They had reached the venerable church, and the charming residence provided for its clergy. Mr. Dodgson turned to face his companion.
“In that case, Dr. Doyle, I intend to take the very first train tomorrow to London. I suspect that poor young creature in John Street is the domestic who was accompanying Miss Marbury … although how you were able to tell so much about her, I do not understand.”
Dr. Doyle shrugged modestly. “Oh, that I learned from my old mentor, Dr. Bell, up in Edinburgh. He always said, examine the hands first. The hands can tell you everything. That girl’s hands were red, but clean, showing she did plenty of washing up. Her shoes were new and of good quality, and fitted well, which indicated that whoever her employers were, they were able to supply their staff with proper clothing, not cast-off finery, as so many young persons in service are given. Anyone who took care to see that their servants were well-shod would probably be of a liberal and reforming temper. I had reached your conclusion, sir. Lord Richard Marbury is a Liberal stalwart, and his interest in social reform is well known in the Party. I would be happy to accompany you to London tomorrow, sir.”
The figures of the Reverend and Mrs. Barclay emerged from the gloom of the churchyard.
“Mr. Dodgson, is that you? We were so worried—where is the child? We have prepared a cozy room for her.” Mrs. Barclay, tall and lean, peered at her guest.
“It is a very long and unpleasant tale,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Dr. Doyle, will you call for me tomorrow morning? If you insist on taking part in this adventure, you must keep my hours.”
“Good evening, then. And I’ll be here at first light!” Dr. Doyle strode away down the street, whistling happily. Mr. Dodgson turned to his hosts.
“That is a most extraordinary young man,” he decided. “Now, Henry, I greatly fear our young guest is not coming tonight. I shall find her tomorrow.”
“Charles!” The Reverend Henry Barclay bustled forward to lead his friend into the house.
“We have had dinner put back,” Mrs. Barclay announced. “You must tidy yourself, and then you must tell us all about it.”
CHAPTER 5
Friday night in Brighton! The first day of the weekend, the first chance for visitors to sample the delights on the Esplanade and the piers, to stroll on the Marine Parade, and to examine (from a discreet distance) the bizarre charms of the Royal Pavilion. Friday was the perfect time for holidaymakers to make their plans over platters of turbot and sole in grim lodgings or well-appointed dining rooms. What to do next was the question. Should they drive out to Arundel and look at the castle? Risk life and limb on Volk’s Electric Railway? Or just pray that the next day would be suitable for sea bathing?
The sea breeze whipped around Brighton, ruffling the waves on the Channel, fluttering the fringes on the paisley shawls of the women on the Esplanade and the Chain Pier, and making the gas lamps on the streets not yet electrified flicker. Brighton by day was gaudy; Brighton by dusk slightly sinister; Brighton by night was a glittering (if slightly tawdry) fairyland.
At the heart of the merrymaking were the two piers: the Chain Pier, and the newly built West Pier, jutting out into the English Channel, its rails and columns outlined by the new electrical lamps, visible for miles out to sea on a clear night. To this beacon came the holidaymakers, seeking refreshment in the fish-and-chips stalls, hokey-pokey wagons, and taverns, and entertainment from the buskers, those wandering entertainers who could carol a popular ditty, dance a few steps, and pass the hat for pocket change. The Pierrot troupe was there, performing the same basic play that had kept the crowds pleased for four hundred years. Punch and Judy knocked each other about on the puppet stage; Columbine flirted with Harlequin; the singers led the choruses, and no one noticed the tough-looking men who lurked in the few dark corners of the pier while their furtive partners’ eager fingers felt for wallets, watches, and whatever else might be loose.
None of this attracted Mr. Dodgson tonight. He sat in the back parlor of the Rectory, on a sofa covered with Mrs. Barclay’s carefully worked antimacassar doilies, under the watchful eyes of past rectors of St. Peter’s Church, and worried. He had planned to show Miss Alicia the wonders of the new pier, while protecting her from its less enchanting aspects. Now she was taken, possibly removed from Brighton altogether.
The Rector, rotund and genial, his scalp barely covered by a few strands of graying hair, and his taller, severely dressed wife, whose lean figure led the more frivolous of their congregants to compare the couple to Jack Sprat and his lady in reverse, sat on their well-stuffed chairs and listened to their guest unburden himself.
“… and that young man has insisted on accompanying me to London tomorrow,” Mr. Dodgson complained. “He is most extraordinarily persistent. Dicky Doyle’s nephew, of all things. He sounds like a Scot. I believe the Scots are known to be persistent.”
“You know, Charles,” the Rector said thoughtfully, “it might not be a bad thing to have a young man of his stamp about you while you pursue this business. One does not like to think about such things, but these people are, um, prone to violence.”
Mr. Dodgson turned his accusing gaze on his host. “Henry! You have not been reading the Pall Mall Gazette! I thought better of you.”
His friend turned bright purple with embarrassment. “Well, Charles, a pretty fool I should look if I did not keep pace with my parishioners. One cannot get away from those articles. I tell you, sir, there will be a reckoning. I understand that there have been mass meetings in Birmingham and Manchester, demanding action at the Parliamentary level. In fact, I have been requested to organize such a meeting myself, right here in Brighton.”
Mr. Dodgson looked grave. “That is not for you to do, Henry. Your duties are to the Church. You should not be involved in political maneuverings.”
Henry shook his head, setting his plump jowls wobbling. “Here we must disagree, Charles. In matters of morality, the Church should take the lead. I quite agree with my parishioners that something should be done. I read this morning that a Bill is before the House of Commons, and a vote is being called for. I shall most certainly lead the fight to get it passed.” The little cleric looked positively militant.
Mrs. Barclay nodded her approval of her husband’s statement. “Henry is quite right,” she stated. “As a rule, I do not approve of such matters being discussed in the public forum, but if half of what these articles say is true, something must be done!” She emphasized her statement with a curt nod.
Mr. Dodgson disagreed. “I am all too aware of this Bill,” he complained. “It has been read at least two times, and twice it has failed of passage. There is no reason to expect any better now. Mr. Stead has overreached himself with these articles.”
“On the contrary,” the Rector argued, “by publishing these facts, Mr. Stead has brought them to the attention of the people, and the people will be heard!”
Mrs. Barclay closed the discussion. “Henry, that will do. Charles has had a dreadful experience, first losing that child, and then the police. Charles, you must go to your room and change for dinner. You will be able to think more clearly with some sustenance.”
Mr. Dodgson rose and allowed himself to be led away. “You are undoubtedly right. I must have my dinner, and then I shall think about this. There are dark forces at work here, Henry. I do not like it at all.”
Down the hill, Dr. Doyle and his bride had sallied forth to enjoy the splendors of the Esplanade. Touie had changed from her traveling tartan to a flowered chintz dress, buttoned up to the neck, and covered with a warm woolen shawl. Dr. Doyle had added a deerstalker cap to his traveling suit by way of marking the transition from day to night. Together they walked happily to Muttons, that venerable establishment where a signboard announced: TURTLE SOUP AVAILABLE AT ALL HOURS. Under the famous glass dome, the honeymooners enjoyed the turtle soup and each other’s company, while Dr. Doyle told his wife of their reception at the John Street Police Station.
“… So you see, Touie,” he finished, “there’s noth
ing for it. I feel it is my duty to assist Mr. Dodgson in any way I can. Scholar he may be, but he is no match for any ruffians or villains that may be after him. And Marbury! Think of it, Touie, the daughter of a Member of Parliament, the Marquis of Waltham’s brother! If those fiends can abduct her, then no child is safe.”
Touie placidly spooned up the dregs of her turtle soup. “Of course, Arthur. Mr. Dodgson needs you, and afterwards, once you have found the child, you may be able to use his name as a reference. It would be too much to expect him to be a regular patient, if he lives in Oxford, but one never can tell when he might be called on to recommend someone in Portsmouth. After all, you and I have the rest of our lives together.”
Dr. Doyle smiled fondly at his bride. “Touie, you are a woman in a million! Most new brides would have their husbands dancing attendance on them day and night …”
Touie interrupted him. “Arthur, dear, I know how much you want to be part of this adventure. You needn’t worry that I will be bored or mope. Mrs. Keene has told me of several quaint shops where I may purchase a few things for our establishment, and Mother has asked that I get her some small things as well. Then I shall sit on the beach and watch the bathers, and perhaps even go for an ice. Now, I want you to tell me everything, as soon as you can, and you must bring the child to me as soon as she is found, poor little thing.”
Dr. Doyle reached across the table and squeezed Touie’s hand. “I knew you would understand. You are the best wife in the world, and we are going to be very happy!”
Together they smiled into a future that they were sure would lead to fame and fortune, either in medicine or literature, or both.
Outside, on the Chain Pier, the crowds jostled each other in joyful camaraderie. Below the pier, the Jolly Jokers lined up for their performance, clad in mismatched checked and striped trousers and spotted shirts, topped with battered hats. The leader, Joker Jim, flourished his trumpet, while the others pranced about him, waiting for the signal to begin their well-rehearsed banter. The only problem was that the feed, the person who began the routine with a well-timed quip, was unaccountably absent.
“Where’s Keeble?” the trumpeter hissed.
“Dunno,” said the lanky fellow with the concertina. “Went off before tea, said ’e ’ad summat to do. ’Aven’t seen ’im since.”
“I thought I saw him in the boozer,” piped up the youngest member of the troupe, a wiry youth with a mop of dark curls topped by an outrageous striped cap, who answered to the name of Bouncing Billy. “He was with some toff.”
The trumpeter cursed. “Damn the old souse! Well, Billy, you’ll take his lines. The crowd’s picking up, and we’ve got to make our nut somehow. Here we go!”
The trumpeter stepped out of the shadow of the pier and onto the pebbled beach, into the pool of light thrown down by the electric bulbs on the pier above him. His trumpet fanfare drew the audience, while the rest of the group cavorted to the gay strains of the concertina. No one noticed the two men at the very back of the pier, where only a railing separated the crowds from the tumbling surf below, and the lights cast deep shadows.
Keeble, the old actor, had used his riches to fortify himself with gin. Now he faced “the Guv’nor” and breathed alcoholic courage into the other man’s face.
“Miss Harmon employed me to abduct a child,” he wheezed. “Well, I did. However, I did not reckon on the child belonging to a Member of Parliament, and one related to the Marquis of Waltham at that. Ah yes, Guv’nor, I recognized the young lady for who and what she is, and ten pounds is not enough payment for that, Guv’nor. Not by a long chalk.”
The other man tried to step backwards, but found himself braced at the railings that separated the pier from the lapping waves below. “You’ve been paid once. That was all that was agreed to.”
“Ah, but that was before I got a good look at you,” Keeble said with a boozy grin. “I have seen you before, Guv’nor, and under very different circumstances, with very different companions, on more than one occasion. You would not like your noble employer to be aware of your, um, secondary interests?”
“If this is an attempt to get more money from me—” The other man began to shift around. Keeble persisted. The two men were now leaning against the railings, while the water beneath them lapped at the exposed struts of the pier.
“Ten pounds? Did you think that I, Keeble, who trod the boards with Forrest, would be bought off with a mere ten pounds?” The old actor drew himself up with dignity bolstered by gin. “Oh, no, Guv’nor. You shall pay me ten pounds a week, until I say nay!”
“I don’t have that kind of money!” The other man tried to get away from the insistent drunkard.
Keeble grabbed at him. “Don’t you turn away from me!” One trembling hand closed around the man’s waistcoat, wrenching the top button from its moorings.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” The Guv’nor seized Keeble’s fist. The actor clutched tighter at the natty waistcoat that matched the suit worn by his victim.
“You will pay me, or I will go to …”
“You may go to the Devil!”
The Guv’nor grabbed Keeble’s wrist with a surprisingly strong grip, and threw him off. The other hand reached for Keeble’s throat. Keeble feebly tried to pull the man’s hands away, but the Guv’nor’s chokehold grew tighter. Only the actor’s stiff, old-fashioned collar saved his neck from being broken. In a reflex action, he brought up a knee to try to break away from the throttling. The Guv’nor grunted in pain and rage; the choking stopped.
Keeble tried to dodge away, but the Guv’nor was upon him again. The two men struggled in the shadows cast by the electric lights. Keeble reeled forwards, bending the Guv’nor over the rails. Together they staggered back and forth, while the crowd shouted encouragement to the Jolly Jokers on the other side of the pier.
With one last effort, driven by fear and rage, the Guv’nor turned Keeble around, lifted him by the tails of his frock coat, and heaved him over the rails. There was a cry, a splash, and a heavy thud. The waves lapped at the pier, daring those cast-iron struts to give way under the relentless pressure. For this night, at least, they did not.
The man on the pier joined the rest of the merrymakers. He was breathing hard. This was the second accident he had seen in the space of twenty-four hours, and he had to keep telling himself it was not his fault. Keeble was still alive when he went over the side. He must have been, for he had cried out. The girl had cried out.…
The Guv’nor took a deep breath. “It’s not my fault,” he repeated to himself. “It had to be done.” He straightened his hair, pulled his waistcoat down, and found his hat, which had been knocked off in the fight. He must get on with the business at hand, he told himself sternly, as he caressed his bowler hat, the symbol of his respectability. The Plan must be followed. Tonight he would go back to his lodgings; tomorrow he would go to London and see Marbury, and everything would be all right. To this end, he joined the crowd again, one more punter in Brighton.
Somewhere below him, Keeble floated in on the tide.
CHAPTER 6
Dr. Doyle appeared at the door of the Barclay house before breakfast, as promised. Mr. Dodgson and his hosts were still ingesting tea, kippers, and muffins when the young doctor was shown into the breakfast room by a flustered butler.
“You did say you wanted to take the earliest train to London,” Dr. Doyle explained. “I took the liberty of consulting my Bradshaw. There is a train at eight-forty-six. We can just catch it, and be in London in an hour. One of the miracles of modern transportation!”
“Will you sit down and have some tea?” Mrs. Barclay asked, ever mindful of her duty as a hostess.
“No, thank you, I have had my breakfast. Mr. Dodgson, are you ready for this, sir? I can go myself …”
Mr. Dodgson carefully wiped butter off his chin and set his napkin down. “Dr. Doyle, I am quite capable of finding my way to London. I have done it for more years than you are alive. However, since you have invit
ed yourself on this expedition, I suppose we had best be off. Henry, I thank you for your hospitality. I will return as soon as I can, with Miss Marbury!” He glared at Dr. Doyle, who appeared totally oblivious to sarcasm. The butler handed Mr. Dodgson his hat at the door, while the scholar felt about him, mumbling to himself.
“Fare for the train, for the cab to Grosvenor Square, back to Victoria, back to Brighton.”
“Are you quite ready, Mr. Dodgson?” Dr. Doyle asked sharply.
“I keep my various monies in different pockets. It foils thieves.” Once more farewells were exchanged, and once more Mr. Dodgson headed for the door.
“And one more thing …” he began. Dr. Doyle’s patience had worn thin.
“I can see why you missed the child,” he said sharply. “Mr. Dodgson, with respect, all this fussing about does no good. We have a train to catch!” Mr. Dodgson found himself being bustled out the door, down the steps, through the garden and into the street before he could tell the Barclays that he would bring the child directly to them as soon as she was found.
“That was quite unnecessary!” Mr. Dodgson huffed, as he and Dr. Doyle strode across the town and into Brighton Station. At that hour of the morning, most of the platforms were clear of holiday crowds; the early trains had not yet arrived, and the merrymakers would try to extend their time in Brighton as long as possible.
Dr. Doyle led Mr. Dodgson to the first-class carriages, where they were properly ticketed in by the conductor, and carefully bought return tickets. They found seats in one of the well-upholstered carriages, with Mr. Dodgson facing the front of the carriage and Dr. Doyle next to him. The whistle shrieked its warning; the train began to inch forward.
A man came scrambling along the platform, coattails flying, bag in hand, waving wildly to stop the train. Neither the engineer nor the conductor had any intention of heeding one passenger who had not the common sense to consult his watch as to the time.
“Stop!” The man redoubled his efforts as the train began to ease along the platform.
The Problem of the Missing Miss Page 4