The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 4

  The three young women turned to face the men who had interrupted their contemplation of the window.

  “Mr. Dodgson, I believe,” the oldest of the four said, with a small dip that might have been a curtsey.

  “Do I know you?” Mr. Dodgson peered at the trio.

  “I am Miss Daphne Laurel,” the older woman introduced herself. “We are from Lady Margaret Hall.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Dodgson bowed in return. “I have a young acquaintance there, Miss Edith Rix. I do not believe we have been introduced.” He looked at the other three young ladies.

  “I didn’t suppose you would remember me,” Dianna Cahill said as she giggled nervously. “It was only once, very many years ago, that we first met.”

  “Indeed?”

  “In fact,” Dianna went on, conscious of Gertrude and Mary behind her, silently urging her on, “I meant to send you a note. It is fortunate that we met this way.” She paused. “I really don’t know how to put this …”

  “Someone’s got hold of a photograph you took,” Gertrude stated, taking charge of what was a rapidly deteriorating situation.

  “And they’re threatening to publish it if Dianna doesn’t leave Oxford,” Mary went on.

  “Dear me!” It seemed inadequate to the occasion. Mr. Dodgson looked about for a seat, but the small chapel lacked such amenities.

  “I apologize, Miss …”

  “Cahill. Dianna Cahill. And these are my friends, Gertrude Bell and Mary Talbot.” Dianna made the necessary introductions.

  “We’re all from Lady Margaret Hall,” Mary explained, as Mr. Dodgson’s confusion seemed to deepen. “Miss Cahill and I are second year, and Miss Bell just entered. And Miss Laurel came at Michaelmas term.”

  “I was working on my final paper,” Dianna added, as they converged on the flustered don. “It’s on the position of glassmaking in medieval England. I’m reading medieval history, and since my uncle Roswell is a manufacturer of colored glass, and he even provided some of the glass for Mr. Burne-Jones’s windows, I thought that it would be appropriate—” She stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. “I meant to write to you, asking for an interview, but since you are here, and we are here—” She stopped again and looked helplessly at her two supporters.

  “What’s this about someone threatening to publish something?” Dr. Doyle was drawn into the discussion.

  Dianna’s plump cheeks reddened. “It’s rather personal,” she whispered.

  Gertrude was more forthright. “It’s a photograph that you took, Mr. Dodgson, when Dianna here was just a tot.”

  “Surely not the stuff of blackmail!” Dr. Doyle scoffed.

  “It’s not just the photograph,” Dianna said. “It’s the … the text. Whoever is doing this has written a dreadful poem. He sent me a page, already typeset, with the photograph, and a letter.”

  “And the subject of this poem?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  The three girls looked at one another. Gertrude took a deep breath. “I’m not sure of some of the words,” she said, “but it seems to suggest that the purpose of Lady Margaret Hall is to corrupt children. And there is a photograph of a nude child to prove it. And Dianna says that you took it of her ages ago.”

  “How can this be?” Mr. Dodgson looked at the three young women and their older chaperon.

  “I have no idea how this person got the photograph,” Dianna said earnestly. “But he has it, and he’s going to send it around to all the colleges and put it into the newspapers.” She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief. Mary Talbot provided one.

  “Dear me!” Mr. Dodgson looked at the four earnest young women before him. “Who is this person?”

  “We don’t know!” Dianna wailed.

  “What does this blackguard want? Money?” Dr. Doyle’s mustache bristled at the thought of someone trying to elicit money from helpless female undergraduates.

  “Worse than that,” Dianna said, close to tears. “The letter demands that I leave Oxford.”

  Mr. Dodgson’s demeanor changed. He stood up, his face set in lines of outrage. “I have never been completely in favor of higher education for young women,” he stated. “But to suggest that anyone, male or female, deliberately destroy a lifetime’s work, is cowardly and despicable. Miss Cahill, if I was the unwitting cause of your distress, it is clearly up to me to set things right.”

  “Quite.” Touie had joined the group. “Mr. Dodgson, you mentioned that you had tea laid on. Perhaps we could retire to your rooms and sort all this out. This place is somewhat public.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Dr. Doyle echoed his wife. “I’ve already thought of several points of this story that strike me as provocative.”

  “And I would like to hear more of this blackmail,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Miss Cahill, would you and your friends join me for tea?”

  Dianna looked at Miss Laurel. “I don’t suppose it would break any of the rules?” she said hesitantly.

  “Rules?” Dr. Doyle’s eyebrows went up.

  “We’re not supposed to attend mixed parties,” Gertrude stated. “Nor are we supposed to enter the rooms of any of the male students without our chaperon.”

  “But we have our chaperon,” Mary pointed out. “Miss Laurel, you would be with us, wouldn’t you? And you do see that we must speak with Mr. Dodgson and, um …?”

  “This is Dr. Doyle, and this is Mrs. Doyle. They are visiting me from Portsmouth.” Mr. Dodgson made the necessary introductions.

  “Oh, then it will be quite all right,” Miss Laurel said. “If a married woman is present, as well as myself, there can be no difficulty.”

  “In that case, I suggest that we retire to my rooms for tea,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Mrs. Grundy will be satisfied, and we can get to the bottom of this.”

  He led the group back into Tom Quad, brushing past Mr. Gregory Martin as they went. That earnest young man was hurrying back to his rooms after his tutorial with Mr. Duckworth, his hands full of papers, with a book tucked under one arm.

  Mr. Martin stepped aside to let the young women go by. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, as Dianna hurried by to keep up with the more athletic Gertrude Bell.

  “Oh, no!” Dianna exclaimed, as she bumped into Martin. “Oh, I am so sorry!”

  Papers were flying everywhere. The book fell to the stone pathway, as Martin scampered about, trying to catch his wayward essay.

  The quad suddenly seemed full of students, chasing the flying papers. Gertrude looked behind her, saw Dianna, and called out, “Come on, Dianna! Stop playing with that man and come along!”

  Dianna’s blue eyes filled with tears of mortification as she trotted after her friends, holding her skirts with one hand against the ever-present draft.

  Mr. Martin gazed after her, a look of total wonderment on his face. “Dianna!” he breathed.

  Nevil Farlow stood in the doorway across Tom Quad and watched the paper chase that had enlivened the afternoon. He noted the student gowns over long skirts and Mr. Dodgson’s tall, black hat as they marched toward the corner rooms that Mr. Dodgson had occupied for the last twenty years. Farlow frowned to himself. Trust Greg to bounce into the first female student he sees! With a sniff of disgust, Farlow turned out of the quad and proceeded along the lane to the boathouse. Ingram was right about one thing: the boat races were vitally important in the life of Christ Church. Farlow intended that Christ Church should retain the title of “Head of the River.” To this end, he had donned white flannel trousers, a blazer with his Oxford Blue badge, and a straw hat. Thus clad, he sallied forth toward the river and his team.

  From his station near the Porter’s Desk, Ingram watched the five women and two men as they entered the corner door. On the board of the Porter’s Lodge was a note: “Mr. Dodgson to have tea in his rooms.” He’d better notify Telling; four more cups would be needed and more cakes, if the looks of the young ladies were any indication.

  Ingram headed for the kitchens, where Telling was already organizing the tea urns and
trays for those students who wanted tea sent to their rooms. The Senior Common Room had its tea at four; dinner in Hall would be served at seven-thirty.

  Telling frowned as Ingram gave him the news that Mr. Dodgson had four more visitors, young lady students by the look of them, and their chaperon.

  “Better help me with the trays then,” Telling ordered, as he shifted cups and saucers, cakes and biscuits, and a massive urn of hot water. “And you’re to serve Mr. Dodgson his dinner, Ingram, so look sharp! He’s a particular gentleman.”

  “Seems a right naffy sort to me,” Ingram grumbled, as he lifted the heavy urn.

  Telling turned on his underling with raised eyebrows and biting scorn. “Mr. Dodgson is a very clever scholar,” he told Ingram. “He is a great credit to this House. You will keep a civil tongue in your head when you serve him, Ingram!”

  Ingram followed Telling across the quad. He thought there was something familiar about one of those bluestockings, something that would warrant a closer examination.

  Ingram’s long face gave no clue to the exultation he suddenly felt. If he was right, this would be the opportunity he had been waiting for all his life! For once he had stumbled onto a sure thing, something that would set him up for the rest of his days!

  Chapter 4

  Mr. Dodgson had held the same suite of rooms on the northeast corner of Tom Quad since 1868: a spacious sitting room and smaller dining room on the first story, a bathroom and bedroom on the second, with a box room for his photographic equipment between them. It was to the sitting room that he led his visitors, and some time was spent in seeing that each of the young women present had a seat. The two large armchairs were appropriated by Gertrude and Mary, while Miss Laurel effaced herself in the small chair behind the desk and Touie drew the chair near the door closer to the central group. Dr. Doyle took up a position near the fireplace, so that Mr. Dodgson could take center stage in the middle of the room.

  This, unfortunately, was impossible. Dianna kept bouncing up and down from the armchair assigned to her to exclaim over this or that bit of bric-a-brac, evoking more and more from her memory of the brightest light in what appeared to have been an otherwise dreary childhood.

  “I remember that screen,” she cried out, “and there’s the globe! And you posed me over there, next to the window, with a book on my lap.”

  A rap at the door put an end to her effusions. Telling and Ingram appeared with the tea tray and the urn on its little trolley.

  The girls brightened up at the thought of food. Miss Laurel shrank back into the shadows, effectively withdrawing from the group.

  Mr. Dodgson greeted Telling and Ingram with a wave of his hand as they marched in with the tea tray. “Put it on the table,” he said absently.

  “I took the liberty of ordering more cakes,” Telling said, as Ingram set out the cups and plates on the small round table that had been set next to the armchairs, “seeing as how Ingram here told me you had extra visitors.”

  “That was most perceptive of Ingram,” Mr. Dodgson commented.

  “All part of the service,” Ingram replied. He kept his face immobile as he laid the tray down on the table, masking his inward delight. He had been right!

  Telling shot Ingram a look of dire warning. Scouts were not supposed to react in any way to dons. They were to be unheard and unseen, doing their work behind the scenes so that the learned men could get on with their studies without being bothered with mundane matters. Clearly, Telling thought, Ingram’s glowing references had been sadly misleading. He would have to consider rehiring this scout after the summer hiatus. For now, however, Ingram was necessary, and a reprimand was in order … but not in front of Mr. Dodgson.

  Mr. Dodgson ignored Ingram’s gaffe. “You may come back to clear off the cups in an hour, Telling,” he said. “And you may send up dinner for myself and Dr. Doyle and his wife at seven.”

  Telling bowed and nudged Ingram, who showed every inclination to remain in the sitting room. Once outside, Telling turned on his subordinate with righteous wrath.

  “Mr. Ingram,” he hissed, “do not ever address one of the Senior Common Room again, unless you are directly questioned.”

  “Just being cheerful,” Ingram retorted.

  “When cheerful commentary is needed, it will be requested,” Telling told him loftily. “London manners will not do for the House.” Telling marched off, leaving Ingram to mutter a highly uncomplimentary phrase to himself.

  Ingram thought furiously. What to do next? He had recognized her, but had she recognized him? How to get to her? He followed Telling down the stairs and headed for the Porter’s Lodge at Tom Gate. She would hardly go back through the Meadows, along the Dead Man’s Walk; she would have to pass through Tom Gate, and he could get to her there.

  Back in Mr. Dodgson’s rooms, Mrs. Doyle and Miss Laurel eyed each other and the tea urn, as if to determine who held precedence through age and/or social position. Then Mrs. Doyle asked, “Shall I pour out?”

  “If you will be so kind,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Miss Cahill, will you please sit down? We must sort out this problem, and you are making me quite giddy.”

  “It’s just that … I don’t know, I barely remembered being photographed, and now it’s all coming back. Oh, you have jam cakes! I remember those jam cakes!” She accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Doyle and a plate from Miss Laurel and perched on the arm of the nearest chair.

  Mr. Dodgson took up a position in the center of the room. “Now then,” he began, in his most professorial tone, “when did this outrage begin?”

  “If you mean, when did I receive the first letter—?” Dianna began.

  “The first letter?” Dr. Doyle put in sharply.

  “Yes, the first. There were two before I got the photograph.” Dianna took a sip of her tea.

  “Were they delivered by hand or through the post?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  Dianna frowned. “I really don’t know. You see, most of our correspondence passes through Miss Wordsworth’s hands before we get it. Our letters are handed to us at breakfast.”

  “Miss Wordsworth reads your private correspondence?” Touie’s pretty face crinkled in dismay. “That seems quite harsh. Doesn’t she trust you?”

  “Of course she does!” Dianna exclaimed.

  “It’s the other chaps she doesn’t trust!” The irrepressible Gertrude gave a crack of laughter, echoed faintly by Mary, who glanced at Miss Laurel as if to ascertain that the chaperon was still there to preserve propriety.

  “I take it that Miss Wordsworth is the dean or principal of this college for women,” Dr. Doyle said.

  “Miss Wordsworth is the Lady Principal of Lady Margaret Hall,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “A most worthy and estimable woman, the grandniece of the great poet. She established Lady Margaret Hall seven years ago. I was one of those who attended the inaugural ceremonies, opening the college to young women; and my impression of Miss Wordsworth then, as now, is that she would have put a stop to any attempt to suborn one of her students immediately.”

  “In that case, we can safely assume that whoever is behind the extortion scheme must be resident here in Oxford, and that the letters must have been delivered by hand,” Dr. Doyle stated. “Otherwise, the letters would have come in the post, and Miss Wordsworth would have found them.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Dodgson said, taking the floor back from his prize pupil. “Did you save those letters, Miss Cahill?”

  “I certainly did not,” Dianna said firmly. “The first one called me all sorts of bad names and said that I was a disgrace to all women and that I had no right to attempt to gain academic honors. Well, I know better than that! I thought it was one of the cranky old dons, and I put the letter into the fire.”

  “We get them sometimes,” Mary said with a sigh. “There are some old fogeys who simply will not understand that women deserve the chance to improve themselves, just as men do, and that we are fully capable of being good wives and mothers even though we have had the advantag
e of University education.”

  “In fact, Miss Wordsworth is of the opinion that an educated woman is a better wife and mother because she can fully enter into her husband’s inner life and can impart knowledge to her children,” Dianna added, as if quoting one of Miss Wordsworth’s more impassioned speeches.

  Mr. Dodgson nodded, partly in agreement with the sentiments expressed, partly to indicate that the young women should continue their story.

  “So, there was one letter expressing dislike for women undergraduates,” Dr. Doyle summed up. “And you say there was a second letter?”

  “Yes, but this one was directed specifically at me,” Dianna said. Her cheeks turned bright pink as she said, “This time the letter said that there was a photograph that proved that the women of Lady Margaret Hall were …” She could not bring herself to say it.

  Gertrude had no such compunction. “To put it as plainly as I may, that letter accused us all of being followers of Sappho, and that we indoctrinated the children of dons into our cult.”

  “Were those the exact words?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  Dianna looked at Mary and Gertrude, and the three young women nodded.

  Mr. Dodgson frowned. Touie looked blankly at her husband, who was struggling not to laugh. Mr. Dodgson did not think this was a laughing matter.

  “But who is this Sappho?” Touie asked innocently.

  “She was a poet,” Mr. Dodgson explained, “who had a group of, ah, young women about her.”

  “That doesn’t sound all that dreadful,” Touie said.

  Before she could continue, Dianna produced the offensive package. “This came today, right before luncheon.”

  Mr. Dodgson examined the envelope carefully, then withdrew the contents: a page of typeset text, a handwritten letter, and a photograph.

  His frown deepened as he scanned the letter, then looked at the typeset pages, and finally, recognized the photograph.

  “Now I recall when I took this,” Mr. Dodgson said slowly. “It was the last time that I saw Miss Alice Liddell before her marriage to Major Hargreaves. I had received a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in the Italian translation, and I thought that she might like to have it, since she had indicated that she was studying that language. When I arrived at the Deanery, there were already several people there—”