Dr. Doyle helped his elderly friend into his carriage and watched as the train slowly left the station. The visit had not exactly gone as planned, but he felt he had furthered his friendship and added to his experience in more than one field. As for rereading the stories of detection and mystery, that would have to wait. There were patients to see in Southsea.
Mr. Dodgson arranged himself carefully as the train bore him onward, away from the old port and new suburbs, back to his familiar haunts. He would sleep in his own bed tonight, not in some humdrum hotel where the bed did not really suit him and the servants rattled platters under his windows. He would not have his daily rounds interrupted by sea captains, Indian princes, or murderous young women. It would be comfortable, and perhaps slightly dull, but it would be what he knew and loved.
He considered young Dr. Doyle. That the man had talent was indisputable, but he was also mercurial, capable of any freakish action, from trotting all over Portsmouth to embroiling a visitor in melodramatic supernatural investigations.
Perhaps he should let the acquaintance go, as his colleagues had suggested. Then he remembered one vital fact. “I can’t drop him now,” Mr. Dodgson told himself. “After all, he is Dicky Doyle’s nephew.”
AFTERWARD
Bedelia Arkwright was brought before the assizes in November 1885. Her barrister, provided by Mr. Benjamin Moncrieffe, argued that she was not guilty of murdering her father, since he may well have been dead before the alleged attack, and that, as she had not meant to kill Emma Cavanaugh, she was not guilty of murder. Her extreme youth was also emphasized, with the implication that she did not know the enormity of what she had done. The jury (all male) found her guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced her to two years in Holloway Prison for Women. She was released into the custody of Amelia Arkwright, who admitted to the court that Bedelia was her daughter, not her sister, as had been thought.
Amelia remained in Southsea during her sister’s incarceration, supporting herself with painting, and with her uncle’s financial assistance. Her floral watercolors found a market in aesthetic circles, which enabled her to buy a small cottage in Bermuda, to which she took Bedelia when the girl was released from prison. The two of them resided in Bermuda until the 1920s, and were considered two eccentric unmarried English ladies. Their relationship was never made clear.
Benjamin Moncrieffe, also called Monks, settled an annuity on Amelia Arkwright and provided for the defense of Bedelia Arkwright. The bulk of the Moncrieffe fortune was dissipated in charitable endeavors, primarily in India, where the Moncrieffe Schools and Moncrieffe Hospitals provided important services until they were nationalized after Independence.
Prince Jahal of Rajitpur used the jewels he found embedded in the brass vases as collateral for a series of loans. With these funds he launched an impressive program of railroads, building improvements, and agricultural reform. He became vocal in the formation of the Congress Party, and lived just long enough to see Independence, dying at the advanced age of eighty-eight.
General Alfred Drayson continued his experiments in Spiritualism through the 1880s and 1890s, still convinced that there was somewhere an honest medium.
Major Kenneth Hackaby received several honors for his actions in the Northwest Frontier campaigns. He was knighted for action in the Boer War, after which he retired to Southsea. His son also joined the army, and was killed at the Battle of the Somme. The Major (later Colonel) and his wife tried repeatedly to contact their children on the Other Side, together with their dear friend, Arthur Conan Doyle.
Captain Jack Cavanaugh was tried for breaking and entering and attempted burglary, and served a sentence of fifteen months. He then took up residence in Treasure House, where he became known as a public disgrace, inviting his old shipmates to stay and lowering the tone of the neighborhood.
Jenny Watkins remained at Treasure House with Amelia Arkwright during Bedelia’s trial and sentence. When Cavanaugh was released from prison, he insisted that Jenny stay on as housekeeper. He eventually married her, and she inherited Treasure House on his death in 1917. She lived there until the house was destroyed, along with much of Elm Grove, during the bombings in 1941.
Mr. Dodgson returned to Oxford, where he acted as curator for Christ Church Common Room, wrote letters, entertained his young friends, and occasionally published a book of puzzles or logic.
Dr. Doyle continued his practice in Southsea. He worked diligently at his historical novel, wrote several stories (which were published in popular magazines), and corresponded with Mr. Dodgson.
The two of them were to meet again … but that is another story.
HISTORICAL NOTES
Most of the information about Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle and his circle of friends in Southsea comes from A Study in Southsea, by Geoffrey Stavert (Milestone Publishers, Portsmouth).
The description of Portsmouth and Southsea in the 1880s comes from Southsea in Old Picture Postcards, by McAvery, and Portsmouth, Then and Now, by A. Triggs.
Major-General Alfred Drayson was Conan Doyle’s chief mentor during his time in Southsea. The Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society was as I have described it, as was the Bush Hotel and its environs. Unfortunately, Portsmouth sustained heavy damage in two world wars, so most of the areas described in this story are no longer there.
Except for certain members of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, and Mr. Hill of the Bush Hotel, the characters in this novel are fictitious, as is the Indian state of Rajitpur and the Rajitpur Treasure.
Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle never met. This is an exercise in “what if …?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In addition to my ever-present editor, Keith Kahla, and my enthusiastic agent, Cherry Weiner, there are a few people without whom this book would not have been written:
Imtiaz Ahmad, the Pakistani Computer Wizard, who keeps the “kludge” running;
Dr. Ashok Sharma, who keeps me and my husband alive, and who gave me information on India;
The staff at the Union Public Library, who found books for me that were supposed to be out of print;
And always …
My husband, Murray Rogow, the World’s Second Greatest Press Agent.
Turn the page to continue reading from the The Charles Dodgson and Arthur Conan Doyle Mysteries
Chapter 1
Murder was not a part of the curriculum at any of the individual colleges that made up the University of Oxford. It was not considered a fit subject for study, unless it had happened some centuries previously. Even prospective barristers were not expected to discuss contemporary murders as reported by the popular press. An undergraduate might write an essay on the fate of the Little Princes in the Tower; a learned don might formulate a theory as to the precise effects of hemlock on Socrates; but the coarse act of murder was beneath the notice of the eminent scholars and noble students of the University. When it came to brutal facts, those who wore the Gown preferred to look elsewhere.
While murder in the abstract could be discussed behind the medieval stone walls and Jacobean bricks of Balliol, Trinity, or Christ Church, murder in the more immediate sense was the business of the Town, which was made up of the citizens of Oxford who served the noble youths and distinguished dons. They, on this brilliant May morning, had other things on their collective minds. After a brutal winter of agonizing snow and sleet, followed by freezing winds that tore thatch off ancient cottages and shingles from more modern edifices, the early spring had brought rains that turned the usually placid stretches of the Cherwell and the Isis into raging torrents. On this beautiful May morning, the town of Oxford had to be refurbished in time for the influx of fond parents come to see their offspring attain that highest of achievements, a First in whatever they were reading. Roofs had to be slated, walls had to be painted, even the streets needed paving. Oxford hummed with activity as workmen plied their various trades, making the Town ready to receive its visitors before the Long Vac left the place vacant of all but the most deter
mined of tourists. Up and down St. Aldgates, across the High, in the Broad and the Turl, tradesmen restocked their shelves while workmen made Oxford ready to live up to its reputation as the very hub of intellectual Britain.
Behind the stone walls, which dated to the days when Oxford had been a collection of churches and ramshackle halls, or the redbrick edifices only recently erected, flowering shrubs sent forth a perfume that attracted bees and butterflies intent on their task of propagating their species. Like everything else in Oxford on that May morning, the insects hummed with their own activities, relishing the warmth of spring after a furious winter. Birds nested in the ancient oaks and willows that hung over the banks of the Holywell Mill Stream and the Cherwell, the two channels that wound their way back to the main stream of the Thames (dubbed the Isis as long as it was within the boundaries of Oxford). Along the Oxford Canal, moles and water rats, toads and other small creatures scrabbled in the undergrowth, going about their business with all the intensity of humanity.
Of all the creatures in Oxford, the students were the most intense. With Trinity term nearly halfway through and the Long Vac looming ahead, those who had neglected their primary task of memorizing Latin verses or formulating elaborate responses to hypothetical questions realized that they had less than three weeks to make up what they should have been doing for the last nine months. Freshmen scrambled to complete their essays before their tutors could assess their work and make the all-important recommendations that would either permit the student to continue his academic career or condemn him to toil in some mediocre teaching position, forever labeled a failure. Second-year students crammed mercilessly, facing the examinations that would ensure them a place among the third-year men.
It was those who were about to graduate who uttered the words, “What do I do now?” with the most heartfelt emotion. What, indeed, would they do now that their studies were presumably completed? Would they venture forth into the Church, staunchly preaching the doctrine of the Church of England, slaving away as curates in country parishes until they could achieve the dignity of a living of their own? Would they become one of the many young men who scurried about in Whitehall or Westminster, doing the bidding of politicians and diplomats, learning the ins and outs of running the Empire? Would they “eat their terms” with the aim of claiming a place at the Bar, and the dignity of the initials Q.C. after their names in due course? Would they find posts in India or Africa, as yet another cog in the great wheel of the Foreign Service? Or would they simply do as so many decorative young men did and find a flat in London where they could while away the days and nights, waiting for someone to die and leave them lands and titles?
The Reverend Mr. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was not among those worried about his future on this May morning. He stood in Tom Quad, a tall, spare figure in a long, black coat and high, black hat, secure in the knowledge that he would continue, as he had for thirty-four years, as a Senior Student (as the dons are called) at Christ Church. Since he had retired from active teaching and lecturing, he could pursue his eccentric hobbies, write quaint fairy tales or political pamphlets, and rule over the Senior Common Room as curator. His time was not circumscribed by college protocol, and he had the luxury of dining in his own rooms, instead of in Hall, whenever he chose to have a small party of his own.
It was such an impending dinner party that had led Mr. Dodgson to accost Mr. Telling, the Senior Common Room Steward in Tom Quad. Mr. Telling, as tall as Mr. Dodgson but considerably broader, nodded sympathetically and wished Mr. Dodgson had not decided to confront him in person but had used his usual means of communication—a long and detailed letter. It was much easier to deal with Mr. Dodgson’s endless requests and constant menu changes in writing. Now Mr. Dodgson was going over the arrangements for his visitors again, a young doctor from Portsmouth and his wife. Telling had been in charge of the arrangements for the Senior Common Room for nearly twenty years. He could have done without Mr. Dodgson’s constant nagging. However, like any good butler, he kept his face impassive as he listened to Mr. Dodgson’s shrill orders.
“Telling, it is most important that the dinner be served quickly and quietly,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Dr. Doyle was kind enough to be my host in Portsmouth, and I feel obliged to return the favor.”
“Of course, Mr. Dodgson.” Telling did not quite bow. “We must show them the best the House has to offer.”
“Dr. Doyle and his wife will arrive this afternoon by train.” Mr. Dodgson consulted the flimsy yellow paper in his hand, evidence of Dr. Doyle’s fondness for sending telegrams at every opportunity. “Once they have established themselves at the White Hart across the road, they will present themselves at Tom Gate. I shall meet them myself and show them the grounds, and perhaps also the Cathedral. Dr. Doyle expressed a desire to see the chair where King Charles the First sat. We will have tea at four—”
“In the Senior Common Room?” Telling asked.
“Certainly not,” Mr. Dodgson replied. “Mrs. Doyle will wish to refresh herself. We will have tea and cakes in my rooms. Then Dr. Doyle and Mrs. Doyle will return to their rooms at the White Hart and change for dinner. We will dine at seven. I have provided a menu …” He fished a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket, together with a length of string, a bag of lemon drops, and a large red silk handkerchief.
Telling took the menu, scanned it, and nodded. “Very good, sir. We will be dining on fowl in Hall, so there will be no difficulty about that. I see you have listed several vegetables …”
“And do be more careful about the timing of the cookery,” Mr. Dodgson complained. “The potatoes served in Hall have been inedible, either mealy or raw. And for a sweet, I think we shall have a cherry tart, if cherries are available.”
“And the wine, sir?” Mr. Telling hinted.
“Sherry, I think, and port for myself and Dr. Doyle. Is there some difficulty, Telling?” Mr. Dodgson frowned as he bent to hear what Telling was trying to say.
“We seem to have some shortage of sherry, sir,” Telling said.
Mr. Dodgson’s frown deepened. “A shortage? Nonsense! I myself catalogued the entire wine cellar when I first took the position of curator. By my own calculations, we had enough sherry at that time to provide a bottle a day for every Fellow at the House for the next three hundred years.”
“That may have been so then,” Telling said, “but there are considerable gaps in the rows now.”
“What?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice, heavy with indignation, could be heard all over the quad.
“If you would care to examine the cellar yourself—,” Telling began.
“I accept your word for the losses,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Have you checked your findings against the wine list for the Senior Common Room?”
“I have, sir,” Telling said grimly. “Unless we have a secret tippler among us, those bottles of sherry were not used by the Senior Students.”
Mr. Dodgson looked around the quad. Windows had been raised to catch whatever fitful breeze might find its way past the walls erected by Cardinal Wolsey some three hundred years previously. He lowered his voice, suddenly aware that there might be listeners behind those open windows.
“Could some of the undergraduates have been pilfering?” he asked. “One does not like to think it, but young men can be quite ingenious, and there have always been unruly students.”
Telling considered the possibility, then shook his head. “I don’t see how,” he said. “For one thing, they’d have to get by the stewards, and for another, they’d have to get rid of the bottles afterward. One of the scouts would have noticed, even if the scout on a particular staircase had been, ah—”
“Bribed,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I am all too aware that scouts are as human as the next man, and that some of our undergraduates are capable of playing on another person’s weaknesses, but I would not like to think of the House as a hotbed of corruption. I shall look into the matter, Telling.”
“And while you’re at it, sir, could you look into
another matter?” Telling pressed his advantage before Mr. Dodgson had time to move on.
“Eh?”
“There have been complaints,” Telling said. “Certain small items have, er, gone missing.”
“This is most distressing,” Mr. Dodgson said. “What sort of small items? In which staircase?”
“Small things, sir. Watches, shirtstuds, a tiepin or two.” Telling took a deep breath and carried on as Mr. Dodgson’s frown creased his usually unlined face. “From Tom Quad principally. Mr. Duckworth mentioned the loss of a broach given to him by his dear mother, now deceased. I realize that this is not, strictly speaking, part of your commission as curator, but I thought you would wish to deal with this matter yourself.”
“Quite so. One would not like to bring in the police,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I shall look into this also, Telling. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
“Better you than the Dean,” Telling said, with a meaningful glance at the door to the deanery, at the far end of the quad.
“In this case, I agree that Dean Liddell should not be disturbed with so minor a matter.” Mr. Dodgson settled his tall hat more firmly on his head.
Telling suddenly asked, “You haven’t missed anything yourself, sir?”
“I don’t think I have,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I shall go to my rooms and make an inventory. If someone has been so thoughtless as to remove something, I shall track him down, and he will regret it.” He strode off, across the quad, a tall figure in black, made taller by the old-fashioned high silk hat he insisted on wearing.
“And I wouldn’t like to be the one who did it,” Telling said to himself as he headed for the stewards’ closet, where he would conduct a small investigation of his own. Undergraduates were notoriously untidy, and it would be all too easy for a light-fingered servant to abstract a small piece of jewelry here and there, but not on his patch and not on his watch!
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 32