The Problem of the Missing Miss (30 page)

BOOK: The Problem of the Missing Miss
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Lord Richard stood still for a moment, breathing hard. Then he said, “I am sorry to hear it, but it makes no difference to me. My campaign goes on.”

“But …”

Lord Richard took Mr. Dodgson by the arm and began to lead him to the door. “Sir, you have done all that can be expected of you. I thank you for it, but you must not trouble yourself further.”

“At least let me take Miss Alicia in hand tomorrow morning,” Mr. Dodgson pleaded. “Another attempt may be made to secure her.”

“By all means, entertain Alicia,” Lord Richard said. “It is what I asked you to do, after all. Good evening, Mr. Dodgson, and thank you for all you have done.”

Mr. Dodgson was gently but firmly thrust out of the room.

“This won't do,” Mr. Dodgson said to himself. “I cannot think in this confusion. I will go and find some quiet spot, where I can consider what to do next.”

He pottered down the corridor, brushing past Mr. Edward Kinsale on his way into the suite.

“Hello, Dodgson,” Kinsale said with a leer. “Had enough of the ladies?”

Mr. Dodgson ignored the leer. “Miss Marbury has been found,” he told Kinsale. “But I am not satisfied. There is more to this matter than mere abduction of a child, although that is bad enough. I wonder, sir, whether any man could be so callous and cruel as to pretend to assist in an enterprise while doing his best to destroy it.”

Kinsale's normal easy smile faded. “If you mean me, sir, I suggest you think again. I don't like what Ricky's doing, but I'd never try to undermine him.”

“I sincerely hope not,” Mr. Dodgson said. “But I tell you in confidence, someone is attempting to destroy Lord Richard Marbury. I would not like to think it was someone related to him, by marriage or by blood.”

With that, Mr. Dodgson touched his hat and proceeded down the stairs to the lobby of the hotel, where a number of shabby-looking men in loud-checked suits, striped shirts, and battered hats were demanding attention.

“Are you anyone?” one of them demanded of Mr. Dodgson.

“Oh no,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I am no one of any importance. Good evening, gentlemen.”

He left the Press behind, and strolled out onto the Old Steine. The night wind blew off the Channel. The lights were going out on the West Pier. Mr. Dodgson wondered briefly if he was doing the right thing by continuing to pursue the killer of Mary Ann and Old Keeble. Was it his business to do so? He could let the matter drop, let their deaths remain mysterious accidents, and go back to Eastbourne—but then someone would be free, perhaps to kill again!

No, Mr. Dodgson thought, as he turned back up the hill toward the Rectory, I am with young Dr. Doyle in this matter. I must see it through to the end.

CHAPTER 28

Monday in Brighton was not, as a rule, the most cheerful of days, even when it did not rain. The Sunday punters had left, filling the late trains that would take them back to their flats or cottages or villas, back to the weekday world of shop or office or farm, in city or town or village. Sailors had to return to their ships, soldiers to their encampments. The only ones left were those who had the wherewithal to remain for the rest of the week and those who actually lived in the town of Brighton, the citizens whose particular interest was to serve the visitors.

On this Monday, however, Brighton had a feverish air of expectancy. Everyone who could manage to coax an extra day's worth of holiday time from recalcitrant employers did. Some of the excuses handed in on the Tuesday would be worthy of inclusion in
The Times.
Aged relations were ruthlessly sacrificed, obscure diseases contracted, accidents manufactured to such an extent that there might well have been a run on Lloyds. No one wanted to miss the protestation meeting, which was rapidly growing in scope, far beyond the modest bounds suggested by the Reverend Mr. Barclay and his colleagues. Among the speakers announced by the newest handbills were General William Booth of the Salvation Army, who had come with his famous petition, and the editor of the
Pall Mall Gazette,
Mr. W. T. Stead himself. With those two on hand, there were sure to be vocal fireworks!

Even the weather cooperated. Sunday's drizzle had totally dissipated, and the sun shone fair enough for picnics to be set up in the grounds of the Pavilion, which had been opened by the Borough Council for the purpose. Vendors of ices and sweet drinks appeared, followed by the purveyors of spicier fare. When the gates to the grounds were opened, it was all the constables could do to keep the throng at bay.

While the populace spread themselves out on the grass, the organizers of the event met in what had been the private sitting room of the Prince Regent to arrange the order of speakers. It was a touchy matter, involving the balancing of social and political precedence with musical considerations. The Reverend Mr. Barclay was not in favor of hymns at public meetings, whereas General Booth and Mr. Branwell (of the Methodist Chapel) felt that music added to the spirit of the occasion. Lord Richard's speech was, of course, to be the highlight of the event, and must be positioned accordingly, not so early that people would miss it, but not so late that some of the audience would have left. General Booth wanted a table set up for signatures on his petition; the more he had, the more influence he could bring when he offered it up to Parliament, as he fully intended to do.

The Lord Mayor of Brighton and his councilors had to have their say. Mr. Carstairs, in particular, was determined not to offend any of the fun-loving visitors to Brighton by implying that any of them came to this town in search of illicit, um, entertainment. He deplored the necessity for such a public airing of private linen in the first place, but since the protestation meeting was scheduled, let it be done with as much decorum as possible.

Mr. Barclay favored Mr. Carstairs with an icy stare. He had every reason to suspect Mr. Carstairs of being the mysterious person seen by Alicia Marbury in her nocturnal ramblings at Miss Harmon's, but he could hardly accuse him at this planning meeting. Mr. Barclay privately decided not to accept another invitation to dine with Mr. Carstairs, unless he could absolutely not avoid it. In the meanwhile, there was the order of speeches to be determined, and yet another printing of the program, which had already driven three printers to distraction.

Mr. Dodgson was conspicuous by his absence. He was, that Monday morning, watching the Punch and Judy show with Miss Alicia Marbury and her maid, Kitty Beggs, on the West Pier. He had spent the night at the Rectory, but excused himself from the exertions of the planning committee with a shy smile.

“It is most important that Miss Alicia should be entertained, and distracted from her recent sordid experiences,” Mr. Dodgson said softly, when his friend tried to urge him to attend the planning committee meeting.

“But you must,” Mr. Barclay complained, as they sat down to breakfast in the sunny room just off the dining room.

“My business is done,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Ah, good morning, Lord Richard. I trust your rooms at the Old Ship were comfortable.”

Lord Richard Marbury did not wait to be announced, but marched into the Rectory breakfast room with the butler at his heels. “My dear Rector,” he said. “May I use your study for my work? The Old Ship is impossibly crowded, and the rooms they have assigned to my wife and myself are not suitable for the preparation of such an important speech.”

“Of course,” Mr. Barclay said, scrambling up from his place at the table. “You must allow me to show you upstairs. Mr. Dodgson has very kindly offered to take Miss Alicia on the pier this morning.”

“After all,” Mr. Dodgson reminded him, “you did send Miss Alicia to me.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Lord Richard clearly had other things on his mind besides his errant daughter. “Upshaw—Where is Upshaw?” he asked petulantly, looking behind him.

“Here, sir.” Upshaw stepped into the breakfast room. “I have just been to the telegraph office. I felt it incumbent upon me to inform Mr. and Mrs. Parry—that is, Mary Ann's family—of her untimely passing.”

“We must send them something,” Lord Richard said absently. “See to it, Upshaw.”

“Unfortunately, the Coroner will not release the, um, remains until after the inquest tomorrow,” Upshaw told him. “The funeral will be as soon after that as we can move her to Waltham. I have taken the liberty of ordering a spray of flowers, with the sentiment, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.'”

“Most appropriate,” Lord Richard said. He thrust a pack of papers at his secretary. “Now, Upshaw, I want you to go to the Albemarle and the Grand Hotel, where these people are staying, and see they get these. Then get over to the Pavilion and make sure the platform is steady. It would never do to have the speaker's platform collapse.”

“Certainly not, sir.” Upshaw cast a glance at Mr. Dodgson, who was quietly buttering his toast.

“And then, you may come here and help me prepare my text,” Lord Richard went on, as he mounted the stairs to Mr. Barclay's attic study.

Mr. Dodgson now had much to consider as he watched the puppets whack each other about. Alicia laughed gleefully at the Policeman and clapped heartily when the Devil took Mr. Punch off at the end of the show.

“That's what should happen to that Miss and Madam,” Alicia said viciously.

“I believe Miss Harmon will be sent to the assizes for trial,” Mr. Dodgson told her. “But you should not dwell on what happened to you, my dear. They were all very unpleasant people, but you are safe now.”

Alicia frowned. “I am safe,” she said, “but what about Kitty?” She looked at her friend, who sat entranced by the puppets. “If I hadn't been there, she would still be washing nasty pots and being beaten.”

“There are many little girls who are not as well cared for as you,” Mr. Dodgson said gently. “Your papa and his friends are trying very hard to help them. This is what the protestation meeting is all about.”

“That's why I want to go,” Alicia said, with a decided nod. “That fat woman in the purple dress said she was going to be there. Will she, do you think?”

Mr. Dodgson sighed. “I expect she will.”

“Even if she is going to be thrashed?”

“I expect she will find it amusing.” Mr. Dodgson shook his head sadly.

Alicia considered the odd behavior of grownups. Then she looked at Mr. Dodgson. “You are not amused, are you?”

“No, my dear, I am not. I find all this very, very sad.”

Alicia put her arms around the scholar's neck and hugged him briefly. “You were very brave, to come and find me,” she said. “Thank you. Now, may we walk on the beach? And may I take off my shoes and stockings, and paddle?”

Mr. Dodgson smiled at her, his mind relieved. She was, after all, still a child. Her sordid experiences in Miss Harmon's house had not spoiled her essential nature. “Of course,” he told her. “Kitty will hold your shoes and stockings, and you may paddle.”

The elderly man and the two children descended the stairs and walked carefully on the pebbles that led to the gently lapping waves. Three little girls capered out from the arches beneath the Esplanade to join them.

“Hello!” It was Betty, the young gymnast who had led him to the house on King Street.

“Good morning,” Mr. Dodgson greeted her. “A much better day, today. This is Alicia, and Kitty.” He made the necessary introductions.

Betty turned a cartwheel. Alicia's eyes widened. “Can you do anything else?” she asked.

“Watch me!” Betty turned upside down on her hands, flipped back onto her feet, and stood, hands on hips, waiting for more applause.

“Where is your friend, Bouncing Billy?” Mr. Dodgson asked. “I would like to speak to him.”

“The Jolly Jokers is working the tip over to the Pavilion,” Betty informed him. “Big crowd for the protestation meeting.”

“My papa's speaking at it,” Alicia said proudly.

“Well, my pa's going to be playing in the band,” Betty capped her. “He's got a solo!”

“Show me how to do a cartwheel?” Alicia coaxed her latest acquaintance.

Mr. Dodgson watched as the three girls careened over the pebbles. He was not sure that Lady Pat would approve of the company her daughter was keeping, but Mr. Dodgson was not alarmed. After all, artists must have a certain licence.

It was only when the noon gun sounded that Mr. Dodgson called Alicia away from the water, and led her back up the hill to the Rectory. She was taken in hand by Nanny Marsh, who exclaimed over the state of her borrowed clothing, and declared that she must rest after her luncheon.

“Henry,” Mr. Dodgson found his friend closeted with Lord Richard and the ecclesiastical committee in the dining room. “I must ask a favor of you.”

“Whatever you like, Charles, but can you not wait until …”

“This is most vital, Henry. I would like you to place Lady Patricia Marbury and her daughter in the front rank in the Visitors' Seats at the protestation meeting this evening.”

Lord Richard looked up from his notes. “Eh? Pat and Alicia in the front? I don't know about that. Pat might not like to be so … so prominent. She's always been keen to help me, of course, but she's not like Jenny Churchill—thank God!” he added. “And Alicia, well, what if she falls asleep? I thought it might be better to keep her in the back.”

“Miss Alicia gave me the impression that she wished to see you speak,” Mr. Dodgson said.

“Then she shall have her wish,” Mr. Barclay said heartily. “I shall leave word that Miss Alicia and Lady Patricia are to have seats in the very front of the Visitors' Section. And you, Charles, are you still determined to shun the limelight?”

“I have other plans,” Mr. Dodgson said with a smile. “But I shall most assuredly be there. By the bye,” he asked, as he turned to go, “is Mr. Edward Kinsale scheduled to speak?”

BOOK: The Problem of the Missing Miss
11.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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