The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist

by Roberta Rogow

  “Come to see how your leg is doing, Bertha,” Dr. Doyle replied. “But a bowl of soup wouldn’t come amiss, eh, Mr. Dodgson?”

  “I rarely eat during the day,” Mr. Dodgson demurred.

  “I do,” Dr. Doyle stated, “and Bertha’s chowder is the best in Portsmouth!” He grinned over the counter at her. She mirrored his grin with one of her own, showing a fine set of white teeth in a face the color of old mahogany.

  “Go on with yer!” Big Bertha chortled. “Carrie!” A lanky female of indeterminate age emerged from behind a curtain, which apparently separated Bertha’s private haunts from her public ones. “You keep the shop.”

  Bertha waddled around her assistant and led the way into the tiny back room. Her bulk nearly filled it as she collapsed into her favorite chair, which creaked under her weight.

  “The burn’s all healed. Goose grease will do it every time, just like my granny said.” She hoisted her skirts to reveal a shapeless limb covered with a well-darned black stocking.

  Mr. Dodgson shyly looked away. He sniffed the atmosphere, which was redolent with onions and fish, and decided that the soup would not agree with him.

  Once again, Dr. Doyle applied the stethoscope to Bertha’s heaving chest, and indicated that she should roll down her stocking. “No infection,” he commented.

  “Ah, that’s the bread poultice. My ma always swore by bread poultice.”

  “And who am I to argue with your mother, eh?” Dr. Doyle grinned up at Mr. Dodgson. “But you should not be on your feet.”

  “And leave Carrie to mind the business?” Bertha snorted her opinion of that idea. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I hear you was there when Emma Cavanaugh got what was coming to her.”

  “I was there when she died,” Dr. Doyle corrected her.

  “Is it true she accused someone there of killing her?” Bertha asked. “Not that I’m surprised that someone might try it. Emma Cavanaugh was a bad ’un, and no mistake!”

  “Dear me.” Mr. Dodgson drew nearer to the patient. “At first glance, Mrs. Cavanaugh appeared to be quite respectable.”

  “Ha!” Bertha cackled. “Respectable! She’d sit in a corner, meek as a mouse, and she’d listen, oh, so quiet-like, and what she heard went right into that little book of ’ers. Then she’d be off to pay calls with Miss Amelia, and once in the door, there was no keepin’ ’er out.”

  “I am surprised no one stopped her,” Dr. Doyle said indignantly.

  “Meanin’ who? The Captain knew what she was about, but ’e was never the one to look a gift ’orse in the mouth.”

  “Do you mean Captain Arkwright?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “Who else? That worthless lump, Cavanaugh? Once Captain Arkwright swallowed the anchor, he set Cavanaugh up with a ship and let him go to sea, while Emma kept up with what went on here on the docks.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about Captain Arkwright,” Dr. Doyle remarked.

  “Ah! I wasn’t always this large,” Bertha said with a leer. “And Jethro always had an eye to the ladies. Look at how he took in that little miss he married, right under the nose of ’er fine family!”

  “The Moncrieffes,” Mr. Dodgson murmured.

  “Aye, so they say.” Bertha’s eyes grew bright with curiosity. “D’you think that was it? Miss Eleanora, come back to warn her girls?”

  “Did you know the lady?” Mr. Dodgson asked hesitantly.

  “Miss Eleanora? That were a long time ago.” Big Bertha’s voice took on a rhythmic accent. “Back in the Islands. A wild ’un she were. Never knew how she’d take things. One minute she’d be calm, sweet, pouring the tea like a lady. Then she’d be off with the Captain, leaving that little girl alone with the likes of Big Jo or Emma Parkins, as she was afore she got hitched to Cavanaugh.”

  “When did Mrs. Arkwright take ill?” Dr. Doyle asked, as he applied gauze bandage to the burned leg.

  “That were after I left the Island,” Big Bertha confessed. “My man, he had a place with Captain Farquar, on the Oriental Princess, and he took me aboard as cook.”

  “And a good cook you must be,” Mr. Dodgson complimented her.

  “Do you think Mrs. Cavanaugh was actually able to contact the spirits of Captain Arkwright and his wife?” Dr. Doyle brought the conversation back to its original subject.

  Bertha looked troubled. “Emma Cavanaugh was up to all sorts of tricks, but spirits?” She shook her head, and several chins wobbled. “The only spirits Emma knew came out of a bottle. I don’t say there ain’t spirits,” Bertha added, as she heaved herself out of her chair and prepared to resume her labors. “I’ve seen too much in my life not to put some stock in the stories I’ve heard, of warnings and suchlike. But Emma?” Her brow furrowed in thought. “She’d do ’most anything to turn a penny, and if speaking to spirits would get her one, I don’t say she wouldn’t try it.”

  Bertha led the way back into the public room, where the crowd was larger and the smell more pronounced. “Dr. Doyle, you’ll take a bowl of my fish-stew, eh?” Without waiting for an answer, she ladled it out, handed it to him, and pointed to the one unoccupied seat in the place, a small table near the front door.

  “Set down and take a bite. And you, sir, what will you take?” She eyed Mr. Dodgson, as if to imply that he needed feeding and her fish-stew would be just the thing to put meat on his bones.

  “Er … tea … and bread and butter,” Mr. Dodgson stammered.

  “Hmph!” Bertha gave one of her expressive snorts, and soon the doctor and the scholar were installed at their table, in front of the small window that looked out onto the busy dockside.

  Dr. Doyle spooned up his soup with relish, while Mr. Dodgson munched on his meager luncheon and frowned.

  “There is something puzzling me about Captain Arkwright and his family,” he said. “Let me see: The union with Miss Eleanora Moncrieffe must have been before the Sepoy Mutiny, because the altercation that made such an impression on me was quite early in my teaching life at the House. It must have been in 1856 or thereabouts.”

  “If the other man involved went out to the Crimea, that would be correct.”

  “The Captain and Mrs. Arkwright then proceeded to leave Indian waters and sailed to Bermuda. It would be interesting to note whether they took the route across the Indian Ocean and around Africa, or whether they chanced the Pacific expanse and took the longer route.”

  Dr. Doyle nodded, his mouth being occupied with his luncheon.

  “Apparently he spent his time in Bermuda running the American blockade,” Mr. Dodgson mused. “I understand that was quite dangerous.”

  “It was somewhat before my time,” Dr. Doyle confessed, “but I’ve heard that the Federal side was determined not to let Southern cotton out of American waters, so as to starve the South into submission. British manufacturers would pay well for cotton, so I imagine the rewards outweighed the danger. Presumably, that was how Captain Arkwright made his fortune, enough to leave the sea and settle comfortably in Southsea.”

  “With two daughters, not one.” Mr. Dodgson’s frown deepened. “I find such prurient speculation distasteful, but one must ask, I suppose, whether there were other children besides Miss Amelia and Miss Bedelia.”

  Dr. Doyle looked up at his mentor. “I have no idea. I never heard Miss Amelia mention any other brothers or sisters except for Bedelia.”

  “And yet, Mrs. Arkwright was with her husband during his adventurous stay in Bermuda,” Mr. Dodgson went on. “The objects in Captain Arkwright’s study were principally from the West Indies and South America, except for those large brass vases. Curious, that he should carry those huge things with him about the world.”

  Dr. Doyle broke into these maunderings. “I tell you what’s even more curious, Mr. Dodgson. Rajah Jahal and his cousin Ram are across the road.”

  “Really? What can they be doing here?”

  “Exactly what I intend to find out!” He grabbed his bag, tapped his hat into place, and stood up, just as two me
n, one in a Captain’s hat, the other in the jacket with braid that established him as a Mate, entered Big Bertha’s establishment and headed directly toward their table.

  CHAPTER 17

  The two men looked about them, searching for one diner in the crowd. The small dark sailor pointed in the direction of Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson. The Captain strode toward their table, shoving diners out of his way. Dr. Doyle tried to escape, but the Captain stood four-square in front of him, arms akimbo,

  “What do you want with me, sir?” Dr. Doyle demanded.

  “I wants to know what you mean by follerin’ me!”

  “Following you?” Dr. Doyle echoed. “I don’t even know you.”

  “My name’s Jack Cavanaugh, and I say you was follerin’ me.” Cavanaugh thrust his chin out truculently.

  Dr. Doyle’s mustache began to bristle, as his temper rose. “I say again, we were not!”

  “If anything,” Mr. Dodgson protested, “y-you w-were following us. You have been following us since we came to Southsea.” He peered at the Captain. “You were on the horsecars from the pier, and I do believe you were at the Bush Hotel last night. You followed us again today. Let us pass, and be about our business.”

  “And wot business might that be?” Cavanaugh growled.

  “I am a doctor.” Dr. Doyle held up his black bag. “I am attending patients, which are no concern of yours.”

  “Was my Emma one of your patients? Did you kill her, sawbones?”

  Cavanaugh took a step with each word, until Dr. Doyle was pressed against the window. Mr. Dodgson peered through the warped glass.

  “Prince Jahal has been handed into a small craft, apparently with the intention of being taken to his yacht. Mr. Ram has remained on the docks,” he announced.

  “Damn!” Dr. Doyle tried to push past Captain Cavanaugh, only to find himself blocked by the other man’s bulk.

  By this time, the rest of Big Bertha’s customers realized that something was afoot. The assorted fishwives, stevedores, and sailors looked at the combatants and drew their own conclusions.

  “Leave the Captain alone!”

  “Lookit the swells!”

  “Get back ter Southsea!”

  “This will never do,” Mr. Dodgson fussed, as he tried to sidle past the grinning Mate.

  Dr. Doyle tried to reason with the Captain once more. “See here, Cavanaugh,” he said genially, “I’m a doctor on my rounds. If you’re at the Bush Hotel, you can find my dispensary next door. Come and talk to me during hours. In the meanwhile, I have patients to see. Let me pass!”

  “Not until you tell me wot’s happened to my Emma!”

  “This is useless,” Dr. Doyle muttered to himself. Aloud he said, “If you will just let me go …”

  He turned to face Mr. Dodgson, then swung his bag, catching Cavanaugh in the pit of the stomach. Cavanaugh obligingly folded up, leaving just enough room for Dr. Doyle to edge past.

  The Mate stepped forward to aid his Captain. Mr. Dodgson slithered around him, giving him a push that landed him across the table next to him. The Mate sprawled across the table, spilling chowder into the laps of the two stevedores who had been enjoying the confrontation, so long as they were not actively involved. Now they rose, taking exception to this interruption of their midday meal.

  Captain Cavanaugh caught his breath and stood tall again, only to face the two infuriated stevedores. The first one launched a roundhouse right at the Mate, who, unfortunately, had turned to grab Mr. Dodgson by the tail of his coat. The blow landed instead on the ear of a lanky individual whose principal business was buying fish for London markets. The fish-buyer went down, but gained his feet quickly enough to hurl the nearest object at hand into the face of the nearest person at hand, a woman of vast proportions and impressive vocabulary, who loudly objected to having a bowl of chowder dumped into her lap.

  By this time, friends of the stevedores had joined in the brawl. Bertha waved her ladle from the other side of the room; Carrie screamed for order; but it was no use. One by one, the diners at Big Bertha’s were drawn into the fray. By the time Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle had wormed their way around the room and out the door, most of the inhabitants of Big Bertha’s were actively engaged in mayhem.

  Someone started flinging bread rolls at the fighters, in an attempt to distract them. This had the opposite effect; the fighters went after the flingers, drawing them into the battle. No one seemed to know what the fighting was about, but all were enjoying it.

  The fracas had attracted attention from the outside. The shrill tweet of a policeman’s whistle was added to the sounds of battle in Big Bertha’s, as two constables arrived to take charge of the situation.

  Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle emerged from the eating-house, rumpled and slightly moist, but otherwise unharmed. The larger of the two uniformed constables looked them over.

  “There is a fight …” Mr. Dodgson told them unnecessarily.

  A large man in a fishmongers’ striped shirt, corduroy trousers, and stained apron came flying out the door. He glared at the two constables, then staggered back inside again, only to be ejected once more. This time he decided to stay where he was.

  “I’m a doctor,” Dr. Doyle told him kindly. “May I be of assistance?”

  The constables strode into the eating-house, while Mr. Dodgson tugged at Dr. Doyle’s sleeve. “I suggest we remove ourselves from this vicinity,” he said. “Mr. Ram is still on the docks.”

  Dr. Doyle allowed himself to be pulled away from potential patients, as order was restored within.

  “Who started all this?” the larger constable demanded.

  “Him!” Fingers were pointed at Captain Cavanaugh, who declared himself innocent of all wrongdoing.

  “It was that doctor, the sawbones, Doyle,” Cavanaugh declared.

  “But you was having words with him first,” the stevedore at the table put in.

  “Creating a public disturbance is a misdemeanor, punishable by fine,” the smaller constable stated. “You’ll come along with us, Captain, and we’ll sort this all out at the station.”

  The Mate pointed to the window. Cavanaugh saw his quarry moving out of sight. Inwardly he cursed, as he was led away by the minions of the law. Dr. Doyle and his professor would be at the Bush Hotel tonight. Any more conversation with them would have to wait until he could square things with the police.

  Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson had traced the steps of Ashok Ram and Prince Jahal to the jetty where dories were tied up, with ferrymen ready to row out to the ships bobbing in the Solent. In one of these, the gray top hat of the Rajah was clearly visible, well on his way to safety on his yacht.

  “I see the Prince,” Mr. Dodgson said. He turned and scanned the crowd. “Where is Mr. Ram?”

  Dr. Doyle turned landward. “There he is!” He pointed to the turban, towering over the crowd, turning the corner into the road that led past the old city gates and back toward the modern section of Portsmouth: the dry docks, the naval shipyards, and the brick tenements recently built to house the influx of workers, both manual and clerical, that attended to the vital business of refitting and refurbishing the ships of the Royal Navy.

  “We must follow him,” Dr. Doyle decided, as he headed in the direction of the elusive turban.

  “But … your patients?” Mr. Dodgson protested, striding after his young friend.

  “We mustn’t lose Ram!” Dr. Doyle shoved his way through the crowd, ruthlessly elbowing servants and fishermen aside in his eagerness to catch up with Ashok Ram. All Mr. Dodgson could do was to follow him, murmuring apologies to the outraged inhabitants of Portsmouth left in the wake of the impetuous Dr. Doyle.

  Mr. Ram did not seem to be aware that he was being followed. He went back up the hill to High Street. At the corner where the road crossed the King’s Road, Ram stopped, apparently to consult a passerby, who pointed in the direction of the shipyards, visible through the breaks in the buildings.

  Mr. Dodgson stopped to catch his breath, after the
swift climb from the docks. “Have we lost him?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, there he is,” Dr. Doyle said. Sure enough, the turban proceeded ahead of them, along St. George’s Road, up the hill to the Hard, the hub of Portsea, the original island on which the naval base had been constructed in the days of King Henry VIII.

  Dr. Doyle forged ahead through the crowd, which now included naval personnel among the seafarers, fishwives, and civil servants. Mr. Dodgson trotted behind him, while far ahead of them Ram continued his leisurely way around another corner to Britain Street, then across the causeway (threading his way through the carts, carriages, wagons, and drays) to the Hard, with its row of two- and three-story buildings, each of which bore the sign of a tavern, an eating place, or both.

  “Where can he be going?” Mr. Dodgson wondered as they followed Ram across the bridge and onto the Hard. “Surely he will not wish to eat here. Have we lost him again?”

  “Tcha!” Dr. Doyle made an exasperated noise. “What we need is a good scent-hound. This is useless!”

  “Perhaps you had best go back to your patients in Southsea,” Mr. Dodgson suggested.

  “No … there he is!” Dr. Doyle pointed in the direction of the farthest end of the row of buildings.

  “Are you certain?” Mr. Dodgson peered into the crowd.

  Wordlessly, Dr. Doyle indicated the turban, now just visible at the end of the Hard, turning into a bystreet. “Come on!” Dr. Doyle bustled onward.

  “How he does order one about,” muttered Mr. Dodgson, following the trail through the Hard, past the ubiquitous taverns, until they reached their goal.

  The two pursuers found themselves in a section of newly built brick houses set in tidy rows, each with its square of garden behind and paved area-yard in front. Gaslights stood at the corner, indicating that while this area was not fashionable, it was respectable. The streets had been swept of litter; a crossing-sweep plied his trade at the corner where the bystreet led to the Hard.

  Here were the living quarters of the men who serviced the ships of the Royal Navy: welders, caulkers, painters, skilled laborers of all kinds. Here, too, were the homes of those who kept the records and oiled the wheels of the bureaucracy: clerks, scriveners, and a few brave souls who had learned the newfangled typewriter and were employed to use it in naval or maritime offices.