“What I really want to do is get another look at Captain Arkwright’s study. There’s something wrong there, Touie, I can feel it!”
Mr. Dodgson looked at the Bush Hotel. He looked at the eager faces of Dr. Doyle and his wife. He forgot his vow not to act impulsively.
“I shall accompany you to pay your condolence call,” he said.
“I knew you would,” said Touie with a smile, as the three of them proceeded eastward on King’s Road.
CHAPTER 2
The Doyles and Mr. Dodgson strolled purposefully eastward along the King’s Road in the midautumn afternoon. They passed the shops, where the clerks were making the last sales before teatime. Street vendors hawked vegetables as being “fresh from the garden,” while delectable odors escaped the baker’s and confectioner’s, where busy shoppers could stop for a cup of restorative tea before proceeding home via the ever-present horsecars. The air was cool and brisk, hinting at the winter to come, but not uncomfortable, despite the sea-breeze that ruffled the fringes on the shawls of the market-women and sent the hats of the unwary across the road.
The commercial bustle of King’s Road gave way to the comparative quiet of Elm Grove, a broad boulevard lined with individual houses, each tidily bordered by an iron fence or brick wall, beyond which lay small gardens where a few brave flowers still dared to bloom. The red and yellow leaves of maples and elms drifted across the road, blown by the ever-present wind. Here the horsecars were joined by small pony-traps, dog-carts, and even a penny-farthing bicycle, daringly navigated by a youth in knickerbockers. The carts from the bakery, the fishmonger, and the butcher were making their last deliveries. Ladies were completing their rounds of calls, heading home with the air of one who has done one’s duty, and done it well.
The Doyles led Mr. Dodgson to a small house at the extreme end of the street. Here Elm Grove effectively ended, where Victoria Road cut off to the north and Grove Road South led down to the Common, overlooking the Channel. The house had been built at the height of the craze for the picturesque, before Elm Grove had become so crowded. It would have been more appropriate to the Black Forest than to the English coast, with a peaked roof that sloped nearly to the edge of the leaded-glass casement windows that allowed air and light into the rooms beyond. A bow window sprouted from the northern side wall, while another casement opened onto the garden on the south side of the house. A flagstone path led to the front door through a profusion of valiantly blooming fall asters, while another path led from the road through the back-garden to the kitchen. A small wooden sign had been affixed to the front gate, proclaiming the residence to be Treasure House.
“The Misses Arkwright are apparently receiving visitors,” Mr. Dodgson observed, noting a carriage at the side of the road, and the small group of people leaving the house.
Dr. Doyle greeted the party as they attempted to pass on the narrow path that led to the front door of Treasure House, a passage made more difficult by the bustles on the three ladies involved. “Mr. Dodgson, this is Mr. Kirton and Mrs. Kirton, and Miss Kirton. Mr. Kirton is one of our leading dental surgeons,” he explained to Mr. Dodgson, who raised his hand to his hat, but did not lift it. One did not lift one’s hat to mere dentists.
Mr. Kirton lifted his silk hat to acknowledge the noted scholar. Mrs. Kirton nodded. The young lady next to her dropped a small curtsey. “I wish I could say I was glad to see you, Doyle,” Kirton said, drawing the younger man aside on the path to the house, while the ladies inched their way around each other. “You dropped a brick in the inquest this morning. Miss Amelia’s not best pleased about it.”
Dr. Doyle’s head went up. “I was asked if I had an opinion as to the time of death or the cause. I said that I did, and that in my opinion, death came from causes unknown.”
“When everyone knew the Captain to be a hard-drinking, hard-smoking man with an evil temper and a bad heart?”
“I had my doubts,” Dr. Doyle repeated. “I was asked for an opinion and I gave it.”
Mr. Kirton shook his head and sighed. “I only wish you had kept your doubts to yourself. Now we’ve got O’Ferrall in there, making no end of a nuisance of himself.”
Doyle’s mustache bristled pugnaciously. Before he could reply, Touie took his arm.
“Arthur, we shall go and leave cards, and if Miss Amelia will receive us, you can explain yourself to her,” she told him.
Behind them a tall man in clerical black cleared his throat noisily.
“Ah … someone is trying to get past us,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out. “We must either go forward or backward.”
“Forward it is,” Dr. Doyle said grimly. “I want to have a word with O’Ferrall myself.”
The trio pressed on. The new arrivals were greeted by a woman whose age might have been anywhere from thirty to forty-five, wearing a black silk day dress trimmed with purple braid, her fair hair covered by a black lace cap that was not quite widow’s weeds. Jet earrings and a black and white cameo at her throat finished the ensemble. She nodded coolly to the Doyles and their guest and smiled at the tall man in clerical black who loomed over them.
“Mrs. Doyle, how good of you to come,” she murmured. Her voice changed as she took in the two men who accompanied Touie. “Dr. Doyle, I didn’t expect you.”
“Mrs. Cavanaugh, this is our guest, Mr. Dodgson,” Touie said, taking the initiative. Mr. Dodgson did not know whether to lift his hat or not. The woman in front of him could have been the lady of the house, by her clothing, but Dr. Doyle had referred to her as the housekeeper.
Dr. Doyle ignored his wife’s attempt at social amenities and answered Mrs. Cavanaugh’s implied rebuke. “I felt I should explain my statements at the inquest to Miss Arkwright myself, before the newspaper reporters distort them.”
Before Dr. Doyle could continue, a rawboned young woman in a modest brown dress, frilled cap, and white apron emerged from the back of the house for a whispered consultation.
“He won’t wait, mum, and says he’s to be paid.…” The maid twisted her apron in her hands.
“Tell him the accounts will be settled as soon as the will is read and Miss Arkwright can get at her money,” Mrs. Cavanaugh hissed.
“But—”
“Go! I’ll be there as soon as I can!” Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled wanly at her visitors. “You see how it is,” she said, glancing at Dr. Doyle. “Word has gotten out already. However, I am sure you will retract your statement, and Captain Arkwright’s affairs can be settled to everyone’s satisfaction?” She ended on a rising note.
Dr. Doyle was about to answer when his wife spoke up. “Arthur will do what he feels is right, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Perhaps he can discuss the matter with Miss Arkwright herself. Is she receiving visitors?”
“I shall ask her.” Mrs. Cavanaugh started to open the door on the left-hand side of the hall. The tall clerical gentleman behind them cleared his throat expectantly. Mrs. Cavanaugh gave him a look that placed him in an entirely different category than Dr. and Mrs. Doyle and their guest.
“Mr. Lindsay-Young, Miss Amelia will certainly see you,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said with a glance at the Doyle party. She left the Doyles in the hall, a drafty corridor that ran the length of the house, from the front door to the glass-paned conservatory, where green foliage could be seen bobbing in the breeze.
The sitting-room door remained stubbornly shut. Mr. Dodgson carefully examined the many watercolor paintings of tropical scenes that lined the hallway, giving the gloomy passage an air of cheer that it would otherwise have lacked, while the Doyles fidgeted, arming themselves for a social snub.
The door on their left opened, and Mrs. Cavanaugh reappeared.
“Miss Amelia will see you,” she decided. She led them from the hall into the sitting room, a large and gloomy salon on the north side of the house. Light filtered in through the small gabled windows, adding to the murky atmosphere. The room contained a large sofa, an even larger sideboard, several chairs carved within an inch of their lives, and a small round table, on which reposed a sma
ll vase of dried flowers, a carved wooden box that might have contained cigars, and a box of matches. The walls were covered with flocked wallpaper, on which were hung more watercolors, all done by the same hand as the ones in the hallway, of bright blossoms and butterflies. The mirror over the mantelpiece reflected the decor of the room; on the mantel itself were the requisite clock under a glass bell, two orange pottery vases with strange, angular designs painted on them, and a stuffed hummingbird hovering over artificial flowers.
At first Mr. Dodgson thought the room was full of people. Then he recognized two distinct groups, one in the middle of the room, near the table, and one hovering about the black-clad figure sitting bolt upright on the sofa. The mourner was flanked by Mrs. Cavanaugh and a burly man in an ill-fitting suit of checked dittoes, with the air of a policeman about him. The other group consisted of two men, one a robust soldier in khaki undress uniform, with protuberant blue eyes and a luxuriant set of orange whiskers, the other a much older man with a magnificent shock of white hair and a matching military mustache, dressed in the striped trousers and black frock coat deemed suitable for afternoon calls. The two women who accompanied the military men were a slight, drooping lady in her mid-thirties, who wore mourning with none of the panache of Mrs. Cavanaugh, and a plump matron with gray hair in a striped day dress with a brown velveteen jacket adorned with brass buttons.
Dr. Doyle led his guest up to this group, while Touie approached the sofa. For a moment he hesitated, wondering which of his two eminent friends deserved the honor of presentation first. Did a Major-General, not on active service, take precedence over a mere Oxford Don, or did a published author beat out the army? He took a wild gamble, and hoped that neither of his friends would be insulted. “Mr. Dodgson, this is my good friend, Major-General Drayson,” he said, with a hint of pride at introducing two such scholars to each other. “General Drayson, you have heard me speak of my encounter with Mr. Dodgson in Brighton in August. He has consented to spend the night here, looking over some of my writing.” Dr. Doyle looked earnestly from the military gentleman to the scholar, as if to hope that they would approve of each other.
“General Drayson? I have read your articles in the Journal of the Society for Psychic Research, “ Mr. Dodgson said, accepting the General’s extended hand. “Your observations on the subject are quite astute.”
“That is an honor indeed, coming from the author of Euclid and His Modern Rivals,” General Drayson responded. In an undertone he added, “I’m surprised to find you here, Doyle, after that little faux pas at the inquest this afternoon.”
Once again Dr. Doyle prepared to justify his actions, but the General had gone on with his introductions. “Mr. Dodgson, this is my wife, Harriet. Her sister, Elvira, and her husband, Major Hackaby. They are staying with us while they settle their boy in school,” he explained.
The tall clergyman approached the group with the expression of one who has found something unpleasant in his soup.
“General Drayson, I assume you are here to present the compliments of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society to the bereaved children of the unfortunate Captain Arkwright?” he intoned.
“I came over to see if Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia wanted for anything at this sad time,” General Drayson corrected him. “My wife counted Miss Arkwright among her friends.”
“Although I must say the Captain could be very discourteous,” Mrs. Drayson added. “Still, Miss Arkwright should be aware that if there is anything I can do, any comfort I can give …” She let her voice trail off as she gazed at the figure sitting stiffly on the sofa.
Mr. Lindsay-Young’s gaunt face was set in lines of appropriate gravity. “Captain Arkwright was a member of my congregation,” he reminded the group. “I have come to give what spiritual comfort I can to his daughters.”
Mr. Dodgson bowed to the Reverend Mr. Lindsay-Young. The Church of England must be respected, even if one did not particularly like its representatives.
Mrs. Cavanaugh had approached the grieving daughter of the late Captain Jethro Arkwright. “Dr. Doyle’s here, with Mrs. Doyle, to pay their respects,” she said softly, leading the callers to the sofa.
Miss Amelia Arkwright sat in state on the carved sofa whose black horsehair upholstery echoed the dead black of her dress. No spot of color relieved the mourning black, not even a twinkle of light from a shining button or earring. Her pale face was haggard in the afternoon light that managed to get through the warped glass of the front windows, making her look far older than her thirty years. She had covered her sandy brown hair with a black version of the lace cap worn by those who had effectively declared themselves to be old maids. Her pebble-gray eyes constantly scanned the room, as if to keep track of who had and who had not called, and her hands, enclosed in black lace mitts, clutched a black-bordered handkerchief, whose whiteness was all the more shocking against the black bombazine of her skirt.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” Amelia dismissed the other woman with a wave of her handkerchief.
“I believe the baker’s van has arrived,” Mrs. Cavanaugh told her. “I shall see to it.”
“And be so good as to see if the tea is ready,” Amelia added, as Mrs. Cavanaugh edged out of the room.
“I didn’t know that you would want to see us,” Touie said, as she gingerly sat down on the sofa next to the mourner and patted her hand. “Arthur couldn’t help what he said at the inquest. He was only asked if he had any reason not to sign the certificate.”
Dr. Doyle approached the sofa. “I simply said that it struck me as odd that there was a scratch on the back of your father’s neck, and that the door to the study had been locked from the outside, and that those circumstances made me suspect there were other causes besides natural ones for your father’s sudden demise.”
“Although you yourself had warned Papa that if he did not reduce his alcohol intake and moderate his temper, you would not be responsible for his demise,” Miss Amelia countered. “Papa drank his rum, and had words with everyone from Admiral Groves to Mrs. Cavanaugh in the days before his death.” Amelia bit back any further recriminations.
“Nevertheless,” Dr. Doyle insisted, “until I have an explanation for that scratch, and the locked door, I will not sign the certificate.”
“And is that why you have come here, Inspector O’Ferrall?” Amelia looked up at the the heavyset policeman who stood next to the sofa of state, clutching his bowler hat in his hands.
“Miss Arkwright, it is my duty to investigate the matter of your father’s death,” he said doggedly.
“Inspector O’Ferrall, there is nothing to investigate. My father died of heart failure. Dr. Doyle admits Papa’s heart was bad,” Miss Amelia stated.
“I’m acting for the court, Miss Arkwright. The verdict brought in was death by means unknown. As long as there is a question as to the cause of your father’s death, we must continue to investigate. I am only doing my duty,” he added with a stifled sigh.
“I suppose you must,” Miss Amelia conceded.
Mr. Dodgson ignored the dispute and looked about for a means of escape. He found none. The Drayson party was between him and the door; the maid was busy at the sideboard, refueling the tea-urn and rearranging the cups; the ubiquitous Mrs. Cavanaugh was at the door at the farthest end of the sitting room that led to the inner recesses of the house.
His eye was caught by a flash of white. In the window seat of the bow window, looking out into the kitchen garden, sat a young girl, just out of childhood, dressed in a simple white frock edged in black, her fair curls caught up with a black ribbon, a black-edged handkerchief clutched in her hand. Mr. Dodgson gravitated to her side.
“Good morning,” he said politely. “I assume you are Miss Bedelia Arkwright? We have not been introduced. I am Mr. Dodgson.”
Miss Bedelia turned her face toward her visitor. Her blue eyes widened as she took in the curiously unlined face, long gray hair, and mild blue eyes of this caller. “Are you really Mr. Lewis Carro
ll?” she asked in a clear, childlike voice. “Mrs. Cavanaugh says you are. Mrs. Doyle told her.”
“It is a great secret,” Mr. Dodgson told her. “I do not admit it in company.”
“But why not?” Miss Bedelia asked, her eyebrows arching and her rosebud-pink mouth forming a perfect O.
“It is a great bother,” Mr. Dodgson said. “May I sit down?”
“Please do,” Miss Bedelia said, making room for him on the window seat. She looked over the gathering and sighed. “Everyone is saying how sorry they are that poor Papa is dead.”
“I understand it was quite sudden,” Mr. Dodgson said. He sat down on the window seat, watching the girl carefully. There was something slightly theatrical about the way she looked at him, widening her blue eyes and raising her eyebrows to form an inquisitive arch.
“Yes, it was horrid,” Miss Bedelia said with a shudder. “Jenny tried to get into his study to make up the fire. She found the door locked, which it usually is not, and she called for Amelia. Then Amelia went in and found poor Papa, just sitting there.”
“It must have been quite shocking for you,” Mr. Dodgson commented. “What happened then?”
“Amelia said that he was dead, and we should send for Dr. Doyle to give the certificate, and send for Mr. Lindsay-Young to arrange for the funeral. And Emma said she would arrange things afterwards,” Bedelia recited.
“But who sent for the police?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“Oh, that was Dr. Doyle. He said that any sudden death had to be reported.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Dodgson commented. “I expect he questioned you about the scratch on your father’s neck, and the reason for the locked door.”
Bedelia laughed, then stopped when she realized that people were looking at her. “That’s exactly what he said. How clever you are! Emma said that you were a very clever man when we read about Alice and her adventures together.”
“Emma?” Mr. Dodgson repeated.
Bedelia looked guiltily in the direction of her sister. “I sometimes forget that we are to call her Mrs. Cavanaugh in company. She has always been Emma to me.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 2