“Alfred!” Mrs. Drayson cried out. “You never told me you knew Old Mogul Moncrieffe!”
“I didn’t know him,” General Drayson said. “The great nabob wouldn’t be bothered with a mere lieutenant, just out from England. I was just the messenger boy, so to speak.”
“But what was the message?” Elvira asked.
“Oh, that his daughter had up and eloped!”
“What?” Harriet and Elvira cried out at once.
General Drayson enjoyed the sensation he was making. “Remember, ladies, this was back in the days of the East India Company. Moncrieffe had established himself in Bombay and had agents as far away as Rajitpur. He married into some high-and-mighty family in Goa, with an eye to extending his interests into the south. The girl was supposed to marry someone in her mother’s family, but she chose to run off with Arkwright instead!”
“How romantic!” Mrs. Hackaby cried out
“But what a scandal it must have been!” Mrs. Drayson reminded her.
“It was!” General Drayson began to chuckle, then stopped himself as his wife’s glare reminded him of the impropriety of this gossip. “I recall it well; all the Memsahibs clacking, and the rest of us envying Arkwright his good fortune. Of course, once the Mutiny got started, the whole matter was forgotten. Anyone with a tinge of European blood tried to get out, and I was kept busy protecting the docks at Bombay while the ships were taking off refugees.”
“Dreadful business,” Major Hackaby said with a frown.
“But what happened to Captain Arkwright? And Miss Moncrieffe?” Elvira Hackaby asked.
“I assume they got married somehow,” General Drayson said. “Arkwright could spin some colorful yarns about their adventures, but in the end they fetched up in Bermuda.”
“According to Mrs. Cavanaugh, Mrs. Arkwright died there,” Mrs. Drayson said. “So sad for Miss Amelia, having to care for her father and her infant sister.”
General Drayson’s batman, who took on the duties of a butler when the occasion demanded it, approached the table with the decanter in his hands. Mrs. Drayson took the hint, and she and her sister left the men to their port, while they went upstairs to the drawing room.
“I didn’t want to say it in front of the ladies,” General Drayson told his guest once the ladies were gone, “but I did run into Arkwright himself, just before all Hell broke loose, when the Sepoy troops rebelled. Damned odd, his being there with his bride in tow, but there they were, the two of them, and she about to have a baby! No wonder the Old Mogul was in such a hurry to marry her off!”
Major Hackaby laughed. “Not a story for the ladies, Alfred! Well, what about this séance business? Do you think the Cavanaugh woman can pull it off?”
General Drayson’s smile faded. “I take Spiritualism very seriously, Kenneth,” he said. “The talent seems to come on some people quite suddenly. If anyone can get through to Captain Arkwright, Mrs. Cavanaugh is the one to do it. She was certainly close to him during his life.”
“Closer than the daughters?”
General Drayson considered for a minute, then said, “Miss Amelia is a most intelligent woman, but she has spent her life under the Captain’s shadow. Miss Bedelia is only a child. No, if Captain Arkwright wishes to communicate with anyone, it will be with Mrs. Cavanaugh. Although, in confidence, Kenneth, I suspect that the Captain’s present location is such that he will not desire to convey pleasantries to anyone.”
“That bad, was he?” Major Hackaby tasted the port, raised his eyebrows, and sipped approvingly.
“Not to mince words, sir, Captain Jethro Arkwright was one of the most unpleasant men it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” General Drayson snapped out. “If he had not been such an expert on the flora of South America and Mexico, we should have expelled him from the Literary and Scientific Society years ago. However, he was an expert, and his discussions of plants were most interesting. Besides”—General Drayson corked the decanter and prepared to rise—“Hetty insisted we keep him in, for Amelia’s sake. Amelia accompanied him to the meetings, and it was the only place the poor girl could meet anyone! Not that anything came of it,” he added. “The only one brave enough to venture past the door to Treasure House was Patrick O’Ferrall, and Captain Arkwright soon sent him packing.”
“Women and their matchmaking!” Major Hackaby put out his cigar. “Shall we join the ladies? It’s nearly time for our experiment.”
“Doyle should be arriving soon with his professorial friend,” General Drayson agreed. “It should be a most interesting evening.”
The dinner at Number One Bush Villa was not an unqualified success. Touie and her mother had consulted the butcher and the greengrocer on the best cut of meat and the best vegetables to serve an elderly gentleman of scholarly pursuits, and had come up with a menu that included a clear soup, oyster patties, mutton accompanied by new potatoes, artichokes (a daring experiment about which Mother Hawkins had her doubts), a caramel pudding, and a fresh Stilton cheese. Dr. Doyle had purchased a bottle of port for the occasion, which he hoped would not offend the palate of one who was, after all, the expert purchaser of wine for one of the most revered colleges at Oxford.
Mr. Dodgson had donned a fresh shirt for the meal, in lieu of a complete change to dinner clothes, and was prepared to be gracious, no matter what food was offered to him. After all, he told himself, it was only for one night, and the young man and his wife were putting themselves out for his entertainment. It was only proper for him to accept their hospitality with aplomb.
Nevertheless, he could not help but notice the comparative sparseness of the furnishings of Number One Bush Villa. There was a table in the dining room with four chairs, but the four chairs were from two different suites of furniture, as evidenced by the carvings and upholstery. He could glimpse the sitting room, with one easy-chair, one straight chair, and one sofa through the doors to the dining room, but there was a strange paucity of ornaments. There were some avant-garde artistic types who decried clutter and called for simplicity in interior furnishings, but somehow Mr. Dodgson did not think his young host and hostess were among that select coterie. Somewhere beyond the sitting room, Mr. Dodgson surmised there was a bedchamber for the young couple, since Mother Hawkins occupied the entire top story of the building.
The dinner was served by a gaunt female in a decent black dress and white apron. Mother Hawkins joined the group as her duties in the kitchen permitted, smiling bountifully at her daughter and son-in-law.
Conversation, under such circumstances, tended to be stilted, confined to the most commonplace observations about the weather (quite fine for so late in the autumn) and the town (Mr. Dodgson approved of as much of it as he had seen).
To make matters worse, just as the maid had produced the cheese, there came a knock at the front door, and the voice of the young man from the Bush Hotel could be heard all the way upstairs.
“Dr. Doyle, could you come, sir?”
The young doctor rose from the table with a wry smile. “I have an arrangement with Mr. Hill,” he explained to Mr. Dodgson.
“Of course, you must go,” Mr. Dodgson agreed.
There was an awkward pause, as Dr. Doyle found his coat and hat, and took his medical bag and its supplies to the hotel. Mr. Dodgson could not think of a thing to say to the two women with whom he had been left. They, on the other hand, were baffled as to what to say to him that had not already been said. They sat, staring at the cheese, for five minutes, uttering monosyllables and wondering what was keeping their host.
Finally, Mr. Dodgson managed to come up with an unexceptionable remark. “Do you consider Mrs. Cavanaugh a capable medium?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“I know very little about Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Mother Hawkins said primly. “She called here while Arthur and Touie were off on their honeymoon.”
“Mother, you never told me,” Touie exclaimed.
“I didn’t want to worry you, dear. Very inquisitive she was, too, asking about Jack, and how he ha
d died.”
“That is very odd,” Touie said, “because when she called on me while you were out, Mother, she hinted all sorts of things, and told me people were talking, which made me wonder about how she knew so much about us. And then she took out her little book and asked if I would contribute to her charities.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Dodgson. “I wonder what charities she could mean. There are certain societies which provide comforts for the families of those who have given their lives for their country, but they do not usually employ women, even respectable women like Mrs. Cavanaugh, to go around collecting for them.”
“I wondered about that, too,” Touie said. “Arthur would have been quite upset if I had allowed her to bully me into giving her any money, so it is just as well that I had none to give her.”
Before Mr. Dodgson could pursue the unsavory affairs of Mrs. Cavanaugh any further, Dr. Doyle appeared at the door to the dining room, bag in hand. “Just a case of too much overdone mutton eaten too quickly,” he said cheerfully. “A mild bromide should settle him down.” He handed his wife a few coins. “Something towards tomorrow’s dinner,” he said. Touie rose to put the coins into the family treasury-vault (a jar in the connubial chamber, somewhere beyond the sitting room).
Mr. Dodgson sat, appalled at what he had just seen. A professional man—physician, in fact!—had just announced that he had been paid for his services, and from the look of it, not paid very well, either. This simple act would indicate that young Dr. Doyle was dangerously close to being in trade. A consulting physician would have received a larger fee, and not coins; even a family physician would be paid more discreetly. Were it not for his literary ambitions and his relationship with Mr. Dodgson’s old acquaintance, Dicky Doyle, Dr. Doyle would have been politely brushed off by the likes of Mr. Dodgson.
However, Mr. Dodgson had dined with him, and was now embarked on yet another adventure. Privately, he decided that once this séance was finished, he would distance himself from this rash and impecunious young doctor by burying himself in the ivied Halls of Academe.
Dr. Doyle was blissfully unaware of any social solecism. His mind was now on higher matters.
“Get your coat, Touie,” her husband called to her. “I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs.” He turned to Mr. Dodgson. “It’s a bit of a step to General Drayson’s house, sir, and the night is turning brisk. We don’t want to be late for the séance!”
“No, indeed,” murmured Mr. Dodgson. He followed his ebullient host down the stairs. This was turning into a visit that he would be delighted to forget once he was safely behind the walls of Christ Church College, which would be within twenty-four hours. For that length of time, Mr. Dodgson decided, he would tolerate the bumptious Dr. Doyle.
CHAPTER 7
General Drayson’s house was one of a row of ten that had been constructed some ten years before by one of the many builders who had decided that Southsea was the most suitable area in which to put Portsmouth’s excess population of retired officers and professional men. The ten attached houses were lined up along Ashburton Road, each one with its tiny plot of garden behind, each with its set of steps leading up to a brightly painted door, each with its bow-window jutting out over the area-yard, where the “tradesman’s entrance” led to the kitchen in the basement. Inside, each house was laid out with mathematical precision, so that each inhabitant of Ashburton Road could find the same rooms in any house he or she visited. The bow-windows in the first-story drawing room provided the lady of the house with a good vantage-place from which to survey the front steps, so as to inform the butler (or the parlor-maid, if the establishment didn’t quite run to a butler) whether Madam was at home to the caller at the door. The Master’s study adjoined the drawing room, so that the worthy retiree might have privacy to write his memoirs, yet could be found when visitors came calling. The dining room was on the ground floor, connected to the basement kitchen by a dumbwaiter. The second story contained bedrooms, dressing rooms, and even a modern water closet, of the most progressive type. The top floor contained the rooms for the servants. All neat and complete, and well within the income of the retired army and naval officers who came to Southsea with just such a house in mind. The only difficulty for the stranger to Southsea was in determining which of the identical doors was the one to which he was directed, since none of them were numbered.
The Arkwright sisters and Mrs. Cavanaugh had no such difficulty. They marched up to Number Ten with the ease of long association and tapped at the door. The ladies were admitted by the Drayson parlormaid, who accepted their utilitarian woolen cloaks, suppressing a sniff of disdain.
“You may show us upstairs, Lily,” Miss Amelia told her.
Lily led the trio up the stairs. She knew that Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia were worthy of the honor of Mrs. Drayson’s acquaintance. The same could not be said of Mrs. Cavanaugh, who followed her two charges up to the drawing room without suggesting by so much as a twitch of the eyelid that she and Lily had had many a comfortable chat in the kitchen over a cup of tea.
General and Mrs. Drayson and Major and Mrs. Hackaby were sitting in the drawing room when the Arkwright sisters appeared. Miss Amelia swept in, her features drawn into a tight scowl, her lips tight with distaste.
“Good evening, Mrs. Drayson,” she greeted her hostess. “I have been having second thoughts about this … experiment of ours. The more I consider it, the less I like it.”
“Miss Arkwright, you must put all negative thoughts aside,” Mrs. Hackaby assured her. “The spirits do not wish to contact those who react with scorn or derision.”
“I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen,” Bedelia exclaimed effusively.
Miss Amelia sighed. “Bedelia, please! This is not an occasion for levity.”
“Certainly not,” General Drayson agreed. “Spiritualism is not a parlor game, Miss Bedelia, but an effort to see beyond the veil of human limitations.”
“Where shall we have our experiment?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asked, looking about the drawing room, which was furnished with a sofa and two chairs arranged near the fireplace, where a small fire had been lit against the October chill. More chairs were placed around a large table in the middle of the room, which held photographs of the General and Mrs. Drayson and their staffs from his many postings around the globe. A whatnot in one corner bore more testimony of the Draysons’ wanderings in the form of small curios and more photographs. Flaring gas-jets on the inside walls added their light to that of the fire. The windows that looked out onto Ashburton Road were decently closed and curtained.
“I thought the dining room might do well enough,” the General said.
“I think not,” Mrs. Cavanaugh countered. “A large table would be far too heavy for communication.”
“Have you a better place in mind?” General Drayson asked testily. He was not used to having his orders contradicted.
Mrs. Cavanaugh strolled around the drawing room. “Here,” she said, pointing to the table placed in the middle of the room. Six chairs were placed around the table, as if for a friendly game of cards or a session with Mr. Trollope’s newest novel.
“I suppose this will be sufficient,” the General said grudgingly. “Lily!”
The parlormaid appeared, as if by magic. “Yes, sir?”
“Clear this table, and bring out some of those chairs, the ones Mrs. Drayson uses for her musical evenings.”
“Shall I have Rose up, sir?”
General Drayson waved a hand as if to say, As you will. “Now, Mrs. Cavanaugh, is there anything else you require? Some refreshment, perhaps?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh shook her head. “I would like to prepare myself in private, if that is possible. Bedelia, you come and help me.”
“You may use my study, if you like,” the General offered graciously, escorting the two women to the aforementioned room, a square paneled sanctuary at the far end of the drawing room.
“I see you’ve had the fire lit here, too,” Mrs. Cavanaugh observe
d, as the two women were installed in their makeshift dressing room.
“I find the English climate chilly, after years in the tropics,” General Drayson admitted. “Are you sure you need no refreshment? Tea? Sherry?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled faintly and shook her head again. She took a deep breath that threatened to strain the buttons on her tight bodice, and reached, first into the beaded reticule that swung from her wrist, then into the pocket tucked into the voluminous gathering of fabric riding at the rear of her spine.
“I seem to have forgotten my handkerchief,” she murmured. “It is quite warm in here, is it not?”
“Really, Emma,” Bedelia said with a trill of girlish laughter. “You know the General always keeps his house warm. How silly of you to have forgotten your handkerchief. You are always reminding me to be sure to have one.”
“And so I did, before we left the house,” Emma said crossly. “I could have sworn I put mine in my bag ….”
“Lucky for you I remembered to take an extra one,” Bedelia said, her kid-gloved hand brushing the other woman’s bared fingers as she passed a square of white linen into her hand.
Mrs. Cavanaugh pressed the handkerchief to her mouth and wiped her upper lip with it. She was finding it hard to breathe, but that might have been because of the dinner they had eaten … or her corsets. She took another breath and tucked the handkerchief back into her bustle.
Bedelia watched her mentor carefully. Emma did not look at all well, she decided. She only hoped this séance would not be over before it started.
In the drawing room, the funereal atmosphere prevailed over the scientific. Miss Amelia would not sit down in the chair indicated by Mrs. Drayson, but wandered about the room, smoothing her black lace mitts over her hands and fidgeting with her black-bordered handkerchief.
“I must warn you, General,” she said at last, “I am very uneasy about what we are about to do. I do not believe in Spiritualism myself, although Papa had begun to read your articles on the subject. Mr. Lindsay-Young has preached vehemently against the practice of Spiritualism. He considers it an unholy thing, an invitation to extend human knowledge into matters we were not meant to know.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 7