“Lily,” Mrs. Drayson ordered, “you may bring up the tea-tray now. And Inspector O’Ferrall should be arriving at any moment. You will bring him here as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lily swallowed hard and curtseyed before trotting down to the kitchen with the news that Mrs. Cavanaugh was dead and the police were expected.
“And good riddance to her,” Mrs. Dasher growled, as she filled the tea-urn with boiling water and laid out the cakes that she had just removed from the oven. “No more sneaking and prying from that one. She could have found a better place to die in than our house, though. I always said she was a nasty one.”
“Vicious tongue she had,” Rose agreed. “Do you think it’s a judgment on her? For slander?”
“Don’t be a fool, girl,” Mrs. Dasher admonished her. She put the cups on the tray and nodded approvingly. “The General may want something stronger, but the mistress will have tea, and so it will be.”
The drawing room was hushed when Lily brought in the tea-tray and looked about for a suitable place to deposit it. The table being occupied, there was only the low table in front of the sofa.
Mrs. Drayson motioned to the low table. “Set it down there, Lily, and get belowstairs until Inspector O’Ferrall gets here.”
The doorbell rang. Lily put down the tray and ran downstairs to let in Inspector O’Ferrall, Sergeant Stafford, and two large constables. The anonymous constables took up positions in the hall while the two senior officers were led up the stairs.
“They’re waiting upstairs, in the drawing room,” Lily whispered to Stafford, a tall, mustachioed man in his thirties, who had been known to present himself at the kitchen of Number Ten Ashburton Road when he was a mere constable.
“What’s all this about a séance?” Stafford whispered back.
“The General’s doing,” Lily hissed.
Inspector O’Ferrall ignored the consultation in front of him. He marched into the drawing room and glared at the assembled group. “What’s all this about, General? Mrs. Cavanaugh’s dead? How?”
“That’s an interesting problem,” Dr. Doyle replied. “I haven’t disturbed anything, as you can see. Nothing’s been touched. You can have your people do their usual expert examination.”
“Don’t try to be clever, Doyle,” O’Ferrall growled. “General, I must ask certain questions. Is there a place where I can conduct this investigation without disturbing your family unduly?”
General Drayson said stiffly, “There is the dining room downstairs. You may use that for your questioning, although it is highly unlikely that you will discover anything about this unfortunate incident through those means.”
Inspector O’Ferrall looked about the room. “You all knew the woman, didn’t you?”
“Not particularly well,” Mrs. Drayson quavered out. “Except for Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia, of course.”
“That is,” Touie explained, “Mrs. Cavanaugh has been to tea, and has paid calls, but I would not say she was known … I am putting this badly,” she stammered.
“I didn’t know her at all,” Mrs. Hackaby put in. “I have been in India for nearly ten years, with my husband.” She looked up at the Major, who had taken his post behind her, as if to protect his damsel from all distress.
Major Hackaby blustered, “See here, Inspector, you can’t imagine we had anything to do with this unfortunate woman’s demise!”
“I don’t imagine anything,” O’Ferrall said bluntly, never taking his eyes off Miss Amelia. “I’m a policeman, sir. I deal in facts. What are the facts here?”
“The facts,” Mr. Dodgson said, “are that the woman uttered the words ‘murder, murder,’ and died. By what means, I do not know, nor will anyone until a proper autopsy is done. That, Dr. Doyle, is your speciality, is it not?”
Dr. Doyle nodded, not sure whether he had just been complimented.
“Besides,” Mr. Dodgson put in, “if either of the Miss Arkwrights wished to, er, dispose of Mrs. Cavanaugh, they would hardly have chosen so public a place in which to dispatch her. It is simply not logical.”
“None of this makes any sense,” General Drayson declared. “Whatever posessed someone—anyone!—to poison Mrs. Cavanaugh? And what kind of poison would be administered at a private party?”
“A séance,” Mrs. Drayson corrected him.
“I can’t give an opinion until I complete my autopsy,” Dr. Doyle declared. “Right now all I can tell you is that she did not die of a heart attack.”
By this time Sergeant Stafford had taken up a position by the table where Mrs. Cavanaugh’s body remained. “I don’t see anything amiss here,” the sergeant announced. “No blood. Nothing that would indicate how the poison, if such it was, was given.”
“I have examined this room thoroughly,” Mr. Dodgson agreed with him. “There is, as you say, no obvious weapon in sight. However, I have found this thread lying across the carpet. Miss Bedelia”—he turned to the girl—“did Mrs. Cavanaugh ask you to do anything? To pull something, for instance?”
Bedelia’s blue eyes filled with tears. “She said … if the spirits needed some coaxing, I was to pull the thread. But …” She choked with sobs. “I didn’t know—”
“Can’t you see how upset she is?” Amelia asked angrily, tightening her grip on her sister. “Inspector, this child has been through a great deal in the last week. First Papa, and now this! Please, let me take her home. If you must interview her, do it in the morning.”
“We’ll just take her statement.” Sergeant Stafford glanced at his chief. Inspector O’Farrell nodded.
“With your permission, General, the Sergeant and I will question each of your guests briefly, so that we may get on with this investigation as quickly as possible.”
“I suppose you must,” General Drayson admitted. “My batman, Gordon, will assist you.”
There was a general rustling of skirts and shuffling of feet, while the various parties sorted themselves out. One member of the group tried to take advantage of the disorder to remove himself completely.
“Hold on, you!” Sergeant Stafford yelled. He grabbed at the colorful figure of Ashok Ram, who was edging his way out of the room.
“You cannot hold me here against my will!” Ram wrenched himself out of the policeman’s grasp.
“Right now, we can do whatever we think is necessary,” O’Ferrall snapped out. “By the bye, did you ever get to ask the Captain what he did with whatever it was you were looking for?”
“I did not.” Ram twitched his jacket straight and adjusted his turban. “In any event, it is now obvious to me that Mrs. Cavanaugh was not in contact with the spirit of anyone, alive or dead, and that any information she might have had would have been suspect.”
“Just as a point of information, what did you want to ask Captain Cavanaugh? What is this business of yours?” O’Ferrall stood like a bulldog, chin outthrust, fists on hips.
Ashok Ram looked down his nose from an advantage of five inches of height and shook his head. “I cannot tell you. It does not concern you.”
“Anything that has to do with Mrs. Cavanaugh concerns me,” O’Ferrall retorted.
“In that case, Inspector, you must ask my cousin, His Highness the Rajah of Rajitpur,” Ram said. “It is his matter. I am only his agent in it.”
“This is getting us nowhere, Inspector,” General Drayson interrupted the interchange. “You know all of us ….”
“I don’t know Major Hackaby,” O’Ferrall pointed out. “Or Mr. Dodgson. Or you, Ram.”
“You m-may t-take my word, sir, that I n-never m-met this woman before t-today, and given the choice, I n-never would have m-made her acquaintance,” Mr. Dodgson said testily, his stammer beginning to manifest itself.
“And I can verify it,” Dr. Doyle added.
“As for Major and Mrs. Hackaby, they are my guests here,” the General went on. “Mrs. Hackaby is my wife’s sister, resident in India with her husband, Major Kenneth Hackaby, for the last ten years.
If you like, you can confirm it with the War Office.”
“I take your word for it, sir,” O’Ferrall said.
“I thought her a very pushing sort of woman, but that is no reason to kill her,” Mrs. Drayson put in.
“Please, may I go home now?” Bedelia wailed.
O’Ferrall gave in to public opinion. “General, don’t let anyone into this room until I finish with it. Mr. Dodgson, may I have your word that you will not leave Southsea until this matter is resolved?”
“I … I am supposed to be in Oxford by the beginning of term,” Mr. Dodgson stammered.
“You’re going to be detained. None of you is to leave Portsmouth until we know who killed Mrs. Cavanaugh.” O’Ferrall glared around the room pugnaciously.
“Can’t agree to that,” Major Hackaby blurted out. “Orders, you see. Have to rejoin my regiment. Shipping out next week.”
“Then you’d better hope we find our killer by then, or your regiment will have to do without you,” O’Ferrall told him. “Doyle, you can stay. The rest of you may give Sergeant Stafford your statements in the dining room, and get on about your business.”
“Meaning that I may return to my home?” Amelia asked, with a lift of her eyebrows.
“Yes, ma’am.” O’Ferrall’s voice softened. “If you like, I can have a police carriage made available for you.”
“Then I had better give my statement first. Bedelia is up far too late as it is, and the poor child needs her rest.” With a look of disdain for Inspector O’Ferrall, Amelia prepared to take her leave.
Two more constables had arrived to remove the remains of the late Emma Cavanaugh. Everyone breathed a little easier as the limp bundle was borne out of the room to the waiting ambulance in the street below.
One by one, the participants in the ill-fated séance went into the dining room to give their statements to Sergeant Stafford, who had been stationed at the long carved table and furnished with paper, pens, blotting paper, and ink by ex-Sergeant Gordon, who stood over him as if to make sure he did not abscond with the inkstand.
The statements were brief and uninformative.
Miss Amelia Arkwright stated that she had known Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh since their days in Bermuda, when she had been retained by their father as a nurse-companion for the late Mrs. Arkwright. Neither Amelia nor Bedelia Arkwright knew who might have wanted to kill her. They loved dear Mrs. Cavanaugh.
Bedelia added little to this. Emma had been part of her life since she was a baby. There was no reason for anyone to kill her.
Major Kenneth Hackaby was on leave from his regiment. Both he and his wife, Elvira, had never met Mrs. Cavanaugh before arriving in Portsmouth in August. They had no reason to kill her, and did not know anyone who did.
Ashok Ram was the cousin of Jahal, Rajah of Rajitpur, serving as envoy from that Indian state, and as such claimed immunity from all investigation. He refused to explain his presence in Southsea, except to state that he had no animus against Mrs. Cavanaugh and did not know anyone who did. For the rest, he preferred not to say anything until he had consulted with his cousin’s solicitor in London.
Sergeant Stafford carefully noted that the Reverend Mr. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was a resident of Oxford, a Fellow of Christ Church College, the author of several books of mathematics under his own name, and the author of several works of literature for children under another name, Lewis Carroll. He had never been in Portsmouth before. He had never met any of the party before except for Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife, and his acquaintance with them had been made during the August holidays in Brighton. He had no idea who had killed Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh, or why.
Inspector O’Ferrall grunted his annoyance as he scanned the written statements, while the Arkwright sisters, Dr. Doyle and his party, and Mr. Ram prepared to return to their various lodgings.
Lily handed out the ladies’ wrappers, while Dr. Doyle retrieved his own hat from the hat-stand.
“Oh!” Bedelia called out suddenly. “I have forgotten something.”
Amelia made an annoyed “Tchk!” while her sister ran upstairs. Bedelia was back shortly, breathless and bright-eyed.
“I thought I had left my handkerchief upstairs, but here it is,” she said gayly, waving the black-bordered trophy about.
“Bedelia, you are being quite foolish. We must get home,” Amelia scolded her. “I thought this séance was a mistake.”
“Emma couldn’t have known how it would end, could she?” Bedelia asked.
In the dining room, O’Ferrall glanced over the statements, while the Doyle and Arkwright parties were sorting themselves out in the hall.
“A pretty coil this is,” Sergeant Stafford commented. “Everyone knew her, but no one can tell much about her.”
“Oh, someone will,” O’Ferrall said. “People don’t just up and die in the middle of a party.”
“Not a party, a séance,” Stafford corrected him. “Do you think it really was Captain Arkwright, come back with a warning?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” O’Ferrall said flatly.
“General Drayson does,” said Stafford with a grin.
“General Drayson,” Dr. Doyle said, as their host descended to see them off, “what do you suppose Mrs. Cavanaugh meant by her dying words?”
“An interesting question, to which we have no answer,” the General replied. “I confess, it has me worried. The woman was dying … Was she in contact with the Other Side, just as she left this one? I admit, Doyle, she was not a pleasant person. However, one does not murder another human being for being unpleasant.”
“If that were the case, most of humanity would be in the dock,” Mr. Dodgson agreed.
“Why kill her at all?” Dr. Doyle asked the world at large.
“Alas, most murders appear to be for monetary gain,” Mr. Dodgson observed. “However, Mrs. Cavanaugh did not appear to be wealthy. It might be useful to examine her finances,” he added to Inspector O’Ferrall.
“We will do that,” O’Ferrall said. “Dr. Doyle, if you want to have your chance to examine Mrs. Cavanaugh, be at the Kingston Street Station early tomorrow.”
“That I will,” Dr. Doyle responded. “And I want to examine Captain Arkwright as well.”
O’Ferrall looked at Sergeant Stafford. “That you will not, Doyle. Our own man has already done the job, thanks to your statement at the inquest this morning.”
“What?” Doyle’s mustache bristled indignantly. “Old Hopper? He won’t know what to look for …. He’s past it.”
“Mr. Hopper is the surgeon authorized by the Portsmouth police to conduct postmortem examinations,” O’Ferrall reminded him. “Whatever he found will be in his report. You may look at it, if you like, but as far as we are concerned, the case is closed. Captain Jethro Arkwright died of heart failure, due to natural causes, and that’s that.”
Miss Amelia smiled gratefully at him, and O’Ferrall reddened. “Then I may make the funeral arrangements?” she asked him.
“As soon as you can get to the station and take posession of the, um, remains,” O’Ferrall assured her.
“What about Mrs. Cavanaugh?” Doyle asked.
“That’s another matter,” O’Ferrall snapped out. “Miss Arkwright, will you permit me to see you and Miss Bedelia home in the police vehicle?”
“How exciting!” Bedelia crowed.
“Bedelia!” Amelia glared at her effusive sister. To O’Ferrall she said, “That would be very kind of you, Inspector. It has been a long, trying day.”
“Cab, sir?” The hansom was drawn up at the door, and Gordon called to the Doyle party.
“We shall follow the ladies to Elm Grove,” Dr. Doyle decided. “I want to be sure Miss Amelia and Miss Bedelia are all right before I go home. Besides, I still want to get a look at Captain Arkwright’s study, before it is cleaned and every possible clue is removed from it.”
“It is very late,” Mr. Dodgson objected, “and you told me that you wished me to read some of your stories and
give my opinion.”
“It will only be a moment,” Dr. Doyle said as he bundled his wife and his guest into their cab and followed the police vehicle down the street in the direction of Treasure House.
CHAPTER 9
The police brougham with the two Miss Arkwrights and Inspector O’Ferrall clopped briskly through the gaslit streets of Southsea. At that hour the genteel houses were closed up against stray burglars, the windows curtained, and the doors locked. A brisk wind had picked up, blowing off the Solent, whirling the leaves as they fell from the trees in the carefully tended gardens behind the brick walls that lined Elm Grove. The little caravan proceeded from General Drayson’s house across Victoria Road and back to the house at the end of Elm Grove.
In the police brougham, Bedelia sat next to her sister and watched Inspector O’Ferrall in the seat opposite, her eyes bright with anticipation, her mind churning with possibilities. Perhaps it would be better if Amelia could find happiness with Inspector O’Ferrall after all. Bedelia’s position with Uncle Benjamin Moncrieffe might be improved if she arrived alone, a friendless, pathetic, and beautiful orphan, instead of carrying with her the baggage of a plain and impecunious elder sister who might alienate the fastidious relations with her vulgarity. The Illustrated London News had said that the heir to the vast Moncrieffe holdings in India was an eccentric recluse. Well, thought Bedelia, even the most eccentric of recluses could be won over by a pretty and pathetic niece, according to the romantic novels that were the mainstay of her library.
Amelia gripped Bedelia’s hand tightly and tried to avoid meeting Patrick O’Ferrall’s eyes. How could she face him now? Bad enough that Dr. Doyle had to insist that Papa’s death was not natural; now Emma was dead, and Dr. Doyle once again insisted that it was murder.
She considered her position. Captain Arkwright had made it all too clear that his daughters would never marry, not as long as he was alive. That last wrathful explosion had explained all. “I didn’t raise girls for other men’s pleasure!” he had roared out on that awful night, loud enough for Jenny to hear in the kitchen and come running to find out what was wrong. He would never have allowed Bedelia to leave Treasure House.
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 9