The Problem of the Missing Miss

by Roberta Rogow

  “Is this your first visit to Brighton?” Mrs. Donaldson asked, as if she were the first to do so,

  “I have spent most of my life in Portsmouth,” Touie answered. “My brother and I …” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Donaldson produced a fine handkerchief.

  Touie used it, then said, “I’m sorry. It’s only been a year since we lost him. Arthur—that is, Dr. Doyle—was the attending physician in the case.”

  “How romantic!” squeaked the eldest Miss Falwell from the piano.

  “And so you are on your honeymoon,” gushed the younger Miss Falwell.

  “It seems you are spending very little time with your bridegroom,” Mrs. Barclay put in censoriously.

  “Arthur is assisting Mr. Dodgson,” Touie said loyally. Before anyone could ask what her husband was assisting Mr. Dodgson with, he appeared at the parlor door, with the rest of the gentlemen. “Oh, Arthur,” she greeted her husband, grateful for someone else to talk to. “Mrs. Barclay and Mrs. Falwell have been discussing their efforts on behalf of the poor children of their parishes.”

  “Most commendable,” Mr. Dodgson said faintly.

  “Yes, indeed, but we must be off,” Dr. Doyle said abruptly. “We have to find—”

  “Oh, of course.” Touie blushed. “Perhaps you had better take me back to our lodgings, then, before you continue your search.”

  “Oh, what are you looking for?” asked the younger Miss Falwell. “Is it a treasure hunt?”

  “Of a sort,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But it is a hidden treasure.”

  Mr. Barclay looked worried. “Charles,” he said, drawing his friend out into the hallway, while Dr. Doyle and his wife were assisted into their evening wraps, “you are not planning to search for that child tonight?”

  “I must,” Mr. Dodgson said, clutching his friend’s arm as much for physical support as moral.

  “Do not let that Dr. Doyle lead you into danger with his ambition to make a name for himself,” Mr. Barclay warned. “And I shall wait up for you.”

  “Thank you, Henry.” Mr. Dodgson took his hat and walked after his protégés. “I only hope that we shall find the child quickly, and that she is not harmed in the process.”

  Mr. Barclay followed the two of them down the path to Trafalgar Street, and let his butler find a cab on the Grand Parade while his dinner guests waited indoors.

  “Charles, I still think you should let the police handle this matter,” he said, finally.

  “I would, if I had more confidence in their ability,” Mr. Dodgson countered. “Dr. Doyle seems to think that we may find some answers to our questions on Church Street. As soon as we have seen Mrs. Doyle safely to their lodgings, we shall make those inquiries. And then, Henry, we may be able to rouse the police to do their duty!”

  CHAPTER 18

  That Saturday night in Brighton was perfect for seekers of diversion. In spite of the sea breeze that was beginning to wreathe the beaches and Esplanade with mist, the weather held fair enough so that strollers would not be inconvenienced. The Theatre Royal was showing Mr. Henry Irving that night, in his renowned production of Hamlet. There was a full bill at the Music Hall, including Mr. George Grossmith (on loan from the D’Oyly Carte Company, one night only). Buskers, street musicians, and Punch and Judy all were out in full force, since they depended on a clear Saturday night to “make the nut,” and pay for the following week’s food and board, not to mention gin, beer, and rum.

  Even more than the performers, the women (and a few young men) who strutted along Church Street were hoping for a good haul on Saturday. Weekdays might be dreary; Sunday was impossible. Friday gave promise, but Saturday was the time for a woman to take in a week’s income—and Heaven help her if she did not, for no one else would!

  Those Brighton streetwalkers who operated along the Queen’s Road, that well-traveled route from the railway station to the more fashionable haunts of the Esplanade and Marine Parade, were subject to some annoyance from the constabulary. A girl could not actually stand on the Queen’s Road, but had to be in a doorway or window. Church Street, which led from Queen’s Road to North Street, was a narrow, cobbled street lined with two-story houses, most of which had flyblown signs in the windows advertising ROOMS TO LET. No one ever let the rooms for more than an hour at a time, and none of the letters of rooms ever considered taking in an unsolicited boarder. Taverns filled the ground floors of those houses, where young (and not-so-young) men could find a glass of ale, or something stronger. Behind the counters of the bars stood stout middle-aged persons of either sex, who were all too willing to recommend a friendly, clean, and willing young woman to a gentleman who offered a half-crown (or sometimes less) for the information.

  Church Street was gaslit, but the lamplighters made sure to be well away before the night settled in. Under the lamps strolled women, young and old, full-fleshed and scrawny, with hair that varied in shade from the palest of blond to the darkest of jet (with some assistance from the new chemical dyes hawked in the back pages of the newspapers). Their charms were displayed in second-hand finery, culled from the leavings of ladies’ maids, who could no longer be seen in their mistress’s once-fashionable attire. Low-cut chemises revealed bosoms that were never used for suckling purposes; ankles were barely hidden by flounded petticoats; waists were cinched in by bodices and corsets to impossible dimensions.

  To the sight of all this pulchritude were added the sounds of soprano and alto voices, calling, cajoling, enticing, promising the passerby “a good time, ducky,” or “a jolly go,” with no mention of the probable aftereffects: robbery, shame, or a dose of clap.

  Church Street was patrolled by two constables, one at each end of the road, whose main function appeared to be to keep the women in their place, away from the higher-class tarts on the Esplanade. They studiously ignored the men who strolled along the road, while the men pretended they were only out to take the air (redolent with cheap perfume and gin). Gentlemen in evening dress, city chaps in suits, country fellows in shirts and waistcoats, soldiers in red coats and sailors in dress blues, all came to Church Street, looking for companionship, or its nearest equivalent.

  To this salubrious locale came Dr. Doyle, with a shrinking Mr. Dodgson at his side. They were left off at the Music Hall by a cabby who gave them a knowing wink. “I can be back in an hour,” the cabby promised. “That should do for the old gent. As for you, young feller, you might want to go a little longer!”

  “One hour will do very well,” Dr. Doyle said. “Remain at this location, and there will be a crown in it for you.”

  “Good enough,” the cabby said, with a flourish of his whip. He joined the queue at the Music Hall end of Church Street.

  Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson were left to the tender mercies of the police constable, who carefully looked across the street as they peered around the corner to survey the territory. The elderly scholar eyed the scene with evident distaste.

  “I do not think I can do this, Dr. Doyle,” he confessed.

  “It’s not a pleasant sight,” Dr. Doyle agreed. “Those poor women, forced into a life of shame.”

  “And those men!” Mr. Dodgson shuddered. “Open depravity! No, Dr. Doyle, I must reconsider our plan of action. Perhaps you should go ahead of me. Heavens!” He peered into the street, now beginning to be wreathed in mist. “I believe I recognize that man!”

  “I sincerely hope no one of our acquaintance is here!” Dr. Doyle said fervently.

  “What would people think if I were to be seen in such a … a disgraceful location?” Mr. Dodgson fussed. “No, no, I must not be here. You will have to continue your researches by yourself, Dr. Doyle. At least, as a young man, and a medical man at that, you have some excuse for your presence. Only the worst inferences will be drawn if I … Oh, dear me!” Mr. Dodgson tried to pull his hat over his face as he scanned the street ahead of him.

  “What is it?”

  “Is that not Mr. Kinsale? I thought we left him in London.”


  “What?” Dr. Doyle poked his head around the corner, then ducked back. “I do believe you are right, Mr. Dodgson. I suppose it is not surprising, given his reputation, that Roaring Ned Kinsale should patronize these, um, women, but his presence in Brighton is unusual. I was under the impression that his interests lay in London.”

  “Whatever shall we do? If he recognizes us …”

  “He appears to be questioning some of those women.”

  Indeed, Ned Kinsale, in well-cut but carelessly worn evening dress, was chatting with two girls, whose age could have been anything from fifteen to fifty under their heavy cosmetics.

  Doyle and Dodgson crept nearer, hoping to catch some of the dialogue.

  “Pretty girls like you shouldn’t be out on the streets this late at night,” Kinsale chaffed them.

  “And were you planning to put us to bed, then?” The one with the red hair leaned against him, leaving streaks of powder across his white shirtfront.

  “And if I was, where would we go?”

  “Just across the street, love. I’ve got a nice little room.”

  “Ah, but suppose you’re not the one I’m looking for?” Kinsale’s voice eased into the Irish brogue.

  The girl pouted. “I’m sure I can make you happy, sir.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m looking for someone special, someone with red hair.”

  The girl laughed and teased him with the red curl that escaped over her shoulders.

  “He wants hair that don’t come out of a bottle,” the other girl sniped. “True carrots is hard to find, sir.”

  “I hear there’s one place … a house.” Kinsale’s voice dropped. “Just the sort of place a pretty pair like you might find work in. Somewhere where the girls are”—he leered—“girls.”

  The redhead shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about a place like that,” she said. Behind her, a tall man in a black velveteen jacket worn over a red silk shirt, open at the neck and tied round with a black scarf, materialized.

  “Here, yer lordship, stop wasting the girl’s time. Take the offer, or find someone else!”

  Kinsale tipped his top hat and smiled winningly. “I’m in the market for red hair tonight, but not yours, m’dear,” he said. “But here’s a shilling for your time.” He tipped the girls, waved at the pimp, and strolled on.

  The older girl glanced at her pimp, then ran after Kinsale. “If it’s real young you’re lookin’ for,” she whispered hurriedly, “I’ve got a sister, works a flash place in King Street. Ask for Miss ’Armon and say Gertie’s sister sent yer.” She laughed loudly and sashayed back to her post. Kinsale looked thoughtful as he continued his promenade.

  Behind him, Mr. Dodgson told Dr. Doyle, “I cannot do this. I must return to the Rectory at once. I leave this part of the search to you, sir.”

  “Mr. Dodgson,” Dr. Doyle urged him on, “I thought we had agreed on this course of action. We must question these young women and find out where Miss Marbury might have been taken.”

  Mr. Dodgson turned and faced his young companion, his face set in lines of extreme displeasure. “No, Dr. Doyle,” he said firmly. “You agreed. You have dragged me hither and yon, from here to London and back, you have subjected me to a pointless chase, you have permitted me to be assaulted—”

  Dr. Doyle’s mustache bristled with indignation. “It was you, sir, who wished to go to London, not I! As for the assault upon your person, if you will recall, it was none of my doing, and I fought those bully-boys, even to the possible detriment to my own character!”

  Mr. Dodgson was not listening. “… And now this … this scene of debauchery! Dr. Doyle, you and I must part company, now! I shall return to our cab, and drive to the Rectory of St. Peter’s, where I shall be secure. As for you, sir, you may do as you will!” He turned his back on the sordid scene.

  Dr. Doyle gazed at his erstwhile mentor sorrowfully. “I had thought better of you, Mr. Dodgson,” he said at last. “Several times you have sworn that you would find that child, no matter what the cost. Now you cannot face a few disreputable women. I shall take you back to your safe haven of respectability, sir, and let the police do their job. Never mind what will happen to Miss Marbury in the meanwhile, not to mention the fact that the killer of that poor nurserymaid will go scot-free. Perhaps I overestimated your fortitude, sir.”

  Mr. Dodgson marched resolutely onward. Dr. Doyle followed him back to the Music Hall, where cabs were lining up, waiting for patrons of the raucous arts to emerge from the Theatre Royal, some to make their selection of the female wares along Church Street, others to proceed down the hill to the more respectable quarter of Brighton.

  The helpful cabby was still there. “That was a quick’un,” he commented, as he tapped his horse with the whip.

  “We … changed our minds,” Dr. Doyle said. “Back to St. Peter’s, if you please.”

  Behind them, Ned Kinsale watched their retreat and grinned gleefully. So, young Doyle and the old codger were on the trail, were they? Well, if they had heard him, let them make the most of it. His other friends were waiting for him at the far end of the street. Better that he be thought a libertine, Kinsale thought. The lads would not appreciate any police interference with their plans.

  He reread the handbill that had been shoved into his hands on the Queen’s Road. A Grand Protestation Meeting, was it? How apt that the frequenters of Church Street should be informed of the event. Perhaps the lads could make a protest of their own!

  He turned down one of the small streets that ran between Church Street and North Street. His friends would be waiting for news from London, and he had quite a lot of it to give them.

  Mr. Dodgson sat in huffy silence as the cab trotted back to St. Peter’s Church. Dr. Doyle regarded him sorrowfully.

  “I thought you meant it when you said you would do anything for that child,” the young Scotsman said finally.

  “There are limits, young man.” Mr. Dodgson closed his eyes, as if to blot out the scene he had just been forced to witness.

  Mr. Dodgson emerged from his cab and marched into the Rectory without another word to Dr. Doyle.

  “Where to now, sir?” the cabby asked.

  “Duke Street,” Dr. Doyle said, with a disappointed sigh. “I may have to do this myself, but not tonight.” At least, he thought, Touie would be there, and she would understand.

  The meeting at the Rectory had progressed considerably. Mr. Barclay’s parlor was now full of excited clergymen, of various sects and sizes. He nearly missed Mr. Dodgson’s entrance.

  “Charles!” Mr. Barclay bustled out of the parlor, before Mr. Dodgson could escape his attentions. “You must—Why, whatever is the matter? You do not look at all well.”

  “I am not well, Henry. With your permission, I shall retire. I have a great deal to think about. It has been an eventful day.”

  Mr. Dodgson was led to one of the upstairs bedrooms by the butler, who provided him with the amenities of the house: a pitcher of drinking water and a glass, and a plate of water biscuits. Once alone, with the lamp properly lit, he could remove his collar and cravat and crawl into his nightwear, which had been laid out for him.

  What should he do? he wondered, as he prepared for bed. As was his custom, he bowed his head in prayer. No answer came from on high. He shook his head, puzzled. “It does not make sense,” he said aloud. “Why?”

  Mr. Dodgson tried to think clearly, ignoring the hubbub downstairs. All things have a logic, even in madness, he decided. I will have to consider the events in their proper order, and all will be made clear.

  As he closed his eyes, he wondered whether he had been too hasty. Dr. Doyle was not a bad chap. He was, after all, Dicky Doyle’s nephew. Perhaps tomorrow would bring a better understanding.

  In the lodging house in Duke Street, Dr. Doyle and his bride were also preparing for bed. Mrs. Keene had provided them with a brass bedstead of impressive size, fitted out with a sturdy mattress, down pillows, and linen sheets. Touie modestly hid behind a s
creen to complete her toilette, while Dr. Doyle removed his clothes and hung them neatly on the spindle-backed chair in one corner of the room.

  He related the events of the evening, omitting such details as the appearance of Mr. Kinsale among the Soiled Doves.

  “Mr. Dodgson would not continue with me,” he said. “Why couldn’t he have even tried?”

  “Mr. Dodgson is not as robust as you,” Touie consoled him, emerging from behind the screen and sliding between the sheets. “And, Arthur, he is a gentleman of rather … restricted … upbringing. You have knocked about the world a bit, after all.”

  Dr. Doyle smirked, slid in beside his bride, and blew out the candle. “I only hope the child will not be harmed because we did not find her in time.”

  “Oh, Arthur,” Touie breathed. “You will surely save her!”

  After which, there were no more words to say.

  CHAPTER 19

  King Street was one of the short connecting streets between Church and North streets. Only a few hundred yards lay between the trollops who plied their trade on the streets and the young persons who inhabited Miss Harmon’s establishment, and those few hundred yards made all the difference. At Miss Harmon’s, there were no overt displays of female charms, no garish cosmetics, no blatant calls or raucous ribaldry. Instead, Miss Harmon cultivated an ambiance of gentility. The parlor was furnished with comfortable chairs, and decorated with reproductions of Mr. Landseer’s paintings. The very young employees were instructed in deportment that would not shock or disgust potential clients.

  “Sit up straight, Helen,” Miss Harmon ordered, as she arranged herself on her chair, ready for the early customers. She had changed her flowered day dress for a gray silk gown with a demi-train, embellished with jet beads. Her hair was piled high on her head, held in place with combs and hairpins. Only a light dusting of pale powder enhanced her face. Miss Harmon could have joined any of the select parties being held in Brighton at the Albemarle or Grand hotels, and no one would have known that she had started life in a stationer’s shop in Oxford High Street.