The Problem of the Missing Miss (24 page)

The trumpet player of Keeble's troupe stared at the tall, stooping scholar and his tweed-clad companion. “Dang me, for a minute there I thought you was him come back to haunt us!”

“Dear me,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I had no idea the resemblance was so … so marked.”

“Sit down, sir, and 'ave a pint on Old Keeble,” the trumpeter said. “I'm the Joker, Joker Jim, you can call me.” He slapped a measure of beer in front of Mr. Dodgson, who picked it up and set it down without tasting it.

“Old Keeble seems to have come into money,” Mr. Dodgson observed.

“We found nine quid in his pockets,” Billy, the comic genius of the troupe, said. “What better way of spending it than on a right blowout? He can't use it where he's gone.” There was a general laugh at that.

“Nine pounds? A veritable fortune,” Mr. Dodgson said. “You must be doing quite well, for such a sum to come to him.”

Joker Jim sat down at the table across from Mr. Dodgson. “Now that's the odd thing,” he said, twisting his rubbery features into a grimace of perplexity. “We were doing well enough, but I did wonder about that nine quid. Y'see, Old Keeble had been talking on and on about his being on the stage, and how we didn't really appreciate his genius. And how there was some Nob who did, and were we going to be surprised some day.”

“Any idea who this Nob was?” Dr. Doyle could not suppress himself any longer. Joker Jim shrugged.

“No idea. Old Keeble was getting past it,” he said. “I thought I saw him on the pier, just before our turn Friday. Hey, Billy!” Billy squeezed out of the crowd. “Didn't you tell me you saw Old Keeble Friday night?”

“I did,” Billy agreed. “Talking to some gent, he was, up on the pier.”

“A gentleman?” Dr. Doyle pounced on the phrase. “Then, I suppose, this gentleman was in evening clothes.”

“You mean soup-and-fish? B'iled shirt and tailcoat?” Billy shook his head. “Nay, 'e wore a sack suit.”

“Brown?” Dr. Doyle hinted.

“Couldn't tell the color. But 'e sounded like a gent, all smooth and polished. Careful in 'is speech, like.”

“Then you could hear what they were saying?” Mr. Dodgson leaned forward.

“Not the words, exactly,” Billy said ruefully. “But I could 'ear they was angry.”

“I don't suppose you could perform that scene,” Mr. Dodgson said wistfully. “I have seen you, down at the pier. You have a gift, young man, a most interesting gift.” He turned to Dr. Doyle. “This young man can mimic any voice, once heard. Very clever.”

Billy's narrow chest puffed out slightly under the weight of public approval. “It was like this.” He sprang up on the table, enacting first the old actor, then the Nob. “Keeble was against the rails, and the gent, he was in front of him.”

“Did you see him go over?” Dr. Doyle asked eagerly.

“Nay. Jimmy called me over, and we were on.”

“Did you hear any of the quarrel?” Mr. Dodgson continued.

Billy shook his head. “But if I know Old Keeble, he was putting the bite on the gent. That was his way; he owed all of us, one way or another.”

“That's why we're making him pay for drinks now,” Joker Jim said with a laugh. The rest of the company roared their agreement.

Mr. Dodgson produced some coins from his waistcoat pocket and lay them on the table. “I wish to offer my condolences on the loss of so valuable a member of your troupe,” he said politely. Joker Jim snatched up one of the coins skillfully, tossed it in the air, and caught it.

“And you're a right one,” he said. “Not like that other lot that come in here. We wouldn't have a word with them! Bloody Peelers!”

“Indeed.” Mr. Dodgson rose, touched his hat, and moved toward the door. “One more thing: Mr.… Billy? Would you recognize this gentleman if you were to encounter him again?”

“You mean, could I point him out? D'ye think he's the one did for Old Keeble?”

“It is very likely,” Dr. Doyle told him.

Joker looked around the room. “We take care of our own, sir.”

“I'm sure you do,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But, in the event, would you assist me in apprehending this … this murderer?”

“You mean catch him?” Joker looked around again. “It would do the Peelers in the eye, wouldn't it?”

“They have not been very assiduous in pursuing his killer,” Mr. Dodgson observed.

“He means …” Dr. Doyle began.

“I know. Old Keeble was just some washed-up old rummy of an actor, not worth the bothering about,” Joker Jim said bitterly.

“He was being used in a shameful plot to abduct a child,” Mr. Dodgson declared. “He was chosen for his accidental resemblance to myself. For this reason, if for no other, I have sworn to find the man who hired him. If any of you can recall anything—if you have ever seen the man before—try to remember, please?”

He looked about the room. Billy frowned. Then the smallest girl, the child from the beach, said, “I saw Old Keeble with a Nob, once.”

“Where?” Dr. Doyle pounced on her.

“On the pier. In front of the Grand Hotel. And there was a lady with him, a lady with red hair.”

A woman in a gaudy red bodice and short striped skirt slapped the child resoundingly. “Betty, don't never let me see you with that woman, never!”

“But I didn't say nothing to her!” Betty wailed.

“Don't you even get close enough to look at her, nor her girls!” Betty's protector gave her a shake to punctuate the lesson. “We may be low, but we're not”—she looked at Mr. Dodgson's faintly ecclesiastical dress and paused—“not that low.”

Mr. Dodgson sat down again. “My dear Miss Betty,” he said, beckoning the child forward. Her mother kept a wary eye on him.

“This is most interesting,” Mr. Dodgson said. “This woman, with the red hair. You know her?”

“Know of her,” Betty's protector corrected him. “And I wouldn't have nothing to do with her, not for all the tea in China, nor all the gold in the Mint. I think better of myself than to sell my girls to that … that …”

Mr. Dodgson nodded. “Most commendable, ma'am. This woman—does she have a name?”

Another woman, tall and slender in blue velvet skirt and violet bodice, said, “Harmon. Miss Julia Harmon, she calls herself. And she may parade herself on the pier, but we know what she is, and what her girls are, and none of us would dirty our lips with her name, not in public.” The rest of the performers nodded agreement.

“But there are some women who would,” Mr. Dodgson murmured.

“Not in the profession,” the woman in the blue skirt said indignantly. “As for that place of hers in King Street.” She closed her mouth over her opinion, but her eyes spoke eloquently for her.

Mr. Dodgson rose again. He added more coins to the small pile on the table. “Thank you all,” he said gently. “You have been extremely helpful. Master Billy,” he added, “may I call upon you, if need be? I am beginning to have the inklings of an idea as to the identity of this miscreant, but I may want you to make the final identification.”

Joker Jim scooped up the coins before the rest of the company could get to them.

“You're on, Guv'nor,” he promised. “Just send word right here, and we're yours for the night.”

Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle left the buskers to their wake, and climbed back up to the world of the Esplanade. The drizzle had coagulated into a definite rain now, sweeping across the pavement in sheets, driven by the wind.

“And what did all that signify?” Dr. Doyle demanded.

Mr. Dodgson smiled at him. “That there is a house in King Street where a respectable woman will not permit her daughters to be seen,” he said. “I believe we may now approach the police with what we have discovered. If Miss Marbury is still in Brighton, the likelihood is that she is being kept in that house.”

CHAPTER 22

Through the rain Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle plodded to John Street, where the constables on the day shift were marching down the steps, off to do their duty directing the carriages in and out of the roads leading to the major religious edifices. It would never do for the visitors to St. Peter's, or St. Michael's, or the venerable St. Nicholas Church to be trapped in traffic, and so miss the most important part of the Sunday morning ritual: the display of one's finery for the delectation and envy of other visitors to Brighton. The constabulary had been provided with new Mackintosh overcoats as protection against the elements. Dr. Doyle began to wish that he had taken similar precautions.

Mr. Dodgson, on the other hand, seemed to be impervious to either cold or damp. He strode resolutely onward, past the disconsolate man on the Esplanade vainly waving his handbills and hoarsely announcing the “Great Protestation Meeting tomorrow night”; past the winkle sellers in their booths, staring blankly at the downpour; past the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who were being handed into their carriages for the requisite appearance at the eleven o'clock service at St. Peter's Church.

Dr. Doyle followed his mentor as they tramped across the Marine Parade, up the hill, and into the side street that led to the police station.

“I thought we were going to King Street,” he puffed out, as soon as he caught up with the indefatigable Mr. Dodgson.

“We are,” Mr. Dodgson told him. “However, we are not going without some sort of reinforcements. I shall give the police one last chance to do their duty, before we have to do it for them.”

He settled his top hat more firmly on his head and braved the winds once more, being blown up the steps to the police station.

Once inside, it was Sergeant Hartley who recognized the pair. “Back again, eh?” he greeted them.

“As you see,” Dr. Doyle said, shaking the rain off his hat.

“No more corpses for you to anatomize,” Hartley said. “The gal and the old busker're remanded until the Coroner's inquest. That long drink of water what calls himself Upshaw's been and gone, made a mort of fuss about getting the gal back to her own village in Derbyshire.”

“Ah, yes. I had wondered about our Mr. Upshaw,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Do you know when he came for that poor girl?”

Hartley scratched his head. “Don't see what business it is of yours.”

“I only wondered if he were still in Brighton,” Mr. Dodgson mused. “You see, his employer, Lord Richard Marbury, is expected in Brighton for the protestation rally tomorrow, and I thought Mr. Upshaw might still be about, so that my friend, Mr. Barclay, might consult with him about the, um … the …”

“Arrangements,” Dr. Doyle put in. “Seating, police protection, that sort of thing.”

Mr. Dodgson smiled benignly at Sergeant Hartley. The sergeant shrugged. “I can go and find out,” he offered.

“No matter, no matter,” Mr. Dodgson murmured. “We really wished to speak to your Inspector Wright. Is he about?”

“I'll see.” Hartley stamped up the stairs to Inspector Wright's private office, where the Brighton and London police were sharing a late morning cup of tea.

Wright had donned his Sunday black suit, appropriate for his mood this gloomy morning. MacRae was still in his checked suit, with a clean shirt and collar and a grim expression on his face. Neither of the two men was pleased with the previous night's activities and their aftermath.

Wright was almost grateful when Sergeant Hartley interrupted them.

“May I have a word, sir?” Hartley asked.

“You're having it,” Wright said. “What is it, Hartley?”

“It's that precious pair again,” Hartley announced, in tones of vast exasperation. “Dodgson and Doyle.”

Inspector Wright sighed. Last night's debacle had yielded the names of several gentlemen of impeccable reputation, most of whom were visitors to Brighton and most of whom would kick up all sorts of row if their peccadillos were made public. Somewhere around midnight the constables on watch had come to him with the news that there had been some sort of fuss inside the house, but all was quiet by the time Inspector Wright could muster his troops. He and MacRae had not been allowed into the house. The door had been slammed unceremoniously and contemptuously in his face.

He had no desire for another bout with Miss Harmon until and unless he was on thoroughly firm legal ground. As it was, neither he nor Inspector MacRae could make an arrest on any charge under the present laws. It was not a crime to patronize a brothel and the borough of Brighton was not about to antagonize its most influential visitors by dragging them into the Magistrate's Court on such specious evidence.

Once the disturbance had died down and the lights were put out, the house on King Street was quiet. There was no reason for anyone to remain watching the place. Inspector Wright had accompanied Inspector MacRae to his modest lodgings and gone back to his own little flat, a two-room suite over a barber shop in North Street.

Wright had had plans for this weekend, which did not include either protestation meetings or searches for missing children. All those plans were now cast aside, thanks to little Miss Marbury and her sanctimonious parent. He scowled at Hartley, stroked his mustache, and watched MacRae drinking his tea.

Inspector MacRae had not revised his opinion of Brighton or its constabulary. He put Wright down as a time-server, a sucker-up to the higher-ups and a squasher of the lowly. The Harmon woman had been warned, and the most logical suspects were right there in the John Street Police Station. MacRae wondered how long it would take to find the missing child, and when he could get back to London, where he knew which of his comrades was on the take, and for how much.

MacRae was as soured as Wright on the amateurs who were taking over his case. Dodgson he put down as a meddling old codger, and Doyle was one of those nuisances who thought they knew more than the police about how to conduct an investigation into a crime. And now here they were again, barging in where they were neither wanted nor needed.