“Has he seen a lawyer?” Jahal demanded.
“Er … not yet,” Fletcher admitted.
“Have you a signed deposition to the effect that he instigated this robbery?”
“No …”
“In that case, I have the authority to remove Ashok Ram from your custody and take him aboard my own ship,” Jahal told them. “He will be made available to you when—and if—his testimony is needed.”
There was nothing Fletcher could do. He stepped aside to allow the navy to take his prisoner away.
Chief Inspector Bray was not pleased when his underlings explained that they had solved one crime, but the perpetrator had been removed from custody by the navy. “Bloody interfering bluecoats,” he swore. “And what about this murder? Have we just let a killer go free?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” O’Ferrall said. “There’s more to this Cavanaugh business than theft, I think.”
“Been talking to Doyle, have you?” Bray harrumphed.
O’Ferrall shrugged. “I may have to pay another call on the Misses Arkwright, to let them know what’s happened—”
The consultation was interrupted by a commotion outside the Chief Inspector’s office.
“You can’t go in there, sir!” A constable was struggling with Captain Cavanaugh, who seemed to be getting the better of the argument.
“I can go anywheres, you bloody swab!” Cavanaugh shook off the constable and marched into the Chief Inspector’s office. “Which one of you’s supposed to be finding out who killed my Emma?” Cavanaugh looked much the worse for wear. His jacket retained several soup stains, and there was a bruise over one eye, as a memento of the Battle of Big Bertha’s.
Chief Inspector Bray, Inspector Fletcher, and Inspector O’Ferrall turned arround to face the infuriated seaman. “And who are you, sir?” demanded Bray.
“Cavanaugh!”
Inspector O’Ferrall frowned. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he commented.
“I’m as live as you like,” Cavanaugh blustered. “And I want to know who killed my wife!”
O’Ferrall stared him down. “I am conducting inquiries,” he said stolidly.
“And have you gotten any forrader?”
“We have a suspect in custody.”
“Who? Let me at ’im!”
“We are not ready to make that matter public at this time,” O’Ferrall said in his most official tone. “Captain Cavanaugh, I understand that you may be overwrought at the news of your wife’s unhappy death—”
“Talk the Queen’s English!” Cavanaugh glared at the trio.
“In a nutshell,” Fletcher said, “there is a man called Ashok Ram, who may know something about—”
“Ram?” Cavanaugh’s face crumpled. He stopped shouting. “Is … is he from Rajitpur?”
O’Ferrall’s eyes narrowed. “Would it make a difference if he was?” he countered.
Cavanaugh muttered to himself, “It’s judgment, it is. First I hear about the Old Mogul, and now Jethro’s gone. With old Vizier Ram done in, there’s only me left alive …”
Cavanaugh looked around for a chair. Fletcher motioned to one of the constables, who slipped a stool under the Captain’s rear just at the right moment. “Thank’ee,” Cavanaugh said. He produced a large bandanna from his jacket pocket and mopped his face with it. “I beg pardon for the rumpus, but it’s a hard line to swaller. The two best friends I had in the world, gone … and me not even there to give them a send-off.”
“Indeed,” Chief Inspector Bray decided to take part in the interrogation. “When did you get into Portsmouth, Captain Cavanaugh? Most of us here were under the impression that your ship had disappeared some seven years ago. I understand that steps were being taken to declare you officially dead, so that you … that is, Mrs. Cavanaugh, could claim your estate.”
“Estate?” Cavanaugh let out a loud guffaw. “Jethro kept my savings, such as they was. Emma knew that. She had no reason … unless …” His face darkened. “That bitch!”
“Mind your language!” Fletcher warned him.
“Her and Jethro! Oh, the artful baggage!” Cavanaugh’s wrath was beginning to bubble up again. “Living in the same house! Knowing what she knew! Marriage, that’s wot she was after!”
Inspector O’Ferrall thought this over. “But … that would make even less sense,” he muttered to himself. “If Mrs. Cavanaugh was about to marry Captain Arkwright, she would certainly not wish to kill him.”
“I thought we’d agreed that Captain Arkwright died of natural causes,” Bray said testily.
“Sir, what if Doyle is right and both of them were murdered?” Inspector O’Ferrall argued.
“Then you have a nastier problem than we thought,” Fletcher said. “At least my job’s finished. I’m off to the pub for a pint.”
“And I suppose I must go back to Treasure House,” O’Ferrall said grimly. “This is getting more and more difficult to understand. First we have whatever Ram was after—”
“The Rajitpur jewels,” Cavanaugh said tersely. “Jethro had ’em.”
“Really? Where?”
Cavanaugh smiled craftily. “Now, that’s just the point, gents. He took ’em when we left Bombay, but what he did with ’em he never told me. Just that they was safe, and he could lay hands on ’em when he needed ’em. He sold one of ’em to buy our ship, and another to set us up in Bermuda. It’s anyone’s guess what he did with the rest of ’em.”
“So they may very well still be in Treasure House,” Fletcher said.
“And with Ram on the loose again …” O’Ferrall picked up the thought.
“He may try again!”
Chief Inspector Bray tapped a finger on the desk. “Station a pair of constables to watch that house,” he ordered. “Captain Cavanaugh, you have my deepest sympathy on the death of your wife and friend. We will do all in our power to find their murderer.”
“And if you don’t,” Cavanaugh growled, “I will!”
“What next?” O’Ferrall looked at his Chief Inspector.
“Get back out to Treasure House. Talk to Miss Arkwright, and see what she knows about these jewels.”
“What about Doyle?” Fletcher asked, with a sly grin directed at O’Ferrall.
“Let Doyle tend his patients,” Bray said.
“Or write his stories,” O’Ferrall murmured, as he and Fletcher left their chief to mutter to himself about interfering civilians.
CHAPTER 20
The autumn afternoon was well advanced by the time Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle returned to the Bush Hotel, which had become a mecca for large men in checked suits, small men in striped suits, young men in uniform, and older men in mufti. Tea was being served, and those in Southsea who did not have it at the backs of their shops were drawn to the Bush Hotel’s dark and leathery lounge, where they could fortify themselves before taking on the last visits of the working day.
“Dr. Doyle,” the scholar said as they approached the portals of the hotel, “it seems to me that we have been doing a great deal of running about, and getting nowhere. We must sit down and concentrate our thoughts on one problem at a time.”
“The death of Mrs. Cavanaugh? The death of Captain Arkwright? The theft of the Rajitpur Treasure …?”
“Any or all of them. There is a factor missing in all of this, a piece of the puzzle that does not fit.” Mr. Dodgson brushed past the lanky hotel guest who had rescued him from the reporters the night before.
“Mr. Dodgson,” the man said with a bow.
“I beg your pardon …” He peered at the tall man in the semi-clerical black suit. “Have we met before, sir?”
“Last night,” the man said in sonorous, slightly accented English. “My name is Monks.” He leaned forward, as if to emphasize the importance of this announcement. It was lost on Mr. Dodgson.
“How do you do, sir.” He offered a gray-gloved hand. “I recall now. You removed the journalist, and for that I thank you. I should not have been so brusque, but I was some
what agitated at the time. This is my friend Dr. Doyle.”
Mr. Monks and Dr. Doyle bowed ceremoniously. Mr. Dodgson sniffed the enticing aroma of buttered muffins.
“I wonder if they have good tea here,” he murmured, following the scent into the lounge, where Mrs. Hill, in a modest brown afternoon dress, was dispensing tea from a large urn, while two waiters served the patrons of the hotel with small sandwiches, muffins, and cakes.
“I believe it is included with the room,” Dr. Doyle said, glancing at the elaborate grandfather clock that ticked in a niche next to the fireplace.
“In that case, I will have some.” Mr. Dodgson claimed one of the leather upholstered chairs before a commercial traveler could usurp it. Mr. Monks drew a smaller chair up beside him and sat down with a conspiratorial air.
“I recognized you at once,” Monks told the scholar. “I spent a small time in Oxford, when I was a youth.”
“At the House?” Mr. Dodgson gratefully accepted a cup of tea and a thin sandwich from the waiter.
“Oh, no, I was never a student at Christ Church College.” Mr. Monks stopped to sip tea. “I was at Magdalen, for a term.”
“Er … Mr. Dodgson …” Dr. Doyle cleared his throat and glanced at his mentor.
“Eh? Of course, Dr. Doyle. You must have surgery hours. I shall attend the dinner of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, as I promised your friend General Drayson, but I really must leave Southsea tomorrow.”
“Do you think you will have solved this puzzle by then?” Dr. Doyle asked eagerly.
Mr. Dodgson nodded, as he accepted a cup of tea from the waiter. “The difficulty lies in discovering the motive,” he said. “I am quite certain I can lay my hands on the missing jewels, but the death of Mrs. Cavanaugh is quite another matter. The one fact that is undeniable is that Mr. Ram did not kill her, nor did he order her killed.”
Mr. Monks coughed gently, to draw the abstracted scholar’s attention.
Mr. Dodgson appeared to be lost in thought. “It does not add up,” he said, apparently to the teacup. “The dates … the time …”
“Ahem! Mr. Dodgson?”
Mr. Dodgson looked up from his teacup. “What are you doing here, Dr. Doyle?”
“Er … I …”
“You have been rushing about like a demented teetotum all day long. If you want me to unravel this farrago, this knot of missing jewels and Indian treasures, not to mention the spurious spiritualist and the two young ladies, I must have time to think!”
Mr. Monks broke into his tirade. “Missing jewels? Do you refer to the Rajitpur Treasure?”
“How did you know about it?” Dr. Doyle asked sharply.
“I … I was brought up in India, although my parents sent me to England for my education. My father felt I would have more opportunities for advancement if I attended university. I was not in India when the alleged incident took place, but it is a tale well-known in Bombay.”
“But not one known in England,” Mr. Dodgson corrected him. “There have been many such tales printed in the popular press. Some of them may be based in fact, but many are fictional, as you well know.” He gazed severely at Dr. Doyle, who reddened under his scrutiny.
“I have not written such a tale, Mr. Dodgson ….”
“Not yet!” Mr. Dodgson set down his teacup.
Dr. Doyle looked hard at Mr. Monks. “You seem to know a great deal about this Rajitpur Treasure, for one who wasn’t there when it was stolen.”
Mr. Monks’s sallow complexion seemed to darken. “I was born in India,” he admitted. “My family had a … a certain position before the Sepoy Mutiny.”
“In Rajitpur?” Dr. Doyle’s eyes glittered and his mustache fairly bristled with excitement.
“For a time.” Mr. Monks’s eyes were like gray pebbles in his long, lined face. “The story of the Rajitpur Treasure is often told in the Bazaar. How the Rajah of Rajitpur tried to cheat his soldiers by sending his treasure to Bombay instead of to the Punjab, and what the Sikhs did to him when they found they had not been paid. It is not a pleasant story, Mr. Dodgson. Not one for your childish friends at Oxford.” Mr. Monks contemplated something beyond the confines of the cozy lounge.
Mr. Dodgson brought him back to reality. “There is much evil in this world, sir. But what I find most interesting is the fact that the jewels were not recovered. One would expect that the thieves, having gone to so much trouble to attain them, would have turned them over to some dealer, for as much money as they could bring.”
“Coins are easily distributed,” Mr. Monks told his eager listeners. “A Rajah of Rajitpur would have collected coins from many places, impossible to trace, as well as his own coinage, with the peacock of Rajitpur stamped on it. ‘Lay not up gold and silver,’” he quoted dramatically. “Certain persons used these coins to purchase positions of power.”
“Yes, of course. But the jewels were another matter. For one thing, I have been told one can identify certain jewels, even when they have been removed from their settings.” Mr. Dodgson remarked.
“I have heard this also,” Mr. Monks said. “The Rajitpur Treasure included some famous rubies, well documented. Stones the color of blood, Mr. Dodgson.”
“How very dramatic.” Mr. Dodgson set down his cup and looked around him. “It is too noisy here,” he complained. “I must think!” He turned to Dr. Doyle. “Dr. Doyle, you have been a most energetic host, but I feel the need of repose. I may be called upon to make a few remarks after dinner, and, as I am not a particularly good extempore speaker, I should like to formulate some notes in privacy!”
Dr. Doyle finally got the message. “In that case, sir, I will leave you until this evening. Mr. Hill usually lays dinner for us in the private dining room at seven sharp.”
“I shall have him call me,” Mr. Dodgson promised. “Oh, dear, I don’t have my dinner dress with me. I do apologize for sitting down in my dirty …”
“You were not expecting to remain more than one night,” Dr. Doyle said with an understanding smile. “I’m sure the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society will be delighted to have such an eminent scholar to dine with them, in any state you choose to present yourself.”
“But I cannot dine in company in street clothes,” Mr. Dodgson fussed.
“Perhaps I can arrange for a tailor to hire you a dress-coat for the occasion,” Dr. Doyle suggested.
“Hire? A dress-suit?” Mr. Dodgson considered the astonishing notion.
“I believe there are tailors in town who keep them in several sizes, for people who do not own their own dress-suits,” Dr. Doyle went on. “There is a shop down the King’s Road. Shall I arrange it, sir?”
Mr. Dodgson closed his eyes. There was no way out of this dinner engagement. “I shall endeavor to appear as I am, Dr. Doyle. I did not expect to be dining out, and I hope your friends will accept my appearance as impromptu.”
“Are you going to address the society?” Mr. Monks followed the other two men out into the hall.
“Apparently I am,” Mr. Dodgson said ruefully. “It would be churlish of me to refuse the invitation to dine, and one must sing for one’s supper, in a sense.”
“Is the public … that is, the meeting … is this to be strictly private?” Monks blurted out. “I should enjoy hearing you speak again, sir. It has been a very long time since I attended one of your lectures.”
Mr. Dodgson looked over the gaunt, sallow man with the mutton-chop whiskers standing before him. “It must have been at least twenty years,” he said slowly, “since I ceased public lectures. I did them very badly.”
“Nevertheless,” Monks insisted, “I should like to hear what you have to say.”
Dr. Doyle cleared his throat. “Ahem! From time to time we do open our meetings after dinner, to such persons as wish to hear our speakers,” he said, oblivious to Mr. Dodgson’s distress. “I assume General Drayson will not object if you join us then.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Monks said with another bow.
; “Are you engaged in some business enterprise here in Southsea?” Dr. Doyle asked, eyeing the black ledgerlike book the other man clutched to his bosom.
“I represent certain charities,” Mr. Monks said solemnly.
“Charities?” Mr. Dodgson echoed sharply.
“Philanthropic foundations,” Monks explained. “Worthy gentlemen often wish to contribute funds to the upkeep of such establishments as the excellent home for Retired Seamen in Portsmouth. I have been inspecting such institutions, to see that they are properly run.”
“I see.” Mr. Dodgson nodded. “You are employed by these worthy persons to make inquiries?”
“In a sense,” Monks said evasively. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have one or two more calls to make before dinner.”
He bowed once more and sallied forth into Southsea. Mr. Dodgson frowned.
“I have met that man before,” he said, to himself as much as to Dr. Doyle.
“Well, he said he was a student at Oxford,” Dr. Doyle reminded him.
“Oxford contains many students. Mr. Monks said he was not at Christ Church, but at another college, at quite the other end of the town,” Mr. Dodgson said. “What is more, I rarely looked at the students who attended my lectures. No, Dr. Doyle, when I say I have met that man, I mean that he was in my presence. It will undoubtedly come to me.” He turned to his young friend. “Now, Dr. Doyle, your patients await you, and I must consider all the facts we have discovered today.”
“Patients? Ha-ha!” Dr. Doyle laughed mirthlessly. “Old Markham and Big Bertha are the extent of my practice at the moment. However, I will let you rest. Touie will be wondering whatever happened to me!”
Dr. Doyle swung out the door of the Bush Hotel and covered the few feet between that and Number One Bush Villa in a few steps.
He found Touie and Mother Hawkins sitting over their tea in the dining room. “Arthur!” Touie exclaimed. “Where were you?”
“I know, I know. I am a wretched excuse for a husband,” Dr. Doyle said as he kissed his bride.
He proceeded to give his wife and mother-in-law a brief résumé of his afternoon adventures. “And so you see, dear, this Cavanaugh has turned up in the flesh,” he concluded.
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 22