The Problem of the Missing Miss (19 page)

“The protestation meeting,” said Mr. Falwell, with great satisfaction.

“Precisely. It is, I agree, a most delicate subject, but one that we must face. Presently, Mr. Branwell, of the Methodist Chapel …”

There was a noise from Mr. Youghall. Mr. Barclay ignored it.

“There will be some who decry the participation of Dissenters, but, gentlemen, it is they who are at the forefront of this campaign, and we must not allow them to steal a march on us, to use the military term.”

“Considering that Mr. Booth is planning on attending, the military term may be appropriate,” Mr. Falwell said, with a brief laugh. “He may call himself a General if he chooses, but that does not give him a commission.”

Mr. Barclay waved General Booth's credentials away as being of no importance. “He is collecting signatures for a petition to be presented to Parliament,” Mr. Barclay stated. “He and his good wife have asked that we allow them to set up a booth at our meeting, and I am of the opinion that we should do so.”

“And where is this meeting to be held?” Mr. Youghall asked.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Carstairs, representing the Borough Council, will look in on us later this evening. I have obtained permission from the borough to use the grounds of the Royal Pavilion, if it is fair, or the Grand Saloon inside the Pavilion if it rains.”

“Quite sporting of them,” Dr. Doyle commented. “And who else, besides General Booth and his Salvationists, will be present?”

“I have received confirmation that Lord Richard Marbury will, indeed, address the meeting,” the Rector said with pride. “That, alone, should bring out a crowd. Now, gentlemen, what I would like you to do is to inform your congregants of the meeting during your various services tomorrow, and join with me in support of the Criminal Amendment Bill.”

Mr. Youghall frowned at his colleague. “That is a great deal to ask, sir,” he said. “I have already written my sermon for tomorrow. Besides, I am not at all certain that the Church has any business meddling in political affairs.”

“This is not political!” Mr. Barclay was on his feet. “This is a matter of morality, young man! If you will not preach, at least lend your countenance to our efforts by sitting on the platform in support.”

“That, sir, I will consider.” Young Mr. Youghall helped himself to port. Mr. Barclay turned to his old friend.

“Charles, you will sit on the platform, will you not?”

Mr. Dodgson had sipped at his port, his thoughts adrift. Now he seemed to wake up from a nap. “Eh?”

“I asked, Charles, if you will appear at the protestation meeting on Monday evening,” the Rector repeated.

“I? Oh, no, certainly not. I am not a clergyman. I could not feel worthy of Orders.”

“But you are a noted literary figure,” Dr. Doyle urged him.

“I am a mathematician and professor of logic,” Mr. Dodgson corrected him. “I never speak in public.”

“But you have delivered a sermon,” Mr. Barclay reminded him.

“To a very small group of young ladies,” Mr. Dodgson said.

“And you will read the lesson at the eleven o'clock service tomorrow,” Mr. Barclay added.

“In my capacity as Deacon,” Mr. Dodgson agreed. “But, Henry, much as I approve of the terms of this Bill, I cannot sit on your platform. Besides, you will have far better speakers than I, what with General Booth and Lord Richard Marbury to hand.”

“I sincerely hope you have the cooperation of the police,” Mr. Falwell said. “There is an element—” He shook his head broodingly. “When we arrived in Brighton, my wife and I and our daughters were forced to pass certain unfortunate creatures on the Queen's Road, whose very existence is a disgrace to womankind.”

“Precisely the sort of thing this Bill is trying to stop,” Mr. Barclay told him.

“On the Queen's Road, did you say?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

The mournful-looking clergyman regarded him with suspicious eyes. “Is that of importance, sir?”

Dr. Doyle took over. “Only as a curiosity, sir. When I was a medical student in Edinburgh, I noticed that certain streets seem to be set aside for such, um, activities. No doubt it is easier for the police to keep an eye on those women, and their, um …”

“Yes,” Mr. Barclay harumphed. “I have heard that the area behind the Music Hall is used for immoral purposes, but of course, I would have no knowledge at first hand of such matters.”

“Of course not,” Dr. Doyle said.

“Then we may join the ladies,” Mr. Barclay said, leaving the port for the butler to remove.

The situation in the parlor had become distinctly cool. Mrs. Barclay and Mrs. Falwell were deep in a discussion of parish charities. The two Miss Falwells were trying to play the piano. Touie was left alone on a chair, with neither music nor conversation to divert her. Only Mrs. Donaldson, a motherly soul of vast kindness and vaster proportions, tried to initiate some sort of rapport.

“Is this your first visit to Brighton?” Mrs. Donaldson asked, as if she were the first to do so,

“I have spent most of my life in Portsmouth,” Touie answered. “My brother and I …” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Donaldson produced a fine handkerchief.

Touie used it, then said, “I'm sorry. It's only been a year since we lost him. Arthur—that is, Dr. Doyle—was the attending physician in the case.”

“How romantic!” squeaked the eldest Miss Falwell from the piano.

“And so you are on your honeymoon,” gushed the younger Miss Falwell.

“It seems you are spending very little time with your bridegroom,” Mrs. Barclay put in censoriously.

“Arthur is assisting Mr. Dodgson,” Touie said loyally. Before anyone could ask what her husband was assisting Mr. Dodgson with, he appeared at the parlor door, with the rest of the gentlemen. “Oh, Arthur,” she greeted her husband, grateful for someone else to talk to. “Mrs. Barclay and Mrs. Falwell have been discussing their efforts on behalf of the poor children of their parishes.”

“Most commendable,” Mr. Dodgson said faintly.

“Yes, indeed, but we must be off,” Dr. Doyle said abruptly. “We have to find—”

“Oh, of course.” Touie blushed. “Perhaps you had better take me back to our lodgings, then, before you continue your search.”

“Oh, what are you looking for?” asked the younger Miss Falwell. “Is it a treasure hunt?”

“Of a sort,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But it is a hidden treasure.”

Mr. Barclay looked worried. “Charles,” he said, drawing his friend out into the hallway, while Dr. Doyle and his wife were assisted into their evening wraps, “you are not planning to search for that child tonight?”

“I must,” Mr. Dodgson said, clutching his friend's arm as much for physical support as moral.

“Do not let that Dr. Doyle lead you into danger with his ambition to make a name for himself,” Mr. Barclay warned. “And I shall wait up for you.”

“Thank you, Henry.” Mr. Dodgson took his hat and walked after his protégés. “I only hope that we shall find the child quickly, and that she is not harmed in the process.”

Mr. Barclay followed the two of them down the path to Trafalgar Street, and let his butler find a cab on the Grand Parade while his dinner guests waited indoors.

“Charles, I still think you should let the police handle this matter,” he said, finally.

“I would, if I had more confidence in their ability,” Mr. Dodgson countered. “Dr. Doyle seems to think that we may find some answers to our questions on Church Street. As soon as we have seen Mrs. Doyle safely to their lodgings, we shall make those inquiries. And then, Henry, we may be able to rouse the police to do their duty!”

CHAPTER 18

That Saturday night in Brighton was perfect for seekers of diversion. In spite of the sea breeze that was beginning to wreathe the beaches and Esplanade with mist, the weather held fair enough so that strollers would not be inconvenienced. The Theatre Royal was showing Mr. Henry Irving that night, in his renowned production of
Hamlet.
There was a full bill at the Music Hall, including Mr. George Grossmith (on loan from the D'Oyly Carte Company, one night only). Buskers, street musicians, and Punch and Judy all were out in full force, since they depended on a clear Saturday night to “make the nut,” and pay for the following week's food and board, not to mention gin, beer, and rum.

Even more than the performers, the women (and a few young men) who strutted along Church Street were hoping for a good haul on Saturday. Weekdays might be dreary; Sunday was impossible. Friday gave promise, but Saturday was the time for a woman to take in a week's income—and Heaven help her if she did not, for no one else would!

Those Brighton streetwalkers who operated along the Queen's Road, that well-traveled route from the railway station to the more fashionable haunts of the Esplanade and Marine Parade, were subject to some annoyance from the constabulary. A girl could not actually stand on the Queen's Road, but had to be in a doorway or window. Church Street, which led from Queen's Road to North Street, was a narrow, cobbled street lined with two-story houses, most of which had flyblown signs in the windows advertising
ROOMS TO LET
. No one ever let the rooms for more than an hour at a time, and none of the letters of rooms ever considered taking in an unsolicited boarder. Taverns filled the ground floors of those houses, where young (and not-so-young) men could find a glass of ale, or something stronger. Behind the counters of the bars stood stout middle-aged persons of either sex, who were all too willing to recommend a friendly, clean, and willing young woman to a gentleman who offered a half-crown (or sometimes less) for the information.

Church Street was gaslit, but the lamplighters made sure to be well away before the night settled in. Under the lamps strolled women, young and old, full-fleshed and scrawny, with hair that varied in shade from the palest of blond to the darkest of jet (with some assistance from the new chemical dyes hawked in the back pages of the newspapers). Their charms were displayed in second-hand finery, culled from the leavings of ladies' maids, who could no longer be seen in their mistress's once-fashionable attire. Low-cut chemises revealed bosoms that were never used for suckling purposes; ankles were barely hidden by flounded petticoats; waists were cinched in by bodices and corsets to impossible dimensions.

To the sight of all this pulchritude were added the sounds of soprano and alto voices, calling, cajoling, enticing, promising the passerby “a good time, ducky,” or “a jolly go,” with no mention of the probable aftereffects: robbery, shame, or a dose of clap.

Church Street was patrolled by two constables, one at each end of the road, whose main function appeared to be to keep the women in their place, away from the higher-class tarts on the Esplanade. They studiously ignored the men who strolled along the road, while the men pretended they were only out to take the air (redolent with cheap perfume and gin). Gentlemen in evening dress, city chaps in suits, country fellows in shirts and waistcoats, soldiers in red coats and sailors in dress blues, all came to Church Street, looking for companionship, or its nearest equivalent.

To this salubrious locale came Dr. Doyle, with a shrinking Mr. Dodgson at his side. They were left off at the Music Hall by a cabby who gave them a knowing wink. “I can be back in an hour,” the cabby promised. “That should do for the old gent. As for you, young feller, you might want to go a little longer!”

“One hour will do very well,” Dr. Doyle said. “Remain at this location, and there will be a crown in it for you.”

“Good enough,” the cabby said, with a flourish of his whip. He joined the queue at the Music Hall end of Church Street.

Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson were left to the tender mercies of the police constable, who carefully looked across the street as they peered around the corner to survey the territory. The elderly scholar eyed the scene with evident distaste.

“I do not think I can do this, Dr. Doyle,” he confessed.

“It's not a pleasant sight,” Dr. Doyle agreed. “Those poor women, forced into a life of shame.”

“And those men!” Mr. Dodgson shuddered. “Open depravity! No, Dr. Doyle, I must reconsider our plan of action. Perhaps you should go ahead of me. Heavens!” He peered into the street, now beginning to be wreathed in mist. “I believe I recognize that man!”

“I sincerely hope no one of our acquaintance is here!” Dr. Doyle said fervently.

“What would people think if I were to be seen in such a … a disgraceful location?” Mr. Dodgson fussed. “No, no, I must not be here. You will have to continue your researches by yourself, Dr. Doyle. At least, as a young man, and a medical man at that, you have some excuse for your presence. Only the worst inferences will be drawn if I … Oh, dear me!” Mr. Dodgson tried to pull his hat over his face as he scanned the street ahead of him.

“What is it?”

“Is that not Mr. Kinsale? I thought we left him in London.”

“What?” Dr. Doyle poked his head around the corner, then ducked back. “I do believe you are right, Mr. Dodgson. I suppose it is not surprising, given his reputation, that Roaring Ned Kinsale should patronize these, um, women, but his presence in Brighton is unusual. I was under the impression that his interests lay in London.”

“Whatever shall we do? If he recognizes us …”

“He appears to be questioning some of those women.”

Indeed, Ned Kinsale, in well-cut but carelessly worn evening dress, was chatting with two girls, whose age could have been anything from fifteen to fifty under their heavy cosmetics.

Doyle and Dodgson crept nearer, hoping to catch some of the dialogue.

“Pretty girls like you shouldn't be out on the streets this late at night,” Kinsale chaffed them.

“And were you planning to put us to bed, then?” The one with the red hair leaned against him, leaving streaks of powder across his white shirtfront.