The Problem of the Missing Miss (20 page)

“And if I was, where would we go?”

“Just across the street, love. I've got a nice little room.”

“Ah, but suppose you're not the one I'm looking for?” Kinsale's voice eased into the Irish brogue.

The girl pouted. “I'm sure I can make you happy, sir.”

“Perhaps. But I'm looking for someone special, someone with red hair.”

The girl laughed and teased him with the red curl that escaped over her shoulders.

“He wants hair that don't come out of a bottle,” the other girl sniped. “True carrots is hard to find, sir.”

“I hear there's one place … a house.” Kinsale's voice dropped. “Just the sort of place a pretty pair like you might find work in. Somewhere where the girls are”—he leered—“girls.”

The redhead shrugged. “I don't know nothing about a place like that,” she said. Behind her, a tall man in a black velveteen jacket worn over a red silk shirt, open at the neck and tied round with a black scarf, materialized.

“Here, yer lordship, stop wasting the girl's time. Take the offer, or find someone else!”

Kinsale tipped his top hat and smiled winningly. “I'm in the market for red hair tonight, but not yours, m'dear,” he said. “But here's a shilling for your time.” He tipped the girls, waved at the pimp, and strolled on.

The older girl glanced at her pimp, then ran after Kinsale. “If it's real young you're lookin' for,” she whispered hurriedly, “I've got a sister, works a flash place in King Street. Ask for Miss 'Armon and say Gertie's sister sent yer.” She laughed loudly and sashayed back to her post. Kinsale looked thoughtful as he continued his promenade.

Behind him, Mr. Dodgson told Dr. Doyle, “I cannot do this. I must return to the Rectory at once. I leave this part of the search to you, sir.”

“Mr. Dodgson,” Dr. Doyle urged him on, “I thought we had agreed on this course of action. We must question these young women and find out where Miss Marbury might have been taken.”

Mr. Dodgson turned and faced his young companion, his face set in lines of extreme displeasure. “No, Dr. Doyle,” he said firmly. “
You
agreed. You have dragged me hither and yon, from here to London and back, you have subjected me to a pointless chase, you have permitted me to be assaulted—”

Dr. Doyle's mustache bristled with indignation. “It was you, sir, who wished to go to London, not I! As for the assault upon your person, if you will recall, it was none of my doing, and I fought those bully-boys, even to the possible detriment to my own character!”

Mr. Dodgson was not listening. “… And now this … this scene of debauchery! Dr. Doyle, you and I must part company, now! I shall return to our cab, and drive to the Rectory of St. Peter's, where I shall be secure. As for you, sir, you may do as you will!” He turned his back on the sordid scene.

Dr. Doyle gazed at his erstwhile mentor sorrowfully. “I had thought better of you, Mr. Dodgson,” he said at last. “Several times you have sworn that you would find that child, no matter what the cost. Now you cannot face a few disreputable women. I shall take you back to your safe haven of respectability, sir, and let the police do their job. Never mind what will happen to Miss Marbury in the meanwhile, not to mention the fact that the killer of that poor nurserymaid will go scot-free. Perhaps I overestimated your fortitude, sir.”

Mr. Dodgson marched resolutely onward. Dr. Doyle followed him back to the Music Hall, where cabs were lining up, waiting for patrons of the raucous arts to emerge from the Theatre Royal, some to make their selection of the female wares along Church Street, others to proceed down the hill to the more respectable quarter of Brighton.

The helpful cabby was still there. “That was a quick'un,” he commented, as he tapped his horse with the whip.

“We … changed our minds,” Dr. Doyle said. “Back to St. Peter's, if you please.”

Behind them, Ned Kinsale watched their retreat and grinned gleefully. So, young Doyle and the old codger were on the trail, were they? Well, if they had heard him, let them make the most of it. His other friends were waiting for him at the far end of the street. Better that he be thought a libertine, Kinsale thought. The lads would not appreciate any police interference with their plans.

He reread the handbill that had been shoved into his hands on the Queen's Road. A Grand Protestation Meeting, was it? How apt that the frequenters of Church Street should be informed of the event. Perhaps the lads could make a protest of their own!

He turned down one of the small streets that ran between Church Street and North Street. His friends would be waiting for news from London, and he had quite a lot of it to give them.

Mr. Dodgson sat in huffy silence as the cab trotted back to St. Peter's Church. Dr. Doyle regarded him sorrowfully.

“I thought you meant it when you said you would do anything for that child,” the young Scotsman said finally.

“There are limits, young man.” Mr. Dodgson closed his eyes, as if to blot out the scene he had just been forced to witness.

Mr. Dodgson emerged from his cab and marched into the Rectory without another word to Dr. Doyle.

“Where to now, sir?” the cabby asked.

“Duke Street,” Dr. Doyle said, with a disappointed sigh. “I may have to do this myself, but not tonight.” At least, he thought, Touie would be there, and she would understand.

The meeting at the Rectory had progressed considerably. Mr. Barclay's parlor was now full of excited clergymen, of various sects and sizes. He nearly missed Mr. Dodgson's entrance.

“Charles!” Mr. Barclay bustled out of the parlor, before Mr. Dodgson could escape his attentions. “You must—Why, whatever is the matter? You do not look at all well.”

“I am not well, Henry. With your permission, I shall retire. I have a great deal to think about. It has been an eventful day.”

Mr. Dodgson was led to one of the upstairs bedrooms by the butler, who provided him with the amenities of the house: a pitcher of drinking water and a glass, and a plate of water biscuits. Once alone, with the lamp properly lit, he could remove his collar and cravat and crawl into his nightwear, which had been laid out for him.

What should he do? he wondered, as he prepared for bed. As was his custom, he bowed his head in prayer. No answer came from on high. He shook his head, puzzled. “It does not make sense,” he said aloud. “Why?”

Mr. Dodgson tried to think clearly, ignoring the hubbub downstairs. All things have a logic, even in madness, he decided. I will have to consider the events in their proper order, and all will be made clear.

As he closed his eyes, he wondered whether he had been too hasty. Dr. Doyle was not a bad chap. He was, after all, Dicky Doyle's nephew. Perhaps tomorrow would bring a better understanding.

In the lodging house in Duke Street, Dr. Doyle and his bride were also preparing for bed. Mrs. Keene had provided them with a brass bedstead of impressive size, fitted out with a sturdy mattress, down pillows, and linen sheets. Touie modestly hid behind a screen to complete her toilette, while Dr. Doyle removed his clothes and hung them neatly on the spindle-backed chair in one corner of the room.

He related the events of the evening, omitting such details as the appearance of Mr. Kinsale among the Soiled Doves.

“Mr. Dodgson would not continue with me,” he said. “Why couldn't he have even tried?”

“Mr. Dodgson is not as robust as you,” Touie consoled him, emerging from behind the screen and sliding between the sheets. “And, Arthur, he is a gentleman of rather … restricted … upbringing. You have knocked about the world a bit, after all.”

Dr. Doyle smirked, slid in beside his bride, and blew out the candle. “I only hope the child will not be harmed because we did not find her in time.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Touie breathed. “You will surely save her!”

After which, there were no more words to say.

CHAPTER 19

King Street was one of the short connecting streets between Church and North streets. Only a few hundred yards lay between the trollops who plied their trade on the streets and the young persons who inhabited Miss Harmon's establishment, and those few hundred yards made all the difference. At Miss Harmon's, there were no overt displays of female charms, no garish cosmetics, no blatant calls or raucous ribaldry. Instead, Miss Harmon cultivated an ambiance of gentility. The parlor was furnished with comfortable chairs, and decorated with reproductions of Mr. Landseer's paintings. The very young employees were instructed in deportment that would not shock or disgust potential clients.

“Sit up straight, Helen,” Miss Harmon ordered, as she arranged herself on her chair, ready for the early customers. She had changed her flowered day dress for a gray silk gown with a demi-train, embellished with jet beads. Her hair was piled high on her head, held in place with combs and hairpins. Only a light dusting of pale powder enhanced her face. Miss Harmon could have joined any of the select parties being held in Brighton at the Albemarle or Grand hotels, and no one would have known that she had started life in a stationer's shop in Oxford High Street.

“When are the punters coming?” Gertie asked, glancing at the clock over the mantlepiece.

“You must not use vulgar terms,” Miss Harmon corrected her.

“But my sister says the gentlemen like a bit of fun,” Gertie objected. “She says they like it when a girl talks flash. Makes 'em feel devilish.”

“Perhaps, if you want to remain in Church Street for the rest of your life,” Miss Harmon said severely. “But if you want to get on, you must learn to speak as the gentlemen speak. Rude talk and coarse behavior will not get you to London.”

“London?” Gertie breathed. London was the crowning achievement of Miss Harmon's girls. To be chosen for the London house was to be assured of wealth beyond the dreams of the streetwalkers on Church Street. Only the very best girls, the most popular with the gentlemen, would go to London when the Brighton season was over. So said Miss Harmon, and she had not deceived any of her girls yet.

Miss Harmon looked over her charges, the six most promising young women she could cull from the byways of Brighton. Victoria, called Vicky, at fourteen, was a dark beauty. Gertie, plump and blond, was the favorite of the gentlemen, who liked what they called “meat on the bones.” Susanne, who looked delicate, with pale brown hair that was midway between Gertie's gold and Helen's auburn, was probably the most intelligent of the lot; Miss Harmon would have to watch her, or she'd be up to nasty tricks like blackmail in a year or two. Lizzie and Deb were the youngest; their parents were ready to swear they were twelve, but Miss Harmon suspected otherwise. No matter; for a few pounds, the two girls were signed over to her, and they would be within the legal limit soon enough. Helen, the rowdy redhead, was most likely to be at the bottom of any mischief the girls might be brewing. It was Helen who had noticed the man being drawn out of the water that morning.

Miss Harmon had turned them away, lest they recognize Old Keeble. She was fairly certain that no one had seen him bring Alicia Marbury into the house the day before; the girls were supposed to be in their rooms, resting at that hour. She did not know whether anyone but Kitty knew there was one more little girl in the house, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Miss Harmon settled her brood around her in the parlor, on small chairs and ottomans, arranged to make the girls look even younger than they were. Mrs. J. had been careful to skirt the law; if twelve was the legal age of consent, then none of the girls was to be any younger—but that did not mean they could not look younger. Genteel suggestions had been made in certain hotels, and responses had been received. No one would be admitted to the house on King Street who was not known or, at least, could acknowledge that he had been sent by one of her own people.

The doorbell rang. The girls sat up, alert, ready for business. Mrs. Gurney, massive in her best black silk gown and white cap, answered the call.

“Mr. Carstairs,” Madam announced. The eminent town councilor beamed on the company.

“I just dropped by a little early tonight,” he explained. “The Reverend Mr. Barclay has requested that I join him at a meeting to plan the protestation rally on Monday, so I may be delayed in my usual round. However, I did want to see you were all well. How are we all today? And especially my little Vicky?” He winked broadly at his favorite, who dropped her eyes modestly in response.

“Protestation rally?” Miss Harmon asked sharply.

“To move Parliament to vote on Lord Richard Marbury's Bill. Our good Rector is quite wrought up about it. I shall, of course, have to attend the meeting, but I shall come by later, for my usual, er, chat.”

“Of course, Mr. Carstairs,” Miss Harmon said, with a smile that never reached her eyes. “It was good of you to let us know that your visit would be delayed. We might have worried, otherwise.”

Mr. Carstairs stepped back into the hall. Miss Harmon followed him. “This protestation meeting—I heard something about it, but I had no idea the plans were already set,” she said breathlessly.

“I believe the notices are being printed even as we speak, and some persons have been hired to hand them out tomorrow. Members of the clergy have all promised to preach on the subject at their respective services. What a to-do about nothing at all! It's these articles in the
Pall Mall Gazette,
getting people worked up. Of course, Mr. Stead and his ilk are not referring to an establishment like this one, quiet and respectable. I shall return later, when I have finished my discussions with Mr. Barclay and his committee.”

The councilor took his hat from the Madam, who opened the door and handed him down the three stairs to the street, where his carriage was waiting.

Three doors down, Inspectors Wright and MacRae watched as the good citizen drove away. “And that's Carstairs,” Wright informed MacRae bitterly.