Mr. Dodgson looked about the drawing room and saw the lady in question, peering into the tea-urn and overseeing Jenny’s placement of the newly arrived cakes on the side table. “Does she live here?”
“Even when Captain Cavanaugh is in port.” Bedelia giggled again, then stopped as eyes turned to the sound of her childish laughter. “But Captain Cavanaugh has not been in port for ever so long. The last time was when I was seven. I can barely recall what he looks like. No one has heard from him in years. Papa says … said … I’m sorry, I can’t seem to realize that he’s dead …” She sniffed into her black-bordered handkerchief.
“Is Mrs. Cavanaugh your housekeeper?” Mr. Dodgson asked, noting that while the handkerchief was applied to Bedelia’s eyes, it remained crisply starched. The position of Mrs. Cavanaugh puzzled him. He was used to houses where everyone had a place: the master and mistress, the upper servants, the lower servants, each level with duties, rights, and privileges. Mrs. Cavanaugh seemed to defy categorization.
“You know, I never thought of that.” Bedelia’s blue eyes narrowed. “Emma has always been here. Emma orders things and takes care of the house, so I suppose you could call her the housekeeper, but she has taken care of me since I was a baby, so you could say that she was my nurse as well. Mama died in Bermuda, and now Papa is dead, and now I am an orphan!” Bedelia applied the handkerchief again.
“So is your sister,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out.
“Yes, but Amelia is quite grown up,” Bedelia countered. “Amelia never had a Season. Emma says that when we hear from our Uncle Moncrieffe—”
Mrs. Cavanaugh seemed to materialize at the window seat. “Bedelia,” she said, her voice holding an unspoken warning, cutting off any further indiscreet revelations, “you must not take up Mr. Dodgson’s time any longer. He will undoubtedly wish to pay his respects to your sister.”
Miss Bedelia’s rosebud mouth began to form a pretty pout. “But Mr. Dodgson came to talk to me.”
“Mr. Dodgson must have some tea,” Mrs. Cavanaugh decided. “And perhaps a cookie as well. You don’t want to make Mr. Dodgson mad at you, do you?”
“But …” Bedelia thought better of her pout. Her face cleared, and once again she was the sweet young thing, not quite ready to make her bow into Society. She extended her hand with a regal air. “Very well. Good-bye, Mr. Dodgson. Do come back, and we can talk some more. And I won’t tell anyone about … you know! I’m very good at keeping secrets.” She stood and curtseyed, then resumed her seat, gazing into the garden.
Mrs. Cavanaugh led the distinguished guest to their hostess. “Mr. Dodgson, of Oxford,” she pronounced. “Visiting Dr. Doyle.”
Amelia extended a lace-covered hand. “The child should not have taken so much of your time, Mr. Dodgson,” she said in a sharp voice brittle with tension. “I understand from Dr. Doyle that you are only here for today, and must be on your way to Oxford tomorrow. I am sorry Papa is not here …” She took another breath, and started again. “I keep forgetting. Papa quite enjoyed A Tangled Tale, when we read it aloud. He was fond of puzzles and conundrums.”
“But that was written by—” Mr. Dodgson began.
“I know. Mr. Lewis Carroll,” Amelia whispered conspiratorially. “Dr. Doyle has uncovered your secret identity, sir. I am only sorry that you find us in this dreadful state of affairs.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Dodgson looked about him. No one seemed to be mourning the late Captain Arkwright. The military men were sipping tea and the clergyman was glaring at Dr. Doyle with a fury that Mr. Dodgson could not understand. Inspector O’Ferrall hovered near the tea-urn, undecided as to whether it was time for him to depart.
“Of course,” Amelia went on, her voice taking on an edge of anger, “as soon as Dr. Doyle reconsiders his rash statements, we can proceed with the funeral arrangements, and my father’s solicitor can see to the management of the estate.”
“That depends on the results of the autopsy,” Dr. Doyle said stubbornly. “I am not quite satisfied—”
The Reverend Lindsay-Young rose to his full height, towering over most of the men in the room. “A Godless procedure!” he thundered. “Desecration of the body!”
“I felt further examination of the body was in order,” Dr. Doyle continued, ignoring the wrathful cleric.
“But the police were ready to release Papa,” Amelia said.
The argument was interrupted by a cry from the window seat. “There’s someone coming up the path!” Bedelia shouted gleefully. “And such a someone! I have never seen the like!”
Mrs. Cavanaugh answered the summons of the knocker. She reappeared in the parlor bearing a small white card in one hand. “Mr. Ashok Ram,” she announced.
Everyone in the room turned to the door, to welcome the new arrival.
CHAPTER 3
The figure that loomed behind Mrs. Cavanaugh would have been remarkable anywhere. In the prosaic confines of the Arkwright parlor, he was positively incongruous. He stood six feet two inches tall without the added height of the magnificent yellow silk turban, which nearly brushed the ceiling of the room. His pale green tunic of patterned silk was fastened up to his chin with glittering green buttons, each of which could have been an emerald. His legs were encased in darker green jodhpurs, and his ensemble was finished with soft leather boots, decorated with inserted tooling. His suntanned face was adorned with a well-trimmed beard and mustache, over which his nose jutted with authority. His dark eyes glittered under heavy brows as he bowed formally to the company in general, then homed in on the stern figure on the horsehair sofa.
“Memsahib Arkwright?” he pronounced carefully.
“I am Miss Arkwright,” Amelia admitted. “Mr …. Ram? I don’t understand.…”
“I expected to meet with Captain Jethro Arkwright,” Ram said, looking at the assembled mourners. “It was arranged that I should come at this time.”
“Arranged?” Amelia asked. “By whom? When?”
“A letter was sent to my cousin, His Highness Prince Jahal, Rajah of Rajitpur, through an intermediary,” Ram continued. “I was to discuss certain matters with Captain Arkwright. Where is he?”
“Captain Arkwright died a week ago today,” General Drayson informed the exotic visitor. “I am surprised you didn’t know. His death was noted in the Portsmouth Evening News, and the inquest was held this very afternoon.”
“Alas, I do not subscribe to that most estimable journal, and I have been in attendance on my cousin for the past week. This is most unfortunate.” Ram shook his head and frowned. “He was supposed to meet with me on a matter of gravest importance. Who killed him? Have they been punished?”
Inspector O’Ferrall stepped forward. “What’s this about the Captain being killed? The inquest was only held today, and the only one with a question as to cause of death was Dr. Doyle here. As far as the police surgeon is concerned, he died of a heart attack.”
“Heart.… attack? A failure of the heart?” Ram said, apparently more perturbed about the missed appointment than the death of the appointee. “Perhaps … too much of a coincidence. It is too bad. He left no indication of his intentions? No notes, for instance? Had he a secretary, a man of business, with whom I may conduct our affairs?” Ram took a step with each sentence, until he was nearly on top of Amelia Arkwright.
Amelia rose from her sofa, her black dress falling in graceful folds about her lean figure. “I was not aware that my father had any business interests in India,” she said. “It has always been my understanding that that part of my father’s life closed when he … that is, when he and my mother were married.”
“If you will excuse me saying so, Memsahib, there are often things in a man’s life which he does not expect a woman to know, particularly not his daughter.”
“Possibly,” Amelia said crisply. “But I copied most of my father’s correspondence for him. None of the letters I copied dealt with India.”
“Are you certain? Were there no letters concerning Rajitpur, for instance?
Sent in the last month?” Ram glared at the woman, who returned his gaze with a determined look of her own.
“I can assure you, sir, that my father sent no such letter.”
“This is most interesting,” Ram said, “because the instructions my cousin received were quite specific. I was to come to this house, Treasure House, on Tuesday the thirteenth of October, at two o’clock in the afternoon, when Captain Arkwright and I could discuss certain matters”—he reached under his gaudy jacket and pulled out a sheet of creamy white paper; this he read aloud, carefully—“‘without interference from damned females.’”
“Sir!” Mr. Dodgson exclaimed.
Ram bowed in the direction of the outraged scholar. “I do not mean to offend,” he apologized to the company in the room. “I only cite Captain Arkwright’s instructions to my Prince. Apparently, when he wrote this letter, he did not know that he would not be alive to complete his mission.”
“May I see that?” Dr. Doyle asked. Mr. Ram extended the letter, while keeping a tight grip on it.
The young Scot frowned as he examined it. “Interesting. Mr. Dodgson, what do you think?”
Mr. Dodgson came forward from his place near the door and offered his opinion. “A very good quality of paper, and a well-formed hand. Not, I think, a woman’s hand. Note the firm strokes of the capitals, and the definition of the lower loops. In fact, this hand is almost a copy-book hand, as if the writer were a teacher or, possibly, a professional scrivener, hired to copy correspondence.”
Amelia drew close and examined the letter, frowning. “I did not write that letter,” she said. “Neither did Papa. This is neither my handwriting nor his, and we do not have any notepaper of this type in the house.”
“Are you quite sure?” Ram said. “Is this some sort of British humorous hoax? What is known as the chase of the wild goose?”
Amelia shook her head. “It is quite odd,” she said. “I did not write that letter, I will swear to it.”
“Then who did?” Inspector O’Ferrall stepped forward to assert his authority.
“The handwriting is not familiar to me,” Amelia said. “I do not recognize it at all. However”—she turned to Mr. Ram—“as soon as my father’s will is read and his affairs are put in order, I will be able to deal with whatever business you and your Rajah had with my father.”
“But … Memsahib … you are a woman!” Ram seemed shocked.
“That should be obvious,” Amelia said dryly. “But this is not India, sir. We do not put women into cages, or insist that they immolate themselves on their husband’s funeral pyres. I am quite sure that I will be able to deal with whatever business affairs Papa left undone by his untimely death.”
Ram glanced about the room. “It was a matter of the utmost confidentiality,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It concerns certain items that belong to my cousin, Prince Jahal of Rajitpur.”
Major Hackaby unbent slightly. “Jahal? I know him. Plays a good game of polo. He’s a pukka sahib. Got a yacht, I take it? At Cowes for the racing?”
“Surely the Cowes Regatta is long since done with,” Dr. Doyle reminded him.
“Then why is he here?” Hackaby asked.
“The death of our English Resident, Mr. Albert Moncrieffe, has had certain … repercussions,” Ram said. “Prince Jahal thought he might be able to use some influence with the Colonial Office in the appointment of the next resident. He had intended to take part in the regatta at the request of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, in any event, and the two matters could be dealt with at one time, in the British manner of efficiency.”
“Good show,” Major Hackaby said. “Some of those Colonial Office wallahs don’t know one end of India from t’other.”
“A week ago my cousin received this communication. As you see, it is couched in somewhat mysterious terms.”
“And it is dated the day before Captain Arkwright was found dead,” Dr. Doyle pointed out.
“What?” Inspector O’Ferrall peered at the letter. Ram snatched it away.
“The letter was meant for Prince Jahal,” he said loftily. “I do not know why Captain Arkwright set his appointment for this date, but I am here and he is not.”
“And just what are these items?” Inspector O’Ferrall would not give up.
Ram’s face stiffened. “That is not your concern. My cousin, Prince Jahal, knew what was meant. Apparently, so did Captain Arkwright.”
“And now he is dead.” Hackaby considered that. “Whatever he knew, he’ll never tell anyone about it now.”
“Not that he ever would have,” Mrs. Cavanaugh murmured from her post near the sideboard, where Mr. Dodgson had once again taken refuge. He was not sure the remark was meant for him to hear. No one else seemed to take any notice of Mrs. Cavanaugh.
Mrs. Hackaby said suddenly, “If we could contact him on the Other Side, he might be able to do so.”
“Poppycock!” Major Hackaby exploded. “Elvira, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—”
“Do you mean …. Spiritualism?” Dr. Doyle interrupted the marital debate.
“Arthur,” Touie warned, sensing that her husband was about to add his explosion to the Major’s. “You promised that you would keep an open mind about Spiritualism.”
“There is nothing to keep an open mind about,” her husband snapped back. “The thought of contacting the dead, for whatever reason, is nonsense. What do you say, Mr. Dodgson? You are a man of logic and reason. Is it reasonable, I ask you, to disturb the dead in their eternal slumber, to badger them with trivialities?”
Mr. Dodgson suddenly found himself the focus of attention. He seemed to shrink back into the sideboard. “I am a member of the Psychical Research Society, which is examining claims by various persons who state that they have made such contact. There are stories of certain objects being transported from who knows where, which appear upon the tables of mediums. I have never been at a séance myself, so I have no way of judging whether these stories are true or not.”
The Reverend Lindsay-Young had to put in his mite. “The whole concept of Spiritualism is contrary to the teachings of the Church,” he announced, as if that settled any further arguments. “Recall the evil that befell Saul when he endeavored to call on the spirit of Samuel!”
Bedelia came forward. “Amelia’s not the one who asked to talk to Mama. It was me.”
Amelia eyed the girl. “What have you been doing, Bedelia?”
“Emma—that is, Mrs. Cavanaugh—said that we might be able to talk to Mama ….” her voice trailed off under the withering force of Amelia’s stare.
Mrs. Hackaby was not to be put off by either a child or a clergyman. “The Queen herself is said to have attempted to contact the late Prince Consort,” she said, as if that were proof enough.
“But did she reach him?” Dr. Doyle asked.
Touie sighed and tried to rein in her impetuous young husband. “That is neither here nor there, Arthur. Spiritualists have produced some remarkable results. Mother and I have—”
Dr. Doyle interrupted her. “I know, I know. You and your mother have found comfort in Spiritualism. Well, I am not convinced.” He folded his arms resolutely.
Bedelia persisted. “But what if we could reach Papa, and ask him about … whatever Mr. Ram wants to know?”
Amelia frowned at her exuberant sister. “Ask him? How?”
“We could have a séance ourselves, right here!” Bedelia clapped her hands with joy.
“Certainly not!” Amelia snapped out emphatically. “We are in mourning, Bedelia! Behave yourself!”
“A séance isn’t a party, or something like that,” Bedelia protested. “It’s a scientific experiment.”
“Besides, we don’t have a medium,” Amelia countered.
Mrs. Cavanaugh coughed delicately. “I could, perhaps, function in that capacity,” she said with a glance at the Reverend Mr. Lindsay-Young. “Bedelia and I have been endeavoring to make contact with her dear mother,
as she said.”
Amelia’s frown deepened. “I had no idea you were so talented, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”
“Oh, I can do a number of things, Miss Arkwright,” Mrs. Cavanaugh replied. “Captain Arkwright often requested my services.”
“I don’t doubt that he did.” Miss Amelia’s voice took on a shrill tone.
“I don’t see why you can’t believe.” Elvira Hackaby turned to her husband. “After all Mrs. Maggs told us, how our little Mary and Babs were happy and at peace, and out of their pain ….”
Major Hackaby bit his lip to hide its quivering. “Damned shame,” he muttered to Dr. Doyle. “Both our girls, gone in a day. Cholera. Nasty business. Elvira’s never been quite the same since. Good thing the boy was with me, up in the hills on maneuvers. We’ve decided to send the boy to school here. Westward Ho! Fine place, I’m told. Kipling sent his boy there, and young Ruddy sings its praises every time he can.”
Mrs. Hackaby turned back to Amelia. “It’s truly comforting to know that your loved ones are safe and at peace,” she said soulfully.
“Little enough peace in this house when he was alive,” Mrs. Cavanaugh murmured to Mr. Dodgson. Aloud she said, “I can arrange the room for a séance, if you will leave me alone for an hour to prepare.”
The Reverend Lindsay-Young voiced his outrage: “Miss Arkwright, I came here in the spirit of Christian fellowship, to offer condolences and to arrange for the interment of your father’s remains in holy ground. However”—he glared at Dr. Doyle—“if this matter is not resolved soon, I cannot guarantee my presence at the burial. You may do what you like with your father, Miss Arkwright, but not with my support! Good-day!”
The bony cleric stalked out, brushing past Mrs. Cavanaugh and slamming the door behind him.
“Pernicious bore!” Dr. Doyle gritted out.
General Drayson brought the company’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, in the interests of scientific research, and in order that there be no possible indication of fraud”—he glared about the room—“I propose that this séance should be conducted on neutral ground. Let us say … at my home? And as it is growing late, I suggest that we return to our own homes for dinner and reconvene at my house at nine o’clock tonight, at which time we can attempt to contact Captain Arkwright. If you will confide in me, Mr. Ram, I can ask the shade of the Captain for the information you seek, and relay it to you.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 3