“Then take one of ’em up them stairs, and this time, you stay put!” The Madam grabbed Alicia by the right arm and dragged her back up to the attic. In the light from the areaway, Alicia could see the scratches that she herself had inflicted upon her jailer. She smiled secretly to herself. Not even top-lofty Cousin Edmund, fresh from his triumphs at Eton, could boast that he had injured his torturer!
Alicia allowed herself to be locked up again. She was hungry, she was bruised, but she felt that she had done as much as she could toward earning her freedom. Now it was up to Kitty.
CHAPTER 11
Saturday trains to Brighton ran every hour from Victoria Station, and in the summer holidays they were crammed to capacity. Every one of the first-class carriages was filled. Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle took advantage of their first-class return tickets to insert themselves into the last two seats on the 1:00 p.m. train, while Inspector MacRae and Mr. Upshaw had to be jammed into the second-class coach with the rest of the populace.
Mr. Dodgson removed his hat as he and Dr. Doyle settled themselves into their carriage, across from a stout man in a striped jacket and straw hat, and two ladies of middle years dressed in severely cut ecru linen summer traveling dresses.
“I am not displeased that Inspector MacRae and Mr. Upshaw are elsewhere,” Mr. Dodgson commented, as the engine began its rhythmical puffing, preparatory to leaving London. “I cannot be easy in the company of Mr. Upshaw. I dare say I am being too particular. It is not logical to take a dislike to a man because he appears too ingratiating. I wonder that Lord Richard Marbury would take on such a common person as his secretary.”
“I imagine he finds him useful,” Dr. Doyle said. “For my part, I find Inspector MacRae overbearing. I suppose it’s that Glasgow accent of his. As for Upshaw, he seems a good sort. Fawns on Lord Richard, of course; it can’t be easy for him, being in a subordinate position, and having such expensive tastes.”
“Oh, you noticed that, did you?”
Dr. Doyle stroked his mustache smugly. “Hard to miss it. His suit, for instance; the material is quite good. He’s finicky about his dress, too; why change one’s suit and shave before going to Scotland Yard? And his boots are of the best.”
“And he keeps rooms at the Albany,” Mr. Dodgson mused. “Not an economical address.”
“He doesn’t have his own room in Lord Richard’s house?” Dr. Doyle frowned slightly. “So he is not precisely a confidential secretary.”
“Apparently not. In fact, he appears to be more of a general dogsbody, being sent on errands here and there. Dear me, this is becoming quite tangled. I do not understand the logic of it.”
“Logic?” Dr. Doyle shot the mathematician a quick look.
“Yes, logic. Whatever can these people hope to gain by holding Miss Marbury? Lord Richard will never recant, and he cannot draw back from his campaign at this date.”
“Perhaps they intend to keep her until the vote is taken,” Dr. Doyle suggested.
“But that might not be for months,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out. “With most of the members of both Houses on their holidays, the Bill may be debated well into next year. Given the glacial rate at which legislation passes in our government, what is there that makes these people so desperate at this time?”
“Apparently, the articles in the Pall Mall Gazette,” Dr. Doyle commented. “Mr. Stead and his friends have caused quite a commotion. Large protestation meetings are being held all over England this weekend, according to the leaders in the newspapers. And I noticed a band of Salvationists in the second-class carriages, complete with their instruments, on their way south. I assume Lord Richard is finding more supporters this time than he did the last.”
Mr. Dodgson was on a different train of thought by now. “In that case, why do these people retain the child? How can they be certain that Lord Richard would not, as he already has, seek help from Scotland Yard?”
The two ladies opposite them had been listening avidly. At the mention of Scotland Yard, the stouter of the two lifted her head from the red-backed copy of A Guide to Brighton and nudged her taller, fairer companion.
Mr. Dodgson went on, his voice becoming louder and shriller. “Logically, the person responsible for Miss Marbury’s disappearance would have to be familiar not only with the household and its routines but also with me, and my appearance and habits. I find that most disturbing.”
Dr. Doyle nodded. “I can only conclude that someone is not only trying to get Lord Richard to remove his support for the Bill before the House but is also trying to harm you, Mr. Dodgson. And that, if you don’t mind my saying so, seems quite impossible. Your reputation is unsullied, your literary output is.”
“Literary output? Dr. Doyle, I am a mathematician. I have no literary output except for some articles and letters, and a few entertaining puzzles.” Mr. Dodgson shook his head vigorously.
“But my wife said …” Dr. Doyle began to protest.
“She was mistaken. She thought I was Mr. Lewis Carroll. Mr. Lewis Carroll does not exist.”
Dr. Doyle laughed heartily. “You may say so, sir, but the children of England … nay, of the world! They know better.”
Mr. Dodgson shook his head again. “I assure you, Dr. Doyle, that if I were Lewis Carroll, my life would be made miserable by sensation seekers, literary lion-hunters.”
The taller of the two ladies sharing their carriage stared at the man opposite her. “Oh, dear me! Are you Mr. Lewis Carroll? I am Miss Drusilla Griggs, of the Thrush Grange School. My girls have all read the ‘Alice’ books, and they love them dearly. Are you going to write another? Do say you will, Mr. Carroll, for we will all read it, won’t we, Miss Belfridge?”
The stout woman next to her nodded so fiercely that her chins wobbled. “I do wish the girls were here right now,” she gushed. “This is quite the best adventure, Drusilla. I feel justified in having accepted your offer, instead of taking the walking tour of the Lakes.”
“Imagine! Sharing a railway carriage with Mr. Lewis Carroll!” Miss Griggs beamed at her idol, who responded with a weak smile of his own, and a look directed at Dr. Doyle that said, Look what you just got me into. “What are you writing now, Mr. Carroll?”
“Actually,” he said, “I am working on a new story, to be called ‘Sylvie and Bruno.’ Some of it is in verse,” he added.
“And I suppose you are also a writer?” Miss Belfridge surveyed Dr. Doyle through her spectacles.
“On occasion,” Dr. Doyle admitted.
“There! I knew it when I set eyes on you!” The two ladies nodded to each other as if to agree on their mutual findings.
“Is this your first trip to Brighton?” Dr. Doyle asked politely.
Miss Belfridge nodded. “I have a connection who lets rooms,” she confessed. “And when she asked if I could come, I decided to do it.”
“On the spur of the moment,” giggled Miss Griggs.
“Brighton is very pleasant at this time of year,” Mr. Dodgson offered, “but rather crowded. I trust you will have a pleasant stay.” He seemed to fold into himself.
Dr. Doyle smiled at the two ladies, and privately wished them elsewhere. He wanted to talk about the Case, but now that would be impossible. He glanced over at the stout man in the corner, who snored loudly.
What an adventure! How odd that it should be wasted on a gentle old duffer like Dodgson! He felt the older man shrinking into his seat next to him, and wondered what the poor old fellow made of it all. Kidnapped children, houses of ill repute, mysterious deaths … what fodder for the writer! Dr. Doyle glanced at his companion and wondered if, perhaps, he could get Mr. Dodgson to read some of his unpublished stories. The opinion of a published writer, even one like Mr. Dodgson, would always be of value. Dr. Doyle gazed out the window and dreamed dreams of glory.
Mr. Dodgson’s thoughts were far from glorious. He wished that he had never accepted Lord Richard Marbury’s offer of a child companion. He wished Dr. Doyle would not be so ebullient. He wished the train would
get to Brighton so that he could get on with his self-imposed task of finding Miss Alicia Marbury. Most of all, he wished that the two women opposite were not so lavishly scented with some floral odor that permeated the stuffy carriage. It teased at his nostrils. He had smelled something similar, and quite recently, too …
He went over the situation in his mind. The logic of it escaped him. How could the abductors think that Lord Richard, who had staked his reputation on Reform, would give way now? Unless … Mr. Dodgson cogitated as the train rumbled through the countryside to the seashore.
Dr. Doyle glanced at his traveling companion with a kind of exasperated pity. I can use this, he thought to himself. I can write the whole thing up, with suitable changes of name, of course. Cornhill is usually good for a tenner, and the extra money comes in handy, now that I’m a man with a family to support. He thought of Touie, faithfully waiting for him at Mrs. Keene’s lodgings, and hoped that she had found amusement while he was pursuing these dastardly criminals.
Touie, at that moment, was on the Esplanade, contemplating the crowd. She had spent the morning happily pottering about in those shops particularly recommended to her by Mrs. Keene, who seemed to have friends and relations up and down the Steine. She had daringly entered a teashop, all on her own, and had had a luncheon of egg sandwiches, cakes, and tea. She had watched the Punch and Judy, and was sitting on one of the benches, observing the scenery and wondering when Arthur would get back from London, when her eye was caught by a procession (there was no other word for it) of girls strolling down the Esplanade, led by a tall young woman with astounding red hair, visible under her straw hat.
Touie tried to assimilate what she was seeing. The girls themselves were well-dressed and good-looking—rather remarkably so, Touie concluded, given that most children between twelve and fifteen were in the podgy, spotty stage. They seemed to walk with a kind of brazen confidence, as if they knew just how good-looking they were; not a trait fostered in most homes of Touie’s experience. She picked up her packages and drew closer.
There was something wrong about this. If only Arthur were here, she thought. He’s so clever! But I shall tell him, as soon as he returns from London. He told me to watch for anything unusual. I think this may be it.
As Touie watched, a cry came up from the stony beach below the pier. “Help! There’s a man down here!”
A fisherman in a damp jersey and trousers joined the growing crowd. A large young man in the familiar blue tunic and helmet of the police leaned over the railing of the Esplanade and added his voice to the din.
“Looks like he had an accident!” someone shouted up.
“I’ll get the ambulance,” the policeman offered.
“Too late for that,” the fisherman declared. “He’s long gone.”
As Touie watched, the policeman shouldered through the crowd to examine the body that had been left by the outgoing tide.
“Must have fallen in at the neaps,” offered the fisherman sagely. “High tide was an hour ago.”
“Anyone recognize him?” asked the constable, looking about the beach.
The silence was deafening.
“I’ll have him taken up to the station,” the policeman decided. “If you hear anything of someone gone missing, let us know, hey?”
The fisherman nodded. The horribly limp body was dragged onto a fishing net, bundled up, and brought up to the roadway, where a cart was commandeered to take it elsewhere.
What a dreadful thing! Touie thought. Poor old man; he must have taken too much to drink and fallen into the sea and drowned … although that didn’t seem quite right. The railings were quite stout on the piers, and the Esplanade was nowhere near enough to the sea for any danger of drowning. I do wish Arthur were here. I will have to tell him about this when he gets back from London.
In his carriage, Dr. Doyle was mentally embroidering the adventure to relate to his friends in Portsmouth. Meeting with Lord Richard Marbury himself … bringing a gang of filthy ruffians to justice! What a tale for the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society! The only thing missing was the ending … and that, Dr. Doyle decided, he would not forego. Whatever happened, he would stick with Mr. Dodgson until he learned what had happened to little Miss Mar-bury, and the kidnappers had been properly punished.
The train wheezed and whistled preparatory to arrival in its terminus. Miss Belfridge and Miss Griggs looked about them for their various bundles and handbags. The stout man, who had snored straight through the ride, miraculously woke up, just in time to open the door to the carriage and disappear into the crowd. It was up to Dr. Doyle to assist Miss Griggs and Miss Belfridge off the train. The two ladies thanked their acquaintances profusely and apparently set off on further adventures.
Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson were left to look for Mr. Upshaw and Inspector MacRae in the mass of humanity pouring toward them.
“I suspect they will wish to see the last of us,” Mr. Dodgson said, when he spotted them. “Dr. Doyle, you have been of invaluable service, but you really must go back to your wife.”
Dr. Doyle grinned boyishly. “I shall accompany you back to the police station,” he said firmly. “Scotland Yard or no Scotland Yard, I want to find out what my colleague thinks of that girl’s body. And I do want to hear Upshaw make the positive identification. Then I shall have dinner with Touie. Will you join us, Mr. Dodgson?”
“Oh, I really …”
“It would give both of us great pleasure to have you to dinner,” Dr. Doyle said firmly. “We can dine at Old Ship, which is considered quite good, I believe.”
“I suspect my friends, the Barclays, will wish me to dine with them,” Mr. Dodgson said desperately. He looked about him for some source of rescue from his rescuer. With an odd sense of relief he hailed the two men walking toward him: “Inspector MacRae? Mr. Upshaw? Dr. Doyle and I would like to accompany you to the police station, to make a final and positive identification of the young person, and to give the particulars of Miss Marbury’s abduction.” “Yet again” was unspoken, but hung in the air nonetheless.
Behind them, the two women in severely cut linen dresses watched with narrowed eyes. Three large men in grimy, collarless shirts and leather waistcoats worn open over heavy corduroy trousers emerged from the crowd.
“You from Lunnon?” the largest of the three bruisers addressed Miss Belfridge.
“Mrs. J. wants them two followed.” Miss Belfridge pointed out the dark coat of Mr. Dodgson and his tweed-clad companion.
“And warned off,” added her friend.
There was a brief exchange of coins; then the two putative schoolmistresses boarded the next train back to London, while their companions followed Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle out of Brighton Station and into the crowded streets.
CHAPTER 12
If anything, the crowds in Brighton on this Saturday in August were even more intense than those of Friday. Early Closing meant that the local population could join the transients on the pebbled beach, where they could observe the visitors making fools of themselves, sauntering on the beaches or experimenting on Volk’s Electric Railway. Children ran screaming to their parents with scraps of seaweed washed in by the tide. Older folk sat on the benches along the Esplanade, or observed the passing show on the Marine Parade, while flashier persons of both sexes displayed their prowess on horseback by taking the perilous hill at a moderate trot.
The indigenous population was not entirely free of the cares of the week. The fishermen had pulled in their boats and were hawking their wares at one end of the beach, while the robust proprietors of bathing machines were ensuring that modesty prevailed among those intrepid enough to try sea bathing.
The sounds of music mingled with the roar of the crowd, as street buskers vied for the attention of the strollers on the Esplanade. At the entrance to the West Pier, the Brighton City Band played the airs from Dr. Sullivan’s clever operettas, while further down the strand a lone violinist solicited pennies from the few who could appreciate Mendelssohn. B
elow the Esplanade, ragged boys called “happy-jacks” capered about, turning somersaults and shouting encouragement to those who threw coins down at them. A few brazen girls even walked on their hands, displaying scarlet drawers and striped stockings to the delight of the onlookers above them.
At the railway station, cabs jostled each other to snare the new arrivals, the cabbies all too aware of the swift passage of time. The influx would come to a boil by teatime, and then fall off, as the visitors sought entertainment further down the hill.
Into this hurly-burly shoved Inspector MacRae, with Upshaw close behind him. It was all Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson could do to keep up with them.
“You’d think they were trying to lose us,” Mr. Dodgson puffed.
Dr. Doyle’s ineffable spirits refused to be dampened. “They may try, sir, but they will not succeed.”
MacRae shoved Upshaw into the nearest cab. “John Street,” he ordered.
Dr. Doyle chortled happily. “John Street is their destination, and to John Street you and I shall go. Follow me!”
He grabbed the protesting Mr. Dodgson by the arm and started east on Trafalgar Street, past rows of houses, all built to the same pattern.
“But”—the scholar shook off his protector—“would we not be better suited in a cab?”
Dr. Doyle gestured at the line of horse-drawn vehicles, all crammed into the Queen’s Road. “I know a better way.” He ducked into a side street and led Mr. Dodgson away from the crowds, unaware of the three burly men behind them.
“Where are we going?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
Dr. Doyle explained: “This street runs across the town and comes out just behind the Pavilion, quite near the Grand Parade. From there we may cross the road to the law courts, and meet Inspector MacRae on the doorstep.”
Mr. Dodgson looked about him at the four-story buildings, jammed neatly into square rows, each with its own cornices and areaway. The shops were being closed by their proprietors, shutters being fastened, giving the streets a closed, almost hushed look.
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