Lily opened the door to the General’s knock. “Back so soon, sir?” she asked with a look of puzzlement. “I thought you and the Major was off to see the police.”
“As you see, they have come here.” General Drayson stepped past her, leading the parade back into the front hall, leaving his hat and stick on the wooden hat stand (a reminder of his stay in the wilds of Québec). Behind him, the two policemen, Major Hackaby, Dr. Doyle, and Mr. Dodgson filled the narrow stairway that led up to the first story and the drawing room, study, and Mrs. Drayson’s sitting room.
“We have some more questions to ask,” Inspector O’Ferrall said. “May we be private, sir?”
“I suppose my study will have to do.” General Drayson led the way through the drawing room, where the spirit of Mrs. Cavanaugh seemed to linger, although her mortal remains had been removed. Lily edged past the table, skirted the sofa, and opened the door to the General’s study. There she opened the curtains and let in the light of day, while the General took his seat behind his desk, forestalling the attempts of Fletcher and O’Ferrall to seize this place of power. Dr. Doyle and Major Hackaby ranged themselves beside him and Lily stood in front of the desk, her hands folded primly over her morning apron, her eyes modestly cast down, her mouth forming a tight line. Mr. Dodgson turned his attention to the bookcases and cabinets that held the General’s collection of small curios, souvenirs of his many postings during a long and illustrious career.
Inspector O’Ferrall took the lead. “Lily? Is that your name?” he began.
“Yes, sir. Lily Hardwick.” The young woman looked from one male face to another. “Is something wrong, sir? I told the Sergeant all I knew last night.”
“Why don’t you tell us?” Inspector O’Ferrall said gently.
“There’s nothing to tell. I showed the ladies and gentlemen up, even that Indian gentleman. I helped Sergeant Gordon with the chairs, and then I went down to the kitchen, until I was called for. And there she was …!” Lily closed her eyes, trying to blot out the awful memory.
“Have you cleaned the rooms, Lily?” General Drayson asked.
Lily looked offended. “Do you mean this study or the drawing room?”
“Either,” Dr. Doyle told her.
“I beg your pardon sir, but that’s Rose’s job.”
“Rose?” Dr. Doyle pounced on her.
“Rose Peckham, which is housemaid,” Lily said. “My duties is to clear the breakfast things from the dining room, to dust the drawing room, and to answer the door, should it ring. Rose cleans the drawing room, that is, she lays the fire and cleans the grates, and sweeps the rug. No one clears anything in this room except to lay the fire for the General.”
“Then perhaps we should speak with Rose,” Dr. Doyle suggested, plying the bellpull to summon the housemaid.
“I don’t understand what you are getting at,” General Drayson said testily. “What is so important about this handkerchief?”
“I believe Mrs. Cavanaugh was killed with a handkerchief, which was permeated with a solution of nicotine so strong as to cause death,” Dr. Doyle pronounced.
“Now, that’s a new one!” Fletcher thought it over, then nodded.
“It could be done,” O’Ferrall agreed. “Captain Arkwright gave a talk on poisons at the Literary and Scientific Society. Very knowledgeable, he was, about arsenic and nicotine, to kill insects in the garden.”
“But how could someone get hold of nicotine?” General Drayson protested.
“Oh, that’s easy enough,” Dr. Doyle said. “After all, it’s the principal active ingredient in tobacco. Any tobacco product will do: cigars, pipe shag, even the plant itself. It would have to be decocted or distilled, of course, but nicotine itself is hardly uncommon.”
“Ingenious,” Mr. Dodgson commented. His inspection of the General’s collection of oddities acquired in the far-flung corners of the Empire had been completed. Now he stood at the fireplace and stared into the grate.
“General Drayson,” Mr. Dodgson said hesitantly, “when was the last time this fire was laid?”
“Eh? I leave that sort of thing to Hetty,” the General huffed. “Servants are women’s business.”
“Because,” Mr. Dodgson went on, “there is a pile of ash in this grate that has not been removed.”
“I had the fires lit last night,” General Drayson said. “It was chilly. One forgets how cold England can get, eh, Hackaby?”
“India thins the blood,” Major Hackaby agreed. “Can’t stick England in winter anymore. Of course, India in summer is next door to Hell. Have to send the ladies to the hills.”
“Perhaps Rose can shed some light on the fireplace,” Mr. Dodgson said.
By this time, Rose had answered the bell, anxiously looking to her co-worker for guidance.
“These are the gentlemen who were here last night when Mrs. Cavanaugh, um …” Lily explained.
Rose gasped. “Is it true she accused someone of her murder, sir?”
“The words ‘Murder, Murder’ were spoken,” General Drayson admitted.
“Then I know who done it,” Rose said. “It must have been the Captain hisself come for her. A judgment on her, I say, for her sneaking ways!”
“Somewhat drastic,” Mr. Dodgson reproved her. “Was Mrs. Cavanaugh so very wicked as to merit divine retribution?”
“Wicked?” Rose caught the one familiar word in the sentence. “That one didn’t know her place! First she takes tea with us in the kitchen, then she comes in the front door, bold as brass, with Miss Arkwright, paying calls. And then she comes back on her own, asking to see Mrs. Hackaby.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Dodgson murmured. “A social solecism, but not necessarily worthy of death. Did Mrs. Hackaby receive her?” He continued to stare at the ashes in the fireplace.
“Mrs. Drayson being out at the time, and Mrs. Hackaby being willing, Mrs. Cavanaugh was received,” Lily said loftily. “But what was said between them I do not know, nor could I, not being one who listens at doors.” She glanced at Rose, who nodded vigorously in assent.
“What we want to know,” Dr. Doyle said, glancing at the two policemen, “is whether either of you found a handkerchief in this room or the drawing room since Mrs. Cavanaugh’s death.”
“Those dratted policemen wouldn’t let me clean.” Rose looked apologetically at her employer.
“And so you didn’t,” O’Ferrall said. “Very well, Doyle, the room is just the way it was when Mrs. Cavanaugh left it. What of it?”
“Perhaps not. Rose, if you please, cast your eyes about this room and tell me if you see anything different about it? Something missing, something that should not be there?”
Rose looked at Lily, as if to say, The things the gentry get up to! Then the two maids carefully circled the room, beginning at the door and ending up at the fireplace.
“Nothing missing,” Lily reported.
“Them ashes,” Rose said, pointing to the pile on the grate. “That’s funny.”
“I see nothing humorous in the ashes of a dead fire,” Mr. Dodgson said.
“But that’s wrong,” Rose said. “When I made up the fire, it was on the grate, like it should be. But there’s ashes under the grate, and that’s wrong.”
“Indeed?” Dr. Doyle squatted down to take a closer look. “Now, this is interesting, Mr. Dodgson. What have we here?” He looked around for the fire-tools. Mr. Dodgson handed him the poker and the shovel. Dr. Doyle scrabbled in the ashes and came up with a charred scrap of what had been a piece of white linen. Only a corner remained, carefully hemstitched, but otherwise featureless. This he carefully scraped into the shovel and lifted out of the fireplace.
Inspector O’Ferrall reached for it. Dr. Doyle struck his hand away.
“Careful!” Dr. Doyle warned. “If what I suspect is true, that scrap of cloth contains enough nicotine to kill an elephant, let alone a woman of Mrs. Cavanaugh’s size. General, if you please …?”
General Drayson produced a sheet of paper from a drawe
r. Dr. Doyle shook his trophy off the shovel, onto the paper, and laid it on the desk for all to examine.
“Our murder weapon, gentlemen,” Dr. Doyle announced. “Discover to whom this belonged, and we will have our killer.”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Dodgson said. “A handkerchief, and a badly burned one at that, is not enough to convict a man.”
“Or a woman,” Inspector O’Ferrall put in. “Poison is said to be a woman’s weapon.”
“Possibly,” Mr. Dodgson mused. He put out a gray-gloved hand to touch the singed scrap. “May I examine it?” He looked to Dr. Doyle for approval.
“With gloves only,” Dr. Doyle warned. “If I had not found it, either of you two young women might have handled it, with very grave results. Nicotine may be taken through the skin, and in concentrated form can cause convulsions and death. As we have seen,” he added pointedly.
Mr. Dodgson poked at the handkerchief with one finger, then leaned over and sniffed at it. “Undoubtedly soaked in some sort of tobacco solution,” he decided. He turned to the two maids. “Do either of you young persons recognize this handkerchief?”
Rose and Lily hovered over the scrap in horrified fascination. Then Rose said, “It’s not Mrs. Drayson’s. I sort the laundry, and her handkerchiefs are finer than this one. This is nasty, cheap stuff, and plain.”
Lily nodded in agreement. “Mrs. Hackaby’s in mourning, poor lady. I hear she lost both her little girls, very sudden. Her handkerchiefs all have mourning bands on them. This isn’t hers.”
“Would you say this is a man’s handkerchief?” Mr. Dodgson pursued the issue. “Perhaps the General’s, or Major Hackaby’s?”
“It might be,” Rose admitted. “And then, there are some folks that just buys them in the shop ready-hemmed, like. But somehow it don’t look like either of our gentlemen’s handkerchiefs. Mind, I couldn’t swear to it,” she added.
General Drayson’s face nearly matched the maroon of the leather bindings on his matched set of encyclopedia volumes. “I can swear to it,” he exploded. “That is certainly not my handkerchief! You may take my word, as an officer and a gentleman, that I did not provide that woman with so much as a crumb of bread, let alone a handkerchief—”
“I did not think you had,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Thank you, er, Rose and Lily. A veritable garden of information.”
Rose and Lily looked at each other and blushed. Then Lily asked, “Begging your pardon, sir, but could we get on with our work now?”
“Cleaning the drawing room,” Rose explained. “Airing it out, and the rest of it.”
Inspector O’Ferrall shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “We’ve learned all we can. Get about your duties, but hold yourself available for questioning later.”
Rose and Lily curtseyed and fled, leaving the men to ponder the evidence before them.
“A coarse handkerchief, not hemmed with a mourning band. That eliminates Mrs. Hackaby,” Mr. Dodgson said.
“Elvira!” Major Hackaby exploded with wrath. “What has she to do with any of this? She barely knew the woman!”
“But she did agree to see her,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out. “However, she would hardly have known she would need the nicotine mixture, assuming that she had access to tobacco or knew how to decoct it. Moreover, she could not have delivered the fatal handkerchief to Mrs. Cavanaugh. And finally, I have no doubt that Mrs. Hackaby was a devoted mother, and the death of her children grieved her deeply. Any attempt to extort money from her would be met with a rebuff, I am certain.”
“What’s this about extortion?” O’Ferrall snapped.
“It is becoming apparent to me that Mrs. Cavanaugh used servants’ gossip to attain her nefarious ends,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “Her modus operandi must have been to use her ambiguous position in the Arkwright household, first to cultivate the acquaintance of servants and gain their confidence, then to gain access to the ladies of Southsea through Miss Amelia Arkwright, and finally to threaten them with exposure of whatever peccadillo she had uncovered, on the pretext of collecting for charity. I have no idea how long this has been going on, but it is not the sort of thing that comes to the notice of the police.”
General Drayson looked at Major Hackaby, then at Mr. Dodgson. “I had no idea!” he said.
Mr. Dodgson turned to Major Hackaby. “Your wife is deeply troubled by the loss of her children. I grieve with her, and sympathize with you. Mrs. Cavanaugh may have hinted at accusations of neglect, of leaving small children in the care of ignorant Indian native servants while their parents amused themselves. However, this was pure spite, and your wife, sir, is quite sincere in her grief.”
Major Hackaby released his breath and bowed to the scholar. “Thank you, sir. I am glad someone in this room has some sense.”
“I do not say that she did not kill Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Mr. Dodgson demurred. “I simply do not see any logical reason for her to do such a deed, or any means for her to do it.”
“Which leaves us with a burnt handkerchief, and no suspects,” muttered Inspector O’Ferrall, staring at the charred object on the paper in front of him.
“I suppose the next step would be to count the handkerchiefs of all the ladies present at the séance and see if any of them are missing,” General Drayson said with awful sarcasm. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that my wife is beyond reproach! Moreover, I see no motive for any of the ladies to remove Mrs. Cavanaugh. You have run into a dead end, Doyle. Inspector Fletcher, Inspector O’Ferrall, you may remove this … object. Test it for nicotine, and see if Dr. Doyle is correct. After which you may do with it what you will.”
General Drayson lifted himself out of his chair and prepared to depart. Suddenly he turned to Mr. Dodgson.
“Are you planning to remain here in Southsea for one more day?” General Drayson asked the scholar.
“Apparently I have no choice in the matter,” Mr. Dodgson said diffidently. “Until I am cleared of all guilt, Inspector O’Ferrall has given orders that I am to stay where I am.” He looked at the burly policeman, who shrugged.
“As you were present on the occasion of the woman’s death, sir, I must ask you to remain for the inquest,” O’Ferrall said apologetically. “At least, until the matter is settled to my satisfaction.”
“In that case, may I invite you to attend a small dinner party that we of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society are giving tonight for Dr. Doyle and his new bride, at the Bush Hotel? This is not our scheduled meeting, but a small celebration in honor of Dr. Doyle’s recent marriage, and since you are his guest, we would be remiss in neglecting to include you in these festivities.”
Dr. Doyle had the apprehensive air of a puppy who has gone off the leash and just returned to its master, not certain whether it will be scolded for running away or petted for coming home. “I thought you would have been well on your way back to Oxford by now, or I would have seen to it that you were invited to attend,” he explained, wincing under Mr. Dodgson’s reproachful gaze. “This dinner was planned weeks ago. Touie and I are guests of honor, but you do not have to accept at such short notice. The Bush Hotel has an excellent ordinary, if you prefer to dine alone.”
“I do not usually dine in company,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But since this is a small, private party, I should be delighted to take part.”
“And I am sure we will enjoy your presence,” the General said. “And if you would care to make a few remarks, we would be delighted to hear them, but of course, that is not necessary. Dr. Doyle is, after all, the guest of honor.” His tone belied the words; Mr. Dodgson recognized the veiled command. As a notable guest, and a friend of the honorees, he would be expected to speak, and to speak wittily as well. Mr. Dodgson’s heart sank. He was committed to the sort of evening he most detested: a formal dinner party at which he would have to perform. Once again he wished he had never come to Portsmouth.
However, he said nothing, but bowed to the General, who turned his attention to the younger man. “Now, Doyle, having found the mea
ns by which Mrs. Cavanaugh was dispatched, I am sure we can leave the rest of this to the authorities.” He looked meaningfully at Fletcher and O’Ferrall.
O’Ferrall carefully folded the paper around the handkerchief. “What we have to do,” he decided, “is to find out if the handkerchief was Mrs. Cavanaugh’s or someone else’s, and who gave it to her. Only when we know all these things can we say the case is closed.”
“That takes care of Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Fletcher said. “What about our mysterious burglars, eh? What have they to do with all this Spiritualist claptrap?”
“I don’t suppose they were looking for spirits,” Mr. Dodgson said with a smile. “Although they may have been looking for this.” He fumbled through the debris in his coat pockets and found Mrs. Cavanaugh’s little notebook. “This appears to be Mrs. Cavanaugh’s accounting-book. Unfortunately, the entries are quite brief and may be totally unconnected with this case.”
“That’s for us to decide,” O’Ferrall said, removing the book from Mr. Dodgson’s hand. “Now, about those robbers …”
“The police are good at catching thieves,” Dr. Doyle said. “It is what they are trained for.”
“Thank you for that,” Fletcher said, with a sarcastic grimace. “I’ll leave the poison to you, O’Ferrall. I’ve set a few lines myself, and we’ll see what fish bite ’em.”
“That being so, I suppose you should return to your establishment for luncheon, Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson hinted. “You left your wife rather precipitously at Treasure House.”
“Oh, Touie will be all right,” Dr. Doyle said blithely. “I have to go my rounds in any case. Would you care to accompany me, Mr. Dodgson? We shall see some of the old town, which is quite picturesque.”
“That is quite kind of you, Dr. Doyle—” Mr. Dodgson began.
“Good!” Dr. Doyle shook hands with General Drayson and Major Hackaby and hustled Mr. Dodgson out the front door. As they walked to the horsecar stand, Dr. Doyle said, “I didn’t want to say anything to Hackaby, but I’m sure his wife paid something to that pernicious woman.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 17