Bedelia listened carefully from her favorite spot behind the door of the drawing room. She understood far more than Amelia or Emma thought she did, she told herself. It was easy to fool people into telling her more than they should, and it was sometimes fun to see how far she could go.
One thing bothered her. Emma was putting on airs, now that Papa was gone. Something would have to be done about that. It would never do for a duchess or countess to come to tea, and have Emma acting as hostess.
Bedelia wandered out into the greenhouse. Captain Arkwright’s collection of South American plants were lined up in their pots, all carefully labeled in his sprawling handwriting. Bedelia had recently been allowed to handle these precious objects. Each one had to be watered, inspected for insect parasites, and treated with Papa’s special mixture, the one which had been set on a high shelf. Bedelia recalled how Papa had never allowed her to use the special mixture. It was dangerous, he had told her. One had to make it carefully, from old cigar ends, and one had to wear gloves when using it. Bedelia looked at the spiky, spiny, mottled green leaves and wondered if any of them were poisonous.
Amelia watched her from the hallway. Bedelia was growing into a beauty, that was certain. She would indeed be wasted here in Portsmouth, where the most Society could offer was half-pay retired officers and their impecunious offspring. London was the only place where Bedelia could be sure of making that all-important advantageous match, and without the Moncrieffe money, London Society would turn its back. Only the pickaxe of a great fortune could crack that stone wall of fashion that kept out the undesirables. Amelia refused to think of the means Emma Cavanaugh would use to get the all-important letters of introduction that would guarantee Bedelia Arkwright entrance into the finest ballrooms and salons of London Society.
Much as she hated to admit it, Amelia thought, Emma’s schemes had a way of gaining them acceptance. It was Emma who had thought of St. Margaret’s School for Bedelia, when Papa would not let the girl have a proper governess. It was Emma who had persuaded Papa to allow Amelia to accompany him to the meetings of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, so that she might be able to meet other people (although Papa had had one of his tantrums over the very idea of Amelia meeting a man who might possibly sue for her hand in marriage). It had been Emma’s idea to write the condolence note to Uncle Benjamin Moncrieffe when they read of the Old Mogul’s death, in hopes that he would forgive his sister for her elopement with Jethro Arkwright all those years before.
Amelia once again considered this mysterious uncle of hers. Would he come to the aid of his impoverished niece, once he realized that her beauty and the Moncrieffe fortune would get her a titled husband? Most men disdained matchmaking, declaring it a female occupation, but perhaps Uncle Moncrieffe would understand Emma’s reasoning. It was a gamble, true, but Papa had always said that the longest odds gave the highest returns.
Amelia thought about Papa. Hard to believe he was really gone … She expected to hear his full-throated roar at any moment, raging about some trivial household matter, summoning her to his study.
Amelia swallowed hard. There were to be no more peremptory summonses, no more temper-storms, no more reading to him at all hours when his wound ached …. It was over!
Amelia closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. A wave of revulsion and fear swept over her. Had Papa dared …? She would not think about that now. She prayed to that implacable God of the Reverend Mr. Lindsay-Young that Papa had gone no further than a few pats and kisses, and that Bedelia would be acceptably pure for the presumptive bridegroom, whoever he might be, who awaited her in London.
Meanwhile, there were the mundane matters of daily life to attend to. Amelia joined Bedelia in the greenhouse. “Baby Bee—” she began.
Bedelia nearly dropped the jar of Papa’s special mixture she was replacing on the high shelf. “That’s a silly name,” she protested. “I am far too old to be called by a nickname.”
“Oh, Bedelia,” Amelia said, stroking her sister’s fair curls. “All this must be dreadful for you. Whatever are you doing?” She looked around the greenhouse.
“Papa’s plants wanted watering,” Bedelia said. “He was showing me how to care for them.”
Amelia’s face stiffened. “Was he indeed?”
“Yes,” Bedelia continued artlessly, “and he would take me into his study to show me his curiosities. He said it was time for me to learn about them.”
“I do not doubt it,” Amelia said in a strangled tone.
Bedelia looked at the plants and at her older sister. “What are we going to do with these plants?” she asked. “Papa said some of them were quite valuable. Do you suppose anyone would buy them?”
“Bedelia!” Amelia was outraged.
Bedelia continued calmly, “I have given it some thought, you see. If we are to go to London, and Uncle Moncrieffe will not help us, we will have to have money. At first I thought you could marry Inspector O’Ferrall, and Emma could come with me to London, but that wouldn’t do, would it? If I am to marry a peer, my sister cannot be the wife of a common policeman.”
“Certainly not,” Amelia said faintly.
Bedelia sighed. “I wonder where Papa’s great treasure is.”
“Assuming he had one at all,” Amelia sniffed.
“Oh, he had one,” Bedelia said with a decided nod. “Emma said she had an idea where it was. Was that why Papa shouted at her, the night before he died?”
“What an observant child you are,” Amelia said, lifting her brows.
“I see things,” Bedelia answered smugly. “I saw you and Inspector O’Ferrall when he came to pay his New Year’s calls. Papa did not like Inspector O’Ferrall, did he.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Little girls should be seen and not heard,” Amelia snapped out.
“I am not a little girl!” Bedelia retorted. “You may dress me in these silly pinafores and lace dresses, but I am not a child!”
“You are, until you are out! Now go and change for dinner, and if you behave yourself, you may come with Emma and me to the Draysons’. And we will speak later about Papa’s collections and curiosities.”
The two sisters glared at each other in the fading light. Blue eyes met gray in a silent battle of wills. Then Bedelia made a sulky noise and flounced back into the hall. Amelia heard her stamping up the stairs and sighed.
Amelia looked at the plants, with their spiky leaves and spindly stems. Then she placed Papa’s special mixture firmly on the high shelf. Bedelia was right about one thing, Amelia thought, as she shut the door to the greenhouse and marched into the kitchen to give Jenny her orders for dinner. Something would have to be done about Papa’s plants.
Emma Cavanaugh watched the two sisters as they argued in the greenhouse, and smiled inwardly as Bedelia brushed past her on her way up the stairs. It had been a long voyage, but now she was nearly home free. From a homeless refugee, struggling at the edges of respectability in Bermuda, she had found a place with Captain Arkwright and his family. She had watched as Amelia had grown from a gawky girl to a gawky woman. She had made herself useful to Captain Arkwright in many ways, not all of them respectable. She had found and lost a husband (last seen off the coast of Chile). She had her little book of secrets and a roof over her head, and not much more. Now, Emma thought, she would get the reward she deserved for her years of patient waiting.
That Bedelia would go to London was a certainty. Once there, she would attract attention. It would have to be the right kind of attention, however; merely attracting the popular press would not bring the kind of rewards Emma Cavanaugh craved. Mr. Benjamin Moncrieffe would have to be reminded of his duty toward his sister’s children. In Emma’s eyes, the result was certain. Once the man got a look at Bedelia, he would see the opportunity for social advancement as well as anyone. Bedelia was something quite, quite special, and Benjamin Moncrieffe would share in any bounty she brought in by way of marriage. Of course, a portionless girl could only hope for some for
m of illicit liaison, but with the Moncrieffe backing, Bedelia might make a spectacular marriage, one that would set her sister (and their dear, dear friend Emma Cavanaugh) up for life. Emma nodded to herself, certain that anyone with an ounce of sense and a grain of social ambition would understand her logic.
Emma gave herself a mental shake. There would be time enough for marriages once the Arkwright sisters were out of mourning. Meanwhile, there was this séance to attend to.
Between what she knew and what she guessed, she could satisfy the curiosity of all participants. Mrs. Hackaby and Mrs. Doyle would be reassured that their loved ones were happy. Dr. Doyle and General Drayson would be given matter to think about and write their papers for the Psychical Research Society. And Mr. Ashok Ram would learn just enough to keep him on the hook, so that the treasure would be discovered in due time … just in case Mr. Benjamin Moncrieffe should live up to his puritanical reputation.
With these thoughts, Emma Cavanaugh descended to the kitchen, to supervise Jenny in preparation of the evening meal. The future would take care of itself. Right now, dinner was more important!
CHAPTER 5
The late afternoon sun resolved itself into a sunset glow as Dr. and Mrs. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson made their way back along Elm Grove to the busy center of Southsea. All about them the traffic was heading in the opposite direction as ladies and gentlemen returned to their homes after an afternoon of paying calls or shopping (for the ladies) or conferring with their fellow-officers on such vital matters as the refitting of old ships and the reorganization of the Royal Navy (if gentlemen). This was no fashionable promenade, such as one would find in London or Paris at a similar hour. These were merely people going about their daily chores, social and commercial. Some walked, some rode by in serviceable carriages, and one or two rode their own horses at a sedate trot. The intrepid youth on the bicycle nearly ran Mr. Dodgson down. Dr. Doyle interposed his body between that of his guest and the errant machine. The rider grinned, doffed his cap, and set off again toward his home and his tea, while Mr. Dodgson adjusted his hat, smoothed his gloves, and smiled bravely at Dr. Doyle.
“Thank you,” he said as he picked up his pace. “Bicycles are becoming more and more popular, especially with boys.”
“I’ve been thinking of getting one,” Dr. Doyle confessed. “It would save considerable time in getting about, and it’s less trouble than a horse.”
“But would Mrs. Doyle be able to join you in your exercise?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“Oh, they have tricycles, built for two,” Dr. Doyle replied cheerfully. “It sounds like great fun. What do you think, Touie? Shall we try it?”
“If you like, Arthur,” his wife answered breathlessly. She was having a hard time matching the pace set by their long-legged guest.
“I wanted to thank you for taking the time to visit Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia,” Dr. Doyle said. “I didn’t know that Lindsay-Young would be there. What a prig he is!”
Mr. Dodgson privately agreed, but felt called on to uphold the dignity of the Church of England. “I suppose the late Captain Arkwright was one of his parishioners, and he felt it his duty to call and offer condolences.”
“Hah!” Dr. Doyle spat out. “To be perfectly frank, Mr. Dodgson, the late Captain Arkwright was a vile-tempered old reprobate. The only reason he even bothered to attend divine service once a year was to permit Miss Bedelia to attend the church school.”
“Dear me,” commented Mr. Dodgson. “Then your surmise about the death of Captain Arkwright—”
“—was not as outrageous as it seems,” Dr. Doyle finished for him. “I dare say there are any number of people here in Portsmouth who might have taken a knife to him in a dark alley, but there was no sign of any attack at all, barring that scratch at the back of his neck.”
“A deep wound?” asked Mr. Dodgson
“Not particularly. I might not even have noticed it, except that it had bled a little on his nightshirt.”
“Ah, then the late Captain must have been preparing to retire. You did say that a bed had been made up for him in his study, so that he need not be put to the trouble of using the stairs.” Mr. Dodgson continued striding along, ruminating aloud as he did. “It must have been somewhat unnerving, losing a valued patient.”
Dr. Doyle glanced at his wife and tried to keep pace with his guest. “It is as I told you, Mr. Dodgson. A young doctor must take his patients where he can find them, but given a choice, Captain Arkwright and I would not have been friends. It was Touie who convinced me to return to Treasure House after his last attack, as a favor to Miss Arkwright. Miss Amelia has had a good deal of trouble in her life, apparently, because of her father’s, ah, eccentricities.”
Touie had caught up with them. “Miss Arkwright and Mrs. Cavanaugh called on Mother and me after my brother Jack died,” she explained. “Although, after that, something very odd happened. Mrs. Cavanaugh called when we came back from Brighton, without Miss Arkwright. Mother was out, and I had no idea what to do, so I let her in, and she sat down with me to have a chat. She seemed to think there was something improper in Mother and me living in the same house with an unmarried doctor during Jack’s last illness. Particularly when we had been married so soon after the event. She even hinted that I had something to do with Jack’s illness!”
“What rot!” Dr. Doyle exclaimed. To Mr. Dodgson, he explained, “Touie’s brother had meningitis, a hopeless case. The best I could do was make the poor lad comfortable and see that he had his mother and sister nearby. I had a dragon of a housekeeper at the time, and she was there, as well as Mother Hawkins.” He turned back to his wife. “Has some evil-minded gossip been going about?”
“I have certainly never felt any restraint in Mrs. Drayson or any of the other ladies in Southsea,” Touie went on. “Everyone has been quite kind to Mother and me. We have had cards from most of your friends, Arthur, but when Mrs. Cavanaugh called, she suggested that people might think there was the appearance of impropriety, and that appearances were very important in a place like Southsea.”
Dr. Doyle’s mustache began to bristle, a sure sign of rising temper.
“And then”—Touie warmed to her tale—“she took out a little subscription-book and asked if I might want to contribute to her charities.”
“I hope you did nothing of the kind!” Dr. Doyle’s indignation was growing with every step that brought him closer to Number One Bush Villa. “What cheek the woman has!”
“Well, I had nothing to give her,” Touie admitted. “We had just returned from Brighton, after all, and my annuity-money hadn’t arrived yet. So I told her that if people were so foolish as to believe spiteful gossip there was nothing I could do about it, and I suggested that she find somewhere else to call.”
“Good girl!” Dr. Doyle patted her arm.
Mr. Dodgson frowned. “Mrs. Cavanaugh appears to be a rather enigmatic person. Housekeeper, governess, companion, and even, if one may believe her, a spirit medium! And she pays calls, as if she, and not Miss Arkwright, were mistress of the house.”
Dr. Doyle shrugged. “She’s been in residence at the Arkwright house since the Captain settled here in Southsea, and that was a good fifteen years ago, according to General Drayson. As for her position in the household, there are a number of rumors.”
Touie nodded in agreement. “I know, Arthur,” she said. “I’ve heard speculation that she and the Captain were, um, involved at one time.”
“I would hardly think a man would be so depraved as to set up his, um, paramor in the same house as his daughters,” Mr. Dodgson sputtered. “And is there a Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Captain Cavanaugh, actually,” Dr. Doyle said. “When last heard from, he was sailing off the coast of Chile. But he has not been heard from these seven years.”
“Lost at sea,” Touie sighed. “Mrs. Cavanaugh told me the story when she came calling. She told me that Captain Arkwright was taking steps to have Captain Cavanaugh declared dead, but until that is done, she doesn�
�t know if she is a widow or not. It must be dreadful for her, not knowing. I don’t think I could stand it.” She gazed soulfully at her new husband, who smiled fondly back at her.
“Southsea seems to be as rife with gossip as Oxford,” Mr. Dodgson commented.
“We do tend to live in each others’ pockets,” Dr. Doyle admitted. “Most of the respectable people in Southsea know each other, or know of each other. It’s a small community, after all.”
Mr. Dodgson walked along, mulling over the odd household he had just visited. “So,” Mr. Dodgson concluded, “Mrs. Cavanaugh makes herself useful to the Misses Arkwright, in return for lodgings and a place at the table. I take it Captain Cavanaugh and Captain Arkwright were friends.”
“Never having met the man, I couldn’t say. Captain Arkwright made no friends here in Southsea, that I can tell you. He managed to pick a quarrel with everyone he met. The only reason anyone called at all was to be kind to Miss Amelia, and most of those callers were turned away at the door.”
Mr. Dodgson shook his head. “How did he come to settle in Southsea, then? One would hardly expect such a curmudgeon to live in a busy town like this one.”
“Oh, Southsea wasn’t so built-up when he arrived,” Dr. Doyle explained. “He’s been here since 1870, after making his fortune in the West Indies and South America, by what means is anyone’s guess. According to Mrs. Cavanaugh, Treasure House was quite isolated then.”
Mr. Dodgson looked about the busy street. “Do you mean all of this was built in only fifteen years? How extraordinary!”
Dr. Doyle regarded his surroundings with pride. “Yes, Mr. Dodgson, all this was a mere country village just twenty years ago.”
Mr. Dodgson got back to the subject. “So, Captain Arkwright came back to England with his wife—”
“No,” Touie said. “Mrs. Cavanaugh told me that Mrs. Arkwright died in Bermuda soon after the birth of Miss Bedelia. The Captain was in such despair that he returned to England, with Mrs. Cavanaugh to care for the baby. Miss Amelia, of course, was considered grown up, but hardly able to care for an infant.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 5