The Problem of the Missing Miss (13 page)

With a shrug, Dr. Doyle crossed the road and led his mentor around to the back of the law courts, where they mounted the steps to the police station, just as Inspector MacRae and Mr. Upshaw arrived in their cab. The Scotland Yard man glowered at them as they welcomed him cheerfully. Upshaw looked faintly puzzled.

“Still with us, are you?” MacRae grunted.

“As you see,” Dr. Doyle said with a boyish smile. Mr. Dodgson nodded in agreement, being too winded for speech.

MacRae marched into the station, followed by Upshaw, Dodgson, and Doyle. Sergeant Barrow was back on duty, this time drinking tea from a china mug. The good sergeant rose to his feet at the sight of the delegation.

“MacRae, of Scotland Yard,” barked the Inspector. “I'm expected.”

“I'll tell Inspector Wright,” the sergeant said.

“And be quick about it,” added MacRae. “All I want is to take a look at this body of yours, and get her identified.”

“And to find Miss Marbury,” added Mr. Dodgson.

Sergeant Barrow recognized his visitors of the previous evening. “Oh, it's you again,” he sniffed. “Dr. Doyle of Portsmouth? And Mr.…”

“Dodgson. We reported Miss Marbury as missing. You have had twenty-four hours, and where is she?” The scholar's shrill voice cut through the buzz of conversation in the dressing room beyond the public offices.

Inspector Wright chose to emerge from his private sanctum at this point. He was the perfect policeman for Brighton: tall and fair, mild-mannered with visitors; blunt to the point of crudity with local malefactors. He had shaved his unfashionable beard, but retained a fine mustache, which he stroked carefully to emphasize a point. He preferred the seaside wear of summer whites to the darker shades affected by city dwellers. He looked the four men over.

“Inspector MacRae?” Wright moved forward, extending his hand to the two men in “city” suits. The old duffer he had heard of; the young fellow must be that meddler, Doyle, the bane of the Portsmouth Constabulary. “But why did you bring reinforcements?”

“I didn't bring 'em. They came,” MacRae said. “This one,” indicating Upshaw, “thinks he can make a positive identification of the young woman.”

“What about the other one?” Wright asked.

“Eh?” MacRae shot the other man a sharp look through his spectacles.

“The poor fellow who was just brought in this morning.”

“What? Lively place, Brighton is! Two bodies in one weekend! And they say we have it rough at the Yard.”

Inspector Wright shrugged. “We have our share, Inspector. Not that there's too much doubt as to this one. Just an old fellow, too much drink taken, no doubt.” He led the way back down the grim stairs to the morgue, where the mangled remains of the serving girl had been joined by those of the late Keeble.

The young Dr. Baxter looked up from his work. “Well, if it isn't Arthur!” he called out. “Can't you keep away from this place? If I'd just been married, I'd be with my bride, not haunting this place. It's like the old joke, y'know, about the chap who comes home and sees his best friend and his missus going at it, and says, ‘I have to, but you?'” He laughed heartily, while Mr. Dodgson pretended not to hear, and Mr. Upshaw edged around the two policemen, his face growing paler by the minute.

“We've brought someone to take a look at the girl from the railway accident,” Dr. Doyle explained. “What's this about another death?”

Dr. Baxter waved a gore-spattered arm at his colleague. “A nice puzzle, Arthur. Come and take a look, and tell me what you make of this.”

To the evident distress of Mr. Dodgson, and the disapproval of the police in charge, Dr. Doyle removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and cheerfully joined his fellow doctor at the plank table, where the body of an elderly man lay.

Mr. Dodgson peered at the body, then exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! Oh, dear me! It—oh!” He gasped. Upshaw caught him before he fainted dead away and propped him up against a wall.

“Get him upstairs,” Wright ordered Barrow. “Put him in my office and give the old … gentleman a stiff brandy.”

“No, no, that is not necessary,” Mr. Dodgson said. “It is just … that man … he could be me!”

Dr. Doyle looked at the gin-ravaged features of the old man in front of him and then at the ascetic profile of the scholar. “He's certainly taken pains to dress like you,” he remarked.

“He's wearing my gloves!” Mr. Dodgson pointed to the man's hands. “And his hair—he wears it long, like mine.”

“Gray cotton. Unusual,” Dr. Baxter agreed. “What's more, he's got something in his hand. This is what's got me puzzled, Doyle.”

The two doctors worked the fingers loose. A small, round object came into view.

“A button?” Inspector MacRae asked.

“What's a man doing with a button clenched in his fist?” Inspector Wright spoke up.

“Exactly what I want to know,” Baxter echoed.

“When was he found?” MacRae wanted to know.

“Just brought in this afternoon,” Baxter said. “Charming sight for a man to find on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Where did they find him?” Dr. Doyle asked.

“Under the Chain Pier, apparently,” Baxter said.

“Then we may assume that he drowned?” Inspector Wright said. “I shall so inform the Coroner.”

“Not so fast, Inspector,” Dr. Doyle said suddenly. “I'm of the opinion that this man did not merely stumble on the beach, to be washed up by the tide.”

Inspector Wright glared at the upstart. “Indeed? And what right have you to intrude in this matter?”

“I am a licensed practitioner,” Dr. Doyle stated. “I have been called in by my colleague. Sandy, I want to take a better look at this poor old chap. Meanwhile, Mr. Upshaw, will you please look at this young woman?”

Baxter stepped over to the other plank table. A canvas sheet had been laid over what was left of the girl. As he pulled it back, Inspector MacRae made a noise that might have been a cough or a gasp.

Upshaw gagged and retched, then turned away. “That is—it's her,” he said faintly. “Mary Ann. I hadn't realized …”

“Not a pretty sight,” Inspector Wright said. “Cover her up, Dr. Doyle.”

“Lord Richard will make the … the arrangements,” Upshaw said faintly. “I shall go now and telegraph him. She will be taken back to her village, of course.” He stumbled up the stairs, clearly shaken by the grim scene.

“So, that takes care of Mary Ann,” Dr. Doyle said.

“Was that her name?” Baxter asked. “Well, that fellow will do better in the air. Arthur, what's on your mind, eh? What would Joe Bell have to say about this old geezer?”

Dr. Doyle sniffed, and prodded the late Keeble. “For a start, he was probably a heavy drinker—notice the veins in the nose. And quite possibly worked on the pier or on the beach. Sand in the shoes,” he threw back to Inspectors Wright and MacRae. “Not a mechanic, not a man who worked with his hands.”

“He was a performer,” Mr. Dodgson said suddenly. “I have seen him myself. I believe his name was Keeble.”

“And he resembles you, superficially,” Doyle pointed out. “Longish gray hair, about your height and age. And your gloves.” He straightened up. “Mr. Dodgson, I believe we have just found the man who impersonated you,” he said somberly. “Someone is trying to cover his tracks.”

“Someone missing a brown waistcoat button,” Mr. Dodgson agreed.

“That said, could we get out of here?” Inspector MacRae asked gruffly.

“Not yet,” Dr. Doyle said. “Sandy, look here.” He pointed to two dents on the old man's stiff collar.

“Old-fashioned sort,” Dr. Baxter said. “Straightening his collar.”

“But when you put your hands to your throat, your thumbs point down,” Dr. Doyle. “These thumbprints point upward. Someone tried to throttle our Mr. Keeble.”

“What?” Inspector Wright stepped forward for a better look.

Dr. Baxter sighed. “Arthur, why do you have to make things more difficult? The man drowned. Froth on the lips, fluid in the lungs …”

“And bruises on the throat? Perhaps he did not fall into the water, but was pushed from the pier. We may have a murder here, Inspector. I strongly suggest you look into it.”

Dr. Doyle glared at Inspector Wright, who returned the look. Dr. Baxter shook his head.

“Easy enough for you to say, Arthur,” he muttered. “You've got your little bride to console you. I'm supposed to be on my way to the Lakes!”

“You'll come visit us in Southsea,” Dr. Doyle consoled him. “Touie's mother is a capital cook.”

Inspector Wright led the way back up the stairs. Once out of the stultifying atmosphere of the morgue, both Wright and MacRae gained their composure and turned to Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson.

Wright dismissed the two men with a casual nod. “Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Doyle. We can continue from here.”

“But …” Doyle started to protest.

“Best leave it to us, young sir. We are professionals, and we know what we're about,” MacRae patted his arm, not unkindly.

Mr. Dodgson was not to be put off so easily. “Inspector,” he said, “what will you do now?”

Wright smiled indulgently, as if to say, Keep the visitors happy. “We shall pursue our inquiries,” he said.

“But how? Where shall you begin?” Dodgson persisted.

“That's our business, and we know it quite well,” Wright said.

“You have done nothing for twenty-four hours,” Dodgson retorted shrilly. “In that time, anything might have happened to that child!”

“If it had, I'm sure we would have heard of it by now,” Wright said soothingly. “Mr. Dodgson, if you please …”

“You know who I am?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

“Indeed, sir, you are well-known in this part of the world. My friends in the Eastbourne Constabulary have told me all about you. How much you like to befriend little girls, how you have them to stay with you.”

“Known to the …
police
?” Mr. Dodgson looked appalled. Dr. Doyle came to his rescue.

“Mr. Dodgson, I will escort you back to the Rector and Mrs. Barclay. You have had a rather busy day—and we can let the police do their work.”

This time, Mr. Dodgson allowed himself to be led away, around the corner and back onto the Grand Parade, that splendid boulevard that cut through the center of Brighton, from the Esplanade up to St. Peter's Church. As soon as they were out of the police station, Mr. Dodgson turned on his companion.

“Dr. Doyle, I have permitted you to accompany me to London, and I have taken tea with you, but perhaps it is time for you and I to part company and for you to return to your young wife. You are being far too persistent; sir, you are close to being pestilent! And furthermore …”

No one ever knew what furthermore would be. The three large men who had followed them through the streets emerged from the crowd and moved purposefully upon them. Dr. Doyle spotted them first.

“I think, sir, that you should come with me,” he said, grabbing the older man's elbow and steering him into the thick of the crowd.

“Why?”

“Because we are getting very close to someone who has gone to a great deal of trouble to involve you in this case, and those three men behind us are not there to ask you to autograph a copy of one of your books!” Dr. Doyle looked behind him. Two of the men were visible. Where was the third?

Mr. Dodgson tried to wrench himself away from his would-be protector. Instead, he ran into the third of the three large men in leather waistcoats who had followed them from Brighton Station. The bruiser grabbed him away from Dr. Doyle and held him by the lapels of his coat.

“What … what do you want?” Mr. Dodgson quavered.

“You should've left well enough alone,” growled the bruiser. “Now, you stay out of it.” He gave Mr. Dodgson a shake to emphasize the point.

“I am in it, as you see.” Mr. Dodgson tried to pull away.

“Leave him be!” Dr. Doyle shoved the tough away from the elderly scholar.

“Come on, then!” The bruiser beckoned, ready for a fight. Dr. Doyle took up the approved stance for boxing. The bruiser didn't wait, but swung at him, assuming that a young man in tweeds would be an easy mark.

The crowd parted at the sounds of a battle. Mr. Dodgson looked wildly about for assistance.

Dr. Doyle whirled about and landed a quick jab in his opponent's belly. The fighter went “Ooof!” at the sudden attack, and bent sharply at the waist. Bruiser number two joined the fight, aiming at Doyle's chin. The agile Scot dodged, and landed a blow on his opponent's chest. Number three swung around and started a roundhouse blow meant to leave Doyle unconscious. Instead, Doyle jabbed again at the bruiser and caught him in the throat.

By this time a blue-coated figure had noticed the commotion. Mr. Dodgson waved frantically to attract attention. The constable marched across the street and took up the regulation stance, arms akimbo, fists on hips, truculent stare meant to cow any hooligan who dared to disrupt the Saturday festivities.

“What's all this?” he demanded.

“These three men—” Mr. Dodgson began.

“What three men?” the constable asked.

“The ones who attacked us,” Mr. Dodgson said. “If it were not for Dr. Doyle—”

By this time the three bruisers had decided that their message had been delivered, and had vanished into the crowd.

“I don't see no attackers,” the constable said. “What I see is a pair of gentlemen who should know better, and at four in the afternoon, too!”

“We are not inebriated,” Mr. Dodgson assured him. “But we were followed from the railway station.”

“By three men. Yes, sir—Oh, it's you, Mr. Dodgson.” The constable touched his helmet respectfully.

“You know me?” Mr. Dodgson peered at the constable.