Mr. Dodgson took a deep breath. I know these people, he told himself. They are not children, but they will listen to what I have to say. He fixed his gaze on Dr. Doyle. If he could forget all those eyes upon him, he could get through this ordeal!
“I shall begin with a few simple experiments in logic,” he said, slowly pronouncing each word. “One must take all facts into account. For instance, there is the problem of the gentleman who eats two eggs for his breakfast every morning. He does not buy them, he does not steal them, he does not gather them, and they are not given to him. He does not keep hens. How, then, does he obtain the eggs?”
There was a respectful silence, while everyone looked at everyone else. Then Dr. Doyle raised a hand. “If he does not keep hens,” he said hesitantly, “might he not keep other fowl, let us say, ducks?”
“Very good!” Mr. Dodgson beamed down at his prize pupil.
“But wait a minute,” General Drayson was ready to object. “If he keeps ducks, how does he get the eggs?”
“I said he was a gentleman,” Mr. Dodgson pointed out. “His manservant collects the eggs.”
“Then they are given to him,” Major Hackaby said.
“Not at all,” Mr. Dodgson countered. “One cannot give a man his own property.”
“He has you there!” Dr. Doyle led the applause.
Mr. Dodgson took heart and plunged ahead. “Once one has grasped the principles of symbolic logic, the rest is quite elementary. For instance, the problems of relationships. The dinner party at which a father, a grandfather, and a son all sit down at table. How many are to be served?”
More mumblings, as the gentlemen at the table began counting on their fingers.
“I learned that one in my cradle,” Hackaby crowed. “Two. Am I right?”
“Not at all, Major. For a man may be a grandfather, and a father, but he is undoubtedly a son as well. Only one man is present at dinner.”
There was more applause, while Major Hackaby coughed into his napkin and drank more port.
“Of course,” Mr. Dodgson went on, “one must be certain that one’s basic premise is not flawed. For instance, the following syllogism: No doctor is enthusiastic; Arthur Conan Doyle is an enthusiastic young man. Conclusion: Arthur Conan Doyle is not a doctor.”
“But that’s nonsense!” General Drayson exploded.
“So it is,” Mr. Dodgson said, “because the original dictum was faulty. If I had said, no doctor of my acquaintance is enthusiastic, before I had met Dr. Doyle, the statement would have had more meaning.”
“What is your point, Mr. Dodgson?” General Drayson said.
“That most problems can be solved, if one approaches them logically. When one eliminates the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“What about our little problem here in Southsea?” Inspector O’Ferrall was on his feet.
“If you mean the unpleasantness last evening at General Drayson’s house, I have no opinions whatever,” Mr. Dodgson demurred. “Although there are a few questions that remain to be answered about the principal actors in this drama.”
“For instance?” O’Ferrall advanced on the scholar, bulldog chin outtrust.
“I am hardly in a position …”
“Go on!”
“Inspector O’Ferrall, this is not the time or the place …” Dr. Doyle sprang up to defend his mentor.
“If you continue to prosecute Mr. Ashok Ram for the murder of Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh, you will be hounding an innocent man,” Mr. Dodgson said firmly. “I see that he is present tonight, and I may assume that he has been exonerated of all blame in that regard?” His voice rose, making it a question.
“We are pursuing our inquiries in several directions,” O’Ferrall said, at his most official.
“In that case,” Mr. Dodgson told him, “you might consider pursuing the following inconsistencies: A man who has been employed by the East India Company as Captain of a ship suddenly has enough money to purchase his own ship. A man who has eloped with a young woman, presumably in the grip of a grand passion, has no mementos of her in his house. A man who refuses to allow his daughter to make friends outside her immediate family permits her to pay calls, accompanied by the housekeeper. A man who is a heavy smoker and drinker has no cigars visible in his private study. A man who has spent twenty years sailing to and from India removes himself and his family to the other side of the globe, to the extent that he has only two objects in his house that will remind him of his Indian past. When you have solved the puzzle of Captain Arkwright, Inspector, you will have come close to solving the problem of Mrs. Cavanaugh and her mysterious life and death.” Mr. Dodgson bowed to the assemblage. “You might also add to the incongruities a young lady who cannot name her assailant, and a handkerchief that has no home.” He stopped to take another deep breath. “Gentlemen … and ladies … I must excuse myself. It has been a very long and eventful day, and I must retire.”
“By all means.” General Drayson led the applause as Mr. Dodgson left the room, with Dr. Doyle behind him.
“Thank you for speaking,” Dr. Doyle blurted out, when they were out of earshot of the dining room. “I should have told the General that you were indisposed …”
Mr. Dodgson felt a pang of remorse at the stricken look on his young friend’s face. “I understand,” he said. “At one time I, too, was something of a lion hunter. I importuned several noted personages to let me take their photographs. Most of them were very kind to me.”
“I do appreciate what you are doing for me,” Dr. Doyle said. “I hope you took the time to read some of my manuscripts …”
“If you like, I shall step over to your establishment for a final cup of tea before retiring,” Mr. Dodgson said. “There are a few points I would like to discuss with you. I simply felt overwhelmed by your friends’ … enthusiasm. I would not have these good people think me rude.”
Dr. Doyle waved any social solecism away with an expressive gesture. “Why don’t you sit in the lounge while I collect Touie and make our farewells? Then we can step over to my house and we can go over my stories.”
“And I have thought of an excellent way for you to communicate with your neighbor here at the Bush Hotel,” Mr. Dodgson continued, as he followed Dr. Doyle to the lounge. “A system of electrical bells could be rigged up, with a code—for instance, an injury to the staff could be one bell, a digestive upset could be two, and so forth—so that you would know what to bring with you when you answered the call.”
Dr. Doyle smiled under his mustache and settled his guest into one of the leather chairs. At last, he was going to have Mr. Dodgson to himself! He returned to the meeting, radiating confidence. This visit was going to turn out well after all.
CHAPTER 23
The meeting of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society broke up at the advanced hour of ten o’clock, with general congratulations all around. Mayor Hide congratulated General Drayson on the fortuitous choice of after-dinner speakers, oblivious to the impromptu nature of the circumstances. Major Hackaby complimented Mr. Hill on the quality of the dinner and the wine, particularly the port. Mr. Dodgson recovered enough of his poise to appear at the door to the lounge to wish General Drayson good night, and to thank him for his excellent dinner.
“I must apologize for my precipitous exit,” Mr. Dodgson told the General. “Your hospitality was somewhat overwhelming.”
“Quite all right, sir,” the General said. “You were very gracious to attend, and to speak on such short notice.”
Peace having been restored, Mr. Hill bowed the gentlemen out the door, while Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle strolled back to the establishment next door with Touie and her mother. Mother Hawkins bustled about making tea and setting up a tray with biscuits for one last snack before bedtime, while Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle relaxed in the sparsely furnished sitting room at Number One Bush Villa.
Dr. Doyle tried once again to apologize for the difficult situation into which he had led his
elderly friend. Mr. Dodgson chose to be generous.
“I understand perfectly, Dr. Doyle. I was, after all, not to remain above a day, and one would not like to think oneself above one’s company.”
“Oh, I shall never be that!” Dr. Doyle said heartily.
Mr. Dodgson smiled at Mother Hawkins, who emerged from the kitchen with the tea-tray and left her daughter to do the honors.
“Good night, Arthur,” his mother-in-law said, as she ascended the stairs to her own apartment on the top floor. “Don’t keep Mr. Dodgson up till all hours the way you did last night. He needs his rest, poor man.”
Touie smiled at their elderly visitor. “Mother means well,” she said, pouring tea.
“And she is quite right,” Mr. Dodgson said. “It has been a very long and eventful day. However, I am sure that a good night’s sleep will bring clarity of thought. I really must be getting back to Oxford by tomorrow.”
Dr. Doyle hustled out of the sitting room, then back in with the pile of manuscripts. “I did want to go over some of my stories …” he began.
Mr. Dodgson rose and took the papers. “My dear Dr. Doyle,” he said, “I shall read these tonight, in the privacy of my room, which Mr. Hill informs me I may keep until I leave Southsea. Tomorrow I shall give you my opinion. However, as I told you, it will be the opinion of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, not Lewis Carroll.”
“That is the best I can hope for, sir,” Dr. Doyle said fervently.
“I do not read much fiction,” Mr. Dodgson added, as he descended the stairs, with Dr. Doyle behind him. “I feel it makes the mind fat and lazy, as it were. However, the tale I read this morning was quite compelling. I look forward to reading these. Good night, Dr. Doyle.”
He walked across the pavement and entered the Bush Hotel. Immediately, the tall, black-clad figure of Mr. Monks loomed over him like a bird of ill-omen.
“Good evening, Mr. Dodgson,” Mr. Monks greeted him. “I found your remarks tonight most interesting.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Dodgson tried to get around the man, but found his way blocked by a party of commercial travelers, who had apparently spent the evening in the bar swapping yarns of the road.
“Your comments to Inspector O’Ferrall at the end of your talk—”
“Were meant to encourage him to consider the problem correctly,” Mr. Dodgson said testily. “I would never presume to instruct the police in what is, after all, their profession.”
Nevertheless,” Mr. Monks persisted, “you indicated that you knew considerably more about the late Captain Arkwright and his family than one would expect, assuming that you had never met them until yesterday.”
Mr. Dodgson sighed. “If you insist upon speaking about personal matters, Mr. Monks, perhaps we can go into the lounge, where we will be more comfortable.”
Mr. Monks nodded. The two men sidestepped the last of the customers leaving the bar and found a corner of the lounge where two chairs made a cozy nook.
Mr. Dodgson peered at the other man and frowned. “I am not good at recalling faces,” he admitted. “However, I am of the opinion that we have met before, Mr. Monks, and that the occasion was not a happy one.”
Mr. Monks’s long face became positively lugubrious. “In that you are correct, Mr. Dodgson. I do not use my own name during my investigations.”
“Investigations?” Mr. Dodgson echoed.
“Of charities,” Mr. Monks explained. “Many men who have been blessed with the goods of this world wish to share some of them with the less fortunate. They wish to ascertain if the monies thus spent are not frittered away by irresponsible persons, or even worse, if they never reach the designated recipients at all.”
“I see.” Mr. Dodgson nodded. “One hears about certain Americans who donate millions for libraries, schools, hospitals, even a college! Here in Portsmouth, I understand there is a certain Miss Robinson, who has taken up the cause of indigent seamen and their families. You have a difficult task, Mr. Monks, and I wish you well, but why does this concern me?”
“Because one of the names given to me in my investigations was one Mrs. Emma Cavanaugh,” Mr. Monks said. “It seems she collected sums of money in the name of charity, which never benefited any but herself. A fraud, sir! A total fraud!” Mr. Monks’s ire could be felt through the murk of the lounge.
“I suspected as much,” Mr. Dodgson said. “One wonders what such a person was doing in the home of a respectable retired sea captain like Captain Arkwright.”
“What indeed!” Mr. Monks drew his chair closer and bent toward Mr. Dodgson conspiratorially. “I would like to meet Miss Arkwright, and Miss Bedelia Arkwright. I had some small aquaintance with their mother, you see. A very long time ago.”
“In India?”
“Precisely. In India,” Mr. Monks said with a nod.
“It must have been quite some time ago,” Mr. Dodgson commented. “I believe Mrs. Arkwright and the Captain left India before the Mutiny, which would be … hmm, let me see …”
“In 1857,” Mr. Monks told him. “I was not in India at the time. Perhaps if I had been …”
“If by that you mean that you might have prevented the marriage,” Mr. Dodgson said gently, “it has been my observation that if a young lady decides to have a man to her husband, it takes more than a younger brother’s protestations to stop her.”
“Eh?” Mr. Monks sat up in his chair.
“That is who you are, Mr. Moncrieffe? The younger brother of the woman who ran off with Captain Arkwright, to the despair of her father?”
A vast sigh escaped the other man. “How did you guess?”
“I did not guess,” Mr. Dodgson corrected him. “I already suspected your identity. However, my suspicions were confirmed just now when you knew the exact year of the Sepoy Mutiny, although you were not involved in it directly. Most people have to consider for a minute before recalling a particular date. The events of that year are apparently emblazoned on your memory.”
“It was not a pleasant time for me,” Mr. Monks confessed. “I was, as you may recall, somewhat different from the general run of undergraduates.”
Mr. Dodgson nodded. “I was quite young myself,” he said slowly. “And, of course, there have been many reforms since then. However, young men can be cruel to anyone not of their particular set. I was appalled at the disgusting behavior of the young man who insulted you. I have sisters myself. I sympathized with your dilemma. In your place, I might have done the same.”
Mr. Monks’s expression grew grim. “Eleanora was always indulged,” he said. “She had an ungovernable temper. Her rages could be frightening, while her enthusiasms were equally violent. As soon as she saw Jethro Arkwright she decided he was the only man for her.”
“How did they meet?”
“At a ball, in Bombay. It was to celebrate my leaving India for England, where I was to take up my studies in Oxford. Jethro Arkwright had just received command of his own ship, the youngest captain employed by the East India Line. He cut a very romantic figure, and my sister was enthralled by him. My mother’s family, the DeSouzas of Goa, were already arranging a marriage with one of the DeSouza connections, but Eleanora would have none of him.”
“So she ran off with her sea captain, and went around the world with him,” Mr. Dodgson mused.
“And you recall the … the repercussions.” Mr. Monks winced with the memory. “You were kind to me, Mr. Dodgson, considering that it was the Christ Church student who began the quarrel.”
“I was not particularly kind to my student,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I thought he had stepped beyond the bounds of what was proper, and I suggested that he had had too much to drink. I also suggested that he apologize to you. Neither suggestion was appreciated.” He sighed deeply, then turned back to the sallow man opposite him.
“All this is most interesting, sir, but I still do not know what you want of me.”
“Want …?”
“You wished to have private conversation with me. Aside from recalling days past,
what is it that you want of me, Mr. Moncrieffe?”
“Please!” Mr. Monks raised a hand. “I prefer to keep my anonymity. The press has been at my heels ever since the death of my father.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Dodgson said. “The Old Mogul, they called him. A very wealthy man.”
“Wealth bought with the blood of thousands of Indian coolies,” Mr. Monks said fiercely. “My father’s fortune was made in India, after the Mutiny, when the East India Company was being broken up. He became the English Resident in Rajitpur, and used his position to invest in one lucrative business after another. Tea, rice, cotton … low-caste Indian workers, paid a pittance for their labors, so that their English masters could live in luxury! Women being dragged into a life of sin, men virtually enslaved! I could never accept an inheritance bought at such a cost!”
“I see you learned more at Oxford than mere Latin and Greek,” Mr. Dodgson observed. “Apparently you took Dr. Pusey’s teaching very much to heart.”
Mr. Monks calmed himself with difficulty. “I will not touch a penny of my father’s fortune,” he said. “I have decided to return it to those who need it more than I. I have not married, Mr. Dodgson. My wants are few. I will make restitution to those who were destroyed by my father’s predations.”
“Does that include the two Miss Arkwrights?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“I shall have to meet them,” Mr. Monks stated. “I do not believe in donating to a charity until I have investigated its aims and its leaders. I shall attend Captain Arkwright’s funeral, in any case.”
“Tomorrow,” Mr. Dodgson said. “It will be a most interesting affair.”
“I would like you to make me known to Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia,” Mr. Monks blurted out. “As a … a relation of their mother’s. I will then be able to draw my own conclusions as to the worthiness of the two ladies.”
Mr. Dodgson nodded. “I can do that much,” he decided. “I shall speak to you again tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Monks.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 25