The Problem of the Missing Miss (27 page)

Mr. Dodgson felt vindicated. He had deduced such a room existed and here it was—but this was most assuredly not Miss Mar-bury. Instead, he saw a bony child tied to the bed with rough twine, a handkerchief tied between her jaws to prevent her crying out, clad in her scanty drawers and nothing else.

“This,” Miss Harmon stated, “is our kitchen maid. She was disobedient, and she was punished for it, as you have seen. Now, Mr. Dodgson, if you have finished with disrupting my domestic arrangements.” She turned and began to push the group down the stairs, back into the hall.

“Miss Marbury was here,” he whispered.

Miss Harmon looked triumphantly at him. “Prove it!”

Mr. Dodgson stooped and picked up a long strand of reddish hair. “I shall ask my friend Dr. Doyle to examine this under a microscope,” he stated. “I do believe he is able to distinguish hairs from a particular head.”

“This girl actually tried to strike me,” Miss Harmon countered. “Those hairs could be mine.”

“We shall see,” Mr. Dodgson said. He looked at Kitty. “That child should not be left here,” he added severely. “Let her get back to her duties. She has obviously been punished enough, no matter what her crime.”

“If you say so, Mr. Dodgson,” Miss Harmon gave in. “Girls, you get downstairs. I shall untie Kitty, and she will never do it again, will you?”

Kitty shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. Miss Harmon released her gag, then her hands, so that she could attempt to cover her scrawny nudity.

“I'm sorry, Miss 'Armon,” Kitty whispered. Her voice grew louder as she went on: “I won't never peach to the coppers again. I won't never tell 'em that a Nob's little girl's been 'ere and is on 'er way to France right now. I won't never do that again!” She ended on a gleeful shout.

Miss Harmon's hand descended, only to be caught by Mr. Dodgson. “That is enough, Miss Harmon,” Mr. Dodgson told her. He averted his face from Kitty while she scrambled off the bed. “Make yourself decent, child, and tell Inspector Wright exactly what you told me. He is undoubtedly downstairs at this very moment.”

“You've nothing to hold me on,” Miss Harmon hissed, as Mr. Dodgson thrust her down the stairs and into the waiting arms of the law.

“Abduction of a minor, for one,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Mistreatment of another minor. Maintaining a disorderly house.”

“And what is that? I'll appear in the Magistrate's Court, pay a fine, serve a few weeks in jail,” she shot back. “And who's to look after these girls while I'm gone?”

“I will!” trumpeted the woman in the hall. Resplendent in purple velvet, a hatful of ostrich plumes nodding over her broad face, diamonds winking in her ears, Mrs. Jeffries herself had come to Brighton.

CHAPTER 25

Mrs. Jeffries swept into the room like a dreadnought, followed by a large man in a striped blazer and straw hat, a small man in a checked suit of dittoes and a derby hat, and Inspectors Wright and MacRae, who was followed in their turn by Constable Corrigan and Sergeant Hartley. All of them stopped and stared at Miss Harmon, who was descending the stairs with as much aplomb as was possible with one's back hair coming down, and Mr. Dodgson at her heels, shepherding the shivering Kitty.

“You've made a right pig's ear of this, my girl,” Mrs. Jeffries scolded her subordinate. Then she noticed the elderly gentleman behind the girls. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here? Business hours ain't till five of a Sunday. Even the Lord rested on the Sabbath, and so do my girls.”

Mr. Dodgson winced at the profanity, wriggled through the bevy of girls, and produced his calling card. “I am Mr. Dodgson, of Oxford,” he explained. “Had Miss Julia Harmon not dragged me into this matter, I would be in Eastbourne at this minute. As it is, I believe Miss Alicia Marbury is still in grave danger.”

“Who?” Mrs. Jeffries asked blandly.

“Miss Alicia Marbury. The daughter of Lord Richard Marbury, the man you threatened yesterday morning, in my hearing,” Mr. Dodgson persisted.

“Never heard of her. What I'm here for,” Mrs. Jeffries stated, “is to see what's been going on in my house while I've been, um, away.”

“Away? You mean, in jail,” MacRae snickered.

“Wherever I've been, it's no concern of yours,” Mrs. Jeffries snapped. “Harry, bring in my bags. Julia, I can see you've got a lot to tell me. Policemen in the house!” She sniffed audibly at the sight of Sergeant Hartley.

“First, I must warn you, Miss Julia Harmon,” Inspector Wright stepped forward, his voice taking on the official cadence. “You are charged with the abduction of Miss Alicia Marbury, for immoral purposes.”

“On whose authority?” Miss Harmon had recovered her icy demeanor.

“On information received by Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Doyle,” Wright continued. “You may consult with your solicitor.”

“I can't call him on a Sunday,” Miss Harmon demurred.

“I can,” Mrs. Jeffries put in. “Garthwaite, do your duty.”

Mr. Garthwaite, the man in the checked suit, dutifully announced that he would act for Miss Julia Harmon, on the advice of her employer, Mrs. Martha Jeffries.

“Now, let's get comfy in the parlor,” Mrs. Jeffries said, leading the way. “Girls, you get out. I want to talk to these, ah, gentlemen.”

Victoria sighed. “Where should we go, then?”

“Take a walk on the street. Get out into the sun. Madge Gurney can go with you. Where's Madge Gurney?”

Mr. Dodgson peered through the gap in the curtains. “If you mean the large female who took my hat … I do believe that is she, going down the street!” Mr. Dodgson spied two figures heading toward Norwich Street: a large, black-clad woman and a child in a brown dress and gingham apron.

From his post in the areaway behind the dustbins, young Dr. Doyle sprang out. The black-clad woman was clearly leaving the house with a child in tow; the logical conclusion must be that the child in question was Miss Alicia Marbury. “Hi, you! Stop at once!”

Mrs. Gurney had no intention of stopping. She strode down the street, dragging Alicia behind her, with Dr. Doyle in pursuit.

Constable Corrigan, stationed at the door of the establishment, saw Dr. Doyle off after the large woman and the small child He glanced over his shoulder, then decided that this was the time for initiative. He bounded down the steps after Doyle, who ran after Alicia, who trotted breathlessly after Mrs. Gurney, unable to cry out.

The passersby stared at the odd procession: Madge, hauling Alicia by the arm, followed by Dr. Doyle, followed by Constable Corrigan, all walking, then trotting, then loping along, until they reached the end of King Street, crossed Norwich Street, and found themselves facing a brick wall.

“They're going into The Lanes!” Corrigan called out. Doyle nodded to show that he had heard, and the two of them raced after the two females, who had ducked into an alleyway and down a set of steps set into the pavement that led to a section of twisting ways that marked the boundaries of the old village of Brighthelmstone.

Here the houses leaned crazily against each other, their front doors giving directly onto the cobbled streets that wound in and out in a tangled maze. Vile-smelling puddles of ooze pooled in the streets between the cobbles. Women lurked in the doorways, watching the children who capered along the narrow walkways. Men were in short supply, being out on the beaches or out at sea.

“Coppers behind me. Want to take me kid,” Madge wheezed out to the watching women in the doorways.

No more need be said. The women knew without asking that the coppers were to be foiled, by any means necessary. Alicia could not cry out in her own defense.

She pulled and twisted in Madge Gurney's iron grip. The hem of Kitty's gingham apron was unraveling. Alicia recalled another of her favorite stories, and began to unravel the apron even further. She would not give up yet!

The women in The Lanes began to edge out into the street. The children ran across the cobbles, shrieking and laughing, further delaying the pursuit.

“We've lost 'em,” Doyle panted out, as they reached a fork where three of the narrow alleys split off.

“Which way?” Corrigan asked Doyle, between gasps. “They could be anywheres in this muddle.”

“Don't you know your own town?” Doyle asked, scanning the streets for some indication of who had passed there recently, a footprint or a mark on the stones.

“No one goes into The Lanes who doesn't have to,” Corrigan told him.

“Look!” Doyle pointed to one cobbled street. “The child's clever. She's leaving us a trail.” Bits of colored thread were scattered along the street, floating in the puddles that were the only memento of the morning's rain.

Together, Doyle and Corrigan followed the trail, around the clusters of stone cottages and barrows of shelfish, through streets barely wide enough for Mrs. Gurney to pass through.

Suddenly, there was a break in the gloom. The Lanes gave onto Marine Parade, filled with after-dinner strollers, taking advantage of the afternoon sun.

Mrs. Gurney was forced to halt by the press of the carriages, filled with more legitimate seekers after fortune and fame. Doyle and Corrigan were within reach of Alicia, when the Madam saw an opportunity to cross the road.

Alicia, by this time, had caught her breath. She looked back, recognized the familiar blue jacket of the constabulary, and gave vent to her feelings at the top of her lungs.

“No, no, I won't! I won't go! I won't go!” she yelled, pulling the Madam back onto the pavement.

“You'll go where you're told!” Mrs. Gurney retorted.

“I won't! I won't!” Alicia had more or less given up on temper tantrums; Nanny Marsh was not moved by them, and Mary Ann had jollied her out of them by reminding her that a great girl of ten could get what she wanted in better ways than by crying like a baby. However, the knack had never quite left her. Alicia decided that if ever there was a time to throw a temper tantrum, this was it.

Accordingly, she proceeded to jerk back and forth until the Madam had to let her go before she herself was pulled down into the street. She then stamped, kicked, shrieked, and generally carried on, to the utter discomfiture of Mrs. Gurney and the shocked disapproval of the decorous Mamas and Papas in the carriages that passed slowly along the Steine, leading down to the Esplanade.

It was Constable Corrigan who stopped the hullabaloo with his official voice: “Here, here, what's all this?”

Mrs. Gurney took a deep breath. “This here is my niece,” she explained. “She's to go to service, and she's being a little fool about it.”

“That's a lie!” Alicia shouted. “This is a bad woman, and she put me in the attic and this is
not
my dress, and they want to take me to France!”

Madge Gurney reached for Alicia again. Dr. Doyle interposed himself between the girl and her captor.

“Dear me,” he said with great concern. “This child looks quite ill. I am a doctor, Dr. Doyle, of Portsmouth, and I assure you, ma'am … or should I say madam?”

Mrs. Gurney blanched and shut her mouth tight. She quickly considered her options: She could fight or run or give up. Under the circumstances, the third option was the most prudent. She glared at Constable Corrigan, but made no further move.

Dr. Doyle squatted down, to put himself at Alicia's level. “Miss Marbury?” he said, “I am a friend of Mr. Dodgson's. I saw your father yesterday, and he is coming for you today. This is Constable Corrigan, and he and I will take you back to Mr. Dodgson. Will you come with us?”

Alicia looked up at Mrs. Gurney. “What about her?” she asked. “She beat Kitty. Kitty is my friend, and she tried to help me.”

“She did help you,” Dr. Doyle said, standing up and taking Alicia by the hand. “And now, Constable, you may do your duty. Perhaps a night in the lockup will convince this woman to cooperate with the police.”

Corrigan saluted, and marched back up the hill with Mrs. Gurney, presumably to John Street Police Station. Dr. Doyle hailed a cab and bundled Alicia into it. “King Street,” he ordered.

The situation in King Street was at a stalemate when Dr. Doyle arrived with his charge. Victoria and the girls were clustered around the steps, while Sergeant Hartley stood guard over them. Indoors, Miss Harmon sat on the sofa between Inspectors Wright and MacRae, while Mrs. Jeffries, having removed her hat, took the armchair with regal disdain. Mr. Dodgson had been installed on the straight chair by the door. No one was speaking to anyone.

Dr. Doyle was let into the house by Sergeant Hartley. “Miss Alicia Marbury,” he announced, as he brought her into the parlor.

Mr. Dodgson stood up and offered the child his hand. She took it gravely, and eyed him carefully before taking the chair to which he ceremoniously handed her.

“Are you the
real
Mr. Dodgson?” she inquired finally.

“None other,” he assured her. “I taught your papa when he was in the House.”

“But he goes to the House every day,” Alicia protested.

“I should have said, when he was at Christ Church.”

“Then you should say what you mean.”

“But I do—that is, I mean what I say,” Mr. Dodgson said.

“It's not the same thing,” Alicia observed.

“Never mind all that,” Inspector Wright broke into the pointless dialogue. “Little girl”—he caught himself—“Miss Alicia Marbury, can you state that you were abducted by this woman?”

Alicia frowned. “She didn't do it herself,” she admitted. “But she kept me locked up in the attic, and she beat Kitty for helping me, and she told the fat woman to send me to France.”

Mrs. Jeffries's face grew grimmer and grimmer at this recitation. “Julia,” she declared, “what have you been up to?”

Miss Harmon glared at her mentor, and said nothing.

“That'll do,” Wright said, with satisfaction. “Miss Harmon, you'll come with me. Magistrate sits in the morning, and we'll see what he has to say about stealing children and locking them in attics.”