“Harrison, Portsmouth Evening News.” The taller of the two, a balding man whose face was adorned with out-of-fashion Dundreary side-whiskers, identified himself. “Mr. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, of Oxford? Visiting our Dr. Doyle?” Mr. Dodgson could not deny it.
“We’ve been informed that you were present at the séance at which Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh met her untimely end this evening.” The second representative of the press, shorter, stouter, and hairier than Harrison, spoke up.
“You seem to be surprisingly well informed,” Mr. Dodgson said loftily.
“Well?” Harrison followed Mr. Dodgson across the lobby toward the stairs. “What did she say? Is it true that she accused someone at that séance of murder?”
“I am certain that the police will inform you of any details of the incident,” Mr. Dodgson said testily. “I was there as an observer only. I can tell you no more.”
“Is it true that Mrs. Cavanaugh was blackmailing Miss Arkwright?”
Harrison of the News followed his prey up the stairs.
Mr. Dodgson turned around to face his pursuer. “Sir, you are b-being impertinent. I have n-nothing to say on this m-matter. I am in Southsea only to visit my friend Doyle. I have no other reason for being here. I did not know Mrs. Cananaugh, alive or dead. If you want more information, you must get it from the proper authorities, namely Inspector O’Ferrall of the Portsmouth Police. It has been a long night, sir, and I suggest you seek your bed, as I shall do mine!”
Once more he turned to go. Once more, the press tried to stop him. A lanky man in a black broadcloth suit, whose general bearing had a faintly clerical air (although he did not wear the requisite dog-collar), emerged from the lounge and interposed himself between Mr. Dodgson and the reporter.
“Young man,” he said, in tones of one used to command, with a rhythmical singsong accent, “Mr. Dodgson is a most respected scholar. He has already told you as much as you need to know. Be gone!”
Harrison started to speak, but the lanky man walked down the stairs, fairly pushing the reporters out of the lobby and into the street. Only when the press had gone did he turn back to face Mr. Dodgson. “I do not think you will be troubled with them again, sir.”
Mr. Dodgson faced his rescuer. “Thank you, sir. I understand the needs of the press, but they can be extremely persistent.” He tried to make out the features of the lanky man, but he had stepped back into the shadows of the lounge, now only lit by one flickering lamp. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Not particularly. Good night, Mr. Dodgson.”
Mr. Dodgson headed to his own room, where he sat on the bed and wondered (not for the first time during this disastrous excursion) whether his acquaintanceship with young Dr. Doyle should be severed after this one visit.
Then he thought about those stories waiting to be read. Dr. Doyle had talent, that was certain. Mr. Dodgson was, at heart, a teacher. Perhaps he could act as mentor to the young man, and bring him along in his literary pursuits, leading him away from this morbid interest in crime.
Mr. Dodgson prayed briefly, as he did every night, and asked a special consideration of the Divine for the soul of Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh. From what he had heard of her, she probably needed it.
On the luxurious yacht in the harbor, Ashok Ram confronted his cousin Jahal. The young Rajah’s handsome features were grim as he paced back and forth across the figured carpet in the grand saloon.
“Nothing?” He turned on Ram. “They found nothing?”
“The police were summoned before they could get into the Captain’s study,” Ram soothed his irate cousin.
“The study? Why did they not go there immediately?”
“It was locked.”
Jahal snorted his opinion of burglars who could not deal with a locked room. “Where did you find these incompetents?”
“There was a man on the docks when I was brought ashore at Camber Docks. He seemed to know what I had in mind, and guaranteed that he and his companion would be able to enter Treasure House without difficulty. In fact, he seemed familiar to me, as if we had met, although I cannot recall where or when.”
Jahal raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you were acquainted with burglars, Ashok.”
Ashok Ram frowned over his mustache. “Tomorrow we shall try again,” he said. “I was supposed to meet these men at a particular place—”
“Tomorrow I shall go to visit these Arkwright women myself,” Jahal decided, interrupting his cousin’s ruminations.
“Is that wise?” Ram asked. “These are Englishwomen. They are not like your women at home.”
“So much the better,” Jahal said, with the smile that had melted the hearts of the court ladies of Rajitpur and had even gained him admittance to the British enclave in Simla. “We have tried the direct route, Ashok. Perhaps a little guile will get us farther.”
“As you say, cousin.” Ram bowed, and wondered whether his volatile cousin was more intrigued by the possibility of regaining his jewels or by the rumor of a blond beauty with blue eyes.
At Number Ten Ashburton Road, General Drayson and Major Hackaby were enjoying a last whiskey-and-soda before retiring, while their wives compared notes on the events of the evening.
“I could feel his presence in the room,” Hetty declared fervently.
“And Mrs. Cavanaugh must have been summoned to join him,” Elvira decided.
“But Dr. Doyle said she’d been poisoned,” Hetty reminded her sister.
“I don’t see how,” Elvira said. “Oh, Hetty! You don’t suppose we could be held accountable, for bringing him back?”
Mrs. Drayson adjusted her nightcap and consoled her sister. “Certainly not. If the Captain wanted Mrs. Cavanaugh with him, who were we to stop him? Sleep well, dear, and we shall all feel better in the morning.”
CHAPTER 11
Mr. Dodgson arose early, out of old habit. He dressed carefully, regretting the fact that his trunks had already been sent on to Oxford. He thought longingly of the peace of his own particular rooms at Christ Church College, now being refurbished and aired, made ready for his imminent arrival. Now, thanks to the untimely demise of Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh, he was confined to this comfortable but drab room in a commercial hotel, in a humdrum suburb where he had no right to be.
He muttered to himself as he descended the stairs. He passed the dining room with eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the boisterous commercial travelers stoking their furnaces for a hard day of hustle and bustle. He brushed past the lanky gentleman in the frock-coat who had helped him avoid the press the night before, and nearly stepped on the toes of the two nautical men emerging from the bar, wiping their mouths. Mr. Dodgson had come to a decision, and nothing would deter him from his goal, which was to solve this puzzle and remove himself from Southsea in the shortest time possible. To this end, Mr. Dodgson braced himself against the morning chill and marched through the iron gate that led to Number One Bush Villa.
Number One Bush Villa was still locked. Mr. Dodgson knocked imperiously at the door.
Mother Hawkins answered it, obviously called from the kitchen, with her cap awry and her apron covering her ample midriff.
“Mr. Dodgson!” she exclaimed. “Arthur wasn’t expecting you so early, you having had such a late night!”
“Is Dr. Doyle at breakfast?” Mr. Dodgson inquired. “I have drawn up an agenda which we may follow.”
“Oh, do come up, Mr. Dodgson,” Dr. Doyle shouted down the stairs. The young doctor was buttoning his waistcoat as he led his guest to the dining room, where Mrs. Hawkins had set out a platter of fried eggs and sausages, a pot of tea, and a rack of toast.
“You did mention that we would breakfast together,” Mr. Dodgson said diffidently, noting that only one place had been set at the table. Mrs. Hawkins exclaimed mightily, and remedied the situation, placing a cup and saucer, two mismatched spoons, and a fork at his place.
“I did.” Dr. Doyle pointed to the chair next to his. “With Touie over at the Misses Arkwrights, I thought we co
uld batch it together, eh?”
“Quite.” Mr. Dodgson sat down and took out his notebook. “I have made some observations of facts which must be investigated immediately.” He helped himself to toast as Mrs. Hawkins poured out the tea.
“I have a few ideas myself,” Dr. Doyle interrupted him. “For one thing, I’ve got to compare those two bodies.”
“Ah, yes, you are fond of autopsies,” Mr. Dodgson said with a faint smile. “For myself, I feel it is more useful to examine the Arkwright house. Last night’s midnight visitors might pay a return visit, and it would be useful to learn what, exactly, they expected to find.”
“How do you know they didn’t find it already?”
“Because if they had, they would not have attempted to break into Captain Arkwright’s study. They were distracted, ergo, they may try again.”
“In that case, Mr. Dodgson,” Dr. Doyle decided, “you should go back to the Arkwright house and get Miss Amelia to open that study, while I study those two bodies. You can take Mother with you, to bring Touie her clothes.”
“Precisely what I thought,” Mr. Dodgson said with an approving nod. “While you, Dr. Doyle, are consulting with the police on the physical evidence, I shall attempt to discover what, if anything, is hidden in the Arkwright house.”
“Inspector O’Ferrall may have something to say to all this,” Dr. Doyle observed. “He’s not completely stupid, you know.”
“I imagine he is a most conscientious officer of the law,” Mr. Dodgson agreed. “But he may be over his head in this matter. Will he send for Scotland Yard, do you think?”
“His superiors may,” Dr. Doyle said.
“In that case,” Mr. Dodgson said, laying his napkin aside, “we must present the police with the solution to the problem before they do. I would not like another encounter of the sort we had the last time we met. Do you recall Inspector MacRae?”
Dr. Doyle grimaced. “I do indeed. Not particularly helpful, was he?”
Mr. Dodgson put his notebook into his pocket and took another bite of toast, while Dr. Doyle bustled into his study and emerged with a sheaf of handwritten pages. “Mother Hawkins may be some time preparing for her visit,” he explained. “In the meanwhile, I have put together some of my manuscripts so that you may look them over.” He deposited the pile in front of Mr. Dodgson, put on his hat, and dove into the hurly-burly of King’s Road.
Dr. Doyle turned his steps westward, following the surge of the traffic toward the center of Southsea. The horsecars were already full, carrying the men of Southsea to their posts in Portsmouth. Shopkeepers in sack suits, naval officers in undress uniform, retired military and naval gentlemen in morning clothes, all headed for offices, shops, and clubs, where they would conduct the business that ran the Empire, while their wives remained in Southsea to shop, gossip, and pay calls.
Dr. Doyle decided not to risk the horsecars. He moved briskly through the morning shoppers to Kingston Street and the revelations waiting for him there.
Although the old village of Southsea had recently been incorporated into the Borough of Portsmouth, Southsea maintained its own police station, a relatively new brick building—the first actually erected as a police station in Portsmouth—placed conveniently between the Town Hall and the hospital. Every effort had been made to make this structure look both attractive and secure. The yellow-brick facade had been embellished with a battlement effect in contrasting brick that added another story to its height. Inside, the Southsea Police had been provided with offices for the Chief Inspector and Superintendent, dressing rooms for the constables, a large office where the inspectors could keep their records, and a secure lockup in the basement for those malefactors arrested in the act of picking pockets, pilfering from shops, or soliciting passersby with intent to commit prostitution. There was even a telephone line, which provided communication with the Chief Constable’s offices in Portsmouth, and the Portsmouth Constabulary, deep in Portsmouth Castle. But there was no provision made for murder. Mrs. Cavanaugh’s lifeless body lay in the morgue of the hospital next door, waiting for the examination by Police Surgeon Hopper.
Dr. Doyle mounted the steps leading into the police station and waved at the Sergeant on duty.
“Good morning, Williams,” he greeted his companion on the rugby field. “Inspector O’Ferrall in yet?”
Sergeant Williams jerked a thumb toward the stairs that led to the upper story, where the Chief Inspector’s lair lay. “They’re all in,” he told Dr. Doyle. “You’re expected.”
“Then I’d better not disappoint them.” Dr. Doyle mounted the stairs, mentally bracing himself for a very unpleasant interview. There was no sign of perturbation on his face, however, when he knocked on Chief Inspector Bray’s door and walked in to find the Chief Inspector, a short and snappish man with the face and temperament of an English bulldog, apparently reviewing the events of the previous night with Inspectors O’Ferrall and Fletcher. None of them seemed especially glad to see him.
“Hello, all!” Dr. Doyle greeted the group cheerfully. “I expect you’ll want to take my statement, before I get on with the autopsy.”
“Autopsy?” Chief Inspector Bray snapped out, glaring at the exuberant young Scot over rimless spectacles. “What’s your interest in this, Doyle?”
“I was there!” Dr. Doyle protested.
“All the more reason for you to stay out of it,” Bray told him. “Until you’re cleared, you’re as much a suspect as any of the others.”
Dr. Doyle’s mustache bristled in indignation. “I was the one who suspected poison, Chief Inspector. I’d hardly do that if I’d been the one to give it to her.”
“Her? Her who?” Chief Inspector Bray looked from Fletcher to O’Ferrall and back to Doyle.
“I believe Dr. Doyle is referring to the death of Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh last night,” Inspector O’Ferrall said. “Not Captain Arkwright last week.”
“And he was present at that one, too? Enterprising fellow, Doyle. Making business for yourself, eh?” Chief Inspector Bray’s tone was now positively glacial.
Dr. Doyle’s jaw set in determination. “I was present at General Drayson’s séance as an observer of psychic phenomena,” he stated. “And I suspected that Mrs. Cavanaugh had been poisoned because of her symptoms. In fact, I may be able to discover exactly which poison was used, if I might be permitted to be present at the autopsy.”
“Oh, really? You don’t trust our man?” Chief Inspector Bray’s ire was now directed totally at Dr. Doyle.
“Mr. Hopper may be an excellent surgeon, but he is not a trained observer—”
“Meaning he didn’t get his all-fired fancy degree from your precious Edinburgh University!” Chief Inspector Bray exploded. “Hopper may not have sat at the feet of the famous Dr. Bell, but—”
Inspector O’Ferrall intervened. “Since it was Dr. Doyle who brought up the question of Captain Arkwright’s death certificate, he was of the opinion that he should have done the autopsy,” he suggested, with a sidelong look at his rival, Fletcher.
Chief Inspector Bray sniffed. “The body’s been in the vault for a week, and the ladies are anxious to get him under the ground soon. So are we. Mr. Hopper has already signed the certificate, and Miss Arkwright will be along later to sign him out.”
O’Ferrall patted Dr. Doyle on the shoulder. “You can’t go seeing murders under every bush, lad. Face up to it: You were wrong about Captain Arkwright.”
Dr. Doyle’s jaw set firmly. “I was not wrong about Captain Arkwright. I still maintain that he was poisoned. I am just as sure that Mrs. Cavanaugh was poisoned, and if you will give permission, Chief Inspector, I will prove it.”
“Perhaps you’d better let him take a look,” O’Ferrall said, with a glance at the embattled young doctor. “You’ll never get rid of him otherwise.”
Chief Inspector Bray glared at Dr. Doyle, shrugged, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Get on with it, then, Doyle. Just get out of my office, and let me get some work done o
n this robbery business.”
Dr. Doyle showed every sign of remaining. O’Ferrall opened the office door and stood there, waiting, until Dr. Doyle had removed himself from the room.
Chief Inspector Bray glared at the door, as if he suspected that Doyle was still behind it, listening. “Damned busybody,” he muttered. “Will he never let go?”
“Scottish,” Fletcher said, with a raised eyebrow directed at O’Ferrall.
“I see. Stubborn.” Bray turned his attention to the scribbled papers in front of him. “Fletcher, what have you got to report?”
Fletcher shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. “Not much, sir. The ladies were out at that séance—”
“Which séance is this?” Chief Inspector Bray scrabbled among the reports on his desk.
“The one at which Mrs. Cavanaugh met her untimely end,” O’Ferrall put in. “That’s why I think I should handle both cases. They are obviously related.”
“What do you mean, related?”
Inspector O’Ferrall suppressed the desire to sigh and said, “Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia would not ordinarily be away from the house so soon after their father’s demise. They decided to attend the … the gathering at General Drayson’s house only that afternoon. I was present when they accepted the General’s invitation. Clearly, the only ones who knew the ladies would be out of the house were the ones present at that time, since anyone else would have thought that two ladies in mourning would be at home, and would not have approached the house.”
“Good thinking,” Bray muttered. “Fletcher, what have you to say to that?”
“Nothing,” Fletcher retorted. “The burglars entered the premises through the back garden. They would not have been able to see whether the house was occupied or not.”
“More than one?” Bray asked sharply.
“The maidservant, Jenny, stated that she heard two voices when she was confined in the, um, privy,” Fletcher said, consulting his notebook. “Constables Gifford and Cornish stated that they saw two men fleeing the house as they approached. What’s more, Doyle found traces of two sets of footprints inside the house. He seemed to think they were toughs, off the Camber Docks, and for once I agree with him. I’ve already got my men out on the docks, checking up on the usual chums. It shouldn’t be too hard to find them. All we have to do is keep an eye on the pawnshops. I’ve put word out to the day shift constables to look sharp for anything out of the ordinary, both here in Southsea and in Portsmouth.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 12