The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 3

  Gertrude looked over the printed page. “It’s something about kissing,” she pointed out. “And I know what that is.” She indicated a very short word, and pointed to a portion of her own anatomy.

  Dianna referred to the handwritten letter that accompanied the printed page and the photograph. “Leave this University at once, or this will go to every college and newspaper in Oxford,” she read.

  “Well, you can’t do it.” Gertrude pounded her fist on the table in righteous indignation. “I never heard such rot!”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Bell?” Miss Laurel turned from her book to stare at the younger woman. “Did you address me?”

  “Of course not, Miss Laurel,” Gertrude said. She turned back to her friends, who were hovering over the offensive pages.

  “Unfortunately, some people will do anything to remove female students from Oxford.” Mary sighed. “Although why they should pick on you, Dianna, is more than I can tell. No offense, dear, but you’re hardly First material, and your family isn’t particularly well-connected.”

  “I don’t understand it either,” Dianna said. “But this … this stuff … and the photograph …”

  “How did it come to be taken?” Mary asked, dispassionately regarding the object before her. It showed a six-year-old girl, frontally nude, with one hand on a globe and the other hiding her crotch. The background was very dark, and the child’s face was almost hidden in shadows, but there could be no mistaking the kinky curls that clustered about her face. This was Dianna Cahill, without a doubt.

  Dianna looked helplessly at her two friends. “It was when my father had been appointed to his living in Northumberland. We broke our journey here in Oxford, and my parents went to tea with the Liddells at Christ Church.”

  “And they brought you along with them? How odd,” Mary commented. “Why didn’t they leave you with your nurse?”

  “There was some commotion in the house,” Dianna recalled. “We were staying with my aunt and uncle Roswell, and there was to be a visitor, and I was to be gotten out of the house so that I shouldn’t see her. At least, that’s what I think I heard.”

  “How perceptive of you,” Miss Laurel commented, from her place at the table.

  “I don’t know about that, but I do remember being heartily bored at the tea party where everyone was older than I, even the other girls who thought me quite a baby. And then a gentleman came to deliver a book, I think, and he saw me and asked if he might take me to his rooms for tea. And we had the most delightful time … and he asked if I would like to be photographed. And so he took the pictures.”

  “Without your clothes on?” Gertrude’s blue eyes fairly danced with the thought.

  “I was six years old and thought nothing of it,” Dianna said apologetically. “And he was quite respectful, and I felt so comfortable with him; and it was such great fun that I let him pose me with the book and the globe; and then we had jam cake, which I was never allowed at home. Not even at Aunt Roswell’s, and she kept a very good table.”

  Dianna helped herself to the cake in front of her. Clearly, she had made up for lost time.

  Mary frowned at the packet before them. “Who took the picture?” she asked.

  Dianna frowned. “I can’t remember!” she wailed.

  “Try!” Gertrude ordered.

  “Could it have been Mr. Dodgson?” Miss Laurel offered, laying aside her book and moving closer to the trio.

  Dianna stared at the older woman. “That name does sound familiar. I suppose it could have been. Why do you think so?”

  “I have lived in Oxford for some time,” Miss Laurel explained. “Mr. Dodgson was well known as a photographer of children. It may well have been he who took the photograph.”

  “What I don’t understand is why this person should single you out for this … this outrage!” Gertrude exploded.

  Dianna’s eyes filled with tears. “No more do I! Examinations are coming, and I don’t know what to do! If I fail, I disappoint my dear aunt and uncle Roswell, who have spent so much time and money on my education. If I pass, this … thing … will be …”

  “Will be what? Sold on the public market? I think not,” Gertrude said staunchly. “I say, tell this blackguard to go about his business. ‘Publish and be damned!’”

  “Gertrude!” Miss Laurel corrected her wayward classmate. “Moderate your language!”

  Mary covered the offending photograph with the even more offending letter. “The real question is, how did this blackmailer find this photograph? Once he found it, how did he find you?”

  Dianna lifted her shoulders in a mute shrug of complete incomprehension.

  “More to the point,” Gertrude said, taking charge of her more reticent schoolmates, “what do we do about it?”

  “We can’t give in,” Mary said firmly.

  “Of course not,” Gertrude agreed. She thought for a moment, then went on. “We have to find out where that photograph came from. Once we know that, we can find out who sent it; and once we know that, we can deal with him ourselves.”

  “But that means, I have to ask Mr. Dodgson,” Dianna quavered. “I can’t just call on him out of the blue! He doesn’t remember me at all. I saw him when he called on Edith Rix, and he never even looked at me.”

  Gertrude’s quick mind was already planning a strategy. “Weren’t you going to the Cathedral today to look at the glass?” she asked Dianna.

  “Yes, I was,” Dianna admitted. “Miss Wordsworth gave permission, and Dean Liddell had no objections, so long as I was there within visiting hours and left before Evensong. Only,” her blue eyes grew troubled, “we need a chaperon, and Miss Wordsworth has to go with Tessa to the lecture at Balliol—”

  Miss Laurel coughed gently to remind the others of her presence. “Excuse me, Miss Cahill, but perhaps Miss Wordsworth will permit me to accompany you on this excursion. I am, after all, somewhat older than the rest of you, and I have been a governess.”

  Dianna considered this offer. “And what shall we do, once we get to Christ Church?”

  “We must find Mr. Dodgson and ask him what happened to that photograph,” Gertrude decided, with the air of a general who had devised the winning campaign.

  “You can’t think Mr. Dodgson had anything to do with this!” Mary protested. “Everyone knows he’s the kindest, sweetest gentleman, and besides, he wrote Alice in Wonderland. He couldn’t be a blackmailer!”

  “But he might have left that photograph about, and someone else might have found it,” Gertrude said, the light of battle blazing in her eyes. “Miss Laurel, go ask Miss Wordsworth if you can come with us, and then let’s get our hats and gowns. We’re going to Church!”

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Dodgson was waiting at the elaborately carved gateway that opened out onto St. Aldgates as the bell of Great Tom struck three. It mattered not that the time on the watches and clocks of Oxford stood at 3:05. Oxford was five degrees past the delineator set at the Greenwich Naval Academy, ergo Oxford University was exactly five minutes behind everyone else, and the school liked it that way.

  The young man in the tweed suit bursting through the sea of black gowns was clearly five minutes ahead of everyone else. His mustache fairly bristled with excitement as he took in the medieval architecture about him; his blue eyes sparkled and he seemed to breathe in the scholarly atmosphere. Behind him trotted his wife, a young woman in a tartan traveling suit with a modest bustle, topped off with a straw hat trimmed with a matching tartan ribbon, the very image of the provincial doctor’s wife ready to assist her husband in all things.

  Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle spotted the tall figure in black at the gate and waved vigorously. “There he is, Touie!”

  “Of course, Arthur,” Touie answered breathlessly, trying to keep up with her husband’s stride.

  “Мr. Dodgson has promised to show us the Cathedral,” Dr. Doyle reminded her. “I particularly want to see the chair that the king used before Naseby.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Dodgson
will show it to you,” Touie said, having caught up to her husband.

  Mr. Dodgson lifted his hat and bowed ceremoniously to his guests. “Good afternoon, Dr. Doyle, Mrs. Doyle. I hope you are settled into your rooms?”

  “Quite comfortably, thank you,” Dr. Doyle said, with a glance across the street at the White Hart Inn. “An old coaching inn! Just the setting for my book!”

  “That inn has been there since the reign of Richard the Second,” Mr. Dodgson informed them, as he led the young couple into the quad. “Before the House was built, I might add.” He gestured toward the pond in the center of the central grassy plot. “There was a statue of Mercury in that pool, and it is still called by that name. Some of the undergraduates find it amusing to duck each other in it, but it is strictly forbidden to do so.”

  The three adults stepped aside as two undergraduates hurried down the path, their gowns flapping behind them.

  “Where are they off to?” Mrs. Doyle wondered.

  “Lectures, possibly, or to the library,” Mr. Dodgson replied. “At least, one hopes so. Many of the undergraduates seem to prefer sport to scholarship.”

  Dr. Doyle laughed heartily. “On such a day as this, I can only agree with them. I only wish my own student days had been so pleasant.”

  Mr. Dodgson recalled that Dr. Doyle had spent his time at the University of Edinburgh, where the prevailing cold and damp might well have encouraged his interest in the murkier side of life.

  Mr. Dodgson continued his tour of the grounds, keeping to the south side of the quadrangle. “These buildings were designed by Sir Christopher Wren, although they were enlarged and, um, improved by our present dean.” He paused, then decided not to tread on delicate ground. He detested the so-called improvements made by Dean Liddell and had written several biting pamphlets giving his opinion of the new belfrey (which he had likened to a tea caddy) and the passage into the gardens behind the walls of Tom Quad (which he had dubbed “the tunnel”).

  Instead, he pointed out the noble proportions of the buildings, and reminded his guests that the founder of Christ Church was none other than Cardinal Wolsey. “Of course, after his unfortunate dismissal by King Henry the Eighth, the House was expropriated, so to speak, by the king.”

  “Why do you keep calling it ‘the House’?” Touie asked innocently.

  “Why, because it is God’s House, Mrs. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “And it is never referred to as Christ Church College. It is Christ Church or the House.”

  Touie made understanding noises. Dr. Doyle looked around him, mentally docketing the proportions of the quad for future reference. Mr. Dodgson quickly led his guest toward the Cathedral, keeping his back to the bell tower.

  Dr. Doyle stopped at the entrance to the Cathedral to take in its medieval carving, much to the discomfort of two dons in caps and gowns who were trying to round the corner of the quad. Clearly, Mr. Dodgson was in full instructor mode, pointing out all salient features of Christ Church Cathedral.

  “This is the smallest cathedral in Britain,” he stated. “You do know why it is called a cathedral and not merely a church?” He looked expectantly at the Doyles, prepared to elucidate when ready.

  “It’s because of the Bishop, isn’t it?” Touie smiled sweetly at Mr. Dodgson. “Is not the Dean of Christ Church also its Bishop?”

  “I see you have informed yourself before coming here, Mrs. Doyle.” Mr. Dodgson looked slightly put out. Some of his thunder had been stolen.

  Touie glanced at her husband, who was by now entranced by the brass plates fastened to the walls of the church. “Arthur and I have been preparing for this excursion ever since you gave us the invitation,” she told Mr. Dodgson. “It is something of a change for us.”

  “I understood that you were going north to visit Dr. Doyle’s parents,” Mr. Dodgson said, steering Touie around the small chairs that had been placed for the afternoon service.

  “It’s Arthur’s father. He is not well.” Touie’s pretty face clouded. “And there is some difficulty about his mother as well. And there are his sisters …” She stopped, conscious of having said too much. “But this little excursion is just what Arthur needs. He is so enthusiastic about his historical novel, and he will find so much material here …”

  “Eh?” Mr. Dodgson leaned closer to Touie.

  Dr. Doyle had come up behind them. From the look on Mr. Dodgson’s face, he could tell that she had just opened the one topic he had thought to broach himself. He cleared his throat, glanced at the older man, and blurted out, “Mr. Dodgson, while we are here, I wondered if … if you could perhaps get me into the Bodleian Library.”

  Mr. Dodgson turned his attention toward the younger man. “You did not mention the Bodleian in our correspondence,” he said, a note of disapproval in his voice.

  Dr. Doyle looked abashed. “I only thought that since you have been so kind as to encourage my literary ambitions, you might put in a word with the librarians. I don’t want to make off with anything, I only want to see one or two letters …” His voice trailed off under the stony frown of the don.

  “Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson said frostily, “you are the nephew of an old acquaintance, and therefore I have continued to pursue this particular friendship. I have read your stories and found them quite interesting and well-written, which you may take as a compliment since I rarely read fiction of any sort. However, you must not think to take further advantage of my position. I have been sublibrarian here at the House, and I can make some of the collection here available to you, but I have no influence at the Bodleian.”

  Dr. Doyle’s cheerful smile faded. Then he shrugged and said, “I apologize for thinking I could take advantage of the opportunity to look at the rare manuscripts, sir. Particularly accounts of the Bloody Assizes, which were held in the West Country and which figure largely in my new book.”

  “Can you not find such materials in London? I might suggest The Royal Archive.” Mr. Dodgson ignored the party of students behind them to glare at Dr. Doyle.

  “I know, but while we were here, I thought …” Dr. Doyle took one look at Mr. Dodgson’s face and realized that he had made a massive error in judgment. Mr. Dodgson did not like to be surprised with impromptu requests. Dr. Doyle changed his tactics. “Of course, if the Bodleian Library is unavailable, I will have to find my research elsewhere. Perhaps I might use the library here at Christ Church. And I am particularly glad to see the Cathedral,” he added, “and King Charles’s chair, and the glass windows. The only one dedicated to Saint Thomas à Becket to survive the Dissolution, I understand?”

  Mr. Dodgson unbent slightly. Dr. Doyle was young and bumptious and had to be put in his place. He was not so far removed in years from the undergraduates who were beginning to empty the Cathedral as they drifted back to their own rooms for tea. If Dr. Doyle wished to examine the Cathedral, Mr. Dodgson was perfectly willing to act as guide.

  “The Cathedral is, of course, open to any of the public who wish to attend service,” Mr. Dodgson said loftily. “However, the library is meant for the students only. I doubt that the materials at hand are those that you need. However,” he added, “I can have a word with the librarian. Of course, you may not remove anything. If your time here is as short as your wife suggests, you may not be able to complete your researches before you have to continue your journey.”

  With that, Dr. Doyle had to be satisfied. Mr. Dodgson took over again. He would not let Dr. Doyle go off on his own but led his young guests to the altar.

  There was no service in progress, but the Cathedral held a number of visitors. In the north transept three students in gowns were taking the measurements of the tomb of Saint Frideswide. Next to them a young man was proudly showing an older couple the windows, designed and executed by the fashionable artist Burne-Jones, that flanked the altar.

  Mr. Dodgson pointed them out to Touie with the air of one who has done it so often that the recitation has been memorized.

  “This window commemorates Frederic Vyner, w
ho was slain by brigands in Greece in 1870. This window is dedicated to Saint Cecilia. And this—” he indicated the grandest of the three—“is the Life of Saint Frideswide. It was she, of course, who founded the abbey that became Oxford.”

  Touie gazed at the elaborate window and marveled at the complexity of the design. Each of the many panels depicted an incident in the life of what must have been an extraordinary woman. Here she was, repulsing an overeager suitor; there, dedicating her church. In one section of the window was the famous Well of Healing, and at the very end of the sequence, in the lower right-hand corner, the Death of Saint Frideswide.

  Touie looked closer. Surely, that was not a … a “convenience”? In the background of a medieval death scene? Was the eminent artist having his little joke at the expense of his scholarly patrons? What should she say? Should she remark on it, showing that she had noticed it, or should she discreetly ignore it?

  Her confusion was alleviated by a gleeful cry from her husband at the other side of the altar. Dr. Doyle had been drawn like a magnet to the tiny chapel at the right of the entrance. There, tucked away where it could remain almost unnoticed, was the celebrated window commemorating the martyrdom of Saint Thomas à Becket. There, too, were three young women in flowered spring dresses covered by the black fustian gowns used by Oxford undergraduates, accompanied by a fourth woman in a plain green dress and darker green mantle. The younger women wore spring straw hats, modestly trimmed with pink and green ribbons, while the older woman’s hat was of black straw, trimmed to match her dark green dress.

  Dr. Doyle ignored the ladies in his eagerness to share his discovery with his wife. “Touie, come and see this!”

  Mr. Dodgson frowned slightly. Young women were not all that common in Christ Church, particularly young women unaccompanied by a male escort. The undergraduate gowns indicated those rare beings, female students. “I b-beg your p-pardon,” he began. “Do you have permission …”