The Problem of the Missing Miss (17 page)

“I do not think he would make up such a story,” Touie insisted.

“He does make up stories,” said one of the very young Miss Falwells. “He told me such a pretty story once, about two fairies in his garden. Of course, that was when I was quite a little girl,” she added.

“Mr. Dodgson may tell stories about fairies, and odd things in Wonderland, but not about brigands, or being set upon,” Touie said. “My Arthur does that. He has been published in
Cornhill
!”

Mrs. Barclay's attitude grew cold again. A bride could be smiled upon; the wife of a provincial practitioner who wrote stories for the popular Press could not.

The social impasse was broken when the husband himself arrived to rescue his bride from her persecutors, followed by the two clerical gentlemen. Mr. Barclay had resumed his black coat and clerical collar, and now looked every inch the proper representative of the Church of England. Dr. Doyle looked over the tea tray and approached his wife with a grin.

“Had a good tea, Touie?” he asked breezily.

“Mrs. Barclay has been most kind,” Touie said diplomatically.

Mrs. Barclay appraised Dr. Doyle and decided that she approved of him. His boyish smile and air of brisk authority made up for his deplorable taste in dress: tweeds were not quite the thing for Brighton. “Dr. Doyle, your wife has been most forthcoming about your adventures. You have been most active today. To London and back, and then saving our friend Mr. Dodgson from ruffians!”

Dr. Doyle tried to look modest. Behind him, Mr. Dodgson slipped into the room, while Mr. Barclay accepted a cup of tea from his wife and a biscuit from the tray.

“You have been most helpful, Dr. Doyle, but you must not let my affairs keep you from your honeymoon,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I shall remain here to assist with Mr. Barclay's sermon, and after dinner, I shall attempt to put our plan into action.”

“But—” Dr. Doyle looked crestfallen. “I had hoped to be able to see the thing through, to the bitter end!”

“I am perfectly capable of conducting my own affairs,” Mr. Dodgson muttered testily.

Mrs. Barclay assessed the situation. Apparently, there was only one way to be rid of Dr. Doyle, at least for a short time. She made the decision and announced, “Anyone who saves our old friend, Mr. Dodgson, from ruffians, must dine with us. You will, of course, wish to return to your lodgings and dress.”

“That is quite kind of you, ma'am, but …”

“No buts about it. You will be expected at seven o'clock. And please, leave Mr. Dodgson to take some rest here with us. You have been running him all over the countryside!”

Dr. Doyle looked baffled, but the butler was behind him, and he could not withstand such a monumental force. Touie and her husband were outside the Rectory door before either of them could protest.

Mr. Dodgson sat down in the chair recently vacated by Touie.

“What a very odd person that Doyle is, to be sure,” Mrs. Falwell commented. “Mrs. Barclay, you are kindness itself, having him and his wife to tea. And dinner as well? Are you sure?” Her eyebrows arched delicately, indicating the unspoken question of social status.

“Any friend of Mr. Dodgson must be acceptable to us,” Mrs. Barclay pronounced.

The Reverend Mr. Falwell edged forward. “Have you heard anything further, Henry? About the protestation meeting?”

Mr. Barclay frowned. “I must confirm the information, but I was told that Lord Richard Marbury would speak. And Mr. Branwell has asked General Booth …”

The Falwell ladies made noises of distaste. Lady Grenfell frowned her disapproval.

“General Booth is undoubtedly a Godly man,” Mr. Falwell ventured, in the face of so much female disapprobation.

“And he is a most forceful speaker,” Mr. Barclay added. “His presence will draw attention to our Cause.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Barclay soothed him.

Lady Grenfell set down her cup. Mrs. Wynne beckoned her daughter to her side. Good manners demanded that they end their visit, no matter how fascinating the subject of conversation might be.

“Perhaps we should take advantage of the good weather,” Mrs. Falwell pronounced.

“Of course, my dear,” her husband said. He turned to his host. “We shall return, and dine with you. There is much to be done before the protestation meeting.”

“Thank you, sir, for your support.”

Peters showed them out, to Mr. Dodgson's evident relief.

“Now, Charles,” Mrs. Barclay said, “you must sit down and have some tea. That energetic young doctor has nearly worn you down.”

“What is wearing me down, Margaret, is worry. Where is Miss Alicia, and who has her?”

“Really, Charles, you take too much upon yourself. I am sure the police are quite capable of finding her.”

“But will they do it?” Mr. Dodgson fretted. “Will they? And will they find her before …?” He left the young lady's fate hanging before the horrified imaginations of his friends.

“It is the child's parents who have my prayers,” Mrs. Barclay said piously. “They must be beside themselves with worry.”

“Lord Richard has done what he feels is right,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I only hope that he has not made matters worse!”

CHAPTER 16

Four o'clock—the sacred hour of teatime! All over Brighton the urns were bubbling as holidaymakers repaired to their lodgings to ingest scones, crumpets, biscuits, and, of course, tea. Sunburned children were slicked and scrubbed, changed into white frocks or pseudo-naval outfits, and brought into the back parlors for their meal, while on the verandas of the Old Ship and the Grand Hotel, elegant ladies and gentlemen consumed exotic pastries while they inhaled the fragrance of oolong.

In London, the furious Parliamentary conferences were disbanded, while those members who had been summoned so hastily by Lord Richard Marbury went back to their own abodes for their ritual, cursing at having had to leave the hills of Scotland or the bracing breezes of the Isle of Wight to be forced back into the town houses that had been draped in linen covers for the summer.

Lord Richard himself arrived in Grosvenor Square to find his wife in the hall, obviously just having come in from paying calls, puzzling over a sheaf of telegrams on the tray handed to her by the supercilious Farnham.

Lord Richard allowed his butler to relieve him of his hat and stick as he strode back toward his
sanctum sanctorum
at the end of the hallway.

“Richard!” Lady Pat called after him. “Shall I tell Jennings to lay out your traveling kit?”

“Whatever for? I'm needed here in London,” Lord Richard said testily. “Where is Upshaw?”

“This telegram is from the Reverend Mr. Barclay, in Brighton,” Lady Pat followed him to his study, waving the paper at him. “He seems to think you have agreed to come down and speak at some sort of protestation rally, in support of your Bill.”

“Did I?” Lord Richard asked absently.

“I'm sure I don't know. Your Mr. Upshaw is in charge of your political schedule.” A thought struck her. “Do you suppose this has something to do with that extraordinary business of Alicia and Mr. Dodgson?”

“When is this meeting to be held?” Lord Richard asked.

“Monday evening,” Lady Pat said, consulting the telegram once again. “Mr. Barclay has bespoken rooms for us for Monday night at the Old Ship Hotel.”

“We shall go,” Lord Richard decided. “If Alicia has not been found by then, I shall have to take steps myself.”

He marched militantly into his study and approached the typewriter. With the same air of determination that his grandfather had assumed at Waterloo, he sat down to compose his missive. “Farnham!”

The butler appeared at the door to the study. “Yes, my lord?”

Lord Richard was pecking enthusiastically away at his typewriter. “Have this telegram sent immediately to Mr. Barclay in Brighton. Lady Pat and I will go to Brighton on Sunday afternoon, before the protestation meeting, to complete the program. Our rooms must be booked for Sunday as well as Monday evening. Where's Upshaw? He usually makes these arrangements.”

“Mr. Upshaw is still in Brighton,” Farnham said. “If you wish, I shall see to the tickets. I will also bespeak the rooms for you and Lady Richard.”

Lady Pat appeared at the door to the study and gazed at her husband. “Richard, all this is very sudden, Of course you must attend this … this protestation rally, and I very much want to be in Brighton when Alicia is found, but must I attend the meeting as well?”

“I … certainly. I would very much like you to support me in this. Mrs. Gladstone attends her husband's meetings.”

“Mrs. Gladstone is made of sterner stuff than I,” Lady Pat said. “Oh, Richard, promise me one thing. Promise me that you will not … use … Alicia.”

Lord Richard's outrage reverberated through the house. “Pat! What do you think of me!”

“I think you are a political animal,” she said. “If it would help your Cause, you would sacrifice our daughter's reputation. Well, Richard, I won't have it. Those jackals of the Press are waiting out there, to make her life a misery. You have no idea how dreadful they can be. I remember, after the Inquiry, when Papa's conduct was in question … and later, when Ned had his difficulties.…” Her eyes filled with tears. “Richard, you will not let Alicia's name get into the Press, will you?”

Lord Richard's long face grew longer. “I will do my best. Perhaps you should not come with me after all.”

“But I must,” Lady Pat told him. “If … when they find Alicia, she will need Nanny Marsh, and Nanny will not go to Brighton alone. Besides, dear, it will sit well with your constituents.” She dropped a kiss on her husband's brow. “And don't forget, we are dining with the Northrops at eight.”

“Should we … I mean …?”

“You wonder that I should continue my social obligations when my child is in danger? Oh, Richard, I only wish I could go to her immediately, but I cannot, and Lord Northrop is in town for your Bill. We dare not cry off, not at the last minute. Those reporters will think something is wrong, and we don't want that. No, dear, we will dine at the Northrops and then go down to Brighton tomorrow night.”

With that, Lady Pat removed herself to her boudoir, and Lord Richard sent more telegrams and wondered where Upshaw was.

Teatime meant the change of shift at the John Street Police Station. Constables who had spent the day strolling up and down the Esplanade or meandering through the shops on King Street or standing at the entrance to the pier could relieve themselves of their heavy woolen tunics and cumbersome helmets and become private citizens once again, free to take themselves back to their own hearths, where they could have their suppers of fried fish or steak and kidney pie. The day's crop of petty thieves and pickpockets would be stored in the cells on the second story of the station, awaiting the ministrations of the magistrate on Monday morning.

In the dressing room, the evening shift was coming on as the day shift was leaving. It was Sergeant Barrow of the evening shift who found young Constable Corrigan staring at something in his hand.

“Eh, what's that you've got there, lad?”

“I found it in King Street,” Corrigan said. He had not been on the force very long, but he had already learned that Sergeant Barrow was not a man to cross. When he asked a question, it was best to answer it, briefly.

“King Street?” Barrow's face creased in a frown. “A fine piece of work like that? No jewelers' shops in King Street, not on your beat, Corrigan.”

“It was in front of that green house.”

Barrow's face began to darken, like the beginnings of a thunderstorm. “You've no need to question anyone in that house,” he rumbled.

“I didn't,” Corrigan protested. “It was some servant girl, a maid, I think. She threw it at me. Sergeant, could this have anything to do with that old gentleman what was looking for a girl? I saw him leaving just as I was going off last night, and today he's back again, with that chap with the red mustache …” Corrigan's voice trailed off.

“Young coppers should mind their own business,” Barrow roared out. “Don't you go a-borrowing trouble, Corrigan! You leave this matter to me.”

“But I think …”

“You're not paid to think!” Barrow's scorn could wither a tree in full bloom.

Corrigan held on to his prize. “With respect, sir, I want to tell Inspector Wright about this.”

“What's amiss?” It was the day sergeant, Hartley, come up behind them.

Corrigan stood up straight. “I wish to report, as per orders, an occurrence in King Street,” he recited. He showed the locket and chain once again.

Hartley and Barrow exchanged stares. Then Hartley said softly, “Barrow, if Corrigan has something, and that man from the Yard finds out you've kept it from him, I wouldn't give tuppence for your hide. All your fine friends on the Council won't back you, not this time. There's murder involved, Barrow. Think on it.”

Barrow thought on it. Then he told Corrigan, “Follow me, lad. Show your little trinket. And hold your tongue about aught else!”

Inspectors Wright and MacRae had retired to Wright's private offices where the two could size each other up, like two players before the Big Game. Wright had the height and gloss; MacRae was pugnacious and determined. They eyed each other carefully, neither quite trusting the other's abilities.

Inspector Wright, with the home field advantage, began the polite hostilities. “A nasty business, these deaths,” he commented. “Not the sort of thing we go in for here in Brighton.”

“The young girl could have been an accident,” MacRae pointed out. “Crowds, railway trains, cloak blowing. But young Doyle may be right about the old man—is it a murder, do you think?” MacRae looked about for a chair, and found none, since Wright had appropriated the one behind the desk.