CHAPTER 28
The morning drizzle had evaporated into a brisk, clear October afternoon by the time the Arkwright funeral could be considered finished. There were no more casual sightseers lingering at the front gate. The seagoing contingent had dispersed back to Portsmouth; the press had followed the police carriage to Kingston Street; and the casual strollers had only the briefest of glances at the black bow that adorned the front door of the house.
The removal of Miss Bedelia Arkwright from the house in police custody had set off a furor in the ranks of the Fourth Estate, with Harrison of the Evening News leading the pack. Here was the story every newspaperman dreamed of: a mysterious sea captain, a beautiful young suspect, an inheritance … the stuff that reputations were made of!
Miss Bedelia Arkwright had made the most of her moment of glory. Looking very frail and girlish in her borrowed finery, she cowered between Mrs. Pilkey and Sergeant Stafford. Inspector O’Ferrall had looked on, at his most official.
“I have nothing to say at this time,” O’Ferrall told the reporters, who clamored for more and followed the police carriage down Elm Grove to Southsea, leaving the Draysons to walk over to the Groveses’ residence for tea and a thorough rehash of the day’s events. Admiral Groves and General Drayson found they had several mutual acquaintances in various branches of the service, and Mrs. Drayson and Mrs. Groves discovered that they had a connection in common, in the person of a distant relation of Mrs. Drayson’s who had married a distant cousin of Mrs. Groves’s. The distressing situation at Treasure house was forgotten for the moment at Hemlock Lodge.
Jenny had brewed tea, fetched and carried, and settled Miss Amelia into her bedchamber. Now she sat in the kitchen and considered her position. Captain Cavanaugh showed every sign of moving into Treasure House as soon as he retrieved his sea chest from the Bush Hotel. Good positions were hard to come by, and she was used to Miss Amelia’s ways. Her mum was of the opinion that she should not give notice just yet. Better to wait until after Miss Bedelia’s trial, at the very least, and stand by Miss Amelia. However, Jenny promised herself, as she picked at the remains of the funeral collation, she would never presume to reach past the kitchen. Just look what happened to Emma Cavanaugh! Surely a judgment upon her for the sin of pride, just as the Reverend Mr. Lindsay-Young had said.
Amelia lay on her bed and tried to think. What should she do? Where could she go? She had been so certain that Papa would take care of her! He had always told her that she would have a home here at Treasure House, and then to go and leave it to Emma! What could Papa have been thinking of? Surely he must have known that Emma would do anything to get into London Society, one way or another …. And Inspector O’Ferrall, coming out with a declaration in that abrupt way! She had not given him an answer. How could she? How could she allow another man to touch her …? Amelia closed her eyes and tried to ignore the pain arching through her temples. Captain Cavanaugh had intimated that she might be able to remain in Treasure House with him, but that would be impossible. She could not be a housekeeper in what had been her own home, and all tender feelings she had ever had for Jack Cavanaugh had died long ago … but she had to be near Bedelia, so she could not go to India with Uncle Monks (as he had asked her to address him). Amelia felt herself set adrift, like the boats on the ocean, without a mast or a rudder. Mr. Dodgson should have let me use Papa’s arrows, she thought bitterly. Even the manuscript she had so diligently copied out was now destroyed. How could Bedelia have done that? Amelia wept into her pillow. After all those years … to be met with such ingratitude!
There was a tap at her door. “Miss Amelia,” Jenny said. “It’s Mr. Dodgson. Will you see him?”
“Mr. Dodgson?” Amelia sat up, wrapping herself in a lacy bed-shawl and adjusting her lace cap.
“He won’t come in unless I’m with him,” Jenny called through the door.
Mr. Dodgson’s halting voice repeated the call. “Miss Arkwright, a thought has occurred to me, which may be of some importance. Since I am leaving Southsea almost immediately, I thought I should discuss it with you, if you are well enough to receive me.”
Amelia left her bed and arranged herself in her chair overlooking the garden. “Come in, Mr. Dodgson. I am still very much overset by what has happened …”
“And well you should be,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But since you were able to confide in me this morning, I feel somewhat obligated to respond with some advice. I am not, as you know, in Orders, but I am a Deacon of the Church of England, and so am, in a way, a clergyman. Therefore, I hope you will not think it presumptuous of me to offer a suggestion as to your future.”
Amelia blew her nose on her handkerchief. “Whatever you say, sir, will be considered as private by me. Jenny, of course, is the soul of discretion.”
Mr. Dodgson fidgeted with his gloves. Then he blurted out, “You are an accomplished artist, Miss Arkwright. Have you never thought of submitting some of your work for publication?”
Amelia stared at her visitor. “Do you mean, for money?” she asked.
“The articles that Captain Arkwright had published were largely written in your hand,” Mr. Dodgson reminded her. “I am sure you illustrated them. I have seen your watercolor paintings of Bermuda. In my opinion, they are quite exceptional. If you do not mind, I should like to take some of your sketches with me to London, to show to my friend Tenniel.”
“Mr. John Tenniel? Of Punch?”
“He did the illustrations for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” Mr. Dodgson reminded her. “I intended to call on him on my way back to Oxford. He may be able to arrange for you to earn a small independence with your pen. I do not say that he will do this,” Mr. Dodgson said, as Amelia gave him a watery smile, “but if your work is as good as I think it is, he may very well consider the possibility.”
“I never thought … you scarcely know me …” Amelia stammered incoherently.
“I have seen enough to know that you have been at the mercy of vicious and unscrupulous people for most of your life, and deserve better,” Mr. Dodgson told her. “Please consider my offer.”
Amelia drew her shawl around her and stood up. “I shall make you up a packet of some of the paintings I have done for Papa’s articles on South American plants,” she said firmly. “If they can be sold, it will provide some means for me to pay for my sister’s defense.”
Amelia wiped her eyes and blew her nose once more. Then she led the way back downstairs to her father’s study, where she picked out three paintings, placed them in a cardboard folder, and tied them firmly. She handed the paintings to Mr. Dodgson, who tucked the folder under his arm and bowed formally to her.
“Miss Arkwright,” he said, “I wish you well. Remember, Providence watches over us all, that the just do get their reward in time.”
Captain Cavanaugh watched from the sitting room door. “All things come to them what waits,” he quoted. “I waited thirty years to find them jewels, and here you go and give them back to that young Indian sprout.”
“They were his in the first place,” Amelia reminded him. “As for your offer to remain in this house, that I cannot do.”
“It’s not that policeman, making sheep’s eyes at you, is it?” Cavanaugh asked, as Inspector O’Ferrall came into the hall for one last good-bye.
“Inspector O’Ferrall has been a good friend,” Amelia began.
Mr. Dodgson interrupted her, staring at Cavanaugh’s feet. “Inspector,” he said, pointing downward. “Will you please observe the boots worn by Captain Cavanaugh?”
“My boots? What’s that to do with anything?” The Captain looked down in the direction of his footwear.
“I am, perhaps, somewhat sensitive as to odors. I have noted the penetrating smell of fish emanating from your boots, very similar to the one we found in the footsteps on the sitting room carpet two nights ago, when this house was burgled. I believe Captain Cavanaugh and his silent companion were the thieves, hired by Mr. Ram, on the orders of Prince Jahal. Of course,
they did not get into the study, for if they had, Captain Cavanaugh might have remembered the Indian vases and come to the same conclusion I did: that Captain Arkwright had taken the jewels to some brassworker in Bombay, where they were inserted into the enamel of the vases. The result was not aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but that would make the vases more useful to Captain Arkwright. One tends not to examine an object if one deems it ugly.”
O’Ferrall grinned at Cavanaugh, relishing the moment. “There’s a nice spot for you in our jail,” he said, “and this time, no revolutionaries to break you out. Jack Cavanaugh, I arrest you on the charge of breaking and entering—”
“He also broke into my room at the Bush Hotel last night and had his friend, or subordinate—”
“That’s Rico,” Cavanaugh admitted. “We was together in prison. He’s not much of a burglar, which is what he was doing there in the first place.”
“He is quite incompetent,” Mr. Dodgson told him. “He not only could not pick a simple lock on Captain Arkwright’s study door, but his attempt to burgle Dr. Doyle’s establishment failed utterly. As proof of which, we have his jacket.”
Jack Cavanaugh shrugged. “We thought you might have made some note in that little book of yours, that would tell where the jewels was hid,” he said. “But we didn’t take nothing, and we never hurt a soul.”
“That’s for the magistrate to decide,” O’Ferrall said, shoving Cavanaugh out the door and down the path to the last of the police carriages.
Mr. Dodgson, Dr. Doyle, and Touie were the last to leave Treasure House. Touie embraced Amelia. “Now, remember,” Touie told her, “if you ever need me, I can come around. Mother and I will stand by you, no matter what else happens.”
Miss Arkwright watched them go down the garden path, and turned to go back upstairs. Mr. Dodgson’s words came back to her. Her back straightened, and she squared her shoulders. Bedelia needed her. She could cope with this disaster, as she had coped all her life. If Uncle Moncrieffe would not settle a small annuity upon her, she could make her way by publishing the works that she and Papa had so carefully written together. There was still hope.
Meanwhile, there was dinner. Amelia swept into the kitchen to confer with Jenny. Life would go on, in Southsea as everywhere else.
At the front gate, Prince Jahal and Ashok Ram had mounted the elegant equipage that had drawn the attention of every eye in Elm Grove. Two Indian servants had wrestled the brass vases into the carriage, where they sat on the floor, while the Rajah arranged himself to the best advantage. He waved to the Doyles and Mr. Dodgson as they made their way through the garden and onto Elm Grove proper.
“You must let me drive you to your hotel, Mr. Dodgson,” Jahal offered graciously.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Dodgson demurred. “I prefer to walk. It is good for the lungs.”
“Are you certain the jewels are under the enamel?” Ram asked anxiously.
Mr. Dodgson pointed to one of the chipped spots on the nearest vase. Something glittered brightly in the afternoon sun. “As you see. The greatest care must be taken in removing the paint, but I am sure you will find a competent craftsman to do it.”
“And I shall see that Miss Arkwright is suitably rewarded,” Jahal assured him. “You are an extremely clever man, Mr. Dodgson. Should you ever decide to travel, I hope you will come to Rajitpur.”
Mr. Dodgson smiled and bowed. “I have traveled, Your Highness. I prefer to remain in England. Good day, sir.”
The carriage drove off, and Mr. Dodgson and the Doyle couple were able to walk slowly back to the Bush Hotel in relative peace, while the afternoon traffic of Elm Grove flowed gently around them.
Dr. Doyle shook his head as they strolled along. “How did you work it all out?” he asked. “I could not believe that Bedelia … that child …”
“Ah, but as she herself kept insisting, Miss Bedelia Arkwright is not a child,” Mr. Dodgson corrected him. Miss Bedelia had been told that the nicotine mixture was dangerous, but she had no way of knowing just how quickly it would take effect. I suspect her aim was to make Mrs. Cavanaugh’s death look like a heart attack, as she had done with her father. The very first words out of her mouth when she saw Mrs. Cavanaugh should have told us all.”
“Eh? What words?” Dr. Doyle asked.
“She said, ‘I didn’t know … I didn’t think …’” Mr. Dodgson reminded them. “I wondered at the time what it was she didn’t know. What she did not know was how quickly the nicotine would work. Bedelia would have had no way of learning such a thing. Amelia, on the other hand, had transcribed her father’s notes and was present during his speech to the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society. She certainly knew both the properties of nicotine and its effects. Had she used it, she would never have arranged such a public display.”
“But how did you know about the arrows?” Touie asked.
“The South American arrows, tipped with frog-poison, were on the mantelpiece,” Mr. Dodgson reminded her. “When I noticed the case for the first time, I saw indentations where eight arrows must have lain, but there were only seven in the case.”
“But …” Dr. Doyle was still puzzled. “How did you know it was Bedelia, and not Amelia, who poisoned the handkerchief?”
“Because Mrs. Doyle told us that Bedelia mentioned that her father’s bedchamber was ‘all smoky,’” Mr. Dodgson reminded him. “How would she know that unless she had been in it? Captain Arkwright had taken to sleeping in his study, since he could no longer manage the stairs. There was no need for anyone to enter his bedchamber at all. Why, then, would Bedelia have been in that room? The only reason that came to my mind was to retrieve a handkerchief … the only ones, in that house of mourning, that were not embellished with a black band.”
“And Mrs. Cavanaugh? At the séance … do you suppose that really was Captain Arkwright’s voice?” Touie mused. “Was she trying to accuse Bedelia of murder?”
“As to that, I cannot say. I prefer to keep an open mind about such matters.”
“Then … you think there is something to the spiritualist beliefs?” Dr. Doyle glanced at his mentor.
“There have been instances where information has been passed on that could not have been received by any but supernatural means,” Mr. Dodgson said slowly. “When I sat in Captain Arkwright’s chair, I looked with his eyes at the room in which he spent his life. It was then that I understood the significance of the Indian vases. Once I had learned of the Rajitpur Treasure, I knew why he had kept those hideous objects.”
“But …” Touie shook her head. “Bedelia killed her father … or the man she had always thought was her father … and all for nothing?”
“The only thing that young person desired was to go to London and make her debut in Society. Young people can be most determined, Mrs. Doyle.” He glanced at Dr. Doyle, who blushed and laughed.
“Yes, sir, I admit it. I brought you here to read my stories, and instead I embroiled you in this melodrama. What must you think of me, sir!”
They had reached the Bush Hotel. Mr. Dodgson smiled at his two young hosts. “You have both been very kind, but I must take my leave of you now. Mr. Hill assures me that the train to London leaves within the hour, and I must be on it.”
Mr. Hill trotted out of the hotel, followed by the porter with Mr. Dodgson’s Gladstone bag. “We have been honored by your visit, sir,” Mr. Hill declared with a low bow.
“It has been a most … enlightening experience,” Mr. Dodgson told him, fumbling in his pockets for an appropriate coin for the porter.
Mr. Hill waved away any thought of a tip. “After the unpleasantness you suffered last night, I cannot accept payment for your room, sir. And I do hope you will recommend the Bush Hotel to all your acquaintances who may be traveling to Southsea.”
“Should any of my friends find themselves here, I most assuredly will do so,” Mr. Dodgson promised him.
Touie smiled at her husband, then at Mr. Dodgson. “I will leave Arthur to see you to y
our train, Mr. Dodgson. It has been a very busy visit for you. Perhaps you will visit us again, when there is not a murder. Good-bye, sir.”
She curtseyed and left her husband to carry the Gladstone bag to the waiting cab that was to take them from Southsea to the Portsmouth Railway Station.
Dr. Doyle was silent as they traveled back to Portsmouth. Finally he blurted out, “Did you get the opportunity to read my stories?”
They had arrived at the station. Mr. Dodgson descended, and reached for his Gladstone bag.
“Yes, Dr. Doyle, I did read some of your stories.” Mr. Dodgson admitted.
“And … ah …?” Dr. Doyle tried hard not to ask the inevitable question.
“I found them quite exciting.” Mr. Dodgson told him. “You should keep writing, Dr. Doyle. Your plots are especially ingenious, and you have a knack for the bizarre and the mysterious.”
“Really?” Dr. Doyle grinned boyishly under his mustache. “I hadn’t thought much about it. I did want to talk to you about an idea I had for a novel in the style of Sir Walter Scott, set in the time of Monmouth’s Rebellion, with Portsmouth as the setting. What do you think, sir?”
“Portsmouth is a quaint location, and the period is one of interest to historians, but perhaps the theme is somewhat weighty,” Mr. Dodgson said tactfully. “Your talents may lie in other directions. Have you read the stories of Mr. Poe, or Mr. Wilkie Collins?”
Dr. Doyle nodded. “Of course, sir, and found them interesting, but—”
“You may wish to reread them, Dr. Doyle. They are quite fascinating, and may inspire you.” Mr. Dodgson checked to see that he had his ticket, then turned to shake Dr. Doyle’s hand. “Thank you for a most invigorating visit, Dr. Doyle. Thanks to you, I have added to my acquaintance several persons whom I would otherwise never have had the opportunity to meet.”
Dr. Doyle didn’t know how to take that, but he smiled and gripped Mr. Dodgson’s hand in return.
“Do keep writing, Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson said over the roar of the incoming train. “I shall write to some persons in the publishing field and see what I can do for you. Perhaps, when you have written some more of your stories, we may meet again.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 31