“I really must be going on,” Mr. Dodgson said, disentangling himself from Dr. Doyle’s enthusiastic grasp. “I m-must find Miss Marbury! There is no t-time to be lost!”
He turned as if to move off.
Touie took him by the arm. “You cannot go off without some refreshment, Mr. Dodgson. Wherever the child is, your starving will not bring her back any quicker.”
“Touie’s right,” Dr. Doyle said. “Mrs. Keene, could we have some tea?”
“Tea’s extra,” the landlady reminded him.
“Hang the expense! We’re on our honeymoon!” Doyle exclaimed.
Mrs. Keene smiled suddenly, revealing a set of well-manufactured dentures. “Honeymoon, is it? Well, then, you just step into the parlor, and I’ll bring you tea. And I’ll have your things brought in, then. Hi, Jemmy! Look sharp!”
Jemmy, a large youth in a striped shirt, leather waistcoat, and velveteen trousers, wrestled with the Doyle’s modest portmanteaus, while the guests were shown into the front parlor, a hermetically sealed room crammed with furniture. A carved and stuffed red-upholstered sofa and matching chairs jostled a whatnot filled with figurines, cup-and-saucer sets, and carefully painted shells. A carved table was placed before the sofa, adorned with several tinted engravings of the Queen and the late Prince Consort. Two more chairs, draped with crocheted antimacassars, were placed under the windows, flanked by large urns filled with dried reeds. The window itself was framed with purple velvet draperies over lace curtains.
“Here is the front room,” the landlady stated unnecessarily. “You may use it for your visitor, if you like.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Keene? It is Mrs. Keene?” Touie asked.
“It is. Keene was my husband, but not as keen as all that!” The landlady chuckled at her own wit.
“I really cannot stay to tea,” Mr. Dodgson fussed. “My friend Barclay and his good wife are expecting me for dinner, with Miss Marbury. Whatever am I to tell them? How can I face her father? Lord Richard Marbury, you know, one of Mr. Gladstone’s most devoted and useful backbenchers.”
“Indeed!” Doyle broke in. “I am the secretary of the Portsmouth Liberal Unionist Club. I will do anything in my power to assist Mr. Gladstone, in or out of office.”
“Quite kind of you, I am sure,” Mr. Dodgson said, his voice growing shriller, “but quite unnecessary. Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Doyle.” He suddenly stopped. “How odd. I knew a man named Doyle. Dicky Doyle, of Punch. I called on him when I was in London. He died, you know. I thought of him to do the illustrations for Alice but Tenniel was so much better—”
“If you mean Richard Doyle, he was my uncle,” Dr. Doyle said. “My father’s brother, actually. I was saddened to hear of his death. He was rather kind to me when I was a boy.”
“Indeed. Fancy that! If you are Dicky Doyle’s nephew, I will take tea with you after all.”
Mr. Dodgson settled back into his chair just as Mrs. Keene arrived with a tray containing the teapot, cups, cream and sugar, and a plate of suspiciously pink cakes, all of which she placed ceremoniously on the table in front of Touie.
“You just pour out, my dear. First time, eh?” With a vast chuckle, Mrs. Keene surveyed the honeymoon couple and their guest.
“Thank you, Mrs. Keene, that will be all.” With the aplomb of a seasoned hostess, Touie poured the tea and dealt with cream and sugar. Mrs. Keene sighed sentimentally and left the couple to entertain their elderly guest.
Mr. Dodgson stirred his tea. “As I was saying, Miss Marbury was meant to come to me for two weeks in my lodgings in Eastbourne while her father is occupied with a Bill before Parliament. All this is quite mysterious. I do not understand why she was abducted; I am not even sure why her father sent her to me in the first place.”
Dr. Doyle frowned over his tea. “Then, when the stationmaster quizzed you back there …?”
Mr. Dodgson looked from one young face to the other in bewilderment. “I received a letter from Lord Richard Marbury two weeks ago asking if I could take his daughter Alicia to stay with me, as I often do have young ladies to stay with me, at Eastbourne. My land-lady would be able to attend the young lady, as she often does. The domestic who traveled with her was to return to London on the next train.”
“Of course,” Doyle said.
“And now this! Someone impersonating me, removing the child from Brighton Station. I tell you, Dr. Doyle, I do not know what to make of it.”
The Doyles exchanged knowing glances over the teapot. The young doctor cleared his throat and said carefully, “It is possible, you know, that the child was removed to one of those, um, establishments of the sort one reads about in the articles in the Pall Mall Gazette.”
Mr. Dodgson exploded: “Do not mention that filthy, scandal-ridden publication to me! Most assuredly, do not mention it in the presence of your wife! Never have I read such an atrocious, disgusting account of perversity as those articles, which are polluting the eyes and ears of everyone capable of reading them. I have written to Lord Salisbury on the subject. My letter was published last week in the St. James’ Gazette, under my own name!” He set down his teacup in his agitation.
Dr. Doyle’s eyebrows rose. “As to the subject of the articles, sir, I can assure you that as a medical man, they come as no shock to me. When I was a student in Edinburgh, the charity wards were filled with such pathetic cases, children used brutally for the pleasures of those who should have been succoring the poor. Touie is as one with me on this subject, isn’t that right, my dear? We abhor the filthy trade, but we must admit that it exists. If those articles can alleviate some of that misery by exposing the procurers and their customers …”
Mr. Dodgson shook his head violently. “No, no, Dr. Doyle. It is not that I doubt the veracity of the claims. That there are such villains, I am quite certain. That such things must be stopped is the business of the police, and the courts. In fact, Lord Richard Marbury is at this very moment leading the fight for the Bill that will extend the age of consent to sixteen, and force criminal penalties on those who indulge in such abominations. No, sir, it is the tone of the revelations that is so repugnant to me. The gloating, if you will. That, and the fact that the writer of the articles, the editor of the newspaper, and the proprietor of the publication are doing it, not to improve the lot of those unfortunate children, but to make money. There, sir, is the true villainy!” Mr. Dodgson looked fiercely about him, as if to find one of the offending persons in the parlor.
Touie sipped at her tea thoughtfully. “I see you care very much for children, Mr. Dodgson,” she said softly.
“I love children—except for boys,” Mr. Dodgson replied. “I have had many happy hours in the company of young girls. In fact, on one occasion …” He stopped suddenly, and put his lips together, as if a wayward word might escape.
Touie blinked suddenly. “Did you say Alice?” she asked, just as her husband shouted, “Dodgson! I knew I was familiar with the name!”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Dodgson murmured, shifting in his chair. He shuffled his feet as he tried to rise, but the plush upholstery held him fast.
Dr. Doyle spoke first. “Are you the Mr. Dodgson of Oxford?”
“I am certainly a scholar of Christ Church, Oxford,” Mr. Dodgson admitted.
“Then, sir, I must congratulate you on your work. I found it most enlightening.”
“Enlightening is not the adjective generally used to describe my writings,” Mr. Dodgson said wryly.
“I know of no other phrase to describe Euclid and His Modern Rivals,” Dr. Doyle said enthusiastically. “I am the secretary of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society. We all read your work on mathematics with great interest. It made clear a great deal that was obscure.”
Mr. Dodgson looked severely at his admirer. “It was written as a text for Oxford undergraduates.”
Dr. Doyle grinned infectiously. “Surely, sir, you must permit a few of us who have not had the opportunity to attend your lectures to absorb your knowl
edge at second hand, as it were?”
Touie had been busy with the teapot while her husband ws enthusing. Now she said, “I don’t know about Euclid, but I do know about Alice. Mr. Dodgson,” her voice lowered conspiratorially, “I have heard that you are really Lewis Carroll, who wrote my favorite book. I read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland over and over when I was a girl. I always felt so sorry for the Dormouse, being put into the teapot. And I never did learn ‘Why is a raven like a writing-desk?’”
Her husband looked at her. “Touie, this is Mr. Dodgson, of Oxford, the mathematician, not someone who writes fairy stories.”
Mr. Dodgson began to release himself from the grip of the chair. “Mrs. Doyle, I admit to you, but only to you, because your husband’s uncle was a friend, that I am Lewis Carroll. However, this is in the strictest of confidence. I do not wish it to be generally known.”
Touie leaned over and said, with a glance at her husband, “You know, Arthur writes, too.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Dodgson had found his balance and risen to his feet.
“Only a few stories, in Cornhill magazine,” Doyle said modestly. “‘Habakuk Jepson’s Statement,’ now that was a good tale.”
“Did you write that story? Cornhill does not usually find its way into the House, but that particular tale was considered especially interesting. The Marie Celeste case, wasn’t it?” Mr. Dodgson looked around him for his hat.
“It was, thinly disguised, of course,” Dr. Doyle said proudly. “I fancy I came up with a more interesting solution to the mystery than some, eh?”
“Quite. Well, now, I must take my leave of you. I thank you for the tea, Mrs. Doyle, and now feel quite refreshed and capable of dealing with this mystery. I must notify the police of Miss Marbury’s disappearance at once.” Mr. Dodgson moved toward the door. Dr. Doyle sprang to his feet and followed him.
“You had better allow me to help you, sir,” he said. “I have some acquaintance with the local constabulary, if only on the playing field.”
Mr. Dodgson’s face was a mask of loathing. “I assume you mean cricket.”
“A grand game,” Dr. Doyle enthused. “Keeps one fit. And I just remembered, one of my friends is acting as pathologist for the Brighton Constabulary, so I have some acquaintance there, too. Now, Touie, you can get us settled in here, and I shall accompany Mr. Dodgson to the police station. And then, sir, I will see you to the Rectory, to your friend Barclay’s door.”
Mr. Dodgson looked helplessly about him, caught up in his new friend’s enthusiasm. There was no polite way for him to refuse. Touie smiled sweetly at the pair of them.
“You might as well let Arthur help you, Mr. Dodgson,” she said. “He will do it anyway. Arthur is a remarkable man, sir. He will surprise the world someday.”
Dr. Doyle had found his hat and took his new partner by the arm. “We’ll find your missing Miss,” he consoled the agitated Mr. Dodgson.
“Oh, I do hope she is safe, and unharmed,” Mr. Dodgson murmured, as they sallied forth once more.
CHAPTER 3
At that moment, Alicia Maybury was extremely put out.
She had accepted, with a minimum of pouting, the news that Cousin Bertram had come home from Eton with measles, and therefore, she could not take her usual holiday at Waltham Castle in Derbyshire. Instead, she had been promised two weeks at the seaside with her father’s old tutor, Mr. Dodgson, who was supposed to love little girls very much. She would have preferred to spend her summer with her Waltham cousins, roaming the park, playing exciting games of Robin Hood and Crusaders up and down the castle stairs, and generally getting into as much trouble as a ten-year-old child can, but Brighton sounded exciting, even with Papa’s tutor in charge. Alicia knew ways of getting around elderly gentlemen, most of whom, in her limited experience, were not really familiar with little girls.
Alicia’s life had been centered around the house in Grosvenor Square, where she stayed in the schoolroom with Miss Quiggley or the nursery with Nanny Marsh. From her vantagepoint at the top of the house, Alicia could observe the comings and goings in the hallway, where she could learn much that her governess, Miss Quiggley, either could not or would not teach her. She knew that Papa was a Very Important Man, and that Mama was Very Important in helping him, and that the best thing for a little girl to do was to obey Miss Quiggley and grow up as fast as possible, so as to make a good marriage and become the wife of a Very Important Man like Papa. All this was part of her life, and she accepted most of it, although she was not too sure why she could not be a soldier, like her mama’s father, Grandpapa Kinsale.
It had been explained to her that she would go by rail to Brighton, with her nurserymaid, Mary Ann, who would put her into Mr. Dodgson’s hands, and then return to London. Mr. Dodgson would take her to see Brighton, and then they would go to Eastbourne while Papa and Mama stayed in London. It sounded like fun, and Alicia was ready for an Adventure.
She had enjoyed the train trip, with Mary Ann. She preferred Mary Ann to Miss Quiggley as a traveling companion. Mary Ann was ready to gawk at the passing scenery without instructing her on the history of the localities they were passing, or commenting on their agricultural products. Mary Ann was a source of information on those aspects of life about which Alicia was curious, and never told her (as Nanny Marsh did) that “such things is no business of young ladies.” Alicia had begun to feel that perhaps this odd change of plan might be for the best after all. And then it had all gone wrong.
They had arrived at Brighton Station, and Mary Ann had looked around for a porter to tend to their trunks. An old gentleman had approached them and shown Mary Ann the crest on a letter (since Mary Ann did not read very well) and Mary Ann had handed Alicia and her traveling bag over to him without a murmur. Then Mary Ann had gone to send the trunks on to Eastbourne. The old gentleman had not waited for Mary Ann to come back, but had taken Alicia by the hand and had led her out to the baggage men, and without a howd’y’do, had hauled her off through the streets, on foot, to a poky house in the middle of the town on a street full of shops.
Alicia had not seen much more than a hall and a parlor before she was bundled up a flight of stairs, down a hallway lined with what looked like bedrooms, and up another flight of stairs and into an attic room, furnished with an iron bedstead, a chamberpot, and a set of hooks on the wall. There was a very small circular window set into the wall that did not look out on the sea, as she had been promised. When Alicia went to protest, she found that the door was locked. Clearly, she had been kidnapped!
Alicia sat on the bed and considered her position. She was a delicate-looking girl of ten, with a heart-shaped face surrounded by auburn curls, which were carefully brushed every day by Nanny Marsh. Few who looked at her recognized the gleam of intelligence behind her angelic blue eyes. Alicia Marbury was not going to remain a prisoner for long, not if she had anything to say about it.
She sighed deeply. Her Waltham cousins had smuggled her copies of The Boy’s Own Paper when they visited London at Christmastime, and she had greedily read the forbidden literature, relishing the tales of derring-do and adventurous escapes. Most of them were about clever boys who got out of the most amazing predicaments. Well, she, Alicia Marbury, could show them a thing or two!
The door opened. Alicia jumped up, ready to run. Her way was blocked by two adult women and a scrawny girl of her own age.
“Alicia,” said the elegant-looking young woman in the flowered gown. “This is Kitty. She will attend you while you are here.” She sounded much like Miss Quiggley, Alicia decided, although Miss Quiggley would never have been seen in a gown cut so low in the bosom, nor would Miss Quiggley have used such a cloying scent. Nor, Alicia decided, would Miss Quiggley have hair of such an aggressive shade of red.
“Where is Mr. Dodgson?” Alicia demanded.
“He had to leave—on private business,” the other, older woman, dressed in sober brown silk, stated.
“Who are you?” Alicia asked. “And where is this place? Wh
y is my door locked? If you hurt me, my papa will call out the Army and put you in the Tower!”
“Who we are is not important,” said the younger woman. “You may call me Miss, and this is Madam,” she indicated the older woman. “What is important is that you obey us. You have our word that you will not be hurt, as long as you remain quiet. Now, take off your dress.”
“Why should I?” Alicia’s chin went up.
“Because, if you don’t, we’ll take it off for ya,” rasped out Madam, in a coarse accent that betrayed her London origins. Madam was short, stout, and strong, with a broad red face, small dark eyes, and three chins. Alicia disliked her immediately.
Miss stepped forward and took Alicia by the chin. “You are a clever child,” she pronounced. “If you behave, you will be rewarded. You will be fed, and you will not be beaten. If you do not behave yourself, then we will assume that you are a naughty child. Naughty children are punished. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
Alicia jerked her head away. “I understand that I am not where I am supposed to be. My papa said that Mr. Dodgson would take me to his lodgings in Eastbourne after we went to see the Rector and Mrs. Barclay for tea. If you are Mrs. Barclay, where is the Rector? Rectors live near a church, and this house isn’t near a church. If that’s so, then the man who came for me is not Mr. Dodgson. And therefore, I do not think I have to do what you say.”
Miss slapped her, suddenly. Alicia gasped in shock as much as in pain.
“You are a very clever little girl,” Miss said. “Now understand this: clever little girls come to a bad end. You will now take off your dress, as I asked you, or you will find out what punishment really is.”
Alicia lifted the hair off the back of her neck and stood, waiting.
“What d’ya expect us to do about that?” asked Madam.
“I can’t do the back buttons,” Alicia pointed out. “And Mary Ann usually helps Nanny dress me.”
“Well, missy, ye’ll learn to do for yourself here, that you will!”
The Problem of the Missing Miss Page 2