“Eh?” Mr. Dodgson leaned closer to Touie.
Dr. Doyle had come up behind them. From the look on Mr. Dodgson’s face, he could tell that she had just opened the one topic he had thought to broach himself. He cleared his throat, glanced at the older man, and blurted out, “Mr. Dodgson, while we are here, I wondered if … if you could perhaps get me into the Bodleian Library.”
Mr. Dodgson turned his attention toward the younger man. “You did not mention the Bodleian in our correspondence,” he said, a note of disapproval in his voice.
Dr. Doyle looked abashed. “I only thought that since you have been so kind as to encourage my literary ambitions, you might put in a word with the librarians. I don’t want to make off with anything, I only want to see one or two letters …” His voice trailed off under the stony frown of the don.
“Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson said frostily, “you are the nephew of an old acquaintance, and therefore I have continued to pursue this particular friendship. I have read your stories and found them quite interesting and well-written, which you may take as a compliment since I rarely read fiction of any sort. However, you must not think to take further advantage of my position. I have been sublibrarian here at the House, and I can make some of the collection here available to you, but I have no influence at the Bodleian.”
Dr. Doyle’s cheerful smile faded. Then he shrugged and said, “I apologize for thinking I could take advantage of the opportunity to look at the rare manuscripts, sir. Particularly accounts of the Bloody Assizes, which were held in the West Country and which figure largely in my new book.”
“Can you not find such materials in London? I might suggest The Royal Archive.” Mr. Dodgson ignored the party of students behind them to glare at Dr. Doyle.
“I know, but while we were here, I thought …” Dr. Doyle took one look at Mr. Dodgson’s face and realized that he had made a massive error in judgment. Mr. Dodgson did not like to be surprised with impromptu requests. Dr. Doyle changed his tactics. “Of course, if the Bodleian Library is unavailable, I will have to find my research elsewhere. Perhaps I might use the library here at Christ Church. And I am particularly glad to see the Cathedral,” he added, “and King Charles’s chair, and the glass windows. The only one dedicated to Saint Thomas à Becket to survive the Dissolution, I understand?”
Mr. Dodgson unbent slightly. Dr. Doyle was young and bumptious and had to be put in his place. He was not so far removed in years from the undergraduates who were beginning to empty the Cathedral as they drifted back to their own rooms for tea. If Dr. Doyle wished to examine the Cathedral, Mr. Dodgson was perfectly willing to act as guide.
“The Cathedral is, of course, open to any of the public who wish to attend service,” Mr. Dodgson said loftily. “However, the library is meant for the students only. I doubt that the materials at hand are those that you need. However,” he added, “I can have a word with the librarian. Of course, you may not remove anything. If your time here is as short as your wife suggests, you may not be able to complete your researches before you have to continue your journey.”
With that, Dr. Doyle had to be satisfied. Mr. Dodgson took over again. He would not let Dr. Doyle go off on his own but led his young guests to the altar.
There was no service in progress, but the Cathedral held a number of visitors. In the north transept three students in gowns were taking the measurements of the tomb of Saint Frideswide. Next to them a young man was proudly showing an older couple the windows, designed and executed by the fashionable artist Burne-Jones, that flanked the altar.
Mr. Dodgson pointed them out to Touie with the air of one who has done it so often that the recitation has been memorized.
“This window commemorates Frederic Vyner, who was slain by brigands in Greece in 1870. This window is dedicated to Saint Cecilia. And this—” he indicated the grandest of the three—“is the Life of Saint Frideswide. It was she, of course, who founded the abbey that became Oxford.”
Touie gazed at the elaborate window and marveled at the complexity of the design. Each of the many panels depicted an incident in the life of what must have been an extraordinary woman. Here she was, repulsing an overeager suitor; there, dedicating her church. In one section of the window was the famous Well of Healing, and at the very end of the sequence, in the lower right-hand corner, the Death of Saint Frideswide.
Touie looked closer. Surely, that was not a … a “convenience”? In the background of a medieval death scene? Was the eminent artist having his little joke at the expense of his scholarly patrons? What should she say? Should she remark on it, showing that she had noticed it, or should she discreetly ignore it?
Her confusion was alleviated by a gleeful cry from her husband at the other side of the altar. Dr. Doyle had been drawn like a magnet to the tiny chapel at the right of the entrance. There, tucked away where it could remain almost unnoticed, was the celebrated window commemorating the martyrdom of Saint Thomas à Becket. There, too, were three young women in flowered spring dresses covered by the black fustian gowns used by Oxford undergraduates, accompanied by a fourth woman in a plain green dress and darker green mantle. The younger women wore spring straw hats, modestly trimmed with pink and green ribbons, while the older woman’s hat was of black straw, trimmed to match her dark green dress.
Dr. Doyle ignored the ladies in his eagerness to share his discovery with his wife. “Touie, come and see this!”
Mr. Dodgson frowned slightly. Young women were not all that common in Christ Church, particularly young women unaccompanied by a male escort. The undergraduate gowns indicated those rare beings, female students. “I b-beg your p-pardon,” he began. “Do you have permission …”
The three young women turned to face the men who had interrupted their contemplation of the window.
“Mr. Dodgson, I believe,” the oldest of the four said, with a small dip that might have been a curtsey.
“Do I know you?” Mr. Dodgson peered at the trio.
“I am Miss Daphne Laurel,” the older woman introduced herself. “We are from Lady Margaret Hall.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Dodgson bowed in return. “I have a young acquaintance there, Miss Edith Rix. I do not believe we have been introduced.” He looked at the other three young ladies.
“I didn’t suppose you would remember me,” Dianna Cahill said as she giggled nervously. “It was only once, very many years ago, that we first met.”
“Indeed?”
“In fact,” Dianna went on, conscious of Gertrude and Mary behind her, silently urging her on, “I meant to send you a note. It is fortunate that we met this way.” She paused. “I really don’t know how to put this …”
“Someone’s got hold of a photograph you took,” Gertrude stated, taking charge of what was a rapidly deteriorating situation.
“And they’re threatening to publish it if Dianna doesn’t leave Oxford,” Mary went on.
“Dear me!” It seemed inadequate to the occasion. Mr. Dodgson looked about for a seat, but the small chapel lacked such amenities.
“I apologize, Miss …”
“Cahill. Dianna Cahill. And these are my friends, Gertrude Bell and Mary Talbot.” Dianna made the necessary introductions.
“We’re all from Lady Margaret Hall,” Mary explained, as Mr. Dodgson’s confusion seemed to deepen. “Miss Cahill and I are second year, and Miss Bell just entered. And Miss Laurel came at Michaelmas term.”
“I was working on my final paper,” Dianna added, as they converged on the flustered don. “It’s on the position of glassmaking in medieval England. I’m reading medieval history, and since my uncle Roswell is a manufacturer of colored glass, and he even provided some of the glass for Mr. Burne-Jones’s windows, I thought that it would be appropriate—” She stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. “I meant to write to you, asking for an interview, but since you are here, and we are here—” She stopped again and looked helplessly at her two supporters.
“What’s this about someone t
hreatening to publish something?” Dr. Doyle was drawn into the discussion.
Dianna’s plump cheeks reddened. “It’s rather personal,” she whispered.
Gertrude was more forthright. “It’s a photograph that you took, Mr. Dodgson, when Dianna here was just a tot.”
“Surely not the stuff of blackmail!” Dr. Doyle scoffed.
“It’s not just the photograph,” Dianna said. “It’s the … the text. Whoever is doing this has written a dreadful poem. He sent me a page, already typeset, with the photograph, and a letter.”
“And the subject of this poem?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
The three girls looked at one another. Gertrude took a deep breath. “I’m not sure of some of the words,” she said, “but it seems to suggest that the purpose of Lady Margaret Hall is to corrupt children. And there is a photograph of a nude child to prove it. And Dianna says that you took it of her ages ago.”
“How can this be?” Mr. Dodgson looked at the three young women and their older chaperon.
“I have no idea how this person got the photograph,” Dianna said earnestly. “But he has it, and he’s going to send it around to all the colleges and put it into the newspapers.” She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief. Mary Talbot provided one.
“Dear me!” Mr. Dodgson looked at the four earnest young women before him. “Who is this person?”
“We don’t know!” Dianna wailed.
“What does this blackguard want? Money?” Dr. Doyle’s mustache bristled at the thought of someone trying to elicit money from helpless female undergraduates.
“Worse than that,” Dianna said, close to tears. “The letter demands that I leave Oxford.”
Mr. Dodgson’s demeanor changed. He stood up, his face set in lines of outrage. “I have never been completely in favor of higher education for young women,” he stated. “But to suggest that anyone, male or female, deliberately destroy a lifetime’s work, is cowardly and despicable. Miss Cahill, if I was the unwitting cause of your distress, it is clearly up to me to set things right.”
“Quite.” Touie had joined the group. “Mr. Dodgson, you mentioned that you had tea laid on. Perhaps we could retire to your rooms and sort all this out. This place is somewhat public.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Dr. Doyle echoed his wife. “I’ve already thought of several points of this story that strike me as provocative.”
“And I would like to hear more of this blackmail,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Miss Cahill, would you and your friends join me for tea?”
Dianna looked at Miss Laurel. “I don’t suppose it would break any of the rules?” she said hesitantly.
“Rules?” Dr. Doyle’s eyebrows went up.
“We’re not supposed to attend mixed parties,” Gertrude stated. “Nor are we supposed to enter the rooms of any of the male students without our chaperon.”
“But we have our chaperon,” Mary pointed out. “Miss Laurel, you would be with us, wouldn’t you? And you do see that we must speak with Mr. Dodgson and, um …?”
“This is Dr. Doyle, and this is Mrs. Doyle. They are visiting me from Portsmouth.” Mr. Dodgson made the necessary introductions.
“Oh, then it will be quite all right,” Miss Laurel said. “If a married woman is present, as well as myself, there can be no difficulty.”
“In that case, I suggest that we retire to my rooms for tea,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Mrs. Grundy will be satisfied, and we can get to the bottom of this.”
He led the group back into Tom Quad, brushing past Mr. Gregory Martin as they went. That earnest young man was hurrying back to his rooms after his tutorial with Mr. Duckworth, his hands full of papers, with a book tucked under one arm.
Mr. Martin stepped aside to let the young women go by. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, as Dianna hurried by to keep up with the more athletic Gertrude Bell.
“Oh, no!” Dianna exclaimed, as she bumped into Martin. “Oh, I am so sorry!”
Papers were flying everywhere. The book fell to the stone pathway, as Martin scampered about, trying to catch his wayward essay.
The quad suddenly seemed full of students, chasing the flying papers. Gertrude looked behind her, saw Dianna, and called out, “Come on, Dianna! Stop playing with that man and come along!”
Dianna’s blue eyes filled with tears of mortification as she trotted after her friends, holding her skirts with one hand against the ever-present draft.
Mr. Martin gazed after her, a look of total wonderment on his face. “Dianna!” he breathed.
Nevil Farlow stood in the doorway across Tom Quad and watched the paper chase that had enlivened the afternoon. He noted the student gowns over long skirts and Mr. Dodgson’s tall, black hat as they marched toward the corner rooms that Mr. Dodgson had occupied for the last twenty years. Farlow frowned to himself. Trust Greg to bounce into the first female student he sees! With a sniff of disgust, Farlow turned out of the quad and proceeded along the lane to the boathouse. Ingram was right about one thing: the boat races were vitally important in the life of Christ Church. Farlow intended that Christ Church should retain the title of “Head of the River.” To this end, he had donned white flannel trousers, a blazer with his Oxford Blue badge, and a straw hat. Thus clad, he sallied forth toward the river and his team.
From his station near the Porter’s Desk, Ingram watched the five women and two men as they entered the corner door. On the board of the Porter’s Lodge was a note: “Mr. Dodgson to have tea in his rooms.” He’d better notify Telling; four more cups would be needed and more cakes, if the looks of the young ladies were any indication.
Ingram headed for the kitchens, where Telling was already organizing the tea urns and trays for those students who wanted tea sent to their rooms. The Senior Common Room had its tea at four; dinner in Hall would be served at seven-thirty.
Telling frowned as Ingram gave him the news that Mr. Dodgson had four more visitors, young lady students by the look of them, and their chaperon.
“Better help me with the trays then,” Telling ordered, as he shifted cups and saucers, cakes and biscuits, and a massive urn of hot water. “And you’re to serve Mr. Dodgson his dinner, Ingram, so look sharp! He’s a particular gentleman.”
“Seems a right naffy sort to me,” Ingram grumbled, as he lifted the heavy urn.
Telling turned on his underling with raised eyebrows and biting scorn. “Mr. Dodgson is a very clever scholar,” he told Ingram. “He is a great credit to this House. You will keep a civil tongue in your head when you serve him, Ingram!”
Ingram followed Telling across the quad. He thought there was something familiar about one of those bluestockings, something that would warrant a closer examination.
Ingram’s long face gave no clue to the exultation he suddenly felt. If he was right, this would be the opportunity he had been waiting for all his life! For once he had stumbled onto a sure thing, something that would set him up for the rest of his days!
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