The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist

by Roberta Rogow

  “According to the ladies, nothing was taken,” O’Ferrall objected. “And they didn’t just drop in, looking for what they could find, by accident.”

  “Why not?” Fletcher asked.

  “Because the room was searched,” O’Ferrall pointed out. “Someone was looking for something, something that could be hidden in the stuffing of the chairs or in a vase. As Mr. Dodgson said, there were plenty of trinkets about to pick up, if one of our usual friends had been at work, and none of them were missing.”

  “Who is this Mr. Dodgson?” Bray wanted to know.

  “A gentleman visiting Dr. Doyle,” O’Ferrall explained. “Literary gentleman, I believe.”

  “Come to read Doyle’s stories?” Fletcher asked sarcastically.

  “I don’t know why he came to Southsea. He came calling at Treasure House with Doyle and his wife yesterday, he was at the séance, and he came back to Treasure House with Doyle and his wife last night.” Inspector O’Ferrall consulted his notes again. “Putting up at the Bush Hotel. We can find him when we want him. He seems a harmless sort. According to Doyle, he’s an Oxford Don.”

  “Hmph.” Chief Inspector Bray looked from one inspector to the other, taking in Fletcher’s polished facade and O’Ferrall’s craggy features. “Fletcher, you work on the burglary. O’Ferrall, you work on the murder.”

  “And if they are connected?” O’Ferrall asked.

  “Then the two of you may work together.” Bray consulted O’Ferrall’s report. “Now, what’s this about some Indian at the Drayson séance?”

  “A Mr. Ram, sir. Says he’s the cousin of the Rajah of Rajitpur.” O’Ferrall kept his face blank.

  Bray scowled at the report. “Indians! Now we’ll get the Indian Office down on us.”

  “I believe Rajitpur is an independent state,” Fletcher said with a glance at O’Ferrall.

  “That explains this!” Bray found a sheet of paper embellished with a very official seal. “I found this on my desk this morning. It seems there’s a fairly large cantonment in his state, and Her Majesty’s Government doesn’t want him to suddenly get second thoughts about having the British army in his backyard. To which end, the Portsmouth and Southsea police are to assist the Royal Navy in making Prince Jahal welcome while he is anchored in the Solent.”

  “We will have to question him,” O’Ferrall reminded his superior.

  “Then do it quietly, and let him go,” Bray ordered. “And get Arkwright buried! He caused enough trouble when he was alive. Now he’s dead, and he’s still stinking the place up!”

  “And if this Ashok Ram is behind the robbery?” Fletcher asked.

  “Then hush it up and get him out of Portsmouth,” Bray snapped.

  Fletcher and O’Ferrall found Dr. Doyle waiting for them in the hallway beyond Chief Inspector Bray’s office. He grinned unashamedly at them as they realized he had heard most of what had transpired.

  Dr. Doyle and Inspector O’Ferrall descended to the street level and crossed the courtyard to the hospital, where Mr. Amos Hopper, the police surgeon, was preparing to examine the mortal remains of Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh. He was a wizened man, with the detached attitude of one who has spent twenty years observing man’s inhumanity to man through service in two wars and a stint in London’s largest hospital.

  “Doyle,” he grunted, with a brief nod. “Come to view?”

  “I’ve come to see what happened to Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Dr. Doyle retorted. “I hear you’ve already passed judgment on Captain Arkwright.”

  “The old boozer died of a heart attack,” the medical examiner stated, with the flat finality of one who had finished with the case. “His lungs were rotten with tobacco smoke, his liver was shriveled to the size of a pea, his knees were stiff with rheumatism, and he had enough water in his belly to float a battleship. What’s more, he had this embedded in his arse.” Hopper scrabbled in an enamel pan and came up with a distorted piece of metal.

  “A bullet?” Dr. Doyle peered at the object.

  “If he had that stuck against his hipbone all these years, it’s no wonder he took to drink,” Hopper said. “French-made, I’d say, although it’s too warped to tell definitely. He could have picked it up during that last run, the one he made to Brazil. He’s told me that tale often enough! According to him, he made it back by the skin of his teeth, with only Jack Cavanaugh to nurse him through his fever.”

  Dr. Doyle was still not satisfied. “And what of the scratch on his neck? That wasn’t done twenty years ago. It was still fresh, not even scabbed over.”

  “Look for some nail sticking out of his chair,” Hopper said. He turned back to the business at hand. He had stripped Mrs. Cavanaugh of her outer garments and was staring at her silk underdrawers with fascination. He indicated the apparatus strapped to her knees and asked, “What do you make of that?”

  “The box?” Dr. Doyle shook his head. “That must have been how she made those rapping noises. The woman was a complete fraud, totally spurious.”

  “I mean the undergarments,” Hopper said, carefully fingering them.

  “All that black bombazine on top, and then this underneath? It does put a different light on the respectable Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Doyle observed. “Hopper, there’s a test I want to make. Before she died, Mrs. Cavanaugh complained of the heat, and then she dabbed at her face with her handkerchief.”

  “No handkerchief found on her person,” Inspector O’Ferrall said, consulting the report next to the body.

  “Not even in her pockets?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “Nothing in her pockets. No reticule, either.” Inspector O’Ferrall laid down the report.

  “That is very odd,” Dr. Doyle muttered to himself. “Every lady carries a handkerchief. I saw her use one at the séance.”

  “Perhaps she left it at General Drayson’s,” O’Ferrall said. “What does it matter?”

  “Everything matters,” Dr. Doyle retorted. “She had a handkerchief when she died. Now she doesn’t. What happened to that handkerchief?”

  “For all I know, one of the maids picked it up,” O’Ferrall said, waving his arms in exasperation.

  “I strongly suggest you find out what happened to that handkerchief,” Dr. Doyle said firmly.

  O’Ferrall frowned. “Do you mean to say that someone poisoned the old trout with her handkerchief? Sounds like something out of the Borgias!”

  “Catherine de Médicis was supposed to have poisoned her enemies with gloves steeped in henbane,” Doyle observed. “I don’t know what kind of poison was used, but until we find that handkerchief, we may never know. Go back to General Drayson’s house and question the maids about finding a handkerchief.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” O’Ferrall said sarcastically. “Any other orders?”

  “Eh?” Doyle looked up. “Oh, yes. I expect you’ll find Mrs. Cavanaugh had a neat line in petty blackmail. She must have had some sort of accounting-book. Find out what she did with her money. And while you’re at it, look into Captain Arkwright’s finances. Who inherits Treasure House?”

  “Captain Arkwright’s death was purely natural!” Hopper shouted, brandishing his scalpel.

  “Then where did the scratch on the back of his neck come from?” Doyle’s mustache bristled pugnaciously at his colleague. “And who locked his study door?”

  “Gentlemen!” O’Ferrall intervened before the two medical men could use their knives on each other instead of on Mrs. Cavanaugh’s corpse. “One body at a time, if you please. Mr. Hopper, are there any indications that Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh did not meet a natural death?”

  Hopper glanced at Dr. Doyle. “At this point, I couldn’t say. She appears to have been a healthy female of middle years. There is no indication of heart disease, lung disease, kidney disease …”

  “In other words, Inspector, there is no reason for her to be dead,” Doyle finished for his colleague. “That would indicate foul play to me.”

  “And just what would you suggest, Dr. Doyle?” Hopper’s voice was even more s
arcastic than O’Ferrall’s. Dr. Doyle ignored both of them and bent over Mrs. Cavanaugh again.

  “Hmmmm … I wonder …” The young doctor stood up and said, “I wonder if the poison used was some kind of alkaloid.”

  “Alkaloid?” echoed O’Ferrall.

  “A plant …. Captain Arkwright kept plants in a conservatory just off the main part of his house, did he not?” Doyle said.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Certain poisons are used to combat insects on plants,” Doyle went on. “Mrs. Cavanaugh complained of being unable to breathe; she complained of the heat, then she used the handkerchief on her face ….”

  “Soaked in some kind of weed-killer?” Inspector O’Ferrall’s frown deepened. “Many people keep plants in the house, Dr. Doyle. Why do you single out the Arkwright sisters in particular?”

  “Only because Miss Amelia and Miss Bedelia would have had the opportunity to soak Mrs. Cavanaugh’s handkerchief in poison and hand it back to her,” Dr. Doyle said. “The only problem here is, I cannot understand why they should do so! On the other hand, if Mrs. Cavanaugh was extorting money for bogus charities by threatening to expose domestic peccadilloes unless she was paid, there may be any number of people who might feel threatened by her.”

  “So they decided to stop her.” O’Ferrall concluded. “I don’t understand why they should choose to do it at a séance, but you may be right, Doyle. Murder by handkerchief! There’s a weapon for you!”

  “I suggest you find that handkerchief as quickly as possible,” Doyle said. “If anyone else picks up that handkerchief, they may very well die.”

  “What should I do about Mrs. Cavanaugh?” Mr. Hopper complained.

  “Put her back in the drawer, Hopper,” O’Ferrall ordered. “This business isn’t over until I’ve found that handkerchief.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Mother Hawkins and Mr. Dodgson did not leave Number One Bush Villa until the morning was well advanced. First, Mrs. Hawkins had to oversee the cleaning-up of breakfast; then she had to select the items to pack for her daughter and lay them carefully in a small carpetbag. Finally, she had to give instructions to the kitchen maid as to what to prepare for the midday meal.

  Mr. Dodgson patiently waited while all these domestic chores were finished. He had, after all, promised to read the manuscript sitting before him, a carefully penned novel entitled The Firm of Girdlestone. Inwardly Mr. Dodgson sighed. He had seen similar attempts before, earnest autobiographies masquerading as novels, written by earnest young men. Far more enticing was a less daunting item, a short story entitled “The Ring of Thoth” that appeared to take place in ancient Egypt. Mr. Dodgson left the novel and started on the story.

  He was soon caught up in the sweeping narrative. Dr. Doyle definitely had a knack for drawing the reader into the world he had created. Mr. Dodgson was startled to hear Mother Hawkins behind him, clearing her throat to bring him back to the everyday world.

  “Now, then, Mr. Dodgson, I’m ready.”

  “Goodness!” He looked up in confusion, brought out of a fantastic yarn of long-dead loves and living mummies and back into the reality of Southsea. Mr. Dodgson gathered the manuscripts into a neat pile, picked up his hat, and mentally prepared himself for an uncomfortable visit of condolence.

  “And a lovely day it has turned out to be,” Mother Hawkins commented, as they left Number One Bush Villa behind them and proceeded along King’s Road, and back to Elm Grove.

  She was right. The October sun had burned off the early morning fog, and the air, while crisp, was tempered by the late fall phenomenon known locally as St. Martin’s Summer. Red and yellow leaves danced along the pavement as Mother Hawkins and Mr. Dodgson ambled along. Their progress was slow. Mother Hawkins was considerably bulkier than her daughter, and tended to puff as she tried to keep up with Mr. Dodgson’s long strides.

  “Perhaps we should have taken the horsecar,” Mr. Dodgson suggested.

  “No, no,” Mother Hawkins insisted. “It’s only a step, and why should we spend the money?”

  “I assure you, it would be my pleasure to accommodate you, ma’am.”

  By this time they were within sight of Treasure House. It was all too evident that someone had informed Southsea of the events of the night before. Three large men in velveteen jackets and battered hats were clamoring at the kitchen-door, while two carts with the labels of a baker and a butcher stood in the road. Harrison of the Portsmouth Evening News was on the path to the front door, scribbling madly in his notebook. A stout man whose white hair topped a round face reddened with equal amounts of sunburn and rage, dressed in a yachtsman’s blazer jacket and nautical cap, stood at the gate of Hemlock Lodge next door and glowered at both the tradesmen and the press, while a well-dressed woman of his own age attempted to soothe his ruffled feelings.

  Mr. Dodgson strode up to the front door, ignoring the press, the tradesmen, and the irate neighbor. He applied the knocker of the door, trying to ignore the sounds of altercation both without and within.

  Touie answered the door herself. “Oh, Mother!” She fell on her parent with relief, and drew both Mother Hawkins and Mr. Dodgson into the front hall, shutting the door in the face of the crowd outside. “Do come in. Such a jobation you have never heard! It seems word has already got out that Mrs. Cavanaugh met with a fatal accident and now every tradesman in Portsmouth is demanding payment!”

  “Oh, dear, dear,” murmured Mr. Dodgson. “Poor Miss Amelia must be beside herself. And little Miss Bedelia! We have come at a very bad time.”

  “There’s more,” Touie whispered. “I found this notebook in Mrs. Cavanaugh’s wardrobe.” She produced the record of Mrs. Cavanaugh’s finances and handed it to Mr. Dodgson.

  “It should be turned over to the police,” Mr. Dodgson reproved her, trying to hand it back.

  “But not until you and Arthur look at it,” Touie said firmly. “It’s not much, but it looks like some kind of accounting-book. There are initials and a set of numbers beside each one. Possibly a date, and a sum?”

  Mr. Dodgson’s curiosity got the better of his moral judgment. He peeked into the book and nodded in agreement. “Precisely what it looks like, Mrs. Doyle. Moreover”—he peered more closely at the entries—”each of these initials has a brief notation after it. If Mrs. Cavanaugh was extorting small sums from the good women of Portsmouth on the pretext of collecting for charities, this is undoubtedly her accounting-book. Unfortunately, she did not write down the full names of her victims.”

  “We can probably work that out from the initials,” Touie said. “Look here.” She pointed to one entry. “It says ‘E. H., 10, children, Simla.’ That must be Elvira Hackaby. Ten what? Pounds or shillings? And why should a woman like Mrs. Hackaby give Mrs. Cavanaugh anything at all? What could she possibly have to hide? What does Simla have to do with children?”

  “I believe Simla is the town where the army officers send their wives and children for the summer,” Mr. Dodgson said. “It is said to be quite gay there. If, as I suspect, Mrs. Cavanaugh played on the feelings of her victims, it is likely that she suggested that Mrs. Hackaby’s children had died because she had neglected them while enjoying the fashionable life.”

  “How dreadful!” Touie exclaimed. “Anyone can see Mrs. Hackaby is truly unhappy. I wonder what else is written in that little book.” She tried to look, but a step on the stairs above her distracted her.

  Mr. Dodgson hurriedly tucked the little book into his coat pocket. “Good morning, Miss Amelia,” he said, turning to face that lady, who was bearing down on him, dressed in a black walking-dress and clutching a large reticule. She had not yet put on her hat, which she carried by its brim.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dodgson, Mrs. Hawkins.” Miss Amelia favored each of them with a cold nod. All her effusiveness of the night before had vanished with the dawn.

  “Mother brought me a change of clothes,” Touie explained.

  “And I thought I might amuse Miss Bedelia,” Mr. Dodgson added
. “Is she about? Last night must have been a dreadful shock to her, I imagine.”

  “Bedelia has breakfasted and is caring for Papa’s plants, a task which she has taken on herself,” Miss Amelia said. “I am going to see Mr. Lindsay-Young about Papa’s funeral.” She placed the black straw hat on her head without bothering to look into a mirror.

  “Indeed? I thought Dr. Doyle had refused the certificate,” Mr. Dodgson said.

  “I have had a note from the police station. The police examiner has signed it, and that is all that matters. Papa’s remains have already been taken to the undertaker’s, and I wish the funeral to be as soon as possible, so that we may consult Mr. Simms.”

  “Your father’s solicitor?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  “Precisely. It is imperative that Papa’s will should be read and our financial status made clear.” Amelia grimaced as Jenny’s voice rose over the gruff tones of the threatening baker, butcher, and greengrocer. “As you may have noticed, our financial situation is becoming more and more desperate.”

  “Vulgar ruffians!” Mother Hawkins headed for the kitchen. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind. Bothering two bereaved ladies, and their pa not even in the ground!”

  “Mrs. Hawkins, that is quite unnecessary …” Amelia called after her. It was useless. Mother Hawkins was ready to do battle for the honor of the Arkwright household. “I am so sorry you find us in such an unsettled state, Mr. Dodgson,” Amelia said. “Things are at sixes and sevens …. Emma used to take care of these matters. I really thought the household accounts were being paid up.” She fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief.

  Mr. Dodgson looked about him in confusion. Touie took over.