“Miss Arkwright is a good deal older than Miss Bedelia,” Mr. Dodgson observed.
“There is a fifteen-year difference in their ages,” Touie said. “Miss Amelia sometimes behaves more like Miss Bedelia’s mother than her sister, I think. Perhaps that is why Bedelia is so effusive, Mr. Dodgson. Between her father’s temper and her sister’s fears, the poor child has no friends of her own age at all.”
“Here we are!” Dr. Doyle announced, as they arrived at the front door of the Bush Hotel.
Dr. Doyle shook hands with his guest and handed him over to the attentions of Mr. E. W. Hill, the proprietor of the establishment.
“We dine early here,” Dr. Doyle told Mr. Dodgson. “Seven o’clock. And we want to be in time for the …” He glanced at Mr. Hill and lowered his voice. “The meeting at General Drayson’s house. It’s not all that far from here, but I can have a cab, if you like.”
“Not at all.” Mr. Dodgson waved away the necessity for transportation. “I enjoy walking, and it looks to be a fine evening. I shall be delighted to join you for dinner, Dr. Doyle. Now, I believe this person wishes to show me to my room.”
Dr. Doyle watched as Mr. Dodgson marched after Mr. Hill. “I hope I’ve done the right thing, putting him here,” he murmured.
“Of course you have, Arthur,” his wife said. “Mr. Dodgson will be much more comfortable at the Bush Hotel than he would in Innes’s little room. Now, you must go and wash, and then open the surgery for evening hours, and Mother and I will see to dinner.”
Dr. Doyle smiled and pecked his bride on the cheek. “Touie, you are a gem, and the best wife a man could ever hope for. I will sit in my surgery, and no one will come in, but I may be able to get a story written by the time Mr. Dodgson gets back. Do you suppose he will have the opportunity to read my novel before he has to leave for Oxford?”
“I’m sure he will,” Touie told him. The couple entered their small house without a backward glance at Mr. Dodgson.
Mr. Dodgson followed the hotel proprietor into the dark lobby of the Bush Hotel. This was no resort, dedicated to pampering the vacationer; rather, the Bush Hotel aimed at alleviating the discomforts of the road for the commercial traveler. The interior lounge contained leather chairs and sofas to accommodate the tired bodies of those who had spent a long, long day marching from shop to shop, or from government office to government office in search of business. The dining room offered a solid, if unimaginative, menu of steaks, chops, and roasted fowl of various kinds, accompanied by boiled vegetables, fried potatoes, and home-baked pies. The bedrooms were fitted out with brass beds, each of which could hold a well-stuffed man of business. Light was provided by gas-jets in the public rooms, oil lamps in the bedrooms. There was even an indoor privy, for the convenience of the guests.
All of this was pointed out to Mr. Dodgson as he signed the register. He eyed the other guests with a certain reserve. Two stout men in check suits were sitting on the leather chairs in the lounge, comparing their days’ receipts. A lanky individual with out-of-date side-whiskers, dressed in a black suit of faintly clerical cut, was consulting a black-bound book of some missionary society. In the bar, three youngish men in undress naval uniform were “splicing the main-brace,” while a small-boned gentleman in tweeds listened to their nautical chatter, and two other nautical types conversed in low but excited tones at the farthest end of the bar. Apparently, no ladies were staying at the Bush Hotel, although, according to Mr. Hill, there was a special lounge set aside for their express use, so that they might be able to take their ease without being unduly worried about mashers.
Mr. Hill insisted on accompanying his illustrious guest to his room, to point out the various amenities for the weary traveler. “Lamps are lit, curtains drawn,” he announced. “Bell is right beside the bed, should you want anything. Clean water brought up twice a day,” he added, indicating the washstand with its ewer and basin. “Fresh towel, fresh soap. I trust you will be comfortable here, sir.”
Mr. Dodgson nodded gravely, wondering how long the loquacious manager would keep him waiting, and whether such a person would feel insulted or gratified by a gratuity. “I am only staying the night, and will dine with Dr. Doyle next door, so that I shall not require any refreshment.”
“A fine young man, Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Hill enthused. “Quite a dab at bowls, he is. Comes over every evening in the summer to join us. Right handy having a doctor so close by, and he’s always obliging when called. I thought you’d want to stay on the extra night, for the dinner, seeing as Dr. Doyle’s a particular friend of yours.”
“Dinner?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice rose.
“Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society,” Mr. Hill pronounced, rolling the words on his tongue. “A social gathering, to honor Dr. Doyle on his marriage. The Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society meets here every month, sir. Clever gentlemen, many of them. I have been allowed to attend myself, as an auditor, you understand, when business permits. We have had many gentlemen, learned gentlemen, come to speak at our meetings.”
“Learned gentlemen? Would you consider Captain Arkwright to be a learned gentleman?”
Mr. Hill’s face took on a forbidding air. Mr. Dodgson had seen butlers look at rank outsiders with just such a judgmental frown. “My opinion was never asked,” Mr. Hill declared, “but if it were, I should have to state that Captain Arkwright was not a gentleman, and he was not learned. Oh, he was clever about his plants, and he could tell a hair-raising story or two, but he had a nasty tongue in his head. I can only think it a mercy on poor Miss Arkwright that he’s gone.”
“Captain Arkwright’s departure appears to have been somewhat sudden,” Mr. Dodgson commented. “Dr. Doyle thinks it was not a natural death.”
“Dr. Doyle’s young,” Mr. Hill said with an indulgent smile. “I’ll leave you to take your ease, sir. Dr. Doyle asked that I have you called in time for dinner.” Mr. Hill bowed himself out, leaving Mr. Dodgson feeling perplexed.
His friends had warned him about pursuing the friendship of the energetic young Scotsman who was the nephew of one of his London acquaintances. Mr. Dodgson had decided that the young man was an aspiring author, and as such, he would give such encouragement as would be useful from an elderly, reclusive scholar, whose best-known works were tales for children.
Now he was having second thoughts. Dr. Doyle had apparently made his presence in Southsea known. Luckily, he would be well on his way by the morning, so he would not have to appear before the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, a possibility that Mr. Dodgson did not relish. Who were these “learned gentlemen”? What sort of Literary and Scientific Society was it that included as its members a dentist, an army surveyor, and a merchant captain? Mr. Dodgson recognized the desire for tradesmen to improve their minds, and he applauded their enthusiasm, but he had no particular desire to further his acquaintanceship with them
Then there was the matter of the Arkwright family. From what Dr. Doyle had told him, the late Captain was a rascal and his housekeeper, if such she really was, was no better than she should be. Miss Amelia Arkwright appeared to be restraining her grief, and Miss Bedelia struck him as affected, as if she were playing the part of a child. Mr. Dodgson knew the difference between true innocence and playacting.
Finally, this business of the séance! Mr. Dodgson had never attended such a meeting, although he firmly believed that there was a life after this one. He was certain that Heaven existed, and that it would be a beautiful place, free of suffering, full of wonderful things. However, he was not to be taken in by stage-props or conjuring tricks. He could perform those himself!
A true séance would be something new, but from what he had heard of her, Mrs. Cavanaugh was no medium, and might very well be a fraud of the worst sort, indulging in blackmail (on a modest level, but blackmail nonetheless) and other possible skullduggery. As his students would say, he was in for it. He wondered how he could get himself out of it, out of Southsea, and back to the safety of Oxford as quickly as
possible.
CHAPTER 6
The autumn night was closing in. The street lamps had been lit in Portsmouth, Portsea, and Southsea. One by one the sailing lights were lit on the vessels in Portsmouth Harbor, as the battleships, fishing smacks, grubby tugboats, and sleek yachts all battened down and prepared for the night watch.
Seven o’clock was the dinner hour, and all over town the evening meal was being prepared and consumed, with varying degrees of finesse and enjoyment. In the naval mess aboard the ships in port, the officers of the watch donned their best uniforms and rose up in the ancient tradition of the British Navy to toast Her Majesty the Queen-Empress with the best port their ships could afford. In lowly hovels, clustered around the shipyards, ship-fitters dined on sausages and potatoes, fried up with more panache than talent. In the neat rows of attached houses that had been built to house the civilians who kept the naval bureaucracy moving, clerks and their families ate beef or mutton, garden vegetables, and fall apples.
There were more exotic dinners than usual in Portsmouth that night. On one of the yachts moored in the Solent, Prince Jahal, Rajah of Rajitpur, reclined on a pile of embroidered pillows in the middle of the grand saloon, whose usual furnishings had been ruthlessly cast aside to provide this exotic touch of home for Prince Jahal, the young and ambitious ruler of a small but strategically important Indian state, who had drawn the attention of London Society with his flamboyant costumes, his dark but regular features, and his extravagant expenditures. He was considered acceptable company for young married women in Society, while the unmarried girls were kept far away, lest they fall prey to his attractions and destroy any chances they might have of making that all-important good match. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had included Rajitpur on one of his state visits, and Jahal had even been invited to take tea with Her Majesty the Queen-Empress at Osborne, so that she could practice her Hindustani on him. (The fact that he did not speak that particular dialect did not seem to matter.)
On this evening, Jahal sat and watched his cousin, Ashok Ram, as two stewards set a low table before them. Bowls of fragrant curry and dal, platters of flat bread, and a pot of tea were deposited on the table. Neither Ram nor Jahal said anything until the stewards had bowed and removed themselves from sight.
Then Jahal leaned forward to question his cousin. “Where is it?” he hissed.
Ram lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “I do not know.”
“Do you think he had it?”
“Of that,” Ram said with a nod, “I am sure. Arkwright took the box. My father saw him with it. Whether he kept it is another matter. There were others involved, after all.”
“Cavanaugh, for one,” Jahal said.
“Unfortunately, I cannot find Cavanaugh, and as for the other two …” Ram bowed his head. “Moncrieffe and Arkwright, both dead within two months of each other. One would think some power was with us.”
“Or against us.” Jahal helped himself from the bowls before him and indicated that his cousin could eat. Ram scooped up a dollop of curry and folded it into his bread. He added dal and closed his eyes in the bliss of eating food from home.
“We must find it,” Jahal said firmly. “That box means everything to us!”
“Not the box, but the contents,” Ram corrected him. “It is possible that he removed them, and placed them elsewhere.”
“They must be in that house,” Jahal decided. “We must get into that house again.”
“That will be difficult, but not impossible,” Ram said thoughtfully. “The Arkwright women will not be in their house tonight.”
“Indeed? I thought they were mourning the death of their dear father.” Jahal’s lips twisted wryly. “Is it not the English custom for the bereaved to remain in their houses until the burial of the body?”
“In this case, the ladies have consented to be present at a séance,” Ram said, his tone echoing the implied satire of his cousin’s grimace. “Mrs. Cavanaugh will be with them. The servant will be in the kitchen, alone.” He glanced meaningfully at his cousin.
“A séance?” Jahal laughed. “And whose idea was that?”
“Miss Bedelia’s,” Ram said. “She is a young lady of great charm,” he added. “As the English put it, she has a way with her.”
“Indeed?” Jahal leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “What is she like, this Miss Bedelia Arkwright?”
“Very English, all pink and white, with golden curls and blue eyes. She looks much like the little dolls they show in the shops, but I think she is cleverer than she appears. It was she, as I said, who brought up the idea of a séance.”
“A séance,” Jahal repeated to himself. “To question the late Captain?”
“So it would appear.”
“What will they find out, I wonder?”
“Whatever Mrs. Cavanaugh wishes to tell them,” Ram said. “She knows a good deal more than she says about our business. Sooner or later we will have to deal with her.”
“I would prefer it were later rather than sooner,” Jahal said, taking a sip of tea. “There are too many other matters I have to attend to before I can go back to Rajitpur. Have you spoken to your friend about her?”
“My friend has his own ways of dealing with Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Ram said evasively. “As for me, I have invited myself to this séance.”
Jahal sat up straight among the cushions. “Is that not dangerous?”
“It is a risk, but no worse than some I have taken on your behalf, cousin.”
Jahal smiled suddenly. For a moment he was not an Indian Rajah, but a young man of twenty-five, eager for adventure. Then he sighed.
“I wish I could go with you, cousin. The death of Captain Arkwright was just too convenient, especially after Old Mogul Moncrieffe’s. Take care, Ram.”
“I always do, Jahal!”
They exchanged a look that said volumes. Then Jahal went on in a businesslike tone, “The house will have to be searched. I would prefer that one of our own people did it.”
Ram frowned into his tea. “Perhaps it would be better if you were not associated with any direct actions in connection with Treasure House. You may leave the details to me.”
“I always do,” Jahal said with a grin. “Do you think this Mrs. Cavanaugh knows where the stones are?”
“My friend thinks she does,” Ram said. “We will have to work swiftly, cousin. It is possible that with Captain Arkwright dead, the Cavanaugh woman will try to dispose of the stones herself, with or without my friend’s assistance. From what I saw and heard at that house, I surmise that she will use the proceeds to buy her way into English Society.”
Jahal’s grin faded. “Ashok, we must get those stones before this Mrs. Cavanaugh finds them. If I know anything about the English ladies, it is that they will do anything to get good husbands for their pink-and-white daughters, and I have other plans for those stones. Herr Beirtempfel has given me an estimate of the cost of building a railroad from Bombay to Rajitpur. The stones will buy me that railroad!”
“Most commendable,” Ram observed, smiling at his cousin’s enthusiasm. “But first we must find the stones, then we can pledge them.”
“Search that house!” Jahal ordered. “I depend on you.”
The two men clasped hands over the table. Then Ashok Ram rose to his feet and summoned the steward to find the crewmen who would row him back to the Camber Docks.
In the dining room of his neat and elegant house at Number Ten Ashburton Road, General Drayson and his wife, Harriet, entertained their houseguests with a repast that included a roast duckling, filets of sole, asparagus, and a selection of fine wines.
Major Hackaby was enthusiastic about his son’s reception at Westward Ho!, the school recommended by Mr. Kipling, curator of the museum of Lahore. “Jolly good place, that,” the Major crowed. “Better for the boy, too, to be in a place where he’ll be given a good education. Servants in India spoil the young sahibs rotten.”
“Oh, Kenneth,” his wife chided him, �
��Tom was not spoiled. Of course, Marayam cared deeply for him and was quite upset when he went away, but that is only to be expected, after what happened …” She began to sniff into her handkerchief.
“Elvira, you must not give in to this!” the Major barked at her, to hide his own discomfort. “Mary and Babs were unfortunate. Hundreds of native children died in that same epidemic last year. Be thankful Tom was spared.” He raised a trembling hand to sip wine, while the General looked away, lest a fellow-officer appear to be on the verge of tears.
Harriet patted her hand. “Ellie, just remember that you will be able to speak to your little girls tonight, and they will have messages for you.”
Mrs. Hackaby wiped her eyes. “Hetty, you are such a comfort,” she told her sister. “But one does like to know something about the medium. What do you know about this Mrs. Cavanaugh, after all?”
Mrs. Drayson looked blankly at her husband. “The Captain and his family were already here when we came to Southsea,” she said. “Didn’t you say you’d met him in India once, long before we were married?”
“He said he remembered me, which is not the same thing,” General Drayson corrected her. “It was my first posting, just before the Mutiny.”
“Nasty business, that,” declared Major Hackaby.
“It was indeed,” the General declared. “There was I, green as grass, and along comes a caravan, or what was left of it, from Rajitpur, claiming they’d been waylaid, and would the British army please find and punish the bandits. I took my squad out, and found the remains of an oxcart up in the hills.”
“And did you ever find the bandits?” Mrs. Hackaby was distracted from her personal tragedy.
“We were lucky to get back to Bombay,” the General said with a crack of sardonic laughter. “I expect that’s where Arkwright saw me. I never really knew him until we met here in Southsea. Although there was that business with the Old Mogul and his daughter—”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 6