The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “How dreadful!” Miss Johnson exclaimed, but it was hard to say whether she was more upset about Ingram’s threats or Miss Laurel’s previous servile status.

  “I have sent for my solicitor to find adequate representation for her,” Miss Wordsworth said. “We can do no less.”

  “Of course not!” Gertrude declared.

  “And to think I didn’t even recognize her!” Dianna wailed.

  “The unfortunate woman,” Mary added.

  “We must stand by her,” Gertrude said stoutly.

  “Of course we shall,” Miss Wordsworth decreed. “But I suggest that you young ladies retire to your own rooms. It is quite late, and it has been a most exhausting day.”

  Miss Johnson shooed the girls upstairs and returned to find Miss Wordsworth in her sitting room, her head in her hands.

  “I blame myself for this,” the older woman moaned. “I should have been more careful. I should not have taken Miss Laurel at her word.”

  “You had no way of knowing,” Miss Johnson said, patting Miss Wordsworth’s hand. “We all accepted her.”

  “The question is, how can we keep the name of Lady Margaret Hall out of the gutter press? It was hard enough to get the University to permit our girls to attend lectures and receive tutorials before this happened. Now …” Miss Wordsworth let her hands sketch a large question mark in the air.

  Miss Johnson frowned. “Perhaps, if you could have a word with the magistrate, we could convince Miss Laurel to plead to a lesser charge, such as assault and battery, rather than murder. She would serve a prison term, I suppose, and there would be less sensational nonsense in the press.”

  Miss Wordsworth took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and gave her second-in-command a watery smile. “That is exactly what I shall do, Elizabeth,” she said. “And now, I shall have another cup of tea.”

  Inspector Truscott was almost ready to return to his own family when he got the news that Herman Chatsworth had been caught while trying to escape and had been transported to the Radcliffe Infirmary with a broken collarbone.

  “And there he will stay,” Truscott said grimly. “Let’s see his noble father get his son out of this mess!”

  “He’ll try,” Sergeant Everett said gloomily.

  “That he will,” Inspector Truscott said. “But the college has clearly washed its hands of the boy by putting him into hospital. Murder’s no college prank, and this Chatsworth’s gone his length. He’ll stand his trial like everyone else.”

  “And pigs may fly,” Everett said quietly, as he watched the Inspector marching out the door.

  Chapter 30

  The rain of the previous night had left Oxford cleansed and ready for another spring day. Dr. Doyle and his wife dealt with the minutiae of leaving the venerable White Hart Inn, while Mr. Dodgson waited for them in the breakfast room, where chafing dishes had been set up on a long table.

  He greeted them with a bow and handed Dr. Doyle the precious manuscript, neatly tied in its portfolio.

  “Thank you for reading it, sir,” Dr. Doyle said, accepting the pasteboard portfolio.

  “I was kept up all night,” Mr. Dodgson admitted. “A very interesting tale, well-presented, and quite logical. Except for the central portion, which seems to me to be beside the point.”

  “But that provides the motive for the murder,” Dr. Doyle argued.

  “A love story set in the past?” Mr. Dodgson looked up as a waiter filled his cup with coffee.

  “As we have seen ourselves, sir, events in the past tend to have long-reaching effects,” Dr. Doyle reminded him.

  “And I cannot entirely approve of the element of taking drugs. It is a dreadful vice. Some of our more adventurous undergraduates have indulged in it. I, myself, was once accused of experimenting with cannabis, due to the illustration Tenniel put into Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland showing the Caterpillar and the hookah.”

  Dr. Doyle explained, “There have been a number of experiments made with cocaine …”

  “Not upon your person, I sincerely hope!” Mr. Dodgson exclaimed.

  Touie had provided her husband with a plate of eggs and toast. Now she sat down and attacked her own breakfast. “What will happen to that poor woman?” she asked, to forestall any more exchanges between the two men that might lead to additional misunderstandings.

  “She will go before the magistrate today,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “Miss Wordsworth has offered to see to her defense, and I am sure Miss Laurel will be properly represented.”

  “And that dreadful young man?” Touie had no sympathy for Minnie Chatsworth.

  “That is another matter,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Last night he attempted to leave the House through the window. He lost his grip on the ivy and fell.”

  “Not to his death?” Touie gasped.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Dodgson assured her. “He merely broke his collarbone, an accident quite common among undergraduates. He was taken to Radcliffe Infirmary, where he is now under police guard.”

  Dr. Doyle considered the fate of young Chatsworth. “Is he to stand his trial?”

  Mr. Dodgson took a deep breath. “That, of course, is difficult to say. His father is, after all, a well-known member of the House of Lords, and his older brother is Undersecretary to the Home Secretary. They may well feel that it would be best if their young son and brother should not air the family linen, as it were. I suspect that Mr. Chatsworth may find himself on a ship to America or Australia quite soon.”

  Dr. Doyle frowned into his coffee cup. “I don’t like it,” he pronounced. “Poor Miss Laurel, or Lowell, or whoever she is, will go to prison, while this young sprig goes free.”

  “I do not think he will ever be quite free,” Mr. Dodgson said. “He has lost the respect of his friends and comrades, and there will always be a shadow over his reputation that will be difficult for him to overcome.”

  “Arthur,” Touie reminded her husband, “we shall miss our train!”

  Dr. Doyle gathered up his manuscript and offered his hand to Mr. Dodgson, who shook it gravely.

  “Good-bye, Dr. Doyle. It has been a most … interesting visit.”

  “I hope I was of some help, sir.”

  “You were indeed, Dr. Doyle.”

  “Perhaps you will advise me on some other stories?” Dr. Doyle hinted.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I think you will do far better on your own, Dr. Doyle.”

  “I was thinking,” Dr. Doyle said, as Touie urged him toward their waiting cab, “that I might sign myself slightly differently. I noted that many of your scholars use two names instead of one, as in Mr. Vere Bayne. Perhaps I should insist on my name appearing as A. Conan Doyle?”

  “It would be quite distinctive.”

  “Arthur! The cab is waiting!”

  Once more the two men shook hands and bowed. “I think you should send your story around to several publishers,” Mr. Dodgson advised. “It is bound to find a place; and when it does, I venture to say that the tables will be turned, and my old friend will be known as A. Conan Doyle’s uncle.”

  AFTERWORD

  Miss Daphne Laurel, born Daisy Lowell, was convicted of aggravated assault upon the person of James Ingram and sentenced to fifteen years at hard labor. She was a model prisoner, assisting in the prison school, and was paroled after only seven years. She continued to teach inmates, becoming known as the Prison Angel, until her death in 1914.

  Further investigation into the activities of James Ingram regarding the contents of his suitcase and the attempt to influence the Eights Week boat races was blocked by an influential group of well-connected gentlemen, some of whom were close to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.

  Mr. Herman “Minnie” Chatsworth was held at the Radcliffe Infirmary pending his arraignment. Before he could be presented to the magistrate, Lord Digby had his son removed from the hospital, insisting that the boy should be treated at home. He was then put onto the next ship leaving for America to join his maternal uncle in Wyomin
g. He never got to the ranch, preferring to live by his wits and charm instead. He eluded the police of several major cities, while operating as a jewel thief, card sharp, and swindler, until he learned of the deaths of his older brothers’ sons in World War I. Thinking that he could now claim his inheritance as the last of the Digbys, he sailed for England on the Lusitania. He is presumed to have been among those drowned when the ship was sunk.

  Mr. Nevil Farlow left Oxford in disgrace. However, when he explained the circumstances, his mother was completely sympathetic and thought the verses were very amusing (if a trifle strong). She showed them to one of her old friends, who asked if the young man could come up with more. Nevil Farlow found himself much in demand as a creator of lyrics for music hall ditties. When his father died in 1895, Lord Nevil Berwick shocked London society by marrying the young lady best known for singing his ballads, Miss Cecilia “Cissie” Huntingdon. They produced several theatrical shows and three children, including a daughter who eventually was educated at Lady Margaret Hall.

  Mr. Gregory Martin was duly ordained in the autumn of 1886. He and Miss Dianna Cahill were married the following year. They lived a long and happy life together, during which he served as vicar of several different parishes, and she worked cheerfully alongside him.

  Mr. Dodgson gave several lectures on logic at Lady Margaret Hall. He also published the facsimile version of the original Alice’s Adventures Underground in 1886.

  Dr. Doyle copied out his story (now titled A Study in Scarlet) and sent it to several magazine editors who had previously accepted his writings. They found various flaws in the story and refused to publish it. He did not give up but sent it out again … but that is another story.

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  Henry George Liddell was the dean of Christ Church from 1855 to 1891. Mr. Dodgson’s friendship with the dean’s children is well-known, especially since it resulted in the two great works of fantasy, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. However, the two men were often at odds over college policy, and the relationship became even more strained when Mrs. Liddell decided that Mr. Dodgson’s attentions to her daughter were becoming too particular.

  Alice Liddell married Maj. Reginald Hargreaves in 1880. Mr. Dodgson did not correspond with her until 1885, when he asked if he might transcribe the book he made for her twenty years before through a new photographic process, zinc facsimile. Mrs. Hargreaves loaned the book, which was photographed and then returned to her. Through a long set of circumstances, the book was sold several times and eventually was given to the British Museum, where it is now on display for all to see.

  Reginald Fairclough, Dr. Vere Bayne, Mr. Barclay Thompson, and Dr. Kitchin were all senior students in 1886. Telling was the chief steward in charge of the Senior Common Room; Seward was proctor, in charge of keeping the students in order (rowdy teenagers are difficult to handle at the best of times).

  Miss Elizabeth Wordsworth was the founder and lady principal of Lady Margaret Hall, one of the first two colleges for women at Oxford, the other being Somerville. St. Hilda’s College was added as a residence for less affluent students.

  Gertrude Bell became a well-known explorer, archaeologist, and shaper of Middle East policy. Mary Talbot worked in settlement houses until she died at a relatively young age of complications in childbirth.

  The Covered Market is one of the major attractions of central Oxford. The statue of Mercury had been removed early in the nineteenth century and was not replaced until after the time of this story. Vincent’s is still there, on a side street just north of Christ Church.

  Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle never met. The events of this story are meant to be read as fiction.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I consulted several biographies of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson to get the information for this story. In particular, I recommend: Cohen, Morton. Lewis Carroll: A biography. New York: Viking, 1995.

  Stoffel, Stephanie Lovett. Lewis Carroll in Wonderland: The life and times of Alice and her creator. New York: Abrams Discoveries, 1993.

  Jones, Jo Elwyn, and J. Francis Gladstone. The Alice Companion: A guide to Lewis Carroll’s Alice books. New York: Macmillan Press, 1998.

  Information about Miss Elizabeth Wordsworth and Lady Margaret Hall came from: Battiscome, Georgia. Reluctant Pioneer, a life of Elizabeth Wordsworth. Constable & Co., 1978.

  I am also deeply indebted to Mr. Fred Wharton, chief custodian at Christ Church, who gave me the full “Lewis Carroll” tour; and Ms. Joelle Hoggan of Lady Margaret Hall, who arranged for me to tour the gardens with a stalwart young undergraduate.

  And, as always, I must thank three people who are always there for me: my ever-helpful editor, Keith Kahla; my enthusiastic agent, Cherry Weiner; and my husband, Murray Rogow, without whom none of this would have been possible.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the The Charles Dodgson and Arthur Conan Doyle Mysteries

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘Workers of London! Listen to my words!’ The man on the wooden box that still gave off the aroma of its previous contents, disinfectant soap, waved his arms at the crowd and shouted into the rising wind.

  ‘England is in dire straits! The forces of labour have been ground down by the capitalists!’

  Indeed, the people filling Fleet Street were aware that the previous three months had seen weather the likes of which had not been met in England since the reign of Charles II, when the Thames froze solid enough to hold a fair on the ice. The Gulf Stream had unaccountably been derelict in its duty to provide moderating warm winds that would keep the British Isles green, resulting in a disastrously cold winter. From Christmas of 1885 to Candlemas of 1886, the temperatures had been well below freezing all over England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.

  The fall in the temperature had resulted in a decline in the working place. The ground froze hard as iron, leaving agricultural workers unable to break ground. Road construction was impossible under the severe conditions, which left the gangs of casual labourers without labour to do. Coal mining came to a halt, and coal became more and more expensive. Those men who were out of work could no longer afford to heat their shanties, shacks or hovels, and even the fortunate few who could find work had to make do with scraps of wood gleaned from rubbish heaps.

  ‘My brothers, have you heard the results of the debates? Do you know that the division has resulted in the complete defeat of the Poor Aid Bill?’ The speaker on the soapbox waved his arms, causing his black cloak to flap in the quickening wind and nearly losing his high black hat in the process.

  If the crowd on Fleet Street had not heard the news, they were now informed. Already, cabs were pulling into the narrow street with reporters scrambling to give their hastily scribbled notes to their city editors to be worked into the late editions. There had been more heat than light in the words of the honourable gentlemen of the House of Commons, and what it amounted to was the information that the poor are always with us, that the House had no control of the weather, and that there would be no national alleviation of the general misery. Any assistance given to the destitute would have to come from the parish, town, borough or village in which said paupers abided. In the case of London, that meant the Lord Mayor’s Fund, which, according to the reporters coming from the eastern end of Fleet Street, was at an all-time low. Clearly, the good people of London had been dilatory in their consideration of those less fortunate than themselves in this year of disasters.

  Even as the reporters were bringing their stories in, the news had got out through the greater medium of gossip. The cleaners and porters at Westminster were more vociferous than the gentlemen of the Press. The version of the goings-on in Parliament that filtered down the chain from Whitehall through the Strand and into the back alleys of Soho and Seven Dials was far more inflammatory than anything that would ever be printed.

  The speaker drew a crudely printed handbill out of his cloak and waved it at the crowd. ‘My brothers, the Fair Trade League has organized a
meeting tonight in Trafalgar Square to demand work for those willing to do it. I tell you, friends and brothers in labour, this is not enough! We must unite and throw off the chains of oppression! The time is now!’

  The time was nearly three o’clock, and the men of Fleet Street had better things on their collective minds than the words of radicals like Henry Hyndman on his soapbox. The afternoon editions had to be printed so that every literate Londoner could be informed of the latest news. Huge wagons with rolls of paper took up most of the space in the road, blocking omnibuses and cabs, while the horses whinnied and the drivers vented their displeasure in language that turned the air about them blue. Brawny men in knitted jerseys wrestled the rolls into the cellar printing plants, where compositors had already set the type and the steam was up, firing the rotary presses that would eventually spew out the afternoon editions of the London newspapers.

  ‘Workers of London!’ Hyndman shouted into the rapidly increasing crowd. ‘Do not be led by those who would compromise with your oppressors. Do not follow the Fair Trade League, who would delay the inevitable. Today, London; tomorrow, the world!’

  Hyndman’s words were faintly heard in the offices of Youth’s Companion, in the building just opposite his stand. It was a tall, narrow brick building that had been built at the time of the present queen’s coronation, when gas lighting, water mains, and basic chimneys had been considered adequate amenities for the workers therein. A panelled door surmounted by an elaborately carved lintel led to the upper three floors devoted to the business of the publication, while the ground floor held a small bookshop.

  At the moment, only one of the upper floors was occupied, since the only fires lit in the building were those in the offices of Mr Basset and his assistant, Mr Andrew Levin. One writer, two copy editors, and an artist huddled around Mr Levin’s fire, warming their hands and effectively shielding anyone else from getting the benefit of what little heat the fire provided.