The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist

by Roberta Rogow

  “How very … odd,” Touie commented. “I wonder where he has been all this time.”

  “Apparently in South America,” Dr. Doyle said. “And now, my dear, I must see if I actually have any patients—”

  A furious knocking on the door seemed to answer that question.

  “Oooh, Dr. Doyle!” Jenny, the Arkwrights’ maid, called up the stairs.

  Dr. Doyle bustled down to his surgery. “Yes, yes, what is the matter?”

  “Dr. Doyle! It’s Miss Bedelia!” Jenny gasped. “She’s been attacked!”

  “I’ll go back to Treasure House with you,” Dr. Doyle stated, grabbing up his black bag.

  “And I’m going with you,” Touie decided. “Someone is trying to harm those girls!”

  “Jenny, have you sent for the police?” Dr. Doyle asked the panting servant.

  “What good are they?” the girl wailed. “Fat lot of good they did last night, and now …”

  “What happened?” Dr. Doyle checked his supplies.

  “I don’t know! I was in the pantry, scrubbing down the potatoes for dinner, when I heard a great crash, and there was Miss Bedelia, in the middle of all the plants—”

  “In the conservatory?”

  “Aye, with all the leaves and pots about her. She said someone had come and knocked her on the head! We’ll all be murdered, just like the Captain and Mrs. Cavanaugh!” Jenny began to cry in great gusty sobs.

  Mother Hawkins took the direct route to stop the hysterics; she slapped the girl in the face. The sobs stopped.

  “Touie, you and Arthur go back and take those girls out of that house,” Mother Hawkins ordered.

  “It’s the Captain! He’s come back!” Jenny insisted.

  “Nonsense!” Mother Hawkins snapped out. “You listen to me, child: If the Captain was haunting that house, why would he hurt his own daughter? There’s human hands in this, mark my words! Now, Arthur, you do as I say. I’ll have Mr. Hill send for Inspector O’Ferrall, and he’ll set things right.”

  “Should we tell Mr. Dodgson?” Touie wondered, as she prepared to go to Treasure House yet again.

  “The old gentleman is tired,” Dr. Doyle said. “I tell you what we’ll do, Touie. We’ll bring Miss Amelia and Miss Bedelia back here, and they can dine with Mother Hawkins while Mr. Dodgson and you and I are at the dinner at the hotel.”

  “But Arthur …”

  Touie’s protests went unheard. “I think a cab will get us there most quickly,” Dr. Doyle decided, emptying the family treasury-jar. “If all goes well, we should get a patient or two out of this, and if nothing else, I can write it up for Cornhill. What a story this will make!”

  Dr. Doyle hustled his wife out of the house, leaving his mother-in-law to cope with two extra guests for dinner.

  Mr. Dodgson was contemplating the street from his front window when he saw his young host scrambling out the door of Number One Bush Villa, his bag in one hand and his wife in the other.

  “Whatever is that young man going to do next?” Mr. Dodgson wondered aloud.

  “Treasure House!” Dr. Doyle shouted at the cabdriver. “Elm Grove!”

  Mr. Dodgson was jolted out of his reverie. “Wait!” he shouted down into the street. He grabbed his hat and gloves and hurried down the stairs, scattering the assorted commercial travelers and army officers going up to change for dinner, and pushing Captain Cavanaugh out of his way.

  Dr. Doyle had just settled his wife into the cab when Mr. Dodgson burst out of the Bush Hotel, arms waving madly.

  “I must go back to Treasure House!” Mr. Dodgson panted.

  “How did you know …?”

  “Know what?”

  “Miss Bedelia has been attacked!”

  “Oh, dear me! That is very bad, very bad indeed. There is something very, very wrong at that house. I must look through it again.” Mr. Dodgson folded himself into the seat opposite Touie and waited for Dr. Doyle to join them.

  “I thought you wanted to think,” Dr. Doyle said as the cabbie clucked to his horse and the cab proceeded through the traffic to Elm Grove.

  “I have thought. It would appear that the spirit of Captain Arkwright lingers in his house.”

  “A ghost?” Touie squeaked.

  “Not in the sense that the spiritualists would have it,” Mr. Dodgson corrected her. “However, persons of strong character may impress their personalities on their homes. Such may well have been the case with the late Captain Arkwright. I believe I know where he hid his treasure, but I must revisit the house to be certain of my facts.”

  “But who could have attacked Miss Bedelia?” Touie wondered. “And why?”

  “More to the point, did they find what they were looking for?” Dr. Doyle asked.

  “We shall soon find out, for here we are,” Mr. Dodgson announced, as the cab drew up in front of Treasure House.

  CHAPTER 21

  Miss Amelia greeted them at the door. The usually self-contained woman was thoroughly distressed, her sandy hair escaping from under her mourning cap in wisps, her gray eyes red-rimmed with weeping. She fell on Touie with obvious relief.

  “Oh, Mrs. Doyle … Touie …” she sobbed. “I came home … the shops … Mr. Lindsay-Young will read the service tomorrow … I had to see to the funeral arrangements …”

  “Have you had your tea?” Touie reached for the essentials.

  “I don’t think … Jenny went to fetch you …”

  “Sit down,” Touie ordered, leading Amelia to the sitting room. “Where is Bedelia?”

  “Upstairs, in her chamber. She was quite upset.”

  “As well she should be,” Dr. Doyle said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Amelia took a deep breath and tried to keep from shaking. “After luncheon, I had to go out, to shop for dinner. I left Bedelia to write some letters, responding to those who had written notes to us. I came back and found her on the floor of the conservatory. She had been struck on the head!”

  “May I go up and see her?”

  Amelia looked about her helplessly. “With Jenny out of the house … and Emma not here …”

  “If you like, I can escort Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson offered. “Mrs. Doyle may remain with you, or you may come with us, as you wish. I can assure you, Miss Bedelia is safe with us.”

  Amelia gazed helplessly up at Mr. Dodgson, caught between her own physical weakness and the bounds of propriety.

  “I am going to make you some hot tea,” Touie said. “As for Arthur, I assure you, no one will think the worse of you or Bedelia for allowing him into her chamber.”

  Amelia clutched at her savior. “Jenny will be back soon,” she said. “Please, stay with me!”

  Touie shrugged and sat back on the sofa, while her husband and Mr. Dodgson found their way up the stairs to the second floor of Treasure House.

  Bedelia’s chamber had once been a nursery, running across the back of the house. Two doors were on either side of the stairwell, one leading to the tiny room once occupied by Mrs. Cavanaugh, the other apparently for Amelia’s boudoir. The rest of the second floor was taken up with Captain Jethro Arkwright’s bedchamber, a room that filled the front of the house.

  Bedelia lay on her bed, moaning, her fair curls in disarray. “Who’s there?”

  “Dr. Doyle. May we come in?”

  “I thought it would be the policemen,” Bedelia said, with a note of disappointment in her voice.

  “The police are on the way,” Mr. Dodgson assured her. “Can you tell us what happened? Where were you when you were attacked?”

  “I was watering Papa’s plants,” Bedelia said, wincing as Dr. Doyle turned her head to observe the bruise on her left temple.

  “Do they need so much care?” Mr. Dodgson asked as he scanned the room. Bedelia’s school days were far from over; a spelling-book, a mathematics textbook, and a geography book were stacked on a small table set near the window, next to a sheaf of lined paper. An inkstand held two pens, and a drawing-pencil, and the condolence no
tes were piled atop a cheap copy of Marie Corelli’s latest heart-breaker. Bedelia’s taste in wall decor ran to the fashion-plates, taken from the Illustrated London News. Mr. Dodgson frowned as he recognized several of the so-called Professional Beauties, those ladies of impeccable taste and breeding who often accompanied His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and whose faces were reproduced en masse by the popular press.

  Bedelia herself was more excited than hurt by her adventure. “I don’t know how he got in,” she told Dr. Doyle, as he delicately sponged the bruise and applied a sticking-plaster. “He was just there!”

  “He?” Mr. Dodgson asked sharply. “Did you see him?”

  “I don’t know … it all happened so fast!” Bedelia pulled away from her doctor. “Ow!”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any damage, other than a bruise,” Dr. Doyle assured her.

  “No scar?” Bedelia was more worried about her appearance than her wits.

  “Not a bit of it.” Dr. Doyle closed his bag with a snap. “Now, you get some rest, and when you are ready, Touie and I will take you to our house. Until this business is settled, I don’t think you or your sister should remain here.”

  “Oh, Amelia will do very well,” Bedelia said pettishly. “No one wants to hit her on the head.”

  “You must not speak of your sister in that tone,” Mr. Dodgson chided her. “Miss Arkwright has been under a great strain.”

  “Papa liked me better,” Bedelia grumbled. “My head hurts.”

  “I shall make up some powders for you,” Dr. Doyle told her. “Now, Miss Bedelia, you be a good girl and rest. Mrs. Doyle will be up shortly to take care of you.”

  Mr. Dodgson had moved from Bedelia’s room to the hall, where he stood, frowning. “Dr. Doyle,” he said, “I am going to do something quite reprehensible. I must examine Captain Arkwright’s private chamber.”

  “Do you expect to find the Rajitpur Treasure there?”

  “Consider, Dr. Doyle: A man who has worked himself up from the ranks, who has led an adventurous life, suddenly retires from the sea and takes up a scientific career, establishing himself as an authority on flora and fauna of the West Indies and Bermuda. One must ask, why?”

  “Do you expect to find the answer in his bedchamber?” Dr. Doyle followed his mentor into the late Captain Arkwright’s most personal domain.

  “I suspect, but I cannot say without proof.” Mr. Dodgson pushed the door to Captain Arkwright’s room open, and coughed.

  The late Jethro Arkwright’s domain was permeated with a sickly sweet odor that was not quite tobacco. His bed, a massive carved affair, took up most of one wall; a matching wardrobe took up the opposite wall. The front windows were blocked by a dresser that completed the bedroom suite. The Captain’s sea chest had been placed at the foot of the bed, with a pieced quilt folded on top of it. A small table next to the bed held an oil lamp, a small carafe, and a glass.

  Dr. Doyle sniffed experimentally at the glass. “Rum,” he pronounced.

  “I suspect we will find the bottle somewhere in this room,” Mr. Dodgson surmised. He attacked the wardrobe, ruthlessly shoving pea jackets and dress-coats aside.

  Dr. Doyle opened the dresser drawers, assessing the contents. “Shirts, not the best linen, but well cleaned, and darned. Cravats. Nightshirts, socks … Aha!” His triumphant cry drew Mr. Dodgson over to his side, to peer into the drawer.

  “Handkerchiefs.” Mr. Dodgson pointed to them. “Identical to the one we found in General Drayson’s study grate.”

  “I think we may safely assume that the handkerchief in question was one of these,” Dr. Doyle agreed. “But that only means that whoever poisoned Mrs. Cavanaugh had access to this room, and that means …”

  Mr. Dodgson nodded sorrowfully. “Either Miss Amelia or Miss Bedelia. I think we can discount the servant.”

  Dr. Doyle frowned. “It seems unlikely, but …”

  “Quite unlikely,” Mr. Dodgson said curtly. “The killer would have to know the properties of nicotine, would have to have some way of preparing it, would have to have taken the trouble to dip the fatal handkerchief in the solution, would then have to have handed the handkerchief to Mrs. Cavanaugh without herself becoming poisoned. In short, the poisoner wore gloves. I have seen that domestic’s hands. She does not wear gloves, unless, perhaps, in the wintertime, to protect herself from the cold. No, Dr. Doyle, we may remove Jenny from our list of suspects.”

  “Which is growing shorter by the minute!” Dr. Doyle complained. “It’s impossible!”

  “Ah, yes, but one should always believe six impossible things before breakfast,” Mr. Dodgson said, kneeling down in front of the late Captain Arkwright’s sea chest.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing?” Inspector O’Ferrall stood in the door, with Amelia cowering behind him.

  Mr. Dodgson rose (literally) to the occasion. “In order to remove myself from Southsea before term starts, I must solve this mystery,” he said. “In order to do that, I must evoke the spirit of Captain Arkwright, which lingers here, in this room, among the objects he most loved.”

  “Most of those were downstairs in his study,” Amelia said, her spirits restored by tea and the presence of Inspector O’Ferrall.

  “Indeed? Then what, if anything, did he keep in his sea chest?” Dr. Doyle demanded.

  Amelia shook her head. “I have no idea. Papa could be quite secretive.”

  “So I have noticed,” Mr. Dodgson commented dryly. “Inspector, perhaps you would like to look into Captain Arkwright’s sea chest.”

  “Think you’ll find this missing treasure there?” O’Ferrall smirked, and joined the other two men in front of the sea chest.

  The lid creaked open, to display a collection of bottles.

  Amelia closed her eyes in dismay. “Papa was told not to drink so heavily,” she said. “Emma and I would take pains to give him only what Dr. Pike or Dr. Doyle said he should have. He must have stored his rum in this chest.”

  “What about his cigars?” Mr. Dodgson asked suddenly.

  “Cigars?” Amelia echoed. “Oh, those were kept in his study after he fell asleep with a cigar in his hand and nearly burned down the house.”

  “I note the scorch marks on this quilt.” Dr. Doyle pointed them out.

  Miss Amelia’s emotions threatened to overcome her again. “This room has not been used since Papa’s condition grew so bad that he could not mount the stairs and we had to make up the daybed for him in the study.”

  “I do not see any reading matter in this room,” Mr. Dodgson mused.

  “You must not think that Papa was a vulgar sot,” Amelia said defensively. “He liked to have me read to him, in his study.”

  “And he wrote, also,” Mr. Dodgson hinted. “I noted the manuscript on the small desk next to the large one.”

  “Papa enjoyed telling of his adventures,” Amelia said. “I thought … that is, Emma said …” She stopped to collect her thoughts. “Papa was preparing a treatise concerning the plants he cultivated in the conservatory. Emma thought it might be worthy of publication.”

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh appears to have been a most enterprising woman. In addition to running this household, she paid calls, collected for charity, and occasionally served as spirit medium. And now I find that she encouraged Captain Arkwright in his literary pursuits.”

  Mr. Dodgson strolled out of the chamber and back into the hall. He examined the watercolor paintings of vividly colored flowers and birds and butterflies that hung on the walls of the hall. Then he turned to Amelia again. “Did you never paint your mother, Miss Arkwright?”

  Amelia stared at him. “My …”

  “These paintings are the work of your hand, are they not, Miss Arkwright?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “I am something of an amateur artist myself,” Mr. Dodgson said shyly. “I recognize talent when I see it. These are quite good. One feels as if one is on a tropical beach or in the jungles of South America, looking at them. However, I
am well aware that one’s first attempts at watercolor are usually portraits of one’s family and friends. I ask, therefore, whether you ever painted your mother’s portrait.”

  Amelia shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Dodgson. I did not take up watercolor painting until I left Bermuda and came here. It was Emma who suggested that I be given drawing lessons.”

  “And you choose as your subjects the flora and fauna of the Indies,” Mr. Dodgson said.

  “I spent a happy childhood there,” Amelia said.

  “Which ended with the death of your mother, at an early age.” Mr. Dodgson led the way back down to the sitting room. Amelia followed him, leaving Dr. Doyle and Inspector O’Ferrall to bring up the rear. Amelia looked about the sitting room as if she had never been in it before, then found her favorite spot on the sofa and sat down.

  “Leaving Captain Arkwright a widower, with two children on his hands,” Mr. Dodgson continued.

  “So, he retired from the sea, came home to England, and settled down,” Dr. Doyle finished the story, as he followed them into the sitting room.

  “Is that when Mrs. Cavanaugh came to live with you?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  “Uncle Jack—that is, Captain Cavanaugh—met her in Bermuda,” Amelia said. “And she stayed with us to take care of Bedelia, because Mama was dead, and Papa was … was ill.”

  “Ill?” Dr. Doyle snorted. “Wounded, more likely! Hopper found an old bullet in the man’s, um, hip. He must have taken it during his last venture.”

  “Which explains why he decided to retire from the sea,” O’Ferrall agreed. “But what has any of this got to do with the Cavanaugh woman?”

  “I am not sure,” Mr. Dodgson murmured.

  Mr. Dodgson left Amelia in the sitting room and turned his steps toward the conservatory. “Dr. Doyle, would you assist me, if you please?”

  “Of course, but …” Dr. Doyle was at the side of his mentor.

  The two men were joined by Inspector O’Ferrall, and the three of them contemplated a scene of chaos.