The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist

by Roberta Rogow

  There were other things to think about, too. Bedelia considered Prince Jahal. It would be delightful to be a Princess and live in India. Mama’s family had come from India. Perhaps she might meet some of them, after she gained Uncle Moncrieffe’s approval.

  Bedelia snuggled back into her bedclothes. She would deal with it in the morning.

  On the rocking, pitching, yawing yacht, Prince Jahal of Rajitpur attempted to control his heaving stomach. The trip to England had been smooth compared to this! To be seasick while riding at anchor was undignified, not worthy of a Rajah of Rajitpur. He stole a glance at his cousin, who sat serenely, breathing deeply in meditation. How he wished he could do the same! Unfortunately, he lacked the concentration for hatha yoga. Instead, he thought long and hard about the whereabouts of his grandfather’s jewels.

  “Ashok,” he said aloud. “I shall attend the funeral of Captain Arkwright.”

  “That would not be wise, Jahal.” Ashok broke his meditations for a second, then continued to hum to himself.

  “If Mr. Dodgson is correct, those jewels are still in that house. I want them!”

  “We have already tried to find them,” Ashok pointed out.

  “Tomorrow we shall have them,” Jahal stated.

  “If you say so.” Ashok breathed deeply again.

  Jahal frowned to himself. He would have the jewels, and he would use them to rebuild his grandfather’s little principality so that when the time came, Rajitpur would be able to stand with the greater states, as an equal. He had met some of the others of his caste, representatives of small and large Indian states, who were already discussing the formation of a Congress Party, which would be able to deal with the British from strength. Under his leadership, Rajitpur would become a cornerstone of this alliance. Jahal swallowed hard and thought about the future of India, and willed his stomach to be quiet.

  At Number Ten Ashburton Road, the Draysons and the Hackabys were preparing for repose.

  The General and the Major were in the study, having a final whiskey and soda. They had removed their dress uniform jackets and loosened their cravats, easing their stiff collars and shirtfronts.

  “Of course, you don’t have to go to the funeral, Kenneth,” General Drayson told his brother-in-law. “You never knew Captain Arkwright, after all. Far better for you to take care of your wife. Funerals must be painful for her.”

  “As you say, Alfred,” the Major said, swallowing the last of his drink. “But I would like to be there when that Dodgson fellow finds this thingummy that everyone’s chasing after.”

  “In that case, you might as well join the crowd. There’s nothing like a good funeral to bring out the gawkers.” The two men chuckled cheerfully and headed to their respective chambers.

  In her boudoir, Hetty was saying much the same thing to Elvira. “Alfred and I must attend,” she said. “You, being a visitor here, need not, if it brings up unfortunate associations.”

  Elvira sighed. “It must be hard on those two girls, especially the child, losing both a father and one who stands in place of a mother, and both so suddenly.”

  “Yes,” Hetty said slowly. “I imagine it is rather a shock. Bedelia seems to be taking it much better than Amelia. Amelia gives one the impression of being buttoned-up, as it were. Bedelia is much more outgoing.”

  “Perhaps I shall invite her to come out with me to India,” Elvira suggested. “After the funeral, of course. She would do well in Simla, and should be able to catch herself a subaltern at the very least. Not an heir, of course, but a second son might do very well for her.” She frowned briefly, then shrugged. “The DeSouza connection doesn’t have to be mentioned, at least not right away. That would destroy all her chances, poor thing.”

  “And I suppose Amelia will marry her policeman, once she is out of mourning.” Having settled the fates of the two Arkwrights, the sisters kissed and Hetty bade her sister good night. “Sleep well, dear. Hasn’t it been a day!”

  CHAPTER 25

  Wednesday morning dawned, drenched in fog. Portsmouth had put on its most unappealing aspect: a cold, gray drizzle that was neither dramatic nor picturesque. It was the sort of day guaranteed to produce feelings of despair in the soul of anyone who did not have business or household affairs to distract them. Elderly pensioners of both high and low degree complained of lumbago and rheumatism in the joints. Young sailors thought longingly of sunnier climes, and wondered if the tropics were so bad after all. In short, it was a perfect day for a funeral, and Miss Amelia Arkwright had decided to make the most of it.

  Captain Jethro Arkwright might not have been the most beloved of men, but his funeral had drawn most of the population of Southsea to Treasure House, either as participants or as observers. Rear Admiral Groves had donned his dress uniform and presented himself at Treasure House, with his wife in tow, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the Arkwright menage. Major-General Drayson had also put on his dress uniform, as a representative of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, which had played so large a part in the life of the late Captain Arkwright. Mrs. Drayson, draped in black, accompanied her husband to Treasure House. Touie had brought out the black dress she had so recently put aside since the death of her dear brother, while Dr. Doyle had contented himself with a black tie and his only high silk hat to add dignity to the occasion.

  The lower orders were also out in force. A funeral was an occasion not to be missed, whether or not one had tender feelings for the deceased. If nothing else, it meant a break in the weekly routine, and those in a position to take it did so. Big Bertha, wrapped in a black cloak, with bedraggled feathers on her bonnet, had come to pay her last respects to an old friend. Old Markham had forsaken his damp hovel, and he and his “old gal” were there to see the Captain off on his last journey. A motley gang of seamen trailed up Elm Grove, touching their caps to the gentry and adding to the festive nature of the day.

  The mysterious Mr. Monks had decided to make an appearance, flapping his way down Elm Grove like a crow in a black cloak and high hat. Captain Cavanaugh had donned his full-dress jacket and cap, and had insisted on having a black band hastily sewn on his jacket sleeve by one of the maids at the Bush Hotel. A major sensation rippled through the crowd when a magnificent carriage drew up and disgorged the Rajah of Rajitpur in full morning dress, followed by Ashok Ram in a midnight-blue tunic and jodhpurs, topped with a turban fastened with a magnificent sapphire and pearl pin. Mr. Dodgson was probably the only person in attendance who had made no change to his customary attire, since he habitually wore a black coat.

  Mr. Dilbert, the undertaker, had been given a free hand, and he took it to mean that he was to organize a funeral to be proud of, a funeral that would be a benchmark for every subsequent funeral in Southsea. A large hatchment had been put up over the door to Treasure House, although no one could say whether the late Captain Arkwright deserved such a tribute. Two tall men in black livery stood on either side of the front door to pass out black scarves to all the mourners. Another man was stationed at the gate, to allow the official funeral party to approach Treasure House, while the press and other undesirables were kept at bay.

  The undertaker had provided a magnificent hearse, glass-sided and black-painted, with the requisite four black horses, plumes nodding on their heads (if a trifle wilted in the drizzle). Large black umbrellas were handed out by the undertaker’s men, so that the cortege could be escorted to St. Margaret’s Church with due ceremony. The Seaman’s Home Band had assembled, to do honor to one of their own, and were taking a few practice toots on their tuba, trombone, and cornet. Even the horses pulling the carriages seemed to understand that something interesting was happening, and nodded their heads as they waited in Elm Grove for their passengers, while the coachmen chatted with the sailors.

  Amelia waited in the hall for the expected guests to arrive. Jenny and her mother had worked mightily to restore order to what had been a scene of destruction, restuffing the chairs and sofa, sweeping up the debris, and gener
ally tidying the place so that it was once again fit to receive visitors. Her father’s remains had been placed in a large coffin, now installed in the hearse and draped with the black velvet pall that Mr. Dilbert assured her was the very best to be had. She had taken great care with her dress. It was dull black, with only one row of braid on the skirt for ornament, and it had been embellished with only a modest bustle. Her collar was edged with the same narrow black braid as her skirt. No one could say afterward that she had not behaved with perfect propriety. She did not faint or scream or give way to vapors. She would have to be as strong as her mama, she told herself. Mama had had the strength of character to persevere in the face of parental disapproval. She had run off and married Papa, after all, and sailed away with him to Bermuda.

  Amelia tried to remember her mother. It had all been so long ago! She recalled blue water and a beach with pink sand, and the flash of brilliant flowers everywhere, but her mother’s face seemed distant. Had she ever been there at all? Papa … now, that was another matter! Papa loomed largely and loudly, usually with Uncle Jack by his side …. And then came Emma ….

  Amelia closed her eyes, then opened them and gave herself a mental shake. She could not think about Emma now. Emma would have to be buried, too, but not with as much pomp as Papa. Emma was, after all, only a servant. Emma had not always remembered that, but Amelia did.

  Amelia glanced up the stairs. Bedelia was late. She should have been down by now. She glanced up the stairs, then stifled a gasp. Bedelia had dressed herself, and her choice was deplorable.

  Bedelia had apparently raided Mrs. Cavanaugh’s wardrobe, and found a black satin underskirt, an enormous silk overskirt with an outrageously large bustle, and a velvet bodice, trimmed with black jet buttons that ended where her breastbone began. A deep vee of creamy white skin was shockingly visible from her chest to her chin. To make matters worse, she had piled her fair curls on top of her head, anchoring them with Emma’s combs.

  Amelia’s pebble-gray eyes hardened at the sight. What was the child thinking? Didn’t she realize that what she was wearing might be considered daring on a fashionable matron, and was totally unsuitable for a child of fifteen? Amelia was horribly conscious of Mrs. Groves and Mrs. Drayson just entering the hall behind her. She only hoped that those censorious ladies would excuse Bedelia on the grounds of innocence.

  Bedelia was quite pleased with her choice of funeral attire. The black velvet set off her fair curls nicely. She had just read in the Illustrated London News that the celebrated actress Mrs. Lillie Langtry always wore black. Bedelia smiled as she saw the faces upturned toward her in the hall as she came down the stairs. They were clearly impressed with her beauty. She, too, could be the toast of London, if only she could get there! Once this funeral nonsense was over, she could coax Amelia into going to London … only first they would have to have another funeral for Emma. Bedelia’s perfect features were marred by a slight crease between her eyebrows as she contemplated the repercussions of the death of Emma Cavanaugh. She had not been able to find Emma’s little book, the one that she had seen Emma writing in, the one that she kept in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. Bedelia suspected that Mrs. Doyle had found it the night she slept in that room. That was too bad, because Mrs. Doyle would undoubtedly show it to her husband, and he would show it to the police, who would keep it. That meant that whatever secrets Emma had discovered would not be available for Bedelia to use when she went to London. Without Emma’s little book, doors would remain closed that would have been opened. It was annoying, but Bedelia was sure she could overcome that problem, once she got to London. Bedelia tried to look solemn as she descended the stairs, and succeeded in looking smug.

  Amelia took one look, grabbed her sister by the arm, and pulled her into the sitting room, leaving the Draysons and the Groveses in the hall staring after her.

  Amelia took a deep breath, then let it out before saying, “Baby Bee, are you sure you want to go to the church? You don’t have to go. You can stay here and greet anyone who decides to come back after the service, instead of going on to the churchyard.”

  “Oh, Jenny can take care of them,” Bedelia said, with a toss of her head that nearly dislodged her amateur hairdressing. “I’ve been sitting in the house for days. I want to go out!”

  “We have been out,” Amelia reminded her. “We went to General Drayson’s house, and look what came of that. Now be a good child and do as you are told. Put on the white mourning that Emma picked out for you.”

  Bedelia’s eyes grew hard and stubborn. “I am not a child, Amelia. I am nearly grown up, and I think I should be at the funeral.”

  “At least put on your own dress,” Amelia told her. “That jacket is not the thing for a girl.”

  “It’s all I have,” Bedelia said, the stubborn look becoming a pettish scowl. “And it’s quite suitable. It’s black.”

  “It is also velvet. Young girls should not wear velvet.”

  “That’s a silly rule.”

  “It is also cut far too low in the neck.”

  “I hate high collars. I can’t breathe in them.”

  “Perhaps, but if you wear that … that bodice to your father’s funeral people will talk!” Amelia hissed. “Whatever will Mrs. Drayson and Mrs. Groves think of you?”

  “Why should we care about them?” Bedelia shrugged. “We’ll soon be in London and no one here will have anything to say—”

  “Oh, yes, they will,” Amelia interrupted her. “Mrs. Drayson and Mrs. Groves know people in London. Do you want them to tell their acquaintances that Miss Bedelia Arkwright is fast?”

  Bedelia thought this over as Amelia opened the doors to the sitting room to let the rest of the funeral party in. Bedelia turned her brilliant smile on the first arrivals. “Admiral Groves! We didn’t think you would come.”

  Their neighbor adjusted his hat, somewhere between the salute demanded by naval protocol and the everyday greeting expected by social exchange. “Captain Arkwright and I may have had our differences,” he stated, “but he was a seaman. He deserves the ceremony due to a Captain.” Whether he earned it or not, was the unspoken addendum.

  “Have the pallbearers assembled?” Mr. Dilbert, the undertaker, a rotund little man in the regulation black tail coat and high hat, scurried about, rounding up the members of the funeral party.

  “I expect we shall have more of them soon enough,” Amelia said. “Here is Captain Cavanaugh.”

  The tall seaman seemed to take up most of the space in the sitting room. He scowled at the undertaker. “Jethro should have been buried at sea,” he declared.

  “That would have been somewhat inconvenient,” Amelia said. “Captain Cavanaugh, I believe you are mentioned in Papa’s will. You must return here after the funeral.”

  “Mentioned? I should hope so!” Captain Cavanaugh caught sight of Bedelia. “Damme, girl, what do you think you’re playing at? Get up those stairs and put on something decent before I smack your bottom!”

  Amelia gasped. Bedelia pouted. Admiral Groves harrumphed in the background, while Mrs. Groves and Mrs. Drayson made appropriately distressed noises at the impropriety of such seamanlike language.

  “You can’t talk that way to me!” Bedelia protested. “You are not my papa!”

  “I might as well be,” Cavanaugh retorted. “Jethro asked me to take care of his girls if it ever came to this. Remember, Amy? That night before we landed in England. He didn’t think he was going to make port, and he spliced me and Emma right there, and made the two of us swear—”

  “Amelia, what is he talking about?” Bedelia broke in shrilly.

  Amelia swallowed hard. “I had almost forgotten, Uncle Jack. It was … a very long time ago.”

  “Aye, that it was. But I got him home, and I swore that if he went to Davy Jones’s Locker, I’d do right by you and the baby. Well, here you are, all growed up, and the baby’s not a baby anymore. But it won’t do for her to be flashing her wares about the town, and so you should tell her!”
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  Amelia closed her eyes. It was beginning again … the shouting, the bullying, the demands that she could not possibly fulfill …. “Captain,” she whispered, “Bedelia will soon be out in Society in any case. She is, perhaps, a little forward in her dress, but we are somewhat pressed for time and money, and this is the best she could do, under the circumstances.”

  Captain Cavanaugh glared at the two sisters. “That’s as it may be. But I’m not such a green’un as you think. I know what’s proper and what’s not. Either she changes into something fit for a young gal, or she stays home.”

  “Amelia …” Bedelia whined.

  Amelia turned to her sister, the light of righteous vindication in her eyes. “It is exactly as I told you. If Captain Cavanaugh, who has been at sea all these years, tells you that dress is improper, then you can be sure the rest of Society will think so, too.”

  “Emma would have let me wear it!” Bedelia brought out her strongest ammunition.

  “That she would not,” Amelia countered. “You will either put on a suitable dress or you will stay here.”

  “I don’t have time to change. Here come the rest of the pallbearers.” Inspector O’Ferrall and Mr. Kirton led a second contingent of black-suited mourners, including Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson. The elderly scholar edged nervously around the crowd and evaded the undertaker’s men who pressed black scarves on everyone in sight, insisting that he had no acquaintance with the deceased, living or dead.

  Amelia remembered her duty as hostess. “Good morning, Mr. Dodgson. I did not know you were still here in Southsea.”