The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist

by Roberta Rogow

  At this hour, there were few men about. The women of Portsea were about their afternoon chores, buying the last of the supplies for the evening meal, taking in their washing, and overseeing the children who played noisily and cheerfully in the streets, freed from their lessons for the day. The older folk, retired from the sea or the shipyards, kept an eye on the little ones.

  Portsea’s respectability was safeguarded by the Portsmouth Constabulary. The blue-clad constables kept an eye out for petty pilferers and stray dogs. None of the ladies of the evening who plied their trade in Portsmouth would dare come to Portsea; not only were the pickings lean, but they would quickly be sent on their way back to the dockside. The most difficult decisions the Portsea constables had to make were in regard to Saturday night domestic disputes, in which the man of the house might have drunk up the week’s groceries before his wife had the chance to buy them. Drunken brawls were kept to a minimum; anything else was hidden behind the discreet lace curtains in the downstairs windows of the brick houses.

  In this enclave, small shops lurked at the corners of the prim streets, providing the basic staples: a bakery, a fishmonger, a greengrocer, a butcher. One or two sweetshops offered exotic spices as well.

  Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle inspected the contents of a bakery window, while Mr. Ram consulted a small slip of paper in his hand. Then he turned his steps toward a shop half hidden by the display of fall apples in front of the greengrocer’s on the next corner, a dark and forbidding place, with the traditional pawnbroker’s sign of three golden balls over the door.

  Here Ram turned and faced his pursuers. “You may cease your wanderings, gentlemen. I am going no farther than this.”

  Mr. Dodgson looked at his shoes in embarrassment. Dr. Doyle coughed and said, “We noticed you on Broad Street, escorting your cousin to his yacht.”

  “And, naturally, you wondered what I was up to, as the British have it,” Ram finished for him. “It is a matter of personal business. I have a friend here, whom I have not seen in many years. I wished to pay my respects to him, and to his mother, who was a servant of my family in India.”

  Dr. Doyle looked at Mr. Dodgson. The scholar had been gazing at the assemblage of oddities in the pawnshop window, the pitiful evidence of the attempts to keep up with Officer Jones next door: brass bangles, inlaid with precious stones, a violin, two brass trays studded with lumps of enamel, an ivory statuette, a set of navigational instruments in a leather case, and a pathetic selection of gold rings.

  “Er … yes …” Mr. Dodgson came out of his trance.

  “If you wish, you may join me. Perhaps he can explain better than I what you wish to know about the business that took me to Portsmouth.”

  Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson exchanged looks. Here, perhaps, would be the answer to one of the mysteries surrounding them.

  Behind them, Constable Wilkes took out his ever-present notebook, into which he had carefully inscribed the orders of the day. Among such admonitions as “Keep uniform tunic buttoned at all times” and “Do not waste time in idle chatter with housemaids or other civilians” was the notice sent out that morning by the Southsea Constabulary: “Watch all pawnbrokers for appearance of suspicious strangers, particularly Indian, in the matter of a burglary in Southsea.”

  Constable Wilkes fairly licked his lips in anticipation of praise from his Sergeant. He tore a page out of his notebook and scribbled a few lines on it. Then he beckoned one of the youngsters towards him, young Phillips, son of Chief Petty Officer Phillips, RN, now at sea. Young Phillips had evinced an interest in becoming a policeman some day.

  “Phillips!” Wilkes ordered. “You can be of service to your town and your country!”

  “Aye, sir?” Phillips, a round and rosy lad of thirteen, fairly saluted his idol, Wilkes.

  “You run as fast as you can, and you take this down to Portsmouth Police Station. You tell ’em there’s a desperate criminal in this here pawnshop, and we’ve got ’im.”

  “Coo!” Phillips’s eyes grew round at the thought.

  “Git!” Wilkes shoved the lad on his way and settled down in the doorway of the bakery across the street to keep watch on the pawnshop.

  He had no doubt that the wheels of justice would turn. The Portsmouth Constabulary would use the telephone to summon the Southsea Constabulary, who would arrive to take charge of the burglars who undoubtedly lurked within the confines of the pawnshop. In the interim, Constable Wilkes would stand guard. The mysterious Indian and his two accomplices would not escape the vigilance of the law!

  CHAPTER 18

  The pawnshop was small and dark, as dingy within as the window was outside, lit only by a flaring gas-jet that sent eerie shadows dancing along the whitewashed walls, where musical instruments hung from hooks. Rolled-up carpets had been stacked against the wooden counter, on which were lined up china teapots, copper kettles, and glassware of various shapes and sizes. A glass-fronted locked case contained the more valuable articles left in pawn: brooches, bracelets, and rings.

  The tinkle of the bell over the door had drawn the proprietor out of his hiding-place in the back room. Now he emerged, a slender, delicate-featured, dark-skinned man in his late thirties, dressed in an odd mixture of Eastern and Western garb. His dark trousers and jacket were English, cast-offs bought secondhand. They were worn with a long, collarless shirt of Indian manufacture and design, topped with the white cap common to Indian shopkeepers.

  He stared at his customers, then broke into a vast smile. “Ashok Ram! It is really you! I did not think you would come yourself …. It has been too long …. I am not worthy of your attention ….”

  Ram swept all this aside with a noble gesture. “Friend of my childhood! Karim Lal! Did you think I would forget what I owe you? That is a debt I have never been able to repay, until now.” The two men grasped each other’s hand in a grip of friendship that had its roots in their past.

  Karim Lal realized they were not alone. “But these gentlemen,” he asked, indicating Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson, “are they with you in this business?”

  Ashok Ram sighed. “This is Dr. Doyle, who is a physician ….”

  “I have heard of Dr. Doyle. He plays football.” Karim Lal bowed.

  “And this is Mr. Dodgson, a scholar of Oxford, who is visiting with Dr. Doyle and has been brought into this affair quite accidentally,” Ram continued.

  Karim Lal bowed again. “This is all very bad,” he said. “The death of Mrs. Cavanaugh means that the jewels are once again out of our reach. I had thought to find out more from her ….”

  “Under the circumstances, that is impossible,” Ram admitted.

  “Unless we try another séance,” Dr. Doyle put in.

  Karim Lal frowned. “Do not be humorous, Doctor. To speak with the dead, this is not a matter for parlor games.”

  Mr. Dodgson cleared his throat. “Whether or not Mrs. Cavanaugh could be contacted from beyond the grave is not the point, Mr. Lal. May I assume that you are the writer of the letter that brought Prince Jahal of Rajitpur to Southsea?”

  Karim Lal nodded. “Yes, it was I who composed the letter.”

  Dr. Doyle asked, “What could you possibly have that Mrs. Cavanaugh would want? And why here?”

  Karim Lal thought a minute, then ducked behind the curtain that led to the back reaches of his establishment. He reappeared and held the curtain aside for the three men to enter. “If you will come in, gentlemen, my mother will receive you. She may be able to throw light on this dark mystery.”

  Beyond the tapestry curtain was an entirely new world. Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle shared glances, as if acknowledging the feeling that they had just been transported into the Thousand and One Nights’ Entertainment. The utilitarian plank floor had been covered with a richly colored carpet, on which stood three carved chairs, a low ebony table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and several large cushions. A brass brazier next to the table gave off enough warmth to offset the October chill. The walls had been painted in a deep crimson and ad
orned with gaudy paintings of Indian deities, each with its own little shelf of offerings and incense. Brass lamps hanging from the ceiling added to the mystery and magic of the room.

  On one of the pillows sat a tiny brown woman, dressed in a long-sleeved purple shirt, worn over loose trousers of the same color, her arms weighted down with bangle bracelets, her head covered with a purple shawl of the finest cotton gauze, which she drew over her face when her son and his guests entered her presence.

  “Mother,” he said deferentially, “here is Ashok Ram, come to visit with you. He has brought two English gentlemen with him.”

  The woman nodded regally. Ashok Ram bent to kiss the withered cheek. “It pains me to see you like this, my old nurse,” he said softly. “If I had known …”

  “It is my karma,” the old woman said in a lilting, still-musical voice. “As it is karma that sends you back to me, Ashok Ram.”

  Ram stood up and explained, “This is my mother’s servant, who was my Amah, my nurse, when I was very young. Her son and I grew up together, until it was time that our paths in life had to separate. As you see, we have had to travel very differently, but here we are, as the wheel of life turns, together again.”

  “Sit, and take refreshment,” the old woman ordered. She clapped her hands imperiously. A young woman in a servant’s plain dress and apron poked her head out of the door at the farthest end of the room. “Tea!” Mrs. Lal ordered.

  Ram folded himself onto one of the cushions. Lal indicated that his English guests were to sit in the chairs. Mr. Dodgson glanced at Dr. Doyle, then took the offered seat.

  “W-we d-did not mean to intrude upon your reunion with an old friend,” Mr. Dodgson said hesitantly. “B-but we did wonder—”

  “Whether this visit had anything to do with the matter that brought my cousin Jahal to Southsea,” Ram interrupted him. “It is not entirely my story to tell.”

  Karim Lal cleared his throat. “I would never have dared to bring you to this humble shop were it not for the news of the jewels,” he said apologetically. “It must have been karma that led the woman of Arkwright to this shop.”

  “How did you know who she was?” Mr. Dodgson asked sharply.

  “He-he-he!” cackled Mrs. Lal from behind her veil. “She did not know of us, but we knew of her! When my old mistress died, she left a small legacy to me and my son. We used it to buy this shop. Arkwright never came here, but we knew where he was; and where he was, the jewels would be.”

  “Dear me,” said Mr. Dodgson. “This all sounds quite confusing. Perhaps, if you would start from the beginning and go on to the end, it would make more sense.”

  “The beginning?” The old woman seemed to fold into herself. “The beginning was when the British told our soldiers that they would have to use new cartridges, with animal fat.”

  “The Sepoy Mutiny,” Dr. Doyle exclaimed.

  “So it is called in England. In India, it was a bad time for all. The peasants rose up against their princes, and the soldiers would not obey their officers. In Rajitpur, the old Rajah, the grandfather of young Jahal, thought to outwit the rebels. He asked of his English friend, Mon … Mon … I do not say it well …” The old woman’s voice faltered.

  “Moncrieffe,” Dr. Doyle provided the answer.

  “That was the man. He had come to Rajitpur as a young man, to make his fortune, and he had built many, many godowns, taken a wife from the Portugese of Goa, and made many powerful friends in Bombay. He told the Rajah to send his youngest son to the English in Bombay, and to hire mercenaries from the Punjab to protect himself and his family from the rebels. This the Rajah did.

  “He made up two parties, of a bullock-cart and a force of guards. One bullock-cart carried the boy, with his servants and his clothes and playthings. The other bullock-cart was to carry chests of coins and a box of jewels, to pay the mercenaries.”

  Dr. Doyle’s face suddenly brightened. “I think I can guess what happened next,” he said. “The box with toys was placed in one cart, and the treasure chest in another—”

  “And someone sent the toys to the Punjab and the treasure to Bombay,” Mr. Dodgson finished for him.

  “And when it was discovered that the box in the Punjab did not contain the coins and jewels they were promised, the mercenaries came to Rajitpur and threw their forces in with those of the rebels,” Ashok Ram said grimly. “My father was accused of giving the false orders that had sent the wrong box. He was disgraced, and executed.”

  “But what happened to the treasure chest?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  “That was the great tragedy. Whoever changed the boxes also set up an ambush, so that it appeared that bandits had overtaken the Prince’s caravan and stolen the box. However, it was clear that the bandits in question were not Indian dacoits, or even rebels, for they would never have left the child alive to inform upon them. The young Prince was found, left to fend for himself in the mountains, where the caravan had been ambushed. He was brought to Bombay and was taken in by the British. They then sent soldiers to Rajitpur, to put down the rebellion and keep order. Moncrieffe was made English Resident, and a council was set up to rule Rajitpur under British guidance.”

  “And the jewels?” Dr. Doyle leaned forward in his chair eagerly.

  “Ah, yes, the treasure.” Ashok Ram looked at Karim Lal. “You must understand, gentlemen, that in India, there are coins of many types, for each Rajah may issue his own currency. The jewels, they were unset stones, in a small box, easily hidden.”

  “The coins of Rajitpur are common in Bombay, and can be found all over India. The jewels, however, are unique, for each gem has its own history, and each can be verified.” Karim Lal took up the tale. “I was a child, but I recalled each of those stones as they were placed into the box. After the robbery, my mother and I were left alone in Bombay, for we were supposed to serve the young Prince, and now he was with the British soldiers. One of the English ladies needed a maid, and so my mother found employment, and I received my education. When she decided to return to England, my mother’s mistress took us with her.”

  Mr. Dodgson frowned. “I am still puzzled,” he said. “What has all this to do with Captain Arkwright?”

  “The boy was to be taken from Bombay by a ship of the East India Company,” Ashok Ram said. “It was Old Mogul Moncrieffe who made the arrangements, with the Captain of the nearest ship of the East India line.”

  “And that was Arkwright,” Dr. Doyle said. “Arkwright, who was Moncrieffe’s subordinate, was to ambush the caravan,” Doyle said slowly. “They would share the loot …”

  “There must have been four of them in the scheme,” Mr. Dodgson decided. “The one who organized it …”

  “Moncrieffe.” Dr. Doyle ticked them off on his fingers.

  “The one who gave the orders to switch the bullock-carts …”

  “My father,” Ashok Ram said with a sigh.

  “And Captain Arkwright and his Mate …”

  “Cavanaugh!” Dr. Doyle exclaimed. “No wonder he is haunting that house. He’s the last of them, and he undoubtedly thinks the treasure is his by right. But where is it? And did Mrs. Cavanaugh find it?”

  “Apparently, she did,” Mr. Dodgson said. “And that brings us up to the present, Mr. Lal. When did you first meet Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

  “He did not meet her.” Mrs. Lal broke into the discussion. “That evil woman came here, to the back door, to find out about my old mistress and her life in India. She took tea with my serving-girl, and asked for alms, so that she would not spread evil tales about my mistress and her husband.”

  “And what did you do?” Mr. Dodgson asked with horrified fascination.

  Mrs. Lal cackled behind her veil. “My girl told her nothing, and sent her away empty-handed.” The aforementioned servant entered with a brass tray inlaid with glass enamel, on which had been placed a long-spouted brass teapot and four tiny china cups.

  Mrs. Lal poured the tea for her honored guests and her son. Mr. Dodgson looked for milk
and sugar, and realized that Indian tea was taken without either. He sniffed at it dubiously, then ventured to taste it. It was an improvement on the other two liquids he had imbibed during his afternoon excursion.

  “Let me see if I understand you correctly,” Mr. Dodgson said. “The coins were spent, as coins will be spent, and were therefore untraceable, but the jewels, which could be traced, have not been sold?”

  “One was sold in the bazaar in Bombay,” Mrs. Lal said. “But the others, they are lost.”

  “Until this Cavanaugh woman came into my shop this summer,” Karim Lal stated. “She had a ruby, a fine gem, worth many thousands of pounds. She asked if I knew its value and could I sell it for her.”

  “And you recognized it?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “It had been a very long time, but yes, I did recognize it. I had last held it in my fingers when I had put my hand into the box of jewels. I was but a child, you understand, and to a child these were but bright, pretty stones. I was beaten hard, and so I remember each stone I held. That was certainly one of them.”

  “So you broke your silence of many years and notified your friend Ashok Ram,” Mr. Dodgson said.

  Karim Lal nodded. “I wrote two letters. One was sent to the Rajah himself, on the finest paper I had. I wished it to be a perfect letter, as should be sent to a Prince, and so I took my poor copy, as dictated by Mrs. Cavanaugh, and had it written by a proper English scrivener in Portsmouth, so that it would be worthy of being read.”

  “And that explains why no one knew the handwriting,” Dr. Doyle said with a satisfied nod.

  “To my old friend Ashok Ram, I wrote in our own language. I only said that Mrs. Cavanaugh had come to this shop with one of the stones, and that I would deal with her as best I could, but that Prince Jahal should come himself to Portsmouth, where Captain Arkwright had set up his household, for where Captain Arkwright was, there would be the jewels. I had always thought so, but now I had the proof.” Karim Lal set down his cup and regarded his visitors with liquid brown eyes. “I told Mrs. Cavanaugh that I could arrange with Prince Jahal to buy the stones for a goodly sum. It was my intention to be the middleman in the transaction, thus bringing honor to my family, redeeming the honor of my friend Ashok Ram, and perhaps, attaining some small reward for myself and my mother, who has suffered much hardship over these years of exile.”