The Problem of the Missing Miss (18 page)

“He certainly seems to think so.” Wright sniffed.

“He and that professor friend of his seem to believe that both deaths are connected to the Marbury child's disappearance,” MacRae said. “There's no evidence that they are.”

“And none that they are not,” Wright said slowly. “What would you do at the Yard, eh?”

MacRae stiffened. “We go by the book: question the known suspects.”

“We haven't any,” Wright pointed out. “Oh, I'm not saying we don't have whores in Brighton; we do. But we keep 'em in their place, which is Church Street, and Queen's Road. Girls found off their patch get a fine. We leave the prize-hunting to the ladies, Gawd bless 'em!”

MacRae's eyes glittered behind his spectacles, but he said nothing. Wright nodded wisely. “Y'see, MacRae, in a place like Brighton, the rule is, the punters come first. The Council and the Mayor don't like to have the visitors disturbed by riffraff. They want Brighton to be kept safe. Which is why we aren't about to let those hounds of the Press know what's down in our little morgue, at least not until we can catch the one who did 'em in.”

“And what have you done to catch him?” MacRae demanded.

“I've had my men out, on their beats, looking for anything funny.”

“And …” MacRae leaned over Wright's desk.

“So far, nothing to report,” Wright admitted. “Someone's being clever.”

“Or someone's being diddled!” MacRae shot out. “You should have called us in as soon as the girl was brought in.”

Wright stood up. “Now see here,” he protested. “That girl wasn't brought in until five o'clock last night. She isn't cold but a day! It's Saturday! You saw the kind of help we get, with everyone on holiday.”

His attention was distracted by a deferential knock at the door. Sergeant Barrow's broad face appeared, with young Constable Corrigan behind him.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the sergeant rumbled. “This young sprig thinks 'e 'as sommat of importance.”

Wright glanced at MacRae and settled down into his chair again. “Yes, Constable?”

Young Corrigan stepped forward, horribly conscious of his impertinence in approaching the higher-ups directly instead of through the proper intermediaries.

“I was walking my beat, which is King Street,” he said, his eyes fixed on the portrait of the Queen placed directly above Inspector Wright's head. “I had been checking the shops which was closed, to ascertain if all was well …”

“Get on with it,” muttered Barrow.

MacRae had had more experience with nervous underlings. “And was all well?”

“In the shops? Nothing to report there, sir.”

“Then why come to me?” Wright snapped.

“It was the green house—that is, the building in King Street, which, as I understand it, is let for the season to a Miss Harmon,” Corrigan said.

MacRae's eyes took on a new light. “Harmon?” he repeated.

“You know the name?” Wright pounced on him.

“It has come to my attention,” MacRae admitted. “Go on, Constable. What about this green house in King Street.”

Corrigan was horribly conscious of Sergeant Barrow's eyes boring into his back. He licked his lips nervously and began again. “I know that house is none of my business—that is, Sergeant Barrow said, so long as it's quiet and respectable, it's no affair of mine who goes in or out …” He stopped, miserably.

Wright and MacRae were glaring at the burly sergeant, who was rapidly turning maroon with embarrassment.

“My orders was … that is, Mr. Carstairs, of the Council, said …” the sergeant sputtered.

Wright's voice was glacial. “I can imagine what Mr. Carstairs said. He said as much to me. Well, Corrigan? What singular matter made you break this pact of silence concerning the green house on King Street?”

“This, sir.” Corrigan thrust his hand out. From it dangled the fine gold chain and locket tossed at his feet by a very small and frightened slavey named Kitty.

MacRae grabbed for the locket before either Wright or Barrow could get it. “Very fine,” he pronounced. “Aha? What have we here? The Marbury crest, as I live and breathe! And how do you suppose this got into the green house on King Street that you're not supposed to know about?”

Corrigan cleared his throat. “The servant what … that tossed it to me said, ‘She's in here,' and ran away before I could speak further with her.”

“Which would indicate that Miss Marbury is being held in that house,” Inspector MacRae stated.

“Not so fast,” Wright countered. “What happened then?”

“Nothing,” Corrigan said. “That is, nothing out of the ordinary. Miss Harmon came down the street and asked if all was well, and I told her that I had heard a cat.”

Barrow snorted in the background. Corrigan stood his ground. “And there was a cat on the dustbins.”

“How providential,” Wright murmured. “Was there anything about the house that might lead you to suspect foul play within?”

Corrigan reddened. “No, sir. All quiet, sir. Just the young ladies.”

“Young ladies?” MacRae asked sharply.

Corrigan turned to the man from Scotland Yard. “Yes, sir. The house is let to Miss Harmon for the season, her and her young ladies. I've seen them from time to time. Very nice young ladies, too, sir,” he added, growing more expansive under MacRae's approving stare and disregarding the growing volcano behind him.

“You're day shift,” Barrow hissed. “When did you see Miss Harmon's young ladies?”

“I've met them when they take their morning walks,” Corrigan said. “I was told Miss Harmon keeps a school or some such, and that I wasn't to take no … any notice if a carriage should appear and stay in front of that house for over-long, since it might well be someone visiting a relation in that house.”

MacRae's eyes were positively glittering behind his spectacles. “Very observant, my lad. You'll go far!”

“He's already gone too far,” muttered Barrow.

Wright read the omens correctly. Young Corrigan had better be seconded away from Barrow's vindictive reach as soon as possible. Meanwhile, there was the matter of the green house in King Street to be dealt with.

“Thank you, Corrigan,” Inspector Wright said. “You are dismissed.”

“That's all?” Corrigan looked baffled.

“We will act on your information,” Wright promised him.

With that, Corrigan had to be satisfied. Barrow, on the other hand, was ready to take further action. Wright forestalled him.

“Sergeant Barrow,” he called, “will you remain for a moment?”

Barrow watched balefully as Corrigan made his escape. Then he turned to his superiors. “Yes, sir?” he asked warily.

“What do you know of this house in King Street?” MacRae snapped out.

“What young Corrigan said. Let for the season to Miss Harmon. Quiet during the day.”

“And no one in King Street is to make complaints at night,” Wright finished for him. “An odd location for a girls' school, isn't it?”

Barrow stared stonily at the Queen's portrait. “I couldn't say, sir.”

“And yet you are considered to be the authority on such matters,” Wright said silkily. “Very well, Barrow. You may return to your post at the desk.”

Barrow trudged out, leaving his superiors gloating at each other.

Inspector Wright turned to his London visitor. “According to
A Guide to Brighton,
‘King Street contains small shops, of no interest to any but residents'.”

MacRae took off his spectacles in an excess of emotion and wiped them off on his handkerchief, extracted from his jacket pocket. Once they were affixed back on his nose, he regarded Inspector Wright with gleeful anticipation. “Inspector Wright, I think an expedition is called for.”

Wright frowned. “Getting a warrant at this time of night, on a Saturday …”

“Oh, I wasn't planning anything more than a fishing expedition,” MacRae said. “A respectable gentleman, out for some, um, pleasure? Heard of Miss Harmon's by way of a friend?”

Wright nodded. “No one here knew you were coming,” he mused. “You've not been seen on the streets in the company of the police. You know, MacRae, it just might work. I will station some reliable men outside, in case you find the chit, and we can close this case by the time that wretched protestation rally begins on Monday night.”

“Eh?” MacRae's eyebrows quirked in interrogation.

Wright sighed. “It's those articles in the
Pall Mall Gazette
. They've got the civilians so worked up that they're staging some sort of gathering for Monday night, a protestation rally, with Lord Richard Marbury himself as principal speaker, if you can believe the notification I was handed this afternoon. I'm to provide extra constables to control the crowds they expect.”

MacRae smiled. For the first time he felt a kinship with his fellow officer. “Cheer up,” he counseled. “With any luck, it'll rain, and the whole matter will be done with. Now, where can I get a decent plate of fish and chips in this town? As long as I'm in Brighton, I might as well enjoy myself.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Wright asked, as they descended the stairs.

“As long as it takes, sir,” MacRae said. “I've got lodgings waiting, in case I have to remain for your protestation meeting.”

“In that case, Inspector, I think you'd better go there. We'll keep your presence here as quiet as possible. I don't like to think it of my men, but there's always the chap who talks in his pub.”

“And keep an eye on Barrow,” MacRae added. “Not that I'd accuse any officer of neglecting his duty,” he said hastily, before Wright could utter the reproof that was obviously trembling on his lips, “but this Harmon woman's been linked to Mrs. Jeffries, and that one's got fingers in every pie in England—and a few across the Channel, if my information's right.”

Inspector Wright nodded. “Have your tea, and meet me at, say, eight o'clock, in King Street. I think Miss Harmon's going to have a busy night.”

CHAPTER 17

Saturday night in Brighton marked the height of the week's festivities. By eight o'clock, the dining room of the Old Ship was full of ladies and gentlemen (or so their attire proclaimed them) in full evening dress: the gentlemen's black coats and white shirtfronts gleaming in the gaslight, while their female partners glittered with jewels on necks, ears, wrists, and fingers, dining on quail in aspic, or lobster Thermidore, washed down with champagne. In more modest establishments, lodgers were served local fish, boiled, broiled, or baked, accompanied by potatoes fried, boiled, or mashed, washed down with beer, ale, or local cider.

On the piers, the aroma of frying fish overpowered that of the seaweed left by the tide. Under the gaslight, shopgirls out for the day giggled as brash young office clerks sought their acquaintance. Sailors off their ships and soldiers away from camp vied with the would-be gentlemen for the attentions of the young women.

The Pavilion had been requisitioned by the visiting Philharmonic Orchestra, for a Concert featuring the ultra-modern symphony by Herr Doktor Brahms, as well as the more familiar strains of Mozart and Mendelssohn. There sat the resolutely chaperoned young ladies, whose eagle-eyed mamas were all too willing to sum up the approaching young gentlemen as either eligible marriage fodder or ineligible bounders.

All over Brighton, people were dining, or preparing to be entertained, or both. At St. Peter's Rectory, the Reverend Mr. Barclay and his wife had requested the honor of the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Falwell and their charming daughters; Mr. Dodgson; the Reverend Mr. Youghall (of Hampshire, visiting Brighton); Mr. Donaldson (of St. Margaret's Church, Brighton) and his wife; and, to round out the table, Dr. Doyle and Mrs. Doyle, whose last-minute invitation had nearly sent the cook into a conniption fit.

The young couple were sensible of the great honor being done them, and had dressed accordingly. Dr. Doyle wore the dress suit in which he had so recently exchanged vows with his beloved, while she was clad in her peach-colored wedding dress, garnished with a wreath of artificial roses. Their presence lightened the atmosphere immensely. Apparently, the Rector had invited as many of his vacationing colleagues as he could find to partake of his baked cod, summer vegetables, new strawberries, and appropriate wines (since Mr. Barclay had no qualms about alcohol). The conversation initially tended to the parochial, and the scholarly, but Dr. Doyle's lively Scottish wit soon had the gentlemen smiling, even if the more censorious ladies restrained themselves.

Mr. Dodgson partook of dinner silently, while Dr. Doyle enlivened the conversation with accounts of his adventures as a seafarer. “… And since I was so desperately homesick, I returned,” he concluded.

“Fascinating!” Mr. Barclay said. “I suppose your love of the sea led you to Portsmouth, then?”

The young doctor shook his head in mock embarrassment. “I must confess, sir, I was not led to Portsmouth, I was mis-led.” He laughed at his own wit. “A friend of mine was in practice here, and he invited me to join him. It was not a particularly happy idea. He left the town and the practice, and I got—” He looked at his wife, who blushed becomingly.

“Indeed.”

Mrs. Barclay glanced over at Touie, who was suddenly aware of her social duty. As the new bride, it was up to her to lead the ladies out. She smiled at Mrs. Barclay and carefully rose to her feet. Mrs. Barclay and the other ladies followed her lead, while the gentlemen shifted in their seats. Touie cast a beseeching look over her shoulder at her husband, as if to urge him to finish his port and cigar and come to her rescue as quickly as possible. Dr. Doyle, on the other hand, was in no particular hurry to leave.

“Now that the ladies are out of the room,” Mr. Barclay said, as the butler set the port on the table, “we may discuss the matter that brings us together.”