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Overview
The reverend Charles Dodgson comes to Portsmouth hoping for rest, relaxation, and a few days’ peace in the company of his friend Arthur Conan Doyle, physician and aspiring author of mysteries. But within a minute of their reunion, Doyle is talking about murder. One of his patients, a gout-ridden ex-sailor, has dropped dead in his study, and Doyle is not convinced by the coroner’s verdict of natural causes. Besides being the author of Alice in Wonderland, Dodgson is a renowned mathematician, and Doyle begs him to use his deductive brilliance to find the man who snuffed out the old sea dog.
When an Indian raja arrives to accuse the dead man of stealing treasures from India, a local mystic volunteers to help unravel the case. Doyle and Dodgson are wary of taking help from a psychic, but they will soon find that it may take more than logic to solve this case.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497670983 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | MysteriousPress.com/Open Road |
| Publication date: | 10/14/2014 |
| Series: | The Charles Dodgson and Arthur Conan Doyle Mysteries , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 283 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Rogow’s most recent novel is Murders in Manatas (2013). She is also a musician who has been playing sci-fi-inspired folk music since the 1970s.
Roberta Rogow (b. 1942) is an author of speculative fiction. A professional children’s librarian, she began writing fan fiction in 1973 after a love of Star Trek lured her to her first science fiction convention. After several years publishing stories in fanzines, she founded Grip, a multimedia zine focusing on Star Trek and other science fiction, in 1978. After retiring the zine in 1996, Rogow published her first novel, The Problem of the Missing Miss (1998), which began the four-volume Charles Dodgson and Arthur Conan Doyle Mysteries.
Rogow’s most recent novel is Murders in Manatas (2013). She is also a musician who has been playing sci-fi-inspired folk music since the 1970s.
Read an Excerpt
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist
A Charles Dodgson and Arthur Conan Doyle Mystery
By Roberta Rogow
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1999 Roberta RogowAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7098-3
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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist by Roberta Rogow. Copyright © 1999 Roberta Rogow. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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