The Problem of the Missing Miss (26 page)

Dr. Doyle nodded. “You are right, as always, Touie,” he said. “We shall stroll by, like ordinary people, and not take any particular notice of it. And then we shall go back to our lodgings and have dinner. Mr. Dodgson has asked me to accompany him this afternoon. Touie,” he said suddenly. “Do you suppose he might … oh, it's too much to ask, but …”

“Yes, dear, I think he might read your new novel,” Touie said. “Now, Arthur, you must show me this famous house on King Street. I am most curious to see what all the bother is about.”

Together they crossed back onto the King's Road, and trudged up the hill, skirting the area known as The Lanes, to North Street, where the famous domes of the Brighton Pavilion dominated the sky.

Behind the railings that kept the curious at bay, workmen were beginning to construct a platform.

“Hello!” Dr. Doyle called out. “What's that for?”

“Protestation meeting tomorra,” one of the workers said, punctuating it with a spit. “All sorts coming down for it. I hear General Booth is putting in an appearance. And Lord Richard Marbury.”

“Really!” Touie exclaimed. “Arthur, we shall have to attend. I cannot go home without seeing Lord Richard Marbury. Why should you keep all your adventures to yourself?”

“Of course, my dear,” Dr. Doyle said. “Perhaps Mr. Barclay will get us good seats. It should be quite a show!”

From the Royal Pavilion, North Street ran east to west, across the town. Dr. Doyle and his wife paraded slowly across the street, noting the many shops, now boarded up, closed for the Sabbath rest enjoined upon their owners by borough ordinance. King Street was one of the cross streets between North and Church streets. Dr. Doyle suddenly realized where he and Mr. Dodgson had been the night before.

“So close!” he groaned. “We might have found her last night, if only …”

“Hush, Arthur!” Touie patted his arm consolingly. “How could you have known, in the dark? Is that the place? That small house, across the street? It looks quite ordinary.”

By day, the green house, jammed between the two shuttered shops, looked as if it were sleeping, waiting for afternoon callers. Dr. Doyle glanced at the house with its gabled facade.

“I shall be able to direct Mr. Dodgson to it,” he said. “But I have no idea whether he will be able to get inside. And if he does, what will come of it?”

“Mr. Dodgson will not fail you again,” Touie promised, as they wandered back to North Street and the Pavilion.

They joined the exodus from the churches that wended its way across the broad expanse of North Street and onto the Grand Parade, that boulevard that led from the Esplanade to St. Peter's Church. The bells rang out; Divine Service had been read. With souls refreshed, the congregation poured into the watery sunlight.

It would be a relatively fine afternoon. Dr. Doyle spotted Mr. Dodgson on the steps of St. Peter's. He was pulled back by his wife.

“Mr. Dodgson will come for us, to our lodgings,” she told him firmly. “I would very much like to have my dinner at Muttons, and have more turtle soup. You haven't spent much of this honeymoon with me, Arthur Doyle, but you will at least grant me Sunday dinner.”

CHAPTER 24

The drizzle had given way to scattered clouds, with a hint of blue sky, when Mr. Dodgson, fortified by the Reverend Mr. Barclay's Sunday mutton, ventured into King Street, attired for Sunday calls in his best black frock coat, white shirt, striped trousers and waistcoat, and top hat, his hands, as always, encased in gray cotton gloves. Apparently unmindful of the presence of Dr. Doyle behind him, and completely ignoring the two inspectors at the North Street end of King Street, he sauntered along, carefully noting the number of each shop. When he got to the mysterious green house, he stopped and stood back. Then he continued up the steps, the very picture of innocence, and knocked on the door

The atmosphere within the house was somber. The parlor had been reassembled after Alicia's wild rampage, but the chairs were not in their usual places. The aspidistra was gone, and the small table before the front window looked ridiculously bare, almost undressed, without it. The lace curtains that discreetly hid the interior of the parlor from the casual passersby were askew, leaving a gap through which the street could be seen

The girls were subdued, reminded of their possible fate by the events of the previous night. None of them wanted to believe it, but they knew that the little girl in the drawers and camisole might have been one of them, meant to be shipped to France instead of being toasted in London. They had been told that such would be the destination of any girl so foolish as to disobey Miss Harmon and Mrs. Gurney. Now they sat, sewing in the parlor, dressed in demure frocks of pale blue and pink and yellow, while Miss Harmon read aloud, just as any other family would do on a Sunday afternoon; just as families all over England were doing.

Miss Harmon herself was upset. The sight of Old Keeble had shaken her more than she liked to admit, even to herself. The Guv'nor was not stable; he was clearly removing anyone who could identify him to the police. A note from Sergeant Barrow had told her about the dismembered body of the young person who had been identified as the servant accompanying Miss Alicia Marbury. She herself might be next! True, the Guv'nor had warned her about that interfering Inspector from Scotland Yard, but that was no assurance that he would not turn on her later. Miss Harmon sat in the parlor and tried to read the new novel by Mr. Trollope to her girls, who sat and listened and stitched away at their mending, and tried not to think about Kitty and the new girl in the attic.

A knock at the door made them all alert. Gentlemen did not usually come to the house on King Street this early of a Sunday afternoon; they waited until nightfall, when their whereabouts would not be noticed.

Mrs. Gurney, roused from her postprandial nap, lumbered slowly to answer the door. Her eyes opened wide as she realized who had come to call. She hustled back to the parlor, her broad face flushed with her exertions. “It's
him
!” she gasped out. Miss Harmon put down her book.

“Who?”

Mrs. Gurney gestured violently. Miss Harmon sighed, and joined her in the hall, where the conversation continued in agitated whispers.

“It's that feller what looks like Old Keeble!”

Miss Harmon allowed a small crease to mar the perfection of her forehead. “Mr. Dodgson? Here?”

“Looks just like Old Keeble,” Mrs. Gurney repeated. “What do I do?”

Miss Harmon smiled, not pleasantly. “I can only assume those two policemen told him about this place. Well, it is high time the old fool learned a few things not taught in mathematics classes at Christ Church College. Let him in. Show him into the parlor. Then take that chit down the stairs, and get her to the docks. Keep her there until LeBrun shows up, and get her off to France.”

“But …”

“She can wear Kitty's dress and apron. No one will look twice at another girl on the docks.”

“But 'er 'air …”

“Covered by Kitty's cap and bonnet. Now, let Mr. Dodgson in, Madge. We must not keep my father's old acquaintance … waiting.” Miss Harmon walked back into the parlor, as Mrs. Gurney let their surprising visitor into the house. “Girls, I have a great treat for you,” she announced cheerfully, as Mr. Dodgson was shown into the parlor. “This is Mr. Dodgson, a very old friend of my father's, who has come to pay us a call.”

Mr. Dodgson bowed to the girls, who stared back at him. Victoria looked up from her sewing and assessed the elderly scholar. “Ten minutes, and he's out,” she said dismissively. The other girls giggled.

Mr. Dodgson flushed but stood his ground. He bowed slightly to Miss Harmon and smiled at the girls, who simpered in reply.

“Do forgive me, Miss Harmon,” he said. “I had not known you were residing in Brighton, or I would not have been so long in paying you a call. You may not remember me …”

“Oh, but I do, Mr. Dodgson,” Miss Harmon said. “Do sit down, sir. You were one of my dear father's favorite customers.”

“Ah … yes.” Mr. Dodgson handed his hat to the Madam and sat gingerly in the chair that had been placed for him, its back to the parlor door. Behind him, Madam bustled up the stairs as quietly as she could, dragging Kitty with her. Mr. Dodgson heard the tread of her feet, and counted one, then two flights of stairs. But he had only seen one, leading up to the private reaches of this extremely peculiar establishment.

Upstairs, in the attic, Alicia's determination was beginning to wear thin. After the Great Escape, Miss Harmon and Mrs. Gurney had taken no more chances. Alicia had been tied to one of the bedposts, and there she had to stay, in spite of her plaintive cries, with odiferous results to the bedding. She had not been fed. Her hair was a tangled mop of auburn snarls instead of neat curls. Her drawers and chemise were grimy from the contact with the floor and her two wild attempts at escape had left her limp with exhaustion. She perked up when she heard footsteps.

Madam thrust Kitty into the attic room. “Git that pinney off,” she ordered. “And you, missy, you're goin' fer a boat ride.”

“I won't go to France!” Alicia declared.

“You'll go where you're taken!” Madam said sternly.

Alicia looked at Kitty's shoulders, still bearing the marks of her last beating. “Very well,” she said sulkily. Kitty eased out of her coarse brown dress and checked apron, and helped Alicia on with them.

“There's summon in the house,” Kitty whispered. “Looks like the old geezer brung you in.”

“It's Mr. Dodgson!” Alicia whispered back. “The real one, the one who knows my papa. Please, please, Kitty, help me just one more time? Try to make some noise—tell them where I'm going!”

“No talking there!” Madam grated out. “Now, missy, you come with me, and no more shenanigans or your friend gets worse than last night!”

With Kitty's drab dress draped about her slender frame, Alicia was hauled down the secret stairs and into the hall, then pulled down the back staircase that led directly to the kitchens.

Mr. Dodgson, meanwhile, was acutely uncomfortable. He had never paid a social call on a “tradesman,” particularly not one of this trade, and he wasn't sure that he would ever do so again. The girls were far too knowing in their glances, while Miss Harmon's smile never reached as far as her eyes.

“And how is your father?” Mr. Dodgson asked. “After his … removal … from Oxford, we lost track of him.”

“My father is dead,” Miss Harmon said bleakly. “He suffered from heart trouble.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I rather enjoyed our, um, acquaintanceship.”

“Yes,” Miss Harmon purred. “As I recall, he considered you one of his most loyal customers. He even asked that you take my photograph.”

“Did he?” Mr. Dodgson closed his eyes, apparently in thought. He cocked his head. He could have sworn someone was clumping down the stairs. “Ah, yes. That was some time ago. I was quite interested in photography then.”

“You said you preferred not to take me,” Miss Harmon reminded him. “I was quite disappointed. It was considered an honor to be photographed by Mr. Dodgson.”

“Ah, but you see, I only took little girls when their mothers were present,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “As your mama was deceased, it was out of the question.”

There—he was certain of it! Someone had just gone down another flight of stairs!

“It has been most interesting, meeting you again, Miss Harmon.” Mr. Dodgson rose and looked about him for his hat and gloves. “I must not keep you, and your—guests.”

“I have friends, who permit me to take their daughters in charge for the summer,” Miss Harmon explained.

“Indeed?” Mr. Dodgson wandered into the hall. The door that led to the nether regions was swinging gently on its hinges, as if someone had just shoved it mightily, in a tearing hurry to get downstairs. “This is a charming residence, Miss Harmon. A trifle out of place, but charming.” Above him he thought he could hear some kind of noise. “Dear me,” he said, with a worried frown, “you appear to have some sort of, ah, vermin, in the building. You must get a cat.”

“I assure you, Mr. Dodgson, this house is quite free of any rats or mice,” Miss Harmon said, holding out his hat.

Mr. Dodgson shook his head. “There is definitely something quite wrong here,” he told her. “If you will permit me?” He mounted the stairs before she could stop him.

“Mr. Dodgson, those are the private rooms, used by my visitors.”

Miss Harmon's cry literally fell on deaf ears. Mr. Dodgson headed straight for the blank wall at the end of the hall. “Odd,” he murmured. “When I observed this house from the street, it appeared to have three stories, not two. I deduce an attic—My, my, my!” He tapped on the wall. “There seems to be a hollow here. Miss Harmon, there is someone trapped behind this wall!” From behind the wall came a muffled thumping sound, as if someone was moving around, or even bouncing on a bedframe.

“I have no idea …” Miss Harmon began.

Mr. Dodgson's mild expression hardened into that of a stern teacher, intent on beating some knowledge into his unruly students. “I think you do, ma'am. Be so kind as to unlock this door, or I will summon Inspector Wright of the Brighton Constabulary to do it for me. He is waiting outside, for my command.”

“You're bluffing!”

“I never tell lies, Miss Harmon. If you or your confederate will look out the door, you will see several constables, ready to do their duty.”

Miss Harmon shot him a look of hatred and produced the tiny key that fit into the hole in the wainscoting. Beyond the steep stairs lay another door, and behind that—Mr. Dodgson pressed on, followed by the entire entourage. Miss Harmon's girls had heard about the Secret Room. Now their worst fears were revealed to be true!