Dr. Doyle waved the apology away. “I was glad to be there, sir. Never let it be said that a Doyle did not know his duty, and my duty in this case is to see that Miss Marbury is found and her abductors brought to justice.”
While the Doyles had their fond reunion, Mr. Dodgson settled down on the very sofa on which he had been imprisoned the day before. Dr. Doyle recited to his wife the gist of what had occurred in London.
Touie was suitably impressed. “Oh, Arthur!” she cooed. “Think of having coffee and biscuits with Lord Richard Marbury and his wife!”
“And assisting Baxter with his investigations,” Dr. Doyle added. “A good start, Touie. Baxter will call me in for more consultations after this, and I can bring my experience forward the next time there’s an opening in Portsmouth.”
Mr. Dodgson had scanned the London newspapers, which he now laid aside in a tidy pile, and he had information to impart. “This is quite interesting,” he commented. “I have carefully read the Times, the Standard, and the Globe, and in none of these do I find any but the briefest of notices of Mrs. Jeffries’s excursion into Mayfair this morning. However, the Pall Mall Gazette does have a detailed account, embellished with editorial comments. Remarkable. They must have had a man at the scene, in that disgraceful crowd.”
Dr. Doyle frowned. “In that case, the announcement of Lord Richard’s abandonment of his Bill should have been placed in the Pall Mall Gazette.”
“It will be looked for in the Pall Mall Gazette,” Mr. Dodgson corrected him. “But it will not be found. In spite of Mr. Upshaw’s efforts, Lord Richard is adamant. He will pursue this Bill until it is resolved, one way or another.”
Touie frowned at her husband. “You really should let the police do their work,” she chided the two men. “I’m sure they know what they are about.”
“They would not listen to us,” Mr. Dodgson said. “They have it in their heads that both the death of that poor old man and the death of that young woman were unconnected to the disappearance of Miss Marbury.”
Dr. Doyle’s frown deepened. “The problem is that they have to work slowly,” he said. “After all, they need to be sure of their facts before they can get a warrant to search a house, even one of, um, ill repute.”
“Are there such in Brighton?” Mr. Dodgson asked innocently.
Dr. Doyle glanced at his wife. “Alas, Mr. Dodgson, vice rears its ugly head even in a seaside Eden like Brighton.”
“I saw the most extraordinary procession this morning,” Touie broke in. “A string of girls, quite young, dressed in the height of fashion, led by a woman with the most vivid red hair!”
“Girls?” Mr. Dodgson lifted his head from his newspaper. “Girls, you say?”
“Yes. But there was something strange about them. I could not quite put my finger on it. They were well-mannered, well-dressed girls.”
“Just walking?” Dr. Doyle asked sharply.
“Strolling on the Esplanade,” Touie said. “I had been shopping, Arthur. I got some darling seashells to place in the parlor at our villa, and a set of teacups for Mother, and I could not help but watch this … well, procession, you might say. They marched down Queen’s Road, and walked on the Esplanade, from the Chain Pier to the West Pier and back.”
“Could it have been some sort of school for young ladies?” Dr. Doyle asked.
Mr. Dodgson shook his head. “Not in August,” he declared, on firm ground this time. He might not know about illegal establishments, but he knew about schools. “The term ends in June, and no school will start again until mid-September.”
“In that case,” Dr. Doyle said slowly, “we may assume that there is an establishment in Brighton that specializes in very young, um, persons, and that these young persons were, um, advertising themselves.”
Mr. Dodgson paled. “I cannot believe that the borough would tolerate such a … a …”
Dr. Doyle was more cynical. “If the Pall Mall Gazette is correct, many of Mrs. Jeffries’s favored clients belong to the very stratum of society who spend their holidays in Brighton. It is just possible that she has set up a … a branch office, as it were, here for the season. And if that is so,” he continued, warming to his subject, “it is also possible that Miss Marbury is being kept there.”
“Or if she is not,” Touie put in, “then the people there will surely know where she is.”
Mr. Dodgson digested this information and nodded. “There is only one difficulty,” he said. “You postulate the existence of this, urn, establishment. One cannot go about asking for such a … a place. One does not find its direction from a guidebook. In that case, how does one discover it? In fact, that is the aspect of this business that puzzles me the most. How does one go about discovering such, um, establishments? Assuming, of course, that one is of such a depraved character as to do so when on holiday?”
“According to the Pall Mall Gazette,” Dr. Doyle said, “Mrs. Jeffries has agents stationed at the hotels and clubs in London, who act as, er, touts, for her activities. In today’s installment,” he picked up the offending journal and thumbed through it, “this reporter claims that her people have penetrated the highest ranks of society, and may even be found in the hallowed halls of Westminster.”
Touie gasped. “I cannot believe—in Parliament? Surely not!” She snatched the paper from her husband’s hands, to read for herself.
Mr. Dodgson gently removed the newspaper from her grip. “This is not proper reading for a lady,” he chided her. “Indeed, Dr. Doyle, this whole conversation is most improper.”
Dr. Doyle laughed. “Touie is a doctor’s wife, Mr. Dodgson. She’s far more conversant with the darker side of life than you might think. She’s even gone into some of the worst places, good soul that she is, for charity’s sake.” He smiled fondly at his bride, who flushed prettily. Then his voice lowered. “But you are quite right, my dear. The procession you saw must have been the girls spoken of in these articles.”
“Assuming there is such a place, of which there is yet no concrete proof,” Mr. Dodgson said severely.
“I think we may take it as a given that there is,” argued the younger man. “And as for the existence of such poor creatures, in Edinburgh, I had my share of such encounters. You can’t avoid it. And the charity wards gave me a sympathy for these women—mere children, some of them—who must earn their scrap of bread in this manner. I do not blame them, sir, for they are often the sole support of their families.”
“The girls I saw looked well-fed, clean, quite healthy,” Touie commented. “Do you know, Arthur, I think they may be considered quite fortunate by their neighbors to work under those conditions, considering what other women must go through,” she added.
Dr. Doyle glanced at Mr. Dodgson. “In that case,” he said, “I may have a plan. We shall have to ask some of the touts on the streets where to go for, um, pleasure.”
“Dr. Doyle! Your wife is present!” Mr. Dodgson was incensed.
Touie smiled sweetly at her husband. “Arthur is quite right,” she said. “It is the most direct approach to the matter. No doubt the police are questioning those same men.”
“Then we shall have to question the little girls,” Dr. Doyle said firmly. “Mr. Dodgson, you get on well with girls. Can you find out which house it is that is a haven for them? I realize it is a great deal to ask.”
Mr. Dodgson sat up very straight. “Those street children are not young,” he said. “They have seen far too much vice in their short lives to be young. But if it will assist us in finding Miss Marbury …”
“I can think of no other way,” Dr. Doyle said.
“Then I will do it. Now, Mrs. Doyle, Dr. Doyle, you must accompany me to my friend, Mr. Barclay. He is the Rector of St. Peter’s Church, and a most conscientious churchman. I believe that he even has contact with some of the more forceful members of the Evangelical community who work with the poor, and through them, we will be able to begin our search. I only hope that we are not too late, and that Miss Marbury will be
returned to her family before the Sunday editions come out. Now, if you permit me, I believe that Mrs. Doyle will prefer traveling by cab. Let us go to the Queen’s Road and take one, and pray that Miss Marbury has not been removed from her hiding place before we find her.”
CHAPTER 15
The cab that brought the Doyles and Mr. Dodgson to the door of the Rectory of St. Peter’s was instantly claimed by a party threading its way through the front gate. Saturday was Mrs. Barclay’s At Home, when any ecclesiastical visitors to Brighton might call and partake of tea, biscuits, and parochial gossip. As the cab trotted down the hill on the Grand Parade, another carriage took its place, disgorging three more ladies and a gentleman in the black suit and collar of the Church of England.
The butler, whose demeanor rivaled that of his master in ecclesiastical dignity, showed them all into the parlor, and announced, “Mr. Dodgson, Dr. Doyle, Mrs. Doyle, The Reverend Mr. Falwell, Mrs. Falwell, and the two Miss Falwells.”
Mr. Barclay and his wife welcomed the arrival of Mr. Dodgson and his guests with modified joy. The Rector had been in the throes of creation in his study, a book-lined cubbyhole under the eaves of the old house, when he had been summoned downstairs by his wife to attend to his duties as host. Mrs. Barclay was already serving tea to Lady Grenfell, Mrs. Wynne, and Miss Dulcie Wynne, all of whom stared at the modestly dressed Mrs. Doyle with undisguised curiosity. The addition of the Falwell family filled the parlor with females, and their attendant draperies made the Reverend Mr. Falwell fade into insignificance (a state of affairs quite common in the Falwell household).
“Charles!” Mrs. Barclay exclaimed, as the trio was led into the parlor by the supercilious butler. “We were worried about you. Why did you not remain in London?”
“Because my business is here,” Mr. Dodgson said. “You recall Dr. Doyle? Dicky Doyle’s nephew, you know,” he added, to give his new friend some credence in society.
“Yes, of course. How do you do, Dr. Doyle?” Mrs. Barclay smiled briefly.
“And Mrs. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson completed the introductions. “Where is Henry? I must consult with him about …”
“Charles!” This time it was the Rector’s turn to interrupt. He had obviously been writing; his fingers were stained with ink, and his hair was all on end.
“Mr. Barclay!” Mrs. Barclay warned him. “You are not properly dressed!”
The rotund churchman realized that he was in his shirtsleeves and shrugged. “No time for all that now, my dear,” he said, seizing Mr. Dodgson by the arm and leading him to the parlor door. “Charles, you must help me. I am rewriting my sermon for tomorrow, on the text of ‘Suffer the little children.’ That should put them in the mood for the rally and protestation meeting!”
“Eh?” Mr. Dodgson eased out of his friend’s grasp. “I thought … that is, you said …”
“I know, I know, we were considering such a meeting, but nothing was firm. Well, we have received permission from the borough to hold it on Monday, so as not to desecrate the Sabbath. Moreover, we may hold it on the grounds of the Royal Pavilion!” Mr. Barclay fairly radiated civic pride and righteous indignation in equal portions.
“How … how apt,” Dr. Doyle choked out, suddenly realizing the impact of the ornate palace, and the image of its previous tenants.
“And Lord Richard Marbury has agreed to speak,” the Rector added.
“Indeed! And when did this happen?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“I received a message from him this afternoon.”
“Ah, Mr. Upshaw’s been busy,” Dr. Doyle observed.
“Who?” Mr. Barclay fairly shoved the other two men toward the stairs to his study, leaving Mr. Falwell to drink tea in the parlor. “Charles, as a literary man you have a facility with words that I lack. I can preach a good, sound doctrine, but you, my old friend, can be of great assistance to me.”
“I am a mathematician,” Mr. Dodgson protested. He turned to Dr. Doyle. “Actually, my young friend here is the one with a taste for literature. Besides, he is the, er, secretary of the Liberal Unionist Club of Portsmouth. Do I have that correct?”
“Indeed, Mr. Dodgson, I didn’t know you’d remembered.” Dr. Doyle looked troubled. “The thing of it is—I am not a member of your church.”
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Dodgson said, after a moment’s thought. “Doyle is an Irish name. I should have deduced that you might be a Romanist. Well, no matter. Your thoughts on the subject are as worthy as anyone’s.”
“I am not precisely a member of the Roman Church,” Dr. Doyle began, but Mr. Dodgson was ahead of him on the stairs. He flashed a smile to Touie, and followed the other men up to the Rector’s private study, an attic cubicle filled with books, paper, a desk, chair, and ottoman. By the time Dr. Doyle arrived at this aerie, the Rector had lifted several piles of books off the chair and ottoman, and settled his visitors down for a chat.
Mr. Dodgson would not be settled. “Henry,” he said earnestly, “we have come to consult you on a matter of the gravest urgency. In fact, it is somewhat connected to this business of yours. We feel that Miss Alicia Marbury is being held somewhere in Brighton, perhaps in a—pardon my saying so—a …”
Dr. Doyle was more blunt. “To be frank, sir, a brothel.”
Mr. Barclay looked blank. “I can assure you, Charles, I have no idea where such places may be, in Brighton or anywhere else,” he protested. “Such persons are not part of my congregation. However,” he admitted, “it is all too possible that some of my congregation may, perhaps, have some acquaintance with them. It is for this reason that I am lending my support to the rally and protestation meeting.”
“Really, Henry, it is beneath the dignity of the Church to meddle in these matters,” Mr. Dodgson sputtered.
The Rector drew himself up to his full five feet six inches. “This is a matter of morality!” he pronounced. “I admit that Mr. Branwell, of the Methodist Chapel, and I have had our disagreements, on theological grounds. I do not approve of his doctrine, nor he of mine. In addition, I find General Booth’s Salvation Army somewhat vulgar in its militaristic organization, although I applaud his efforts on behalf of the unfortunate victims of society. Nor am I usually on speaking terms with the representatives of the Church of Rome. However, on this matter we are all as one, and I have agreed to lend my support to theirs in an appeal to our members to cast aside Party lines and vote their consciences—assuming they have any!—on the Bill now before the House.”
Dr. Doyle had picked up one of the pages of Mr. Barclay’s sermon and was reading it avidly. “Warm, sir. Very warm,” he commented.
“I hope so,” was the reply. “If these articles in the Pall Mall Gazette are even half true, there are dreadful things being done to young girls, and it is the business of the Church to stop them. Evil is evil, Charles, and as a churchman I am sworn to fight evil, even when it wears the robes of state!”
“Hear, hear!” Dr. Doyle applauded.
“Rather a good line, that?” Mr. Barclay scribbled it down, before it got away from him.
“Henry, do concentrate on my problem for a few minutes,” pleaded Mr. Dodgson. “I don’t mean to imply that you are personally acquainted with these creatures, or that you frequent their haunts, but surely you must have heard some gossip, some clue as to where they may be encountered?”
Mr. Barclay thought deeply. “The neighborhood of Church Street, just off the Queen’s Road, behind the Music Hall, is not a good one,” he said at last. “My wife considers it her duty to visit the poor, and even she avoids that particular street. If one were to look for a … a dubious establishment, one might begin there.”
He looked at his friend. Mr. Dodgson seemed to be in a trance, listening to some inner muse.
“Mr. Dodgson?” Dr. Doyle’s voice broke through the fog of thought.
“I was trying to make sense of this ridiculous farrago,” Mr. Dodgson said. “If Mr. Upshaw did not inform my friend Barclay of Lord Richard’s movements, then who did?”
> “I received a telegram,” the Rector explained.
“Ah. Then no one named Upshaw has called here? No one by that name has left a message, on behalf of Lord Richard?” Mr. Dodgson pursued the thought.
“I can call Peters, my butler, and ascertain who, if anyone, has called,” Mr. Barclay said, puzzled.
“Please do,” Mr. Dodgson urged.
“You suspect this Upshaw, then?” Dr. Doyle asked.
“I do not like him, but not liking a man is no reason to accuse him of either abduction or murder. However, he is not telling the truth, or at least, the entire truth, about his movements, and clearly, Lord Richard has made a decision to act without consulting our ubiquitous Mr. Upshaw.”
The butler’s ponderous footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Peters, has anyone calling himself Upshaw come to the house today?” the Rector demanded.
“No, sir. Mrs. Barclay’s callers have been coming all afternoon. Then, there was the Saturday post; the person from the telegraph office with a message, and these gentlemen here.”
“No one else?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“Except for the persons delivering bread and fish for the cook, no one.” The butler withdrew, mightily confused.
No less confused were Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle. “Curiouser and curiouser,” murmured Mr. Dodgson. “Are you sure this telegram came from Lord Richard Marbury?”
“I will look a pretty fool if it did not,” replied his friend. “I have already alerted our constabulary about the protestation meeting, and told them to have extra constables on duty to keep order. I have booked the rooms at the Old Ship for Lord Richard and Lady Patricia Marbury, for Monday night. And if he does not come, a large number of people will feel they have been cheated, and will undoubtedly vent their anger on me!”
“Do you happen to have the telegram to hand?” Dr. Doyle asked. Mr. Barclay sorted through the heap of papers on his desk and emerged with a familiar slip of yellow paper. Dr. Doyle examined it carefully.
The Problem of the Missing Miss Page 12