The Problem of the Missing Miss (16 page)

“I can think of no other way,” Dr. Doyle said.

“Then I will do it. Now, Mrs. Doyle, Dr. Doyle, you must accompany me to my friend, Mr. Barclay. He is the Rector of St. Peter's Church, and a most conscientious churchman. I believe that he even has contact with some of the more forceful members of the Evangelical community who work with the poor, and through them, we will be able to begin our search. I only hope that we are not too late, and that Miss Marbury will be returned to her family before the Sunday editions come out. Now, if you permit me, I believe that Mrs. Doyle will prefer traveling by cab. Let us go to the Queen's Road and take one, and pray that Miss Marbury has not been removed from her hiding place before we find her.”

CHAPTER 15

The cab that brought the Doyles and Mr. Dodgson to the door of the Rectory of St. Peter's was instantly claimed by a party threading its way through the front gate. Saturday was Mrs. Barclay's At Home, when any ecclesiastical visitors to Brighton might call and partake of tea, biscuits, and parochial gossip. As the cab trotted down the hill on the Grand Parade, another carriage took its place, disgorging three more ladies and a gentleman in the black suit and collar of the Church of England.

The butler, whose demeanor rivaled that of his master in ecclesiastical dignity, showed them all into the parlor, and announced, “Mr. Dodgson, Dr. Doyle, Mrs. Doyle, The Reverend Mr. Falwell, Mrs. Falwell, and the two Miss Falwells.”

Mr. Barclay and his wife welcomed the arrival of Mr. Dodgson and his guests with modified joy. The Rector had been in the throes of creation in his study, a book-lined cubbyhole under the eaves of the old house, when he had been summoned downstairs by his wife to attend to his duties as host. Mrs. Barclay was already serving tea to Lady Grenfell, Mrs. Wynne, and Miss Dulcie Wynne, all of whom stared at the modestly dressed Mrs. Doyle with undisguised curiosity. The addition of the Falwell family filled the parlor with females, and their attendant draperies made the Reverend Mr. Falwell fade into insignificance (a state of affairs quite common in the Falwell household).

“Charles!” Mrs. Barclay exclaimed, as the trio was led into the parlor by the supercilious butler. “We were worried about you. Why did you not remain in London?”

“Because my business is here,” Mr. Dodgson said. “You recall Dr. Doyle? Dicky Doyle's nephew, you know,” he added, to give his new friend some credence in society.

“Yes, of course. How do you do, Dr. Doyle?” Mrs. Barclay smiled briefly.

“And Mrs. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson completed the introductions. “Where is Henry? I must consult with him about …”

“Charles!” This time it was the Rector's turn to interrupt. He had obviously been writing; his fingers were stained with ink, and his hair was all on end.

“Mr. Barclay!” Mrs. Barclay warned him. “You are not properly dressed!”

The rotund churchman realized that he was in his shirtsleeves and shrugged. “No time for all that now, my dear,” he said, seizing Mr. Dodgson by the arm and leading him to the parlor door. “Charles, you must help me. I am rewriting my sermon for tomorrow, on the text of ‘Suffer the little children.' That should put them in the mood for the rally and protestation meeting!”

“Eh?” Mr. Dodgson eased out of his friend's grasp. “I thought … that is, you said …”

“I know, I know, we were considering such a meeting, but nothing was firm. Well, we have received permission from the borough to hold it on Monday, so as not to desecrate the Sabbath. Moreover, we may hold it on the grounds of the Royal Pavilion!” Mr. Barclay fairly radiated civic pride and righteous indignation in equal portions.

“How … how apt,” Dr. Doyle choked out, suddenly realizing the impact of the ornate palace, and the image of its previous tenants.

“And Lord Richard Marbury has agreed to speak,” the Rector added.

“Indeed! And when did this happen?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

“I received a message from him this afternoon.”

“Ah, Mr. Upshaw's been busy,” Dr. Doyle observed.

“Who?” Mr. Barclay fairly shoved the other two men toward the stairs to his study, leaving Mr. Falwell to drink tea in the parlor. “Charles, as a literary man you have a facility with words that I lack. I can preach a good, sound doctrine, but you, my old friend, can be of great assistance to me.”

“I am a mathematician,” Mr. Dodgson protested. He turned to Dr. Doyle. “Actually, my young friend here is the one with a taste for literature. Besides, he is the, er, secretary of the Liberal Unionist Club of Portsmouth. Do I have that correct?”

“Indeed, Mr. Dodgson, I didn't know you'd remembered.” Dr. Doyle looked troubled. “The thing of it is—I am not a member of your church.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Dodgson said, after a moment's thought. “Doyle is an Irish name. I should have deduced that you might be a Romanist. Well, no matter. Your thoughts on the subject are as worthy as anyone's.”

“I am not precisely a member of the Roman Church,” Dr. Doyle began, but Mr. Dodgson was ahead of him on the stairs. He flashed a smile to Touie, and followed the other men up to the Rector's private study, an attic cubicle filled with books, paper, a desk, chair, and ottoman. By the time Dr. Doyle arrived at this aerie, the Rector had lifted several piles of books off the chair and ottoman, and settled his visitors down for a chat.

Mr. Dodgson would not be settled. “Henry,” he said earnestly, “we have come to consult you on a matter of the gravest urgency. In fact, it is somewhat connected to this business of yours. We feel that Miss Alicia Marbury is being held somewhere in Brighton, perhaps in a—pardon my saying so—a …”

Dr. Doyle was more blunt. “To be frank, sir, a brothel.”

Mr. Barclay looked blank. “I can assure you, Charles, I have no idea where such places may be, in Brighton or anywhere else,” he protested. “Such persons are not part of my congregation. However,” he admitted, “it is all too possible that some of my congregation may, perhaps, have some acquaintance with them. It is for this reason that I am lending my support to the rally and protestation meeting.”

“Really, Henry, it is beneath the dignity of the Church to meddle in these matters,” Mr. Dodgson sputtered.

The Rector drew himself up to his full five feet six inches. “This is a matter of morality!” he pronounced. “I admit that Mr. Branwell, of the Methodist Chapel, and I have had our disagreements, on theological grounds. I do not approve of his doctrine, nor he of mine. In addition, I find General Booth's Salvation Army somewhat vulgar in its militaristic organization, although I applaud his efforts on behalf of the unfortunate victims of society. Nor am I usually on speaking terms with the representatives of the Church of Rome. However, on this matter we are all as one, and I have agreed to lend my support to theirs in an appeal to our members to cast aside Party lines and vote their consciences—assuming they have any!—on the Bill now before the House.”

Dr. Doyle had picked up one of the pages of Mr. Barclay's sermon and was reading it avidly. “Warm, sir. Very warm,” he commented.

“I hope so,” was the reply. “If these articles in the
Pall Mall Gazette
are even half true, there are dreadful things being done to young girls, and it is the business of the Church to stop them. Evil is evil, Charles, and as a churchman I am sworn to fight evil, even when it wears the robes of state!”

“Hear, hear!” Dr. Doyle applauded.

“Rather a good line, that?” Mr. Barclay scribbled it down, before it got away from him.

“Henry, do concentrate on my problem for a few minutes,” pleaded Mr. Dodgson. “I don't mean to imply that you are personally acquainted with these creatures, or that you frequent their haunts, but surely you must have heard some gossip, some clue as to where they may be encountered?”

Mr. Barclay thought deeply. “The neighborhood of Church Street, just off the Queen's Road, behind the Music Hall, is not a good one,” he said at last. “My wife considers it her duty to visit the poor, and even she avoids that particular street. If one were to look for a … a dubious establishment, one might begin there.”

He looked at his friend. Mr. Dodgson seemed to be in a trance, listening to some inner muse.

“Mr. Dodgson?” Dr. Doyle's voice broke through the fog of thought.

“I was trying to make sense of this ridiculous farrago,” Mr. Dodgson said. “If Mr. Upshaw did not inform my friend Barclay of Lord Richard's movements, then who did?”

“I received a telegram,” the Rector explained.

“Ah. Then no one named Upshaw has called here? No one by that name has left a message, on behalf of Lord Richard?” Mr. Dodgson pursued the thought.

“I can call Peters, my butler, and ascertain who, if anyone, has called,” Mr. Barclay said, puzzled.

“Please do,” Mr. Dodgson urged.

“You suspect this Upshaw, then?” Dr. Doyle asked.

“I do not like him, but not liking a man is no reason to accuse him of either abduction or murder. However, he is not telling the truth, or at least, the entire truth, about his movements, and clearly, Lord Richard has made a decision to act without consulting our ubiquitous Mr. Upshaw.”

The butler's ponderous footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Peters, has anyone calling himself Upshaw come to the house today?” the Rector demanded.

“No, sir. Mrs. Barclay's callers have been coming all afternoon. Then, there was the Saturday post; the person from the telegraph office with a message, and these gentlemen here.”

“No one else?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

“Except for the persons delivering bread and fish for the cook, no one.” The butler withdrew, mightily confused.

No less confused were Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle. “Curiouser and curiouser,” murmured Mr. Dodgson. “Are you sure this telegram came from Lord Richard Marbury?”

“I will look a pretty fool if it did not,” replied his friend. “I have already alerted our constabulary about the protestation meeting, and told them to have extra constables on duty to keep order. I have booked the rooms at the Old Ship for Lord Richard and Lady Patricia Marbury, for Monday night. And if he does not come, a large number of people will feel they have been cheated, and will undoubtedly vent their anger on me!”

“Do you happen to have the telegram to hand?” Dr. Doyle asked. Mr. Barclay sorted through the heap of papers on his desk and emerged with a familiar slip of yellow paper. Dr. Doyle examined it carefully.

“Mr. Barclay,” he said at last, “this telegram was not sent from London. Observe, the origin of the telegram is encoded here.” He indicated a line of type, with cryptic letters and numerals. “This telegram was sent from Brighton!”

“From Brighton? But why—why would anyone—”

“To do just as you said, make you look like a fool,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Henry, this is dreadful!”

“Just to be on the safe side,” Dr. Doyle suggested, “perhaps you had better wire for confirmation of Lord Richard's plans. The people behind this campaign are clever and devious.”

“Or frightened and clumsy,” Mr. Dodgson protested. “Otherwise, why remove the servant girl and the wretched old man who impersonated me?”

“Remove?” Mr. Barclay's voice rose to a squeak.

“We identified them at the police station this afternoon,” Mr. Dodgson said, with a visible shudder.

“It is possible,” said Dr. Doyle slowly, “that we are dealing with two people. One, who is clever, formulates the plans; the other, clumsy and frightened, must be the instrument.”

“Both are guilty, in the eyes of the law,” Mr. Dodgson declared.

“And of the Lord,” said the Rector piously.

“And both of them are holding Miss Marbury,” Dr. Doyle reminded them. “Well, Mr. Dodgson, now that we know where to look, we can make further plans. Mr. Barclay, shall we join the ladies for tea?”

Downstairs, Mrs. Doyle sat, scrutinized from head to foot by the sharp eyes of Mrs. Barclay and her guests. She was conscious of the condescension of Mrs. Barclay in having a mere physician's wife to tea at all, let alone one who was totally unknown to her, and not even of her parish. She was dressed in her tartan traveling dress, which was modest and serviceable, but not nearly as fashionable as the tea gowns worn by the other ladies. She sat very straight on the chair allotted to her, determined to further her husband's career socially as well as professionally.

“So,” Mrs. Barclay began, while the maid handed round a plate of biscuits. “Are you a very old friend of Mr. Dodgson?”

“Actually, my husband met him just yesterday,” Touie said, accepting the biscuit. “He is such a dear, sweet old gentleman.”

“Mr. Dodgson is a scholar of great repute,” Mrs. Barclay said icily. “He and the Rector were up together at Christ Church.”

“And is this your first visit to Brighton?” asked Mrs. Wynne, a delicate-looking matron, draped in a mauve dress.

“I have lived near Portsmouth nearly all my life,” Touie confessed. “Arthur—that is, my husband, Dr. Doyle—promised me a few days in Brighton before we settle down like Darby and Joan.”

“Indeed?” Lady Grenfell, a faded-looking blonde in pale yellow with darker yellow flowers on her bodice, raised her eyebrows.

“We were only married last week,” Touie added, with a faint blush of pride.

“A bride!” Mrs. Barclay smiled suddenly. “What an odd honeymoon for you, to be sure. Your husband seems to spend a good deal of time with Mr. Dodgson.”

“I am sure Arthur has a very good reason for his actions,” Touie said with spirit. “And Mr. Dodgson himself was very glad to have him near, when three dreadful ruffians set upon him! Arthur said they must have been sent by some villains he and Mr. Dodgson are pursuing.”

“Mr. Dodgson set upon!” Miss Dulcie, all ingenue pink frills and rosebuds, exclaimed.