Inspector Truscott told her.
Miss Wordsworth rose majestically and patt
ed Miss Laurel’s hand. “I shall send for my solicitor,” she told the stricken woman. “You were clearly defending yourself against a blackmailer, a thorough rogue.” She turned to Mr. Dodgson. “I would have thought better of you, Mr. Dodgson.”
“It was not I who struck Ingram,” Mr. Dodgson said, with immense dignity. “However, we are not finished yet. Inspector, do not leave. We have one more matter to deal with. Miss Wordsworth, you may not wish to stay. This is an internal matter, pertinent to the House.”
Miss Wordsworth sailed out after Miss Laurel. “You shall inform me in the morning,” she told Mr. Dodgson.
“And now,” Mr. Dodgson said, once the ladies had left, “I can tell you who really killed that wretched man.”
Chapter 28
Inspector Truscott glowered at Mr. Dodgson. “Do you mean to tell us that the woman didn’t do it?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Dodgson corrected him. “Miss Laurel, or Lowell, certainly contributed to Ingram’s untimely death. She hit him several times with a punt paddle then ran off to leave him to drown in the river.”
“But the blows on the head weren’t enough to kill him,” Dr. Doyle objected. “They might have made him a bit groggy, but …”
“Mr. Chatsworth is here, sir.” Telling interrupted them.
“Chatsworth?” Dean Liddell frowned. “What has he to do with this?”
Mr. Dodgson held up a hand for silence. “Telling, have Mr. Chatsworth come in.”
Minnie Chatsworth had prepared himself for dining in Hall. He was in correct subfusc: dress suit, wingcollar, black gown, and mortarboard cap, with its distinctive tuft, indicating that he was the younger son of a peer. He regarded the assembled dignitaries with a lazy smile that faded as the silence grew.
“Good evening.” Chatsworth looked about him and fixed on Dean Liddell as the senior person present. “Er … I don’t know what you want with me, sir. I only helped in the business, that’s all.”
“What business would that be?” Dean Liddell asked.
“Why, the rag about the body. That is why you sent for me, isn’t it?” Chatsworth asked anxiously.
“There were some points about your story that I felt needed further explanation,” Mr. Dodgson told him.
Chatsworth’s hand went toward his breast pocket. “May I smoke, sir?”
“You may not.” Mr. Dodgson turned to Inspector Truscott. “I believe you will find cigars in Mr. Chatsworth’s pocket that match the ones found under. Magdalen Bridge.”
Dr. Doyle stepped forward and took the cigar case from Chatsworth’s pocket. He removed one of the distinctive cheroots and handed it to Inspector Truscott.
Chatsworth’s smile had turned to a sneer. “What of it? Everyone smokes cigars.”
“Not like these,” Dr. Doyle said. “American. I noticed them when you and your companions were being interviewed earlier.”
“I’ve had my men out,” Inspector Truscott said gravely. “None of the shops near Oxford carry these cigars. Of course, it could be that an American visitor stood under Magdalen Bridge yesterday, but it’s not likely.”
Mr. Dodgson coughed to gain the floor again. “Ahem! May I see your hands, Mr. Chatsworth?”
“My hands?” Chatsworth looked at his interrogator in total disbelief.
“Your hands. You do not wear gloves, Mr. Chatsworth. You are a Hearty, a sportsman. They make it a point of not wearing gloves, unless the temperature demands it, and sometimes not even then. May I see your hands, sir?”
“This is ridiculous!” Chatsworth exposed the palms of his hands. “Are they clean, sir? Am I to be expected to pass a hygienic examination before being allowed to proceed to Hall?”
“Dr. Doyle, will you note the condition of Mr. Chatsworth’s hands?”
Dr. Doyle frowned as he peered into the palms offered for his inspection. His frown deepened, and he produced his magnifying glass. “I note several small blisters and rough spots,” he announced at last.
“Well, of course, you dunce! I’m on the rowing team!” Chats-worth clenched his fists.
“But you do not take an oar yourself,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out. “You are the coxswain. You do not row; you exhort the others and give them the stroke. That is your specialty, is it not, Mr. Chatsworth? You do not take action yourself but aid and abet those who do. You instigate, you propel, you motivate, but you rarely take part in the physical activities of your friends. Except, of course, this once, when you decided to lend a hand, as it were, and finish what Miss Laurel had started.”
“What!” Inspector Truscott gasped.
“Do you know what you are saying, sir?” Dean Liddell was quieter but no less appalled.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Miss Laurel hit Ingram several times.”
“There were three cuts on the man’s scalp,” Dr. Doyle confirmed. “None of them deep enough to have caused death.”
“But as you told us before, enough to make him, er, groggy.” Mr. Dodgson turned back to Chatsworth, who was trying to edge toward the door. The combined bulk of Sergeant Everett and Mr. Seward was enough to deter him.
“You were under Magdalen Bridge,” Mr. Dodgson told the undergraduate. “You heard the discussion. You saw Miss Laurel hit Ingram, you saw him fall into the river. You could have pulled him out at that time, but you did not.”
“Why should I?” Chatsworth shot back. “He was a filthy thief and a blackmailer.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Dodgson’s eyebrows rose. “And how would you know that, Mr. Chatsworth? Was Ingram blackmailing you?”
“No, of course not,” Chatsworth said quickly. “I heard him threatening Nevil Farlow one day, that’s all.”
“And he was being employed to carry some very unpleasant messages to a young lady at Lady Margaret Hall,” Mr. Dodgson went on. “A set of verses, of which you, Mr. Chatsworth were the instigator, if not the primary author.”
“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Chatsworth said sulkily. “It was a rag, that’s all, done for fun. Everybody writes squibs. Most of ’em are forgotten.”
“Some are not.” Mr. Dodgson quoted, “‘I do not love thee, Doctor Fell. / The reason why I cannot tell; / But this alone I know full well, / I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.’ That particular verse is known to every schoolchild in England.”
Chatsworth sniggered. Dean Liddell cleared his throat and the snigger died.
Dean Liddell’s face grew grim. “Threatening young female students with disgrace is not a source of humor,” he stated. “I have seen this attempt at levity; and I may inform you, sir, that whatever your motives, the result is contemptible. The verse is bad; the intention was worse. The matter was compounded when the verses were illustrated with Mr. Dodgson’s photograph, which was, I may add, stolen property. What have you to say for yourself, sir?”
“I told Nev that it wouldn’t work,” Chatsworth pleaded.
“Did you know the purpose to which this piece of literature was to be used?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“Well …” Chatsworth’s courage failed under the unnerving glare of so many eyes. “We’d seen the girl in lectures, and Nev was furious because she was going to bag all of old Roswell’s coin; and I only said that if she left Oxford, the old boy would be forced to look about and there Nev would be, waiting for him. Nev’s a Blue, a triple Blue at that!” Chatsworth’s voice took on a pleading whine. “Anyone with any sense would favor him over some fat girl, and I told him so.”
“Which would be enough to set him firmly on his course,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Let us return to last night’s escapade. You saw Ingram fall. You went to observe him. He was in the water but had recovered his senses and was attempting to rise. At which point, you took action.
“You lifted an oar from the oarlock of the nearest rowing boat and used it to hold Ingram’s head underwater until he ceased movement. Then you heard more steps and ducked back under the bridge.
“You saw your friend Nevil Farlow approaching the boats. You saw him pull Ing
ram out of the water. You then ran back to the House to be here before Lord Farlow.”
“So you say,” Chatsworth sneered. “Where’s the proof?”
“Two cigars,” Mr. Dodgson said. “You smoked two cigars, one while Miss Laurel had her interview, the second when Farlow approached the boats.”
“I’ll admit to seeing Nev under the bridge,” Chatsworth said. “But you can’t prove that I held that man under.”
“Oh, but I can,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Your hands are blistered and rough, although you do not touch the oars. The legs of your trousers will have weeds on them, which could only have been thrown up by the thrashing of the unfortunate man. Dr. Doyle pointed out that his fingernails showed signs of dirt. He was very much alive when Miss Laurel left him, and he was very dead when Mr. Farlow found him. You, Mr. Chatsworth, were the only one who could have held him under long enough to drown him.”
“What? Little me?” Chatsworth cried out.
“According to Sergeant-Major Howard, you are an able gymnast and fencer,” Dr. Doyle said. “All you had to do was push on the oar, and your friend would be free of a leech.”
Chatsworth looked at the faces of the men in the room. “You still can’t prove that I went anywhere near that man,” he said.
“There is one piece of evidence that will surely convict you,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Inspector Truscott, Dr. Doyle told me that you found a locked suitcase in Ingram’s lodgings but no keys.”
“That’s true,” Truscott said slowly.
“Is it logical to assume that the keys must have been removed by the person who killed Ingram?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“I strongly suggest that you search Mr. Chatsworth, and if he does not have the key on his person, that you search his rooms, which, Telling informs me, are on the extreme end of the corridor, looking out over the mews and across the lane. Mr. Chatsworth could easily have observed Ingram’s activities and come to certain conclusions. I would prefer to think that you were removing what you considered a blight upon society, Mr. Chatsworth, rather than take the uncharitable view that you might have intended to pursue the career of a blackmailer yourself.”
The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 28