The Problem of the Missing Miss

by Roberta Rogow

  CHAPTER 22

  Through the rain Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle plodded to John Street, where the constables on the day shift were marching down the steps, off to do their duty directing the carriages in and out of the roads leading to the major religious edifices. It would never do for the visitors to St. Peter’s, or St. Michael’s, or the venerable St. Nicholas Church to be trapped in traffic, and so miss the most important part of the Sunday morning ritual: the display of one’s finery for the delectation and envy of other visitors to Brighton. The constabulary had been provided with new Mackintosh overcoats as protection against the elements. Dr. Doyle began to wish that he had taken similar precautions.

  Mr. Dodgson, on the other hand, seemed to be impervious to either cold or damp. He strode resolutely onward, past the disconsolate man on the Esplanade vainly waving his handbills and hoarsely announcing the “Great Protestation Meeting tomorrow night”; past the winkle sellers in their booths, staring blankly at the downpour; past the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who were being handed into their carriages for the requisite appearance at the eleven o’clock service at St. Peter’s Church.

  Dr. Doyle followed his mentor as they tramped across the Marine Parade, up the hill, and into the side street that led to the police station.

  “I thought we were going to King Street,” he puffed out, as soon as he caught up with the indefatigable Mr. Dodgson.

  “We are,” Mr. Dodgson told him. “However, we are not going without some sort of reinforcements. I shall give the police one last chance to do their duty, before we have to do it for them.”

  He settled his top hat more firmly on his head and braved the winds once more, being blown up the steps to the police station.

  Once inside, it was Sergeant Hartley who recognized the pair. “Back again, eh?” he greeted them.

  “As you see,” Dr. Doyle said, shaking the rain off his hat.

  “No more corpses for you to anatomize,” Hartley said. “The gal and the old busker’re remanded until the Coroner’s inquest. That long drink of water what calls himself Upshaw’s been and gone, made a mort of fuss about getting the gal back to her own village in Derbyshire.”

  “Ah, yes. I had wondered about our Mr. Upshaw,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Do you know when he came for that poor girl?”

  Hartley scratched his head. “Don’t see what business it is of yours.”

  “I only wondered if he were still in Brighton,” Mr. Dodgson mused. “You see, his employer, Lord Richard Marbury, is expected in Brighton for the protestation rally tomorrow, and I thought Mr. Upshaw might still be about, so that my friend, Mr. Barclay, might consult with him about the, um … the …”

  “Arrangements,” Dr. Doyle put in. “Seating, police protection, that sort of thing.”

  Mr. Dodgson smiled benignly at Sergeant Hartley. The sergeant shrugged. “I can go and find out,” he offered.

  “No matter, no matter,” Mr. Dodgson murmured. “We really wished to speak to your Inspector Wright. Is he about?”

  “I’ll see.” Hartley stamped up the stairs to Inspector Wright’s private office, where the Brighton and London police were sharing a late morning cup of tea.

  Wright had donned his Sunday black suit, appropriate for his mood this gloomy morning. MacRae was still in his checked suit, with a clean shirt and collar and a grim expression on his face. Neither of the two men was pleased with the previous night’s activities and their aftermath.

  Wright was almost grateful when Sergeant Hartley interrupted them.

  “May I have a word, sir?” Hartley asked.

  “You’re having it,” Wright said. “What is it, Hartley?”

  “It’s that precious pair again,” Hartley announced, in tones of vast exasperation. “Dodgson and Doyle.”

  Inspector Wright sighed. Last night’s debacle had yielded the names of several gentlemen of impeccable reputation, most of whom were visitors to Brighton and most of whom would kick up all sorts of row if their peccadillos were made public. Somewhere around midnight the constables on watch had come to him with the news that there had been some sort of fuss inside the house, but all was quiet by the time Inspector Wright could muster his troops. He and MacRae had not been allowed into the house. The door had been slammed unceremoniously and contemptuously in his face.

  He had no desire for another bout with Miss Harmon until and unless he was on thoroughly firm legal ground. As it was, neither he nor Inspector MacRae could make an arrest on any charge under the present laws. It was not a crime to patronize a brothel and the borough of Brighton was not about to antagonize its most influential visitors by dragging them into the Magistrate’s Court on such specious evidence.

  Once the disturbance had died down and the lights were put out, the house on King Street was quiet. There was no reason for anyone to remain watching the place. Inspector Wright had accompanied Inspector MacRae to his modest lodgings and gone back to his own little flat, a two-room suite over a barber shop in North Street.

  Wright had had plans for this weekend, which did not include either protestation meetings or searches for missing children. All those plans were now cast aside, thanks to little Miss Marbury and her sanctimonious parent. He scowled at Hartley, stroked his mustache, and watched MacRae drinking his tea.

  Inspector MacRae had not revised his opinion of Brighton or its constabulary. He put Wright down as a time-server, a sucker-up to the higher-ups and a squasher of the lowly. The Harmon woman had been warned, and the most logical suspects were right there in the John Street Police Station. MacRae wondered how long it would take to find the missing child, and when he could get back to London, where he knew which of his comrades was on the take, and for how much.

  MacRae was as soured as Wright on the amateurs who were taking over his case. Dodgson he put down as a meddling old codger, and Doyle was one of those nuisances who thought they knew more than the police about how to conduct an investigation into a crime. And now here they were again, barging in where they were neither wanted nor needed.

  “What’s on their minds?” Wright asked with a grimace.

  “They said, the protestation meeting,” Hartley stated.

  Inspector MacRae shook his head. “Not the Edinburgh man,” he said flatly. “A shilling says they’re still on the trail of that girl.”

  Inspector Wright sat down again, a hint of a smile lurking under his mustache. “Bring them up, Sergeant,” he ordered.

  MacRae leaned forward. “What are you up to, Wright?”

  Wright tapped the side of his nose and leaned back in his chair. When Mr. Dodgson arrived, with Dr. Doyle behind him, Inspector Wright rose and indicated that Mr. Dodgson should take the only unoccupied seat in the office.

  “I have information,” the scholar stated, once these amenities had been satisfied. “I have discovered …”

  “That there is a house in King Street, an establishment run by a Miss Julia Harmon,” Inspector Wright finished for him.

  “Then you know about this … this establishment?” Mr. Dodgson’s eager expression turned to one of peevish exasperation.

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Dodgson, we’re not as slow as they make us out in the newspapers. Of course we knew about it. In fact, we’ve had the place under observation for some time.”

  “And?” Mr. Dodgson leaned forward.

  “And, except for a large number of male callers, there is nothing we can charge the inhabitants of that house with,” Inspector Wright said.

  Dr. Doyle broke in: “Surely, there are borough ordinances about running a, well, disorderly house?”

  “Trouble is, the house wasn’t disorderly,” Inspector Wright said with a sigh. “No trouble, not a peep out of anyone in the street. We can’t just go into a private house without cause. An Englishman’s home …”

  “… is his castle. I know the old saw,” Dr. Doyle said.

  Mr. Dodgson frowned. “I see your dilemma,” he said finally. “However, suppose a private person, such as myself, were to
swear out a complaint against the inhabitants of the establishment?”

  “You’d have to have good cause,” Inspector Wright said gloomily.

  “Ah. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that I were to discover that a child was being held there against her will?”

  “If you can find her, you’ll do better than we did,” MacRae put in. “We were in that house and searched it from top to bottom.”

  “Including the kitchens?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “And the upper story,” Inspector Wright said.

  “Most interesting,” Mr. Dodgson murmured to himself.

  “You aren’t planning a visit to that house yourself, are you?” MacRae asked. “Because the lady of the house is a very knowing one. She was onto me before I even set foot in the door.”

  Mr. Dodgson frowned slightly. “Now, there you surprise me,” he commented. “Dr. Doyle and myself were followed from the railway station and pursued through the streets, then accosted in front of this very building and warned off, as the sporting men have it. When, I wonder, did Miss Harmon discover that a representative of Scotland Yard was in Brighton?”

  “Had to have been between the time we arrived and eight o’clock last night,” MacRae said.

  “And who told her?” Dr. Doyle asked pugnaciously. “There must be a spy among your men, Inspector. According to the Pall Mall Gazette, Mrs. Jeffries and her ilk have minions in every police station, providing them with information, letting them know when raids are planned.”

  “Dr. Doyle!” Inspector Wright stood up in righteous wrath. “How dare you imply that my men are in the pay of criminal elements!”

  “I can think of no other way that Inspector MacRae’s presence should be known to Miss Harmon,” Dr. Doyle insisted. “No one else knew who or what he was, except the police, and not many of them, either.”

  “Not necessarily,” MacRae said, anxious to clear his colleague’s good name. “There was you, and that Upshaw fellow, and Lord Richard and that Kinsale chap—any one of them could have sent a telegram ahead, alerting the Harmon woman.”

  “She could even be on the telephone,” Mr. Dodgson put in.

  Wright glanced at MacRae. “I didn’t see one,” MacRae said.

  “I don’t think that part of Brighton is electrified,” Wright commented.

  “And both Mr. Kinsale and Mr. Upshaw are at this moment in Brighton,” Mr. Dodgson said, returning to the subject at hand. “Harmon … Harmon … I do believe I know the name. I knew a man named Harmon in Oxford.” Mr. Dodgson’s eyes were fixed on a vision only he could see. “Gentlemen,” he said suddenly, “I propose to pay a call on my old acquaintance, Miss Julia Harmon, this afternoon, after Divine Service.”

  Inspectors Wright and MacRae stared at him. The Brighton man found his voice first. “You’re mad as a March Hare, sir! Why should she let you in at all?”

  Mr. Dodgson smiled sweetly. “I knew her father, not to call on, of course, but as a tradesman. I shall tell her that I have heard she is now residing in this vicinity and wish to leave a card. After which, I shall insert myself into the house and discover where Miss Marbury is being held.”

  “And you think you can do this?” MacRae’s expression clearly showed that he doubted Mr. Dodgson’s ability to tie his own shoelaces, let alone find a missing child in a house already searched by the police.

  “I have promised my friend Mr. Barclay that I would read the lesson at today’s service, and there will be dinner afterwards,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I can meet with you gentlemen after the service and after dinner, let us say, at two o’clock this afternoon? And then we shall find Miss Marbury.”

  Mr. Dodgson rose, bowed, and marched back out into the rain. Inspector MacRae looked at his countryman as if to say, It’s us Scots against these mad Englishmen. Inspector Wright shook his head.

  “I only hope he knows what he’s doing.”

  Dr. Doyle smiled under his mustache. “I’m beginning to think he’s sharper than any of us. I can’t wait to tell all this to Touie!”

  CHAPTER 23

  By borough ordinance, all places of refreshment or recreation were closed on Sunday until noon. The sole source of recreation being spiritual, all of Brighton, both resident and transient, took itself to church. Even those visitors whose religious affiliations were vague at best suddenly decided to attend Divine Service at one of the edifices available.

  The old town had boasted but one parish church, the venerable St. Nicholas, dedicated to the patron saint of sailors, as well it should in a town whose economic mainstay was the sea. As the town had grown, new churches were added to the roster: the pseudo-Gothic splendor of St. Peter’s, the more pedestrian red brick of St. Michael’s, and the utilitarian stonework of St. Anselm’s. The Society of Friends had built their meetinghouse in The Lanes, where General Booth’s Army of Salvation had taken refuge as well. There was even a small set of rooms in one of the old houses behind the Royal Pavilion where various gentlemen of the Hebrew persuasion met daily for prayers and study. In short, Brighton was as eager to provide its visitors with this as with any other diversion.

  On this rainy Sunday, with all other places of recreation closed, the fashionable world hied to St. Peter’s in carriages or cabs; the less fashionable (and less worldly) walked to the nearest church or chapel (depending on their inclination). Gentlemen wore their severe Sunday suits or frock coats, with high hats or bowlers. Their female counterparts forsook the flowery for the formal, and black silk, black linen, and black bombazine were the order of the day. Hats were the only extravagance, exploiting the flowers of the field and the birds of the air to stunning effect. Only the unmarried daughters of the respectable burgesses of Brighton and their even more respectable guests could do pastels: peach, cornflower blue, pale straw, or ivory lace. Necks and arms, bared for the evening, were modestly covered during the church services, no matter how warm the temperature within.

  Today, there was no danger of heat stroke. Most of the congregants were perfectly happy to don shawls, coats, and jackets against the penetrating chill. Whether stone or brick, the churches seemed to shudder with the damp.

  The Reverend Mr. Barclay, as the most eminent divine in residence, took the pulpit at St. Peter’s Church. He looked out at the congregation, and wondered if they were prepared for his sermon. He had tried to be careful, but there was no getting around his topic. Sin was rampant in Brighton, and Sin must be cast out!

  Behind him, Mr. Dodgson followed the service carefully. He stepped up to the lectern at the appropriate moment, conscious of his tendency to stammer in moments of stress. He must speak slowly and carefully, lest he subject not only himself but his host to ridicule.

  “… And Jesus said, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven,’” Mr. Dodgson pronounced. Was it not the very text he had quoted in his letter of protest to the Prime Minister? Was it right, or even proper, to expose the ills of society to the pillars of society? And in the house of God? “Here endeth the lesson.”

  Mr. Dodgson sat down, still troubled. His friend, Barclay, was a good, honest servant of the Church. He would not defame the Lord’s house with evil.

  That settled, Mr. Dodgson considered the problem before him as the Divine Service continued around him. He spoke the responses automatically, as he had done for over fifty years. He had the service memorized; he tended to let his mind wander at times. He barely heard the choir as they vigorously attacked “The Heavens Declare the Glory of God” with more panache than finesse.

  What bothered him about the whole business, he decided, as Mr. Barclay ponderously took the pulpit and cleared his throat, was the timing of it. Why should Miss Marbury have been abducted in August, when the offensive articles began in July? Who knew that Inspector MacRae was from Scotland Yard, and how could Miss Harmon be notified about it between three and eight o’clock of a Saturday afternoon? Did Miss Harmon have the telephone? And who, of all the possible suspects, could have killed Old Keeble?


  Mr. Barclay’s voice rambled on. “… And, my friends, you may ask me whether it is the place of the Church to lower itself to the level of the persons writing in the public Press. Why, you may ask, should we, who are among the righteous, be concerned with those who are sinners? Women whose very lives are a disgrace and a blot upon the face of this fair city? But I remind you of the words of Our Lord: ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’

  “There are those among us, I regret to say, who are all too willing to look the other way, to let Sin run rampant when it puts silver into their pockets. But I tell you, my friends, that in this case, the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing.”

  “Of course!” Mr. Dodgson said aloud. The deacon on his right stared at him. Mr. Dodgson’s eyes shone with a new light. “That must be it!” he told himself. “I must inform Dr. Doyle, and the police.” He started to rise. The deacon seated next to him shot him an astonished look of warning. Mr. Dodgson came to his senses and sank back into his chair as the Reverend Barclay reached his conclusion:

  “… And so, my friends, I urge all of you to attend the protestation meeting tomorrow at six o’clock in the evening, to make your voices heard, and to join in the universal condemnation of these dreadful evils! And let us say, Amen!”

  “Amen!” Mr. Dodgson agreed.

  “And now,” Mr. Barclay said, “let us all sing.”

  Mr. Dodgson was jolted back to reality by a rustling of feet. He stood with the rest, his reedy voice adding to the chorus.

  “‘Abide with me, fast comes the Eventide,’” he sang. Not particularly appropriate for a morning service, he thought. “‘Help of the helpless, Oh, Abide with me.’” Who was more helpless than Alicia Marbury, locked in some cellar or attic. Now, he thought, why did I think of an attic? I do wish I had told Dr. Doyle to reconnoiter for me.