The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  Chatsworth’s amiable expression had vanished, replaced by a furtive snarl. “And why should I do that?”

  “Younger sons rarely inherit fortunes,” Mr. Dodgson commented. “Ingram’s grudge was understandable. You, on the other hand, I find most despicable.”

  Dean Liddell regarded the undergraduate as if he were some species of insect. “I shall have to consider whether this man should be held on criminal charges or expelled. Mr. Chatsworth, you will remain in your rooms until such time as I have consulted with the rest of the Senior Students. Your father will have to be informed, of course.”

  “But that might kill the poor old chap!” Chatsworth exclaimed.

  “You should have thought of that before you picked up that oar and struck Ingram down with it,” Mr. Dodgson said severely. “It is given to all of us, Mr. Chatsworth, to face our trials in this life. Your moment came when you saw Ingram go into the water. Miss Laurel will stand her trial in public. You, on the other hand, will have to live the rest of your miserable life with the knowledge that you could have assisted Ingram. Instead, you killed him.”

  “And a jolly good thing, too,” Chatsworth burst out. “I could see him, in his digs, with his box of papers, just gloating over whatever he had. I knew what sort of man he was.”

  “Then it was your duty to go to the police,” Dean Liddell said, with a nod toward Inspector Truscott.

  Chatsworth lost some of his bravado. “I couldn’t do that, sir. I ask you! What business is it of theirs?”

  “Blackmail is our business, young man. Catching criminals is what we’re here for,” Inspector Truscott reminded him. He turned to Dean Liddell. “And now you’ve put me in a very nasty spot, sir. I’ve got a woman in charge who thinks she’s killed a man when she didn’t, and this young sprout did it and we can’t touch him.”

  Dean Liddell’s frown deepened. “I must dine in Hall,” he muttered. “Inspector, you must leave now. I shall inform you of the decision taken by the Senior Students tomorrow.”

  Chatsworth pouted. “Am I to have no dinner then? I can’t very well sit in Hall with everyone glowering at me as if I were a common criminal.”

  “Telling!” Dean Liddell called out.

  The ubiquitous scout edged into the sitting room.

  “You may serve Mr. Chatsworth dinner in his rooms,” Dean Liddell ordered.

  “I have dinner ready to serve here, sir,” Telling said stolidly. “Since the lady cannot dine in Hall. I shall instruct one of the scouts to make up a plate for Mr. Chatsworth, if that is your wish.”

  “I must consult with the rest of the Senior Students,” Dean Liddell muttered. He hurried out of the room, leaving Seward to take charge of Chatsworth, and Inspector Truscott to stamp down the stairs in frustration.

  Chapter 29

  Now we shall have our dinner,” Mr. Dodgson announced, as Telling placed a tureen of soup on the table.

  “And you must tell us how you put it all together,” Touie said, as her husband seated her ceremoniously.

  “I do not speak while I eat. It avoids choking.” Mr. Dodgson took a spoonful of soup and nodded appreciatively at Telling. “Quite good.”

  Telling’s face remained impassive, but the flush of pleasure betrayed his emotions. “I could do no less, sir. The honor of the House demanded that your guests be served a proper dinner.”

  “Of course. You may continue to serve dinner, Telling.”

  Dr. Doyle leaned over to his wife. “Are you quite sure you are up to this, Touie? I can see you back to the White Hart …”

  “Nonsense!” Touie sipped at her soup. “I was a little shaken, of course. One does not expect to be choked! But Miss Bell had her trusty cricket bat and the will to use it. She is a most remarkable young woman.”

  “As are you!” Dr. Doyle gazed fondly at his wife. Mr. Dodgson looked pointedly down into his soup.

  “Surely you can speak between courses,” Touie urged him. “However did you light on that young man, Chatsworth?”

  “I did not light on him,” Mr. Dodgson said testily. “He was there all along. He was Lord Farlow’s friend and knew about his debts. He was instrumental in concocting the verses that were sent to Miss Cahill. He has rooms that overlook St. Aldgates and could easily have overheard Ingram’s challenge.”

  “But did he know about the photograph?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “That, I suspect, was Ingram’s contribution to the plot. He knew of the existence of the photograph because Miss Laurel had told him of it when they were, er, intimate. When he saw the verses and learned of the use to which they were to be put, he must have spoken to young Farlow; and the two of them conspired to destroy the reputation, not only of the barrier to the Roswell fortune, but the school as well.” Mr. Dodgson stopped speaking and devoted himself to consuming his fish.

  Dr. Doyle had no problem eating and talking at the same time. “Then Farlow had Ingram copy the photograph as well as the verses,” he said. “Farlow sent Ingram up to Lady Margaret Hall to deliver the packet. I’m surprised that Ingram and Miss Laurel never met.”

  “Why should they?” Touie said suddenly. “Ingram would have taken good care to keep out of sight, and Miss Laurel is a reclusive sort of person, who does not go out in society. Poor woman, how dreadfully she must have suffered! Having to hide her true identity, watching her manners and her speech, and all for nothing!”

  “Her actions when she met with Ingram are understandable but cannot be condoned,” Mr. Dodgson. “One cannot go about knocking one’s former associates on the head with punt paddles.”

  “Did she mean to kill him, I wonder?” Touie took another bite of whiting. “This is quite good, Mr. Dodgson.”

  “I don’t know about Ingram, but she certainly meant to kill you,” Dr. Doyle said fiercely. “And that, my dear, I will not allow!”

  The whiting was removed and another course produced.

  “Fowl, sir.” Telling offered the chicken, properly carved, and set a small gravy boat on the table.

  “What led you to suspect Miss Laurel?” Touie asked, as Telling continued to oversee the meal.

  “During our first interview with Miss Cahill and her young friends, Miss Laurel said that Miss Cahill was a pretty and intelligent child. It struck me as an odd remark, coming from one who, to my knowledge, was not acquainted with Miss Cahill before coming to Lady Margaret Hall. It was you, Mrs. Doyle, who gave me the information that led me to suspect that Miss Laurel was not all that she appeared to be. I had not considered the child’s maid in my calculations.”

  Touie blushed pink and glanced at her husband. “Arthur was useful to you, too,” she reminded their host.

  “Of course. Dr. Doyle’s contribution was invaluable. You gave me the facts, sir. Your report led to the conclusion that there were two persons connected with Ingram’s death, not one.” Mr. Dodgson looked fondly at his young guests.

  “I wonder why he did it,” Touie said, as Telling signaled the scouts to set up the next course.

  “Misplaced loyalty, I expect,” Dr. Doyle surmised. “These public school chaps tend to stick together.”

  “Mr. Chatsworth is the youngest of a large family,” Mr. Dodgson said, laying aside his fork. “In fact, his father was up before I was. I recall being told of the athletic exploits of Chatsworth. I was tutor to the eldest Chatsworth son, and there were several daughters as well as the young man who retrieved us from our plight in February, Dr. Doyle. I understand that you, too, are the eldest son in a large family.”

  Dr. Doyle nodded. “Yes, sir. I have a younger brother and three sisters. My father is … unwell. They all depend upon me for support.”

  Mr. Dodgson sighed. “I know how difficult that can be, Dr. Doyle. I, too, am the eldest son of a large family. My brothers and sisters look to me for guidance and some monetary support. Mr. Chatsworth, on the other hand, has always been the cosseted baby of his family, the runt of the litter, as the farmers say. He is small and dark, in a family of large, fair persons. H
e has, perhaps, felt like the, er, odd man out, to use a sporting term. His friendship with young Farlow means everything to him. I doubt that it has gone so far as, er, some, but Chatsworth may well have thought it worth the effort to remove Ingram from this earth before he could do more damage to his friend Farlow.”

  “An altruistic murder!” Touie cried out.

  “In a sense,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But murder all the same. I cannot approve of Dean Liddell’s actions in permitting the boy to go free. Once one has killed, one may kill again.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Martin will be able to convince his friend to come forward and accept his due punishment,” Touie said with a sigh. “He seems like a very sincere young man. Miss Cahill could do much worse for herself.”

  “I only hope that they will not convince him to join them out of some misplaced loyalty,” Mr. Dodgson countered. “I would not like to see a young man’s career ruined because of evil companions.”

  Telling appeared with a plate of small cakes. “Meringues,” he said. “The specialty of the House.”

  “How lovely!” Touie tasted the treat.

  “Excellent dinner!” Dr. Doyle was enthusiastic in his praise.

  “Thank you, sir.” Telling bowed. “We could not let Mr. Dodgson’s guests leave thinking that the House was deficient in any respect.”

  “We shall have our tea in the sitting room.” Mr. Dodgson ordered. “And then, Dr. Doyle, you must allow your good lady to rest. She has had a long and strenuous day, and you will have to continue your journey tomorrow.”

  Dr. Doyle’s eye fell on the portfolio spread across Mr. Dodgson’s desk. “I see you’ve been reading my new story,” he blurted out.

  “Ah, yes.” Mr. Dodgson cleared his throat. “I must confess, Dr. Doyle, that yesterday’s events preyed upon my mind so much that I could not quite bring myself to get past the first page. However, I assure you that I will read it tonight and present the manuscript to you tomorrow morning before you continue your travels.”

  “In that case, sir, I will take Touie back to the White Hart so that you can finish it,” Dr. Doyle told him.

  “I will walk with you, while you enjoy your cigar,” Mr. Dodgson offered. “And I will join you for breakfast tomorrow before you must be on your way so that I can return this fascinating tale.”

  With that, Dr. Doyle had to be satisfied. The Doyles and Mr. Dodgson parted at Tom Gate as the great clock was striking nine, the magic hour by which time all students had to be inside or otherwise accounted for.

  Mr. Dodgson bowed courteously to Touie and offered his hand to Dr. Doyle.

  “This has been a most memorable visit,” he said. “I regret that you did not have the opportunity to continue your research into the events of 1685. If you can come back to Oxford, I shall attempt to find some of the relevant documents for you.”

  Dr. Doyle knew an apology when he heard one and decided that he, too, could be generous. “And when I do,” he promised, “I shall make sure to give you ample warning so that you can arrange for me to read the documents under University supervision.”

  “And I sincerely hope that the next time we come to Oxford there will not be any nasty murders,” Touie told her husband, as they crossed the road to the White Hart.

  Across Oxford, the day’s activities were discussed and rehashed, over tea, coffee, port, and sherry.

  In the Senior Common Room at Christ Church, Mr. Dodgson was forced to listen to his colleagues’ rambling discourse, while he went over the chain of logic he had built up. Was Dean Liddell right to let Chatsworth escape the gallows he so richly deserved simply because he was the son of a peer? Chatsworth had not planned to murder Ingram, but he had taken advantage of an opportunity given to him by a distraught woman, who would undoubtedly suffer for her crime.

  “Ah, Dodgson.” Dean Liddell stood before him, sherry in hand. “I trust Dr. and Mrs. Doyle enjoyed their dinner?”

  Mr. Dodgson nodded. “I felt that since last night’s dinner was quite spoilt by Ingram’s defection, I should remedy the situation by offering another dinner in its place. Telling was of the same mind. We cannot allow guests to leave the House with a bad impression of our hospitality.”

  “Nice young fellow, Doyle.” Vere Bayne came up to join the conversation. “A trifle pugnacious, but those Scots are, I believe. Doctor, you said?”

  “Yes. And a writer as well,” Mr. Dodgson hastened to assure his friends that he had not sunk so low in the social scale as to hobnob with a mere general practitioner. “In fact, I must now leave you and continue reading his latest work. It is a most ingenious piece of fiction.”

  “Fiction?” Vere Bayne’s bushy eyebrows signaled his astonishment at the eminent mathematician slumming, intellectually speaking.

  “Of a very unusual order,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I suspect we shall be hearing more from Dr. Doyle very shortly. Good evening.”

  Mr. Dodgson hurried back to his rooms. He had promised to read this story, and he never went back on his word. He sat down at his desk, adjusted the lamp to the most effective angle, and picked up the manuscript from where he had laid it down the previous night.

  He was soon engrossed in the story. The doctor had taken rooms with a most peculiar fellow, who did chemistry experiments in the sitting room, shot holes in the walls, took drugs, and had very odd friends. Eventually, the doctor and his friend were requested to attend the scene of a murder.

  Mr. Dodgson did not approve of murder as a subject for recreational reading, but this story was no hodgepodge of mysticism and fantasy. Instead, the tale was set in modern London, and the characters were ordinary people. Mr. Dodgson bent over the manuscript, totally wrapped up in this tale of deduction and revenge.

  It was only when he heard a series of shouts from the quad that he came out of the enthrallment of the story.

  “What is going on?” Mr. Dodgson called out.

  “Someone’s fallen out a window,” came the reply.

  “Dear me!” Mr. Dodgson hurried down to the quad, where scouts, students, and dons were clustered around the lane next to the mortuary.

  “Let me through!” Mr. Dodgson shouldered his way around the crowd.

  There was no need for anyone to call for assistance. The group parted to allow the Dean to march unimpeded to the fallen student.

  Minnie Chatsworth lay on the ground, groaning, with Constable Effingham triumphantly standing over him.

  “Mr. Chatsworth,” Dean Liddell said, in his most awe-inspiring tone, “what are you doing there?”

  Gregory Martin leaned out the upper window. “He was, er, doing a bunk,” the prospective vicar explained.

  “I couldn’t wait for you to send me down,” Chatsworth said, teeth clenched against the pain. “I thought I could get out. I’ve done it before. Can’t think why I slipped this time.”

  Mr. Dodgson was examining the thick ivy that covered the ancient wall like a living tapestry. “The rain has left this ivy quite slick and slippery,” he said. “Rather like yourself, Mr. Chatsworth. I had thought better of you.”

  “If undergraduates are using this ivy as a means of exit, I shall have the ivy removed,” the Dean decided. He turned to the uniformed constable. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “I saw this-yer chap comin’ down the walls,” Constable Effingham stated. “Bein’ stationed here to watch the premises, I accosted this-yer individual.”

  “He startled me, and I fell down,” Chatsworth said.

  Dr. Kitchin pushed through the crowd of chattering students and bent over the fallen undergraduate. “Broken collarbone,” he announced, with a twist of his lips that expressed his opinion of undergraduates so clumsy as to fall off the ivy when they were trying to get in or out without being seen.

  “Best take him to Radcliffe Infirmary,” Dean Liddell ordered. “Constable, you may inform Inspector Truscott that after due consideration, I shall not impede the cause of justice. Mr. Chatsworth, you may consider yourself under arrest. Tellin
g, what is it?”

  The chief scout approached deferentially. “I have taken the liberty of sending to Radcliffe Infirmary, sir. An ambulance wagon should be here momentarily.”

  The aforesaid ambulance arrived in a few minutes. Two burly orderlies carried off the slender body of the undergraduate, while the college as a whole chattered in wonder.

  In the upper rooms, Nevil Farlow and Gregory Martin looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Poor chap.” Martin sighed. “I had no idea he was so devoted to you, Nev.”

  “Devoted?” Farlow snarled. “He clung to me like a leech! Ever since Eton … I say, Greg, what can I do about Miss Cahill?”

  “I intend to call on Miss Cahill tomorrow at Lady Margaret Hall to see if she is all right. If you like, I can offer your regrets at having put her to so much inconvenience.” Martin adjusted his spectacles.

  “I mean, about the, er, squib.”

  “Best forgotten, old chap. The least said about that, the better.” With which comforting thought, Mr. Martin left his old playmate and schoolfellow to compose a letter that would at one time exonerate himself from all blame in the matter and suggest that Miss Cahill use her good influence with the wealthy Mr. Roswell so that some of that wealth might find its way into the pockets of Lord Nevil Farlow.

  At Lady Margaret Hall, Miss Wordsworth’s arrival was greeted with shrill cries for further information.

  “Where is Miss Laurel?”

  “Did she really attack Mrs. Doyle?”

  “Is it true that she was never a governess at all?”

  Miss Wordsworth wearily removed her hat and allowed her subordinate to lead her to the dinner table, where some cold chicken and hot tea awaited her.

  “Miss Laurel has been arrested,” Miss Wordsworth informed her students. “She has confessed to attacking James Ingram, the man whose body was found behind Christ Church last night.”

  “But why?” That was Gertrude Bell, in front of the pack.

  “It seems they were previously acquainted. Miss Laurel was originally in menial service, and this Ingram person was threatening to expose her as a fraud.”