The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist

CHAPTER 1

Murder had no place in Portsmouth. Death in waterfront brawls, possibly; death in battle, most probably; but deliberately planned, cold-blooded murder? Highly unlikely! Portsmouth had no time for mere personal vendettas. Portsmouth had more important things to deal with.

Portsmouth! The very name sent ripples of pride through every British soul! Portsmouth meant the Royal Navy, that bulwark of defense which rode triumphantly across the Atlantic to Canada and the islands of the Caribbean; which guarded the gates of the Mediterranean at Gibraltar and kept the inland sea clear at Malta; which fended off trouble in the exotic ports of India and China and the tiny atolls that dotted the Pacific. Moreover, Portsmouth meant all the businesses associated with the Royal Navy: chandleries, sail-shops, and coaling-stations for the ships, lodging houses and rows of small cottages for sailors and officers ashore. Murder was not part of the agenda of the Royal Navy, ergo, murder had no business rearing its head in Portsmouth.

Portsmouth was the staging-place for naval maneuvers. Passengers would board their transatlantic liners in Southampton. Freight would be taken on in Bristol. Only the Royal Navy claimed the docks in Portsmouth (always excepting the fishing fleet that rode at the ancient Camber Docks across the harbor from the huge battleships.)

This was no place for the fashionable to display their finery, or for the unfashionable to find jollification. People came to Portsmouth with the intention of finishing their business and moving elsewhere as soon as possible. There were no grand hotels, no amusement piers, no sumptuous restaurants in Portsmouth. Instead, the narrow streets of the old town were overlooked by the grim towers of the castle and the strictly utilitarian brick offices and barracks of the naval stations. Beneath those walls were the raucous taverns that catered to seamen just off their ships, with wine, women, and song. Once satisfied, both sailors and officers headed for happier locations once their papers had been signed and they were free to depart.

Just east of Portsmouth lay Southsea. If Portsmouth was for business, then Southsea was for retirement. Here were houses tenanted by generals and colonels, admirals and captains, comfortably circumstanced on their wives’ incomes or less comfortably well off on their half-pay and prize-money. The surplus soldiers of the Crimean and Indian conflicts could find safe harbor in the newly built villas and row houses of Southsea.

Southsea had certain pretensions. There was the jetty, a grand affair with a circular pavilion and pier; not as spectacular as the tawdry splendor of Brighton, some twenty-five miles farther east, but charming, nonetheless. There was the lawn, sloping down the cliff to the sea-front, where the Colonel’s Lady (and Rosie O’Grady on her half-day) could stroll and take the air, while her husband, now retired from active service, could enjoy a game of bowls or cricket. There was the Esplanade, looking out into the Channel, where the outline of the Isle of Wight was just visible on the horizon. There were two hotels, one on the pier, the other in the King’s Road, both considered quite comfortable and modern. There were shops with the best merchandise to be found outside of London. In short, Southsea was the very model of a modern suburb, and in such prosaic circumstances, murder was unthinkable.

Murder was certainly not in the mind of the elderly gentleman in the black frock coat and slightly old-fashioned high silk hat who scanned the crowd assembled at the pier as the steamer edged into its berth on this sunny afternoon in October 1885. He shaded his eyes against the glare as he sought his host among the khaki uniforms, blue jackets, and tweed suits that surged forward as the gangplank was lowered and the passengers began to descend to the dock.

It had been a calm and uninteresting journey from Eastbourne, with stops at Brighton and other small villages along the Channel coast. There had been no children to chat with or to distract with his usual paraphernalia, still tucked into his pockets: string, lemon drops, a brightly colored handkerchief. Any children young enough to interest the elderly gentleman would be at school, or in the care of a harried governess, on a weekday afternoon.

Once again the gentleman scanned the pier. He picked up his only luggage, a Gladstone bag that contained a change of clothing and some books. He wondered if he had made a mistake in coming to Southsea at all. His young host was, after all, a mere acquaintance (although he was Dicky Doyle’s nephew, which counted for something). They had met in Brighton a few weeks previously, and the friendship had continued through the post. The young man had literary leanings, and the elderly gentleman was willing to help him, as much as he could.

The gentleman held on to his hat with one hand as he maneuvered down the gangway, still seeking his young friend. If it had not been for a conjunction of domestic upsets at his lodgings in Eastbourne and at his sisters’ house at Guildford, he would not have been on the steamer at all. He would have been on his way back to Oxford, to the quiet haven of Christ Church College, where he was known and respected as a mathematician, even though he no longer actively participated in the education of young men.

As the crowd thinned around him the elderly gentleman felt in his waistcoat pocket for the flimsy piece of yellow paper that had come just that morning, giving him the timetable for the coastal steamer. He had not mistaken the time or the date, yet his host was not in sight. He began to worry. Was there to be another incident, like the one that had brought him together with the young Scottish doctor earlier that year? He sincerely hoped not! He had had quite enough excitement for one holiday.

His eye was caught by a tall figure loping down the hill, coattails flying, hat in hand. His host had arrived, a bit late, but better than not at all.

The younger man waved vigorously and hallooed, Mr. Dodgson! Mr. Dodgson! He bounded onto the pier and intercepted his guest.

The elderly gentleman recognized the young doctor who had invited him to spend a day and a night in Southsea. Dr. Doyle, I presume?

Dr. Doyle took a long gulp of air and looked about him for his guest’s luggage. I apologize for not being on the dock to meet you, sir, but I was unavoidably detained. A matter of some urgency. He fairly beamed with pride. I had to give evidence at an inquest. Was the trip enjoyable?

One steamship is very much like another, Mr. Dodgson said diffidently. I am very much obliged to you, Dr. Doyle, for extending your hospitality to me. I do not like to take advantage …

It is I who am taking advantage of you, sir, Dr. Doyle confessed, as he relieved Mr. Dodgson of his bag and led him to the ranks of the horse-drawn trams that waited to take passengers up the hill to King’s Road and the businesses of Southsea. You see, I have written some more stories, and I would very much like for you to read them and give me your opinion.

I would be delighted to examine your writings, Dr. Doyle, but you must understand that the opinion I give will be that of a mathematician, not a literary man.

That is all I ask. Dr. Doyle handed Mr. Dodgson’s bag to the conductor of the nearest car and assisted the older man up the step. They sat on the wooden bench along one side of the car, while the vehicle filled up with market-women in voluminous skirts and shawls, sailors in blue jerseys, and one or two commercial travelers in checked suits and bowler hats.

Dr. Doyle continued to chat, oblivious to the crowd. Perhaps I should not have been so late had there not been a question raised as to the cause of death of the deceased.

Was there a question? Mr. Dodgson wondered whether Dr. Doyle could be persuaded to lower his voice, but the young doctor was all too eager to inform the world of his discoveries.

Captain Arkwright was already dead when I saw him. Rigor had set in, so I placed the time of death at midnight or before.

Indeed. Mr. Dodgson braced himself as the car gave a lurch. Was the gentleman a patient of yours?

In a manner of speaking. He had been my friend Pike’s patient for some time, but when Pike was on holiday, I was locum, and when Pike returned, Miss Arkwright—that is, Miss Amelia Arkwright, the Captain’s elder daughter—thought that I might continue, and Pike had no objection.

Really? I would have thought he might wish to keep his patients to himself.

Dr. Doyle smothered a laugh. In this case, I think Pike was trying to fob off a particularly cantankerous old sea dog on me. Captain Arkwright could be a difficult patient, especially when the gout had him by the toe. I treated him last Christmas for biliousness brought on by too much pudding, and for shortness of breath due to his bad heart. He had been taking on flesh at an amazing rate due to dropsy. And, like many old sailors, he was a heavy smoker and drinker, with a ferocious temper.

A difficult patient, then. Mr. Dodgson frowned slightly. I wonder that he permitted you to attend him.

Dr. Doyle shook his head ruefully. He had nothing to say in the matter. He’d already run through most of the medical practitioners here in Southsea. It was Miss Arkwright, his elder daughter, who insisted that I continue to see her father. The Captain called me ‘whippersnapper’ and worse.

But you continued to treat him, Mr. Dodgson said, as the horsecar lurched forward.

Oh, yes. A patient, even one as difficult as the Captain, is still a patient, and Miss Arkwright was kind to Touie … you remember Touie? My wife? Dr. Doyle pronounced the name with the pride of the newly married man.

A charming and intelligent young woman, Mr. Dodgson agreed. I suppose losing a patient, even one as difficult as Captain Arkwright, must have been a shock.

Not unexpected, but you are right, it was a shock, Dr. Doyle admitted. I thought the Captain was doing better, all things considered. I had him on digitalin, for his heart, and they had made up a daybed in his study, so that he need not take the stairs to his bedchamber. I also told him to moderate his intake of rum and tobacco. I leave it to you to imagine how that advice was received.

Mr. Dodgson smiled and nodded. In that case, your treatment was acceptable, and there should have been no difficulty about the certificate.

Except for two facts, either of which would have been enough to make me reconsider. First, there was a deep scratch on the back of the Captain’s neck, which had no business being there. The back of the chair was of leather, quite smooth. The Captain had been housebound for well over a month, and in any case, the scratch was quite fresh. If that was so, how did he get it?

And the second fact?

The door to the Captain’s study had been locked from the outside. Dr. Doyle clutched Mr. Dodgson’s arm as the horsecar swayed on its tracks.

I see. Mr. Dodgson considered the late Captain Arkwright as the horsecar made its way up the hill. But what I do not understand is why you could not be satisfied with a verdict of natural causes. The scratch on the back of the neck could have come about by accident, and Miss Arkwright, the Captain’s daughter—

Elder daughter, Dr. Doyle corrected him. There is also Miss Bedelia, but she is a mere child, not yet sixteen.

Either of them could have locked the door. Or the housekeeper.…

Mrs. Cavanaugh? Dr. Doyle considered this. But why should she do so? And why should a man in the throes of a heart attack not cry out? Why did he not disarrange his desk? And neither Miss Arkwright nor Mrs. Cavanaugh admitted to locking the door.

From the outside, you say? Mr. Dodgson’s curiosity was now aroused.

The maid tried to get into the Captain’s study, to lay the fire, on Tuesday last. The door was locked from the outside. Miss Amelia opened it with her key, and there he was, dead as mutton, sitting at his desk, in his shirt and dressing gown. Naturally I sent for the police as soon as I saw him, but they’ve had the case for a week, and they’ve done nothing about it. Dr. Doyle’s mustache bristled with indignation at the thought of the Southsea Constabulary’s dereliction of duty.

What was he doing at his desk? Mr. Dodgson asked suddenly.

Eh?

Captain Arkwright. Why was he sitting at the desk at all? Was he writing something? Reading something?

I have no idea, Dr. Doyle said. I didn’t see any book or newspaper on the desk, nor was there any paper on which he could have been writing. There was no pen or pencil near his hand, except the ones in the inkstand, and they were quite dry. The maid insists she didn’t touch anything in the room except to place coals on the fire. Miss Amelia does the dusting in that room, since it holds many of the Captain’s curiosities, objects collected in his travels.

Then this Captain Arkwright was not a naval person? Mr. Dodgson asked.

Merchant Captain, I believe, but long retired from the sea, Dr. Doyle explained. He could be called Southsea’s oldest inhabitant. I believe his house was one of the first built beyond the boundaries of the old village … ah, here we are!

The horsecar had reached its destination. Dr. Doyle handed Mr. Dodgson down the step, then collected his bag and leaped down to the pavement, while the faithful horses continued on their way down the King’s Road in the direction of the towers of Portsmouth.

King’s Road was the high street, macadamized and gas-lit, filled with shoppers and strollers going about their daily rounds. Both sides of the road were lined with shops: a dressmakers’, a tailor’s, a draper’s, a greengrocer’s, an apothecary’s, a stationer’s. At one end of the street stood that imposing edifice, the Bush Hotel, towering four stories high above the rest of the town. The Baptist church took second place in the skyline, with two small houses between these two monuments.

The two houses, Number One and Number Two Bush Villas, were decidedly modest in design, set back from the street behind iron grills that shielded a bleak paved courtyard from the unruly crowd. On the gate of Number One was affixed a small brass plate that read A. CONAN DOYLE, M.D.

Dr. Doyle turned his steps toward the Bush Hotel. I realize I invited you to stay with us, he said somewhat sheepishly, but perhaps you would be more comfortable at the hotel. Mr. Hill provides valet services for his guests … and Touie thought my brother’s room would be too small for you …. His voice trailed off as Mr. Dodgson surveyed Number One Bush Villa.

Clearly, young Dr. Doyle had neither the space nor the wherewithal to entertain lavishly. Mr. Dodgson wondered for a moment if he was about to embark on a descent into social levels that would be unacceptable, were it not for Dr. Doyle’s literary ambitions and family connections. Then he recalled his own circumstances. His clothes were on their way to Oxford. His landlady in Eastbourne had been summoned to the bedside of a sick relative, requiring him to vacate his lodgings a day earlier than he had expected. His sisters had informed him (in a letter full of underlinings) that he would always be welcome at The Chestnuts, but their cook had just announced that she was leaving to marry her long-standing suitor, who had finally gotten his license to open a public house, and consequently the household was in something of a turmoil while a new cook could be found. He had decided on impulse to accept Dr. Doyle’s offer of a night’s lodgings in Southsea. Mr. Dodgson made a private vow not to act on impulse again.

A pretty young woman emerged from Number One Bush Villa, just as a muscular young man in velveteen trousers and vest dashed out of the Bush Hotel and seized Mr. Dodgson’s bag.

Hello, Touie, Dr. Doyle greeted the woman, and relinquished the bag. Mr. Dodgson, you remember my wife? He spoke with the fond glance of the newly married man at his beloved.

Good day, Mrs. Doyle. You appear to be in something of a hurry. Mr. Dodgson raised his hat the appropriate two inches from his head, then replaced it.

I’ve just had a note from Mrs. Cavanaugh, Touie explained. Your comments at the inquest have caused a good deal of worry at Treasure House, and she wanted me to come over to call on Miss Amelia and Miss Bedelia. I really didn’t think they’d be receiving, at least not until the funeral, but Mrs. Cavanaugh seems to think I could do some good, so I popped on my hat, and off I went.

You are an angel! Dr. Doyle said fervently.

But really, Arthur, Touie went on, regarding her husband reproachfully, "you should think before you speak. Your statements at the inquest were taken down by that horrid Harrison of the Evening News and they got out an extra edition. Everyone will be talking about it!"

Good! Dr. Doyle fairly strutted.

But think of how unpleasant it is for Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia! Touie smoothed her gloves and gripped her reticule in one hand. Mother is preparing a nice dinner for us, Mr. Dodgson, and you and Arthur can look over his stories afterwards. She took a few more steps, then turned back. Mr. Dodgson … this is quite forward of me, I know … but could you come with me? Miss Bedelia is quite young, only fifteen, and this is a very difficult time for her … I am not putting this very well. She stopped in confusion.

I am not in orders, Mr. Dodgson said slowly, but I am a Deacon in the Church of England. I suppose I could offer some comfort to a young lady at this sad time.

And I’m coming, too, Dr. Doyle announced, taking his wife’s arm. I can’t let you face this alone.

Arthur, are you sure you want to see Miss Amelia?

What I really want to do is get another look at Captain Arkwright’s study. There’s something wrong there, Touie, I can feel it!

Mr. Dodgson looked at the Bush Hotel. He looked at the eager faces of Dr. Doyle and his wife. He forgot his vow not to act impulsively.

I shall accompany you to pay your condolence call, he said.

I knew you would, said Touie with a smile, as the three of them proceeded eastward on King’s Road.

CHAPTER 2

The Doyles and Mr. Dodgson strolled purposefully eastward along the King’s Road in the midautumn afternoon. They passed the shops, where the clerks were making the last sales before teatime. Street vendors hawked vegetables as being fresh from the garden, while delectable odors escaped the baker’s and confectioner’s, where busy shoppers could stop for a cup of restorative tea before proceeding home via the ever-present horsecars. The air was cool and brisk, hinting at the winter to come, but not uncomfortable, despite the sea-breeze that ruffled the fringes on the shawls of the market-women and sent the hats of the unwary across the road.

The commercial bustle of King’s Road gave way to the comparative quiet of Elm Grove, a broad boulevard lined with individual houses, each tidily bordered by an iron fence or brick wall, beyond which lay small gardens where a few brave flowers still dared to bloom. The red and yellow leaves of maples and elms drifted across the road, blown by the ever-present wind. Here the horsecars were joined by small pony-traps, dog-carts, and even a penny-farthing bicycle, daringly navigated by a youth in knickerbockers. The carts from the bakery, the fishmonger, and the butcher were making their last deliveries. Ladies were completing their rounds of calls, heading home with the air of one who has done one’s duty, and done it well.

The Doyles led Mr. Dodgson to a small house at the extreme end of the street. Here Elm Grove effectively ended, where Victoria Road cut off to the north and Grove Road South led down to the Common, overlooking the Channel. The house had been built at the height of the craze for the picturesque, before Elm Grove had become so crowded. It would have been more appropriate to the Black Forest than to the English coast, with a peaked roof that sloped nearly to the edge of the leaded-glass casement windows that allowed air and light into the rooms beyond. A bow window sprouted from the northern side wall, while another casement opened onto the garden on the south side of the house. A flagstone path led to the front door through a profusion of valiantly blooming fall asters, while another path led from the road through the back-garden to the kitchen. A small wooden sign had been affixed to the front gate, proclaiming the residence to be Treasure House.

The Misses Arkwright are apparently receiving visitors, Mr. Dodgson observed, noting a carriage at the side of the road, and the small group of people leaving the house.

Dr. Doyle greeted the party as they attempted to pass on the narrow path that led to the front door of Treasure House, a passage made more difficult by the bustles on the three ladies involved. Mr. Dodgson, this is Mr. Kirton and Mrs. Kirton, and Miss Kirton. Mr. Kirton is one of our leading dental surgeons, he explained to Mr. Dodgson, who raised his hand to his hat, but did not lift it. One did not lift one’s hat to mere dentists.

Mr. Kirton lifted his silk hat to acknowledge the noted scholar. Mrs. Kirton nodded. The young lady next to her dropped a small curtsey. I wish I could say I was glad to see you, Doyle, Kirton said, drawing the younger man aside on the path to the house, while the ladies inched their way around each other. You dropped a brick in the inquest this morning. Miss Amelia’s not best pleased about it.

Dr. Doyle’s head went up. I was asked if I had an opinion as to the time of death or the cause. I said that I did, and that in my opinion, death came from causes unknown.

When everyone knew the Captain to be a hard-drinking, hard-smoking man with an evil temper and a bad heart?

I had my doubts, Dr. Doyle repeated. I was asked for an opinion and I gave it.

Mr. Kirton shook his head and sighed. I only wish you had kept your doubts to yourself. Now we’ve got O’Ferrall in there, making no end of a nuisance of himself.

Doyle’s mustache bristled pugnaciously. Before he could reply, Touie took his arm.

Arthur, we shall go and leave cards, and if Miss Amelia will receive us, you can explain yourself to her, she told him.

Behind them a tall man in clerical black cleared his throat noisily.

Ah … someone is trying to get past us, Mr. Dodgson pointed out. We must either go forward or backward.

Forward it is, Dr. Doyle said grimly. I want to have a word with O’Ferrall myself.

The trio pressed on. The new arrivals were greeted by a woman whose age might have been anywhere from thirty to forty-five, wearing a black silk day dress trimmed with purple braid, her fair hair covered by a black lace cap that was not quite widow’s weeds. Jet earrings and a black and white cameo at her throat finished the ensemble. She nodded coolly to the Doyles and their guest and smiled at the tall man in clerical black who loomed over them.

Mrs. Doyle, how good of you to come, she murmured. Her voice changed as she took in the two men who accompanied Touie. Dr. Doyle, I didn’t expect you.

Mrs. Cavanaugh, this is our guest, Mr. Dodgson, Touie said, taking the initiative. Mr. Dodgson did not know whether to lift his hat or not. The woman in front of him could have been the lady of the house, by her clothing, but Dr. Doyle had referred to her as the housekeeper.

Dr. Doyle ignored his wife’s attempt at social amenities and answered Mrs. Cavanaugh’s implied rebuke. I felt I should explain my statements at the inquest to Miss Arkwright myself, before the newspaper reporters distort them.

Before Dr. Doyle could continue, a rawboned young woman in a modest brown dress, frilled cap, and white apron emerged from the back of the house for a whispered consultation.

He won’t wait, mum, and says he’s to be paid.… The maid twisted her apron in her hands.

Tell him the accounts will be settled as soon as the will is read and Miss Arkwright can get at her money, Mrs. Cavanaugh hissed.

But—

Go! I’ll be there as soon as I can! Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled wanly at her visitors. You see how it is, she said, glancing at Dr. Doyle. Word has gotten out already. However, I am sure you will retract your statement, and Captain Arkwright’s affairs can be settled to everyone’s satisfaction? She ended on a rising note.

Dr. Doyle was about to answer when his wife spoke up. Arthur will do what he feels is right, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Perhaps he can discuss the matter with Miss Arkwright herself. Is she receiving visitors?

I shall ask her. Mrs. Cavanaugh started to open the door on the left-hand side of the hall. The tall clerical gentleman behind them cleared his throat expectantly. Mrs. Cavanaugh gave him a look that placed him in an entirely different category than Dr. and Mrs. Doyle and their guest.

Mr. Lindsay-Young, Miss Amelia will certainly see you, Mrs. Cavanaugh said with a glance at the Doyle party. She left the Doyles in the hall, a drafty corridor that ran the length of the house, from the front door to the glass-paned conservatory, where green foliage could be seen bobbing in the breeze.

The sitting-room door remained stubbornly shut. Mr. Dodgson carefully examined the many watercolor paintings of tropical scenes that lined the hallway, giving the gloomy passage an air of cheer that it would otherwise have lacked, while the Doyles fidgeted, arming themselves for a social snub.

The door on their left opened, and Mrs. Cavanaugh reappeared.

Miss Amelia will see you, she decided. She led them from the hall into the sitting room, a large and gloomy salon on the north side of the house. Light filtered in through the small gabled windows, adding to the murky atmosphere. The room contained a large sofa, an even larger sideboard, several chairs carved within an inch of their lives, and a small round table, on which reposed a small vase of dried flowers, a carved wooden box that might have contained cigars, and a box of matches. The walls were covered with flocked wallpaper, on which were hung more watercolors, all done by the same hand as the ones in the hallway, of bright blossoms and butterflies. The mirror over the mantelpiece reflected the decor of the room; on the mantel itself were the requisite clock under a glass bell, two orange pottery vases with strange, angular designs painted on them, and a stuffed hummingbird hovering over artificial flowers.

At first Mr. Dodgson thought the room was full of people. Then he recognized two distinct groups, one in the middle of the room, near the table, and one hovering about the black-clad figure sitting bolt upright on the sofa. The mourner was flanked by Mrs. Cavanaugh and a burly man in an ill-fitting suit of checked dittoes, with the air of a policeman about him. The other group consisted of two men, one a robust soldier in khaki undress uniform, with protuberant blue eyes and a luxuriant set of orange whiskers, the other a much older man with a magnificent shock of white hair and a matching military mustache, dressed in the striped trousers and black frock coat deemed suitable for afternoon calls. The two women who accompanied the military men were a slight, drooping lady in her mid-thirties, who wore mourning with none of the panache of Mrs. Cavanaugh, and a plump matron with gray hair in a striped day dress with a brown velveteen jacket adorned with brass buttons.

Dr. Doyle led his guest up to this group, while Touie approached the sofa. For a moment he hesitated, wondering which of his two eminent friends deserved the honor of presentation first. Did a Major-General, not on active service, take precedence over a mere Oxford Don, or did a published author beat out the army? He took a wild gamble, and hoped that neither of his friends would be insulted. Mr. Dodgson, this is my good friend, Major-General Drayson, he said, with a hint of pride at introducing two such scholars to each other. General Drayson, you have heard me speak of my encounter with Mr. Dodgson in Brighton in August. He has consented to spend the night here, looking over some of my writing. Dr. Doyle looked earnestly from the military gentleman to the scholar, as if to hope that they would approve of each other.

"General Drayson? I have read your articles in the Journal of the Society for Psychic Research, Mr. Dodgson said, accepting the General’s extended hand. Your observations on the subject are quite astute."

"That is an honor indeed, coming from the author of Euclid and His Modern Rivals, General Drayson responded. In an undertone he added, I’m surprised to find you here, Doyle, after that little faux pas at the inquest this afternoon."

Once again Dr. Doyle prepared to justify his actions, but the General had gone on with his introductions. Mr. Dodgson, this is my wife, Harriet. Her sister, Elvira, and her husband, Major Hackaby. They are staying with us while they settle their boy in school, he explained.

The tall clergyman approached the group with the expression of one who has found something unpleasant in his soup.

General Drayson, I assume you are here to present the compliments of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society to the bereaved children of the unfortunate Captain Arkwright? he intoned.

I came over to see if Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia wanted for anything at this sad time, General Drayson corrected him. My wife counted Miss Arkwright among her friends.

Although I must say the Captain could be very discourteous, Mrs. Drayson added. Still, Miss Arkwright should be aware that if there is anything I can do, any comfort I can give … She let her voice trail off as she gazed at the figure sitting stiffly on the sofa.

Mr. Lindsay-Young’s gaunt face was set in lines of appropriate gravity. Captain Arkwright was a member of my congregation, he reminded the group. I have come to give what spiritual comfort I can to his daughters.

Mr. Dodgson bowed to the Reverend Mr. Lindsay-Young. The Church of England must be respected, even if one did not particularly like its representatives.

Mrs. Cavanaugh had approached the grieving daughter of the late Captain Jethro Arkwright. Dr. Doyle’s here, with Mrs. Doyle, to pay their respects, she said softly, leading the callers to the sofa.

Miss Amelia Arkwright sat in state on the carved sofa whose black horsehair upholstery echoed the dead black of her dress. No spot of color relieved the mourning black, not even a twinkle of light from a shining button or earring. Her pale face was haggard in the afternoon light that managed to get through the warped glass of the front windows, making her look far older than her thirty years. She had covered her sandy brown hair with a black version of the lace cap worn by those who had effectively declared themselves to be old maids. Her pebble-gray eyes constantly scanned the room, as if to keep track of who had and who had not called, and her hands, enclosed in black lace mitts, clutched a black-bordered handkerchief, whose whiteness was all the more shocking against the black bombazine of her skirt.

Thank you, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Amelia dismissed the other woman with a wave of her handkerchief.

I believe the baker’s van has arrived, Mrs. Cavanaugh told her. I shall see to it.

And be so good as to see if the tea is ready, Amelia added, as Mrs. Cavanaugh edged out of the room.

I didn’t know that you would want to see us,