Dr. Doyle opened the carriage door. One tweed-clad arm reached out and practically scooped the latecomer into the carriage, where he collapsed into the seat opposite the other two men.
“Thank you so much,” gasped the late arrival, as the train picked up speed and steamed out of the station. “I would have been in quite a pickle if I’d missed this train.” He spoke carefully, as if watching his “aitches.” Once he had settled back, he proved to be a lanky individual with thinning, mousy hair, in a suit of brown “dittoes,” more suited to London than Brighton, topped by a bowler hat.
“Business?” Dr. Doyle inquired, with a quirk of his eyebrows.
“In a manner of speaking. My name’s Upshaw, Geoffrey Upshaw. I’m Lord Richard Marbury’s confidential secretary, you see, and we are embarked upon a matter of the utmost importance to the nation!” The man spoke as if the nation depended on him, personally, for its salvation.
Dr. Doyle glanced at Mr. Dodgson, who frowned at the newcomer as if trying to place him in his memory.
“You were not with Lord Richard when I met him in July,” Mr. Dodgson said querulously.
“I have been in Lord Richard’s employ these last two years. He relies on me for information. ‘Upshaw,’ he says, ‘find out.’ And I do, sir!” Upshaw tapped his long nose with a bony finger. “I find out! And then—I assist Lord Richard in whatever must be done.” He folded his arms and looked at the other two passengers triumphantly.
Dr. Doyle leaned forward. “And what have you found out about this dreadful business in the Pall Mall Gazette?” he asked.
Upshaw removed his hat, brushed it carefully before setting it on the seat beside him, and began to run his fingers through his stringy hair by way of putting himself to rights. “A nasty business, gentlemen. Very nasty. Lord Richard is most distressed that such things exist. He has sent me to inform the members that action must be taken. The people demand it!”
“But Parliament is not in recess,” Mr. Dodgson noted.
“Not officially,” Mr. Upshaw stated. “However, it is summer, and many members are visiting their constituents, or on holiday.” He sighed. “It is not easy, gentlemen, getting a man to give up his holiday. I have been from Penzance to Ullapool to Torquay and back to London, and all for the Cause! I have not seen my own rooms for nearly a week.”
“Lord Richard must value your services greatly,” Mr. Dodgson said. “You have even lost your waistcoat button in your attempts.”
Mr. Upshaw smiled weakly and tried to cover the gap in his attire. “I do what I can. Lord Richard is a rising man, sir.” He looked at his traveling companions again. “Do I know you, sir? You seem somewhat familiar?”
“I am Mr. Dodgson. Of Oxford. Lord Richard and I spoke when he visited Oxford in July, for the Regatta.”
Mr. Upshaw looked stricken. “Mr. Dodgson! Lord Richard mentioned that he and you had conversed, but I thought … that is … Lord Richard told me that you would be in Eastbourne …” His voice trailed off in confusion.
“Then you are aware that Miss Marbury was supposed to come to me?” Mr. Dodgson asked sharply.
“Lord Richard had mentioned that he was sending Miss Alicia to his old tutor, yes,” Upshaw said weakly. “But I had no idea …” He turned to Dr. Doyle in confusion. “You, sir, are you traveling to London, too?”
“I am assisting Mr. Dodgson with his inquiries into Miss Marbury’s disappearance,” Dr. Doyle said.
“But if you are here … where is Miss Alicia?” Upshaw looked confused.
“A very good question, which I intend to have answered,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I must speak to Lord Richard myself, before any more is said on this matter.”
“Lord Richard has no secrets from me!” Upshaw protested.
“Oh, I fancy he must have some. For instance, he did not introduce you to me when we met in July.”
“I meant to ask, Mr. Dodgson, how you came to know Lord Richard Marbury,” Dr. Doyle ventured.
“My old student,” Mr. Dodgson said. “One of the few who actually listened to my lectures. He was meant for orders, you know, until that unhappy business with the stationer’s daughter.” Mr. Dodgson closed his eyes, apparently in contemplation of a happier past.
Dr. Doyle’s curiosity got the better of his sense of discretion. “Stationer’s daughter?” he hinted.
“Oh dear me, yes. I had quite forgotten about that until just now. Unfortunate, but young men will fall in love with the most inappropriate young females. Although, now that I recall, she was a rather pretty child. Red hair, yes, and green eyes. Quite pretty, but there is always something slightly coarse about tradesmen’s children. What was his name? Yes, Harmon, that was it. A very respectable man, and I was rather upset when he had to leave Oxford. The man who came in never really suited. Harmon kept the best quality drawing paper, and the pen nibs I liked, and he was quite knowledgeable about book bindings. A pity about the girl, but there it was, and the consequences were all too clear.”
Upshaw’s eyes were wide as he drank all this in. Dr. Doyle coughed, as if to remind Mr. Dodgson of his audience.
Mr. Dodgson opened his eyes, looked about, and said, “After that, Lord Richard was sent down for a term, and finished without taking orders. A most serious young man; he even suggested that he, as he put it, ‘do right’ by the girl. Naturally, that would never have done. The son of the Marquis of Waltham and a stationer’s daughter? Oh dear, no.”
“And the girl?” Dr. Doyle could not resist asking.
Mr. Dodgson said, “I really don’t know. Harmon removed from Oxford, and no more was said. I assume the, um, consequences, were taken care of by the girl’s family. Lord Richard was sent on a tour of Europe, and returned with the intention of standing for Parliament as soon as he could. I believe he spent some time with Mr. Gladstone’s more radical reformers. A most serious young man. Even stodgy; I recall the other undergraduates used to call him the Young Fogey. Very careful, always thinking of the future. The sort who’d take his umbrella if there was a cloud in the sky.”
“Quite so,” Upshaw said.
Mr. Dodgson suddenly realized that he had been gossiping about a man in front of his subordinate. “Of course, all this is in the category of Ancient History,” he said.
“Of course,” Upshaw agreed.
“And you must not breathe any of this to Lady Marbury,” Dodgson added. “Lord Richard was kind enough to invite me to his wedding, although I was not able to attend. Let me see … oh, yes, of course. He married General Kinsale’s daughter. I believe they called him ‘The Terror of the Crimea.’ Quite dreadful, the things written in the Press; even a Board of Inquiry looking into his conduct regarding prisoners of war, and some orders that the troops might have misconstrued. Patricia? Yes, that was her name. She was with Lord Richard at the boat races this summer. How odd that she should have red hair, too.”
“That would account for the child’s having auburn hair,” Dr. Doyle put in.
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Dodgson glanced at Mr. Upshaw, who was trying to organize the sheaf of papers he had set aside to take care of his personal appearance.
Dr. Doyle glanced at Upshaw and whispered to Mr. Dodgson, “Could I have a look at that letter Lord Richard sent you?”
“Eh?” Mr. Dodgson turned and glared at him. “Don’t hiss in my ear like that, young man. I may have trouble hearing every word that is said to me, but I can understand well enough if people speak clearly. I do not think this is a good time for such things. Besides, we are nearly in London. We can discuss the matter in privacy, later.”
Dr. Doyle shrugged and turned his attention to the scenery, which was becoming more and more urban as the train approached its London terminus.
Victoria Station was considerably busier than Brighton. Even on a Saturday, the trains pulled in and out with remarkable frequency. Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle emerged from the station and looked about for a hansom, one of those remarkable cabs that had become a major factor in London’s transportat
ion system. However, on this particular Saturday morning the cabstand was deserted.
“That is unusual,” Mr. Upshaw remarked. “There should be a cab somewhere.”
A decrepit vehicle drawn by the sorriest excuse for a cab horse plodded its way down the ramp to the cab stand. Mr. Dodgson looked at Mr. Upshaw and Dr. Doyle.
“I assume that we are all bound for the same establishment? Lord Richard Marbury’s house in Grosvenor Square?” There didn’t seem to be any doubt about it. “Then I suggest that we share this cab, since it is unlikely that there will be another very soon, and all of us have urgent business with Lord Richard.”
“Hi! Cabby!” Dr. Doyle’s curiosity had to be satisfied. “Where is everybody? Not a cab today? All on holiday?”
The cab driver, a wizened gnome of a man swathed in an oversized and outmoded greatcoat, grunted. “All gone to watch Mrs. Jeffries let out of Newgate! What ain’t been took is out there on their own.”
“Mrs. Jeffries? And who is she?” Mr. Dodgson shrilled out.
Dr. Doyle’s mustache twitched as he tried to hide a grin. Mr. Upshaw was more outspoken.
“She is the owner of a number of, urn, establishments of ill repute,” he said primly. “She was sentenced to a term in jail and a fine. The fine was paid by an extremely prominent peer, who is one of her most fervent patrons.”
Mr. Dodgson’s face twisted in revulsion. “And this person has called up every cab in London?”
“I believe it is in the nature of a victory parade,” Mr. Upshaw said apologetically. “It must be said, Mr. Dodgson, that disgraceful as Mrs. Jeffries’s establishments are, they are supported by a certain portion of the population. She has her influential backers, sir. It is said,” Upshaw’s voice dropped to conspiratorial level, “that Mr. Gladstone himself has been seen in one of her, um, houses.”
Dr. Doyle’s mustache quivered again, but not with amusement. “Mr. Gladstone’s interest in the unfortunate females of a certain profession is that of a reformer and humanitarian,” he declared. “Well, gentlemen, I believe that we must take this cab, since there will be no other. Grosvenor Square!” he ordered, as the other two squeezed into the seat next to him.
The cab inched through the streets of London, past the shops and the strollers who were eager enough to venture out on a Saturday morning in August, when the temperature was reaching eighty degrees Fahrenheit, around the squares and parks, and into Mayfair, enclave of the rich and powerful. Mr. Dodgson fretted as the ancient steed plodded past elegant houses built by the great Whig aristocrats for their London residences. Dr. Doyle tried to appear unaffected by his proximity to the seat of wealth and power, while Mr. Upshaw, to whom this was familiar territory, merely fussed with his papers all the more.
“There she is!” crowed the cab driver. “Dang me, but she’s got the brass! She’s come to Mayfair, she ’as!”
Mrs. Jeffries’s victory parade was heard before it was actually seen. A raucous howl of male voices, mixed with the shriller shrieks of female laughter, split the Saturday silence of Mayfair. The noble families whose great houses lined the streets of that exclusive district had left for greener pastures in Scotland or the Shires; only servants remained to witness the procession of cabs mixed with sporting carriages bearing the coats of arms of the most noble families of Britain. Scantily dressed young women waved at the astonished maids, housekeepers, and butlers. Young men (and a few who looked old enough to know better) pranced along on their high-stepping horses.
In the lead was a coach-and-four, driven by no less a personage than a ducal coachman, disgust mingling with amusement on his face as he led the throng. Inside the coach was the famous (or infamous) Mrs. Jeffries herself, an imposing figure of a woman in violet velvet, rubies twinkling in her ears, diamonds on her fingers, and plumes nodding over her bonnet, reveling in the limelight.
The parade had wound its way through Regent Street, up Bond Street, and now into Grosvenor Square, where Mrs. Jeffries had her coach stop in front of a modest house (by Mayfair standards).
She leaned out of the coach and gave tongue: “Ho! You up there! Let me out!”
The powdered footman at the back of the coach hopped forwards. Mrs. Jeffries majestically stood on the coach step and stared at the closed door of the house in front of her.
“You—Marbury! I know you’re in there!”
The door remained obstinately closed. Only a twitching window curtain gave any hint that there was a soul within.
“You won’t win, Marbury! I’ll still be in my house long after you’ve been thrown out of yours!”
Dr. Doyle, Mr. Dodgson, and Mr. Upshaw watched as the wild panoply moved on. Only one man remained: a tall, youngish gentleman in a disreputable-looking check suit, with his collar undone, his cravat under one ear, and his waistcoat buttoned wrong. He had carroty-red hair and eyebrows and an infectious grin, with which he favored the three gentlemen approaching the Marbury residence.
He mounted the front stairs as the trio paid off the cab and joined him. All four were waiting when the venerable butler finally opened the door. The butler peered around to be certain none of the revelers were left in the street before permitting the four visitors to enter the House of Marbury.
CHAPTER 7
The south side of Grosvenor Square marked the boundary between fashionable Mayfair and the lesser portions of London. A row of attached houses, each with its areaway and kitchen entrance, formed a barrier beyond which the unfashionable were merely tolerated. The houses themselves had been built a mere thirty years before, and were therefore considered quite modern, fitted out with such amenities as Mr. Crapper’s porcelain fixtures and gas lighting.
Marbury House was one of these: a narrow, five-story slot in the south face of Grosvenor Square, its windows shielded from the gaze of passersby by red-velvet draperies and lace undercurtains, its front door at the top of a short flight of steps. On the top step, now, stood the four men upon whom the butler gazed with hauteur, mixed with healthy curiosity.
“Good morning, Mr. Kinsale, Mr. Upshaw.” The butler gazed inquiringly at Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle. “Are you two gentlemen expected?”
The new addition to the group looked around at the others and laughed. “I don’t know who these two are, Farnham, but you might tell Lady Pat that I’m here. Any chance of breakfast?”
“Lord Richard and Lady Richard have already breakfasted,” the butler informed him loftily.
“Farnham, I must speak with Lord Richard at once!” Upshaw shoved through the crowd to bark at the butler, who was not impressed.
“I shall see if Lord Richard is available.” Farnham held his ground against all comers. Clearly, ten-thirty on a Saturday morning was not the correct hour for either business or social calls.
“And you may send in my card,” Mr. Dodgson added, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket. “It is quite urgent that I speak with Lord Richard Marbury.”
“Lord Richard is …”
“Damme, Farnham, you can’t leave us all on the doorstep,” Kin-sale said breezily. “Upshaw’s all right, and I suppose these gentlemen have good reason to burst in on a man at the crack of dawn of a Saturday morning. Be a good chap, now, and move yourself!”
To Farnham’s dismay, the unruly Kinsale shoved him aside and marched into the house, with Upshaw, Dodgson, and Doyle close behind. Once inside, they were left to contemplate a long, dark hall, hung with funereal green wallpaper and decorated with murky portraits of former Marburys, while the butler went in search of Lord Richard.
Lord Richard saved a great deal of time by emerging from the inner recesses of the house. He was already a prime target for caricaturists, with his long nose, wisp of a mustache drooping over his thin-lipped mouth, and aggressive chin. Lank, fair hair hung down about his collar and one lock draped itself invitingly over one eyebrow. He had apparently been dressing, since he had not put on his morning coat, but was clad in shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, with his cravat yet untied. He gazed at the crowd i
n the hall and lighted on the one face he had not expected to see at any time, let alone ten-thirty on a Saturday morning in August.
“Mr. Dodgson!” he exclaimed, sweeping back his fair hair from his forehead in what would soon become a practiced gesture. “I thought you were in Brighton!”
“I was,” Mr. Dodgson began.
Mr. Upshaw interrupted. “Lord Richard,” he stated, “I must inform you that we are up against it! I’ve tried, sir, but I cannot guarantee that we shall have a majority, not even of our own Party!”
“Hello, Ricky!” Mr. Kinsale greeted Lord Richard in a ripe brogue. “I just thought I’d drop by, on the chance you might be in.”
“I thought you were with that disgraceful crowd,” Dr. Doyle put in.
“Och, they were just in high spirits,” Kinsale shrugged.
“High spirits, indeed!” sniffed Upshaw. “At that hour of the morning? Pah!”
Lord Richard waved his brother-in-law away. “Ned, I have no time for your difficulties now. If you’ve got gambling debts, neither Pat nor I will pay them again.” Lord Richard turned to his secretary, who thrust the bundle of papers under his nose.
“Lord Richard, the best I could do was to get a few promissory notes from those members I could track down,” Upshaw said apologetically. “This is the most inopportune time to press for a Bill—and this particular Bill is most unpopular, sir. There is a certain portion of the population who consider the terms of the Bill, well, an imposition on their liberties …”
“To debauch young children!” Dr. Doyle burst out. “Is this the Criminal Amendment Bill before Parliament? The one being agitated for in the Pall Mall Gazette? I’m a doctor, sir, and it makes my blood boil to think that Englishmen consider it their God-given right to take their pleasure at the expense of young girls!”
Mr. Dodgson stepped forward. “Lord Richard, this is Dr. Doyle. Dicky Doyle’s nephew, you know.”
“I didn’t know, and I still don’t know what you are doing here, instead of keeping my daughter safe for me in Eastbourne until all this is over.” Lord Richard sounded exasperated.
The Problem of the Missing Miss Page 5