Wednesday morning dawned, drenched in fog. Portsmouth had put on its most unappealing aspect: a cold, gray drizzle that was neither dramatic nor picturesque. It was the sort of day guaranteed to produce feelings of despair in the soul of anyone who did not have business or household affairs to distract them. Elderly pensioners of both high and low degree complained of lumbago and rheumatism in the joints. Young sailors thought longingly of sunnier climes, and wondered if the tropics were so bad after all. In short, it was a perfect day for a funeral, and Miss Amelia Arkwright had decided to make the most of it.
Captain Jethro Arkwright might not have been the most beloved of men, but his funeral had drawn most of the population of Southsea to Treasure House, either as participants or as observers. Rear Admiral Groves had donned his dress uniform and presented himself at Treasure House, with his wife in tow, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the Arkwright menage. Major-General Drayson had also put on his dress uniform, as a representative of the Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, which had played so large a part in the life of the late Captain Arkwright. Mrs. Drayson, draped in black, accompanied her husband to Treasure House. Touie had brought out the black dress she had so recently put aside since the death of her dear brother, while Dr. Doyle had contented himself with a black tie and his only high silk hat to add dignity to the occasion.
The lower orders were also out in force. A funeral was an occasion not to be missed, whether or not one had tender feelings for the deceased. If nothing else, it meant a break in the weekly routine, and those in a position to take it did so. Big Bertha, wrapped in a black cloak, with bedraggled feathers on her bonnet, had come to pay her last respects to an old friend. Old Markham had forsaken his damp hovel, and he and his “old gal” were there to see the Captain off on his last journey. A motley gang of seamen trailed up Elm Grove, touching their caps to the gentry and adding to the festive nature of the day.
The mysterious Mr. Monks had decided to make an appearance, flapping his way down Elm Grove like a crow in a black cloak and high hat. Captain Cavanaugh had donned his full-dress jacket and cap, and had insisted on having a black band hastily sewn on his jacket sleeve by one of the maids at the Bush Hotel. A major sensation rippled through the crowd when a magnificent carriage drew up and disgorged the Rajah of Rajitpur in full morning dress, followed by Ashok Ram in a midnight-blue tunic and jodhpurs, topped with a turban fastened with a magnificent sapphire and pearl pin. Mr. Dodgson was probably the only person in attendance who had made no change to his customary attire, since he habitually wore a black coat.
Mr. Dilbert, the undertaker, had been given a free hand, and he took it to mean that he was to organize a funeral to be proud of, a funeral that would be a benchmark for every subsequent funeral in Southsea. A large hatchment had been put up over the door to Treasure House, although no one could say whether the late Captain Arkwright deserved such a tribute. Two tall men in black livery stood on either side of the front door to pass out black scarves to all the mourners. Another man was stationed at the gate, to allow the official funeral party to approach Treasure House, while the press and other undesirables were kept at bay.
The undertaker had provided a magnificent hearse, glass-sided and black-painted, with the requisite four black horses, plumes nodding on their heads (if a trifle wilted in the drizzle). Large black umbrellas were handed out by the undertaker’s men, so that the cortege could be escorted to St. Margaret’s Church with due ceremony. The Seaman’s Home Band had assembled, to do honor to one of their own, and were taking a few practice toots on their tuba, trombone, and cornet. Even the horses pulling the carriages seemed to understand that something interesting was happening, and nodded their heads as they waited in Elm Grove for their passengers, while the coachmen chatted with the sailors.
Amelia waited in the hall for the expected guests to arrive. Jenny and her mother had worked mightily to restore order to what had been a scene of destruction, restuffing the chairs and sofa, sweeping up the debris, and generally tidying the place so that it was once again fit to receive visitors. Her father’s remains had been placed in a large coffin, now installed in the hearse and draped with the black velvet pall that Mr. Dilbert assured her was the very best to be had. She had taken great care with her dress. It was dull black, with only one row of braid on the skirt for ornament, and it had been embellished with only a modest bustle. Her collar was edged with the same narrow black braid as her skirt. No one could say afterward that she had not behaved with perfect propriety. She did not faint or scream or give way to vapors. She would have to be as strong as her mama, she told herself. Mama had had the strength of character to persevere in the face of parental disapproval. She had run off and married Papa, after all, and sailed away with him to Bermuda.
Amelia tried to remember her mother. It had all been so long ago! She recalled blue water and a beach with pink sand, and the flash of brilliant flowers everywhere, but her mother’s face seemed distant. Had she ever been there at all? Papa … now, that was another matter! Papa loomed largely and loudly, usually with Uncle Jack by his side …. And then came Emma ….
Amelia closed her eyes, then opened them and gave herself a mental shake. She could not think about Emma now. Emma would have to be buried, too, but not with as much pomp as Papa. Emma was, after all, only a servant. Emma had not always remembered that, but Amelia did.
Amelia glanced up the stairs. Bedelia was late. She should have been down by now. She glanced up the stairs, then stifled a gasp. Bedelia had dressed herself, and her choice was deplorable.
Bedelia had apparently raided Mrs. Cavanaugh’s wardrobe, and found a black satin underskirt, an enormous silk overskirt with an outrageously large bustle, and a velvet bodice, trimmed with black jet buttons that ended where her breastbone began. A deep vee of creamy white skin was shockingly visible from her chest to her chin. To make matters worse, she had piled her fair curls on top of her head, anchoring them with Emma’s combs.
Amelia’s pebble-gray eyes hardened at the sight. What was the child thinking? Didn’t she realize that what she was wearing might be considered daring on a fashionable matron, and was totally unsuitable for a child of fifteen? Amelia was horribly conscious of Mrs. Groves and Mrs. Drayson just entering the hall behind her. She only hoped that those censorious ladies would excuse Bedelia on the grounds of innocence.
Bedelia was quite pleased with her choice of funeral attire. The black velvet set off her fair curls nicely. She had just read in the Illustrated London News that the celebrated actress Mrs. Lillie Langtry always wore black. Bedelia smiled as she saw the faces upturned toward her in the hall as she came down the stairs. They were clearly impressed with her beauty. She, too, could be the toast of London, if only she could get there! Once this funeral nonsense was over, she could coax Amelia into going to London … only first they would have to have another funeral for Emma. Bedelia’s perfect features were marred by a slight crease between her eyebrows as she contemplated the repercussions of the death of Emma Cavanaugh. She had not been able to find Emma’s little book, the one that she had seen Emma writing in, the one that she kept in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. Bedelia suspected that Mrs. Doyle had found it the night she slept in that room. That was too bad, because Mrs. Doyle would undoubtedly show it to her husband, and he would show it to the police, who would keep it. That meant that whatever secrets Emma had discovered would not be available for Bedelia to use when she went to London. Without Emma’s little book, doors would remain closed that would have been opened. It was annoying, but Bedelia was sure she could overcome that problem, once she got to London. Bedelia tried to look solemn as she descended the stairs, and succeeded in looking smug.
Amelia took one look, grabbed her sister by the arm, and pulled her into the sitting room, leaving the Draysons and the Groveses in the hall staring after her.
Amelia took a deep breath, then let it out before saying, “Baby Bee, are you sure you want to go to the church? You don’t have to go. You can stay here and greet anyone who decides to come back after the service, instead of going on to the churchyard.”
“Oh, Jenny can take care of them,” Bedelia said, with a toss of her head that nearly dislodged her amateur hairdressing. “I’ve been sitting in the house for days. I want to go out!”
“We have been out,” Amelia reminded her. “We went to General Drayson’s house, and look what came of that. Now be a good child and do as you are told. Put on the white mourning that Emma picked out for you.”
Bedelia’s eyes grew hard and stubborn. “I am not a child, Amelia. I am nearly grown up, and I think I should be at the funeral.”
“At least put on your own dress,” Amelia told her. “That jacket is not the thing for a girl.”
“It’s all I have,” Bedelia said, the stubborn look becoming a pettish scowl. “And it’s quite suitable. It’s black.”
“It is also velvet. Young girls should not wear velvet.”
“That’s a silly rule.”
“It is also cut far too low in the neck.”
“I hate high collars. I can’t breathe in them.”
“Perhaps, but if you wear that … that bodice to your father’s funeral people will talk!” Amelia hissed. “Whatever will Mrs. Drayson and Mrs. Groves think of you?”
“Why should we care about them?” Bedelia shrugged. “We’ll soon be in London and no one here will have anything to say—”
“Oh, yes, they will,” Amelia interrupted her. “Mrs. Drayson and Mrs. Groves know people in London. Do you want them to tell their acquaintances that Miss Bedelia Arkwright is fast?”
Bedelia thought this over as Amelia opened the doors to the sitting room to let the rest of the funeral party in. Bedelia turned her brilliant smile on the first arrivals. “Admiral Groves! We didn’t think you would come.”
Their neighbor adjusted his hat, somewhere between the salute demanded by naval protocol and the everyday greeting expected by social exchange. “Captain Arkwright and I may have had our differences,” he stated, “but he was a seaman. He deserves the ceremony due to a Captain.” Whether he earned it or not, was the unspoken addendum.
“Have the pallbearers assembled?” Mr. Dilbert, the undertaker, a rotund little man in the regulation black tail coat and high hat, scurried about, rounding up the members of the funeral party.
“I expect we shall have more of them soon enough,” Amelia said. “Here is Captain Cavanaugh.”
The tall seaman seemed to take up most of the space in the sitting room. He scowled at the undertaker. “Jethro should have been buried at sea,” he declared.
“That would have been somewhat inconvenient,” Amelia said. “Captain Cavanaugh, I believe you are mentioned in Papa’s will. You must return here after the funeral.”
“Mentioned? I should hope so!” Captain Cavanaugh caught sight of Bedelia. “Damme, girl, what do you think you’re playing at? Get up those stairs and put on something decent before I smack your bottom!”
Amelia gasped. Bedelia pouted. Admiral Groves harrumphed in the background, while Mrs. Groves and Mrs. Drayson made appropriately distressed noises at the impropriety of such seamanlike language.
“You can’t talk that way to me!” Bedelia protested. “You are not my papa!”
“I might as well be,” Cavanaugh retorted. “Jethro asked me to take care of his girls if it ever came to this. Remember, Amy? That night before we landed in England. He didn’t think he was going to make port, and he spliced me and Emma right there, and made the two of us swear—”
“Amelia, what is he talking about?” Bedelia broke in shrilly.
Amelia swallowed hard. “I had almost forgotten, Uncle Jack. It was … a very long time ago.”
“Aye, that it was. But I got him home, and I swore that if he went to Davy Jones’s Locker, I’d do right by you and the baby. Well, here you are, all growed up, and the baby’s not a baby anymore. But it won’t do for her to be flashing her wares about the town, and so you should tell her!”
Amelia closed her eyes. It was beginning again … the shouting, the bullying, the demands that she could not possibly fulfill …. “Captain,” she whispered, “Bedelia will soon be out in Society in any case. She is, perhaps, a little forward in her dress, but we are somewhat pressed for time and money, and this is the best she could do, under the circumstances.”
Captain Cavanaugh glared at the two sisters. “That’s as it may be. But I’m not such a green’un as you think. I know what’s proper and what’s not. Either she changes into something fit for a young gal, or she stays home.”
“Amelia …” Bedelia whined.
Amelia turned to her sister, the light of righteous vindication in her eyes. “It is exactly as I told you. If Captain Cavanaugh, who has been at sea all these years, tells you that dress is improper, then you can be sure the rest of Society will think so, too.”
“Emma would have let me wear it!” Bedelia brought out her strongest ammunition.
“That she would not,” Amelia countered. “You will either put on a suitable dress or you will stay here.”
“I don’t have time to change. Here come the rest of the pallbearers.” Inspector O’Ferrall and Mr. Kirton led a second contingent of black-suited mourners, including Dr. Doyle and Mr. Dodgson. The elderly scholar edged nervously around the crowd and evaded the undertaker’s men who pressed black scarves on everyone in sight, insisting that he had no acquaintance with the deceased, living or dead.
Amelia remembered her duty as hostess. “Good morning, Mr. Dodgson. I did not know you were still here in Southsea.”
“Alas, Miss Arkwright, until the matter of Mrs. Cavanaugh’s untimely death is cleared up, your excellent police force insists on it.” Mr. Dodgson looked at O’Ferrall, who had the grace to blush.
“You!” Captain Cavanaugh exclaimed. “You’re that professer feller what follers folks in Portsmouth!”
“I assure you—” Mr. Dodgson began.
“Where’s that sawbones, Doyle? What do you know about Jethro? And what’s become of my Emma?”
Mr. Dodgson shrank back against the sideboard as the Captain advanced upon him. “I believe I can deduce some of the events that led to her demise,” he quavered.
“Can you?” O’Ferrall scowled at him
“Oh, yes. I believe I have some notion, although there is a good deal that is still obscure. One must never make assumptions without all the facts.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to share your notions with the rest of us?” O’Ferrall dripped sarcasm.
“This is hardly the propitious moment for such a revelation. After the funeral, after the solicitor—Mr. Simms, you said?—Mr. Simms has read the will. Then, and only then, will I be able to arrive at some conclusions.”
“And what about me?” Bedelia piped up.
Amelia glared at her sister. “You will remain here and oversee the arrangements for the collation. If Mr. Simms arrives before we get back from the churchyard, make him comfortable. And change that dress!”
Amelia stalked out of the sitting room. Captain Cavanaugh gallantly offered her his arm. So did Inspector O’Ferrall. Amelia folded her hands at her waist and passed both of them, head held high. She would walk alone, and unafraid, through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Mr. Dilbert sheltered her under one of the black umbrellas and led her to the waiting carriage. The Seaman’s Home Band sprang into action, with a cheering rendition of the “Dead March” from Handel’s Saul. The cortege paraded down Elm Grove, shrouded in the gray mist, while Bedelia watched from the sitting room window.
Her blue eyes were hard chips of ice. She had been treated like a child again, left alone with no one but the servants. She had been slighted again. Even Jenny had been given more attention than she. It was intolerable. She would have to change that.
Meanwhile … she looked at her dress. She liked it. She would not change it, and if the dowdy ladies of Southsea disapproved, that was their lookout. Mama had run off with Papa, hadn’t she? Well, Bedelia Arkwright could be just as scandalous!
“Miss Bedelia?” That was Jenny, interrupting her daydreams. “Should I set out the good silver in the dining room?”
“Go ahead,” Bedelia said. “Don’t bother me now. I have to think!” She looked into the mirror for several minutes, then sat on the sofa for a few minutes more.
A timid cough from the direction of the sideboard made her realize that Mr. Dodgson had not gone to the funeral, but was, instead, still with her.
“I do not attend funerals of persons I have never met,” he explained. “And I was requested to amuse you. Athough”—he viewed her costume—“I see that you are somewhat older than you appear to be.”
“I was tired of being a little girl,” Bedelia said, with a shrug that exposed even more of her décolletage than before.
Mr. Dodgson sighed. “And so you decided to grow up. I see. When we first met, I would have taken you for, say, thirteen, and here you are, quite different, and not at all like your sister. Do you take after your mother?”
Bedelia shrugged. “I don’t know. I never knew her, and Papa has no pictures of her ….”
“That is very odd, considering how much he risked for her sake,” Mr. Dodgson commented.
“It was all very long ago,” Bedelia said with another toss of her head.
“So it was,” Mr. Dodgson said. He began to drift around the sitting room, looking at the watercolors on the walls. There was another awkward silence. “Your sister paints well.”
“I suppose,” Bedelia said sulkily. She was growing tired of this old man, who had apparently lost all interest in her.
“Did your papa ever speak to you about his early days in India?”
“Not at all,” Bedelia said.
“But he told you about his adventures in South America.”
“Oh. Yes, sometimes.”
“On the day he died, did he tell of his adventures?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“What?” Bedelia was jolted out of her thoughts of glory in London Society.
“On the day your father died … last week, was it not?”
“Yes,” Bedelia said, suddenly watchful.
Mr. Dodgson turned to her. He no longer looked like a sweet old man. He reminded Bedelia of her mathematics master at school, who demanded that she learn her sums or face the consequences.
“What occurred on the day before your father died?” he demanded.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Bedelia retorted. “Papa had one of his tempers, that’s all.”
“Tempers!” Jenny had brought in the tea-urn that had played so large a part in the festivities the day before. “I never heard such language! If my mum knew what he said, she’d have me out of this house like a shot!”
“Mr. Dodgson doesn’t listen to servants’ gossip,” Bedelia snapped out. “Get back to the kitchen.”
“Not just yet, Jenny. That is your name, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.” Jenny bobbed a curtsey.
“Do you recall the subject of this, er, temper tantrum?” Mr. Dodgson asked gently.
Jenny frowned. “I was in the kitchen, sir. I don’t listen at doors.” She shot a glance at Bedelia.
“But you obviously heard something, or you would never have remarked on it.”
“I couldn’t say what they were shouting about, sir, but he called her such names! Begging your pardon, sir, but ‘interfering bitch’ were the least of it.” Jenny reddened at the repetition of such a horrendous phrase.
Bedelia shrugged. “I suppose he found out that Emma and Amelia had written to Uncle Moncrieffe,” she said. “I don’t see why he had to be so contrary about our going to London.”
“Your father opposed this plan?”
Bedelia stared out the window at the drizzle. “He said I was too young. He said he’d never let me go. He said he didn’t raise two women for someone else’s pleasure—” She bit off the rest of the sentence and shut her mouth, as if she realized she had said too much.
Mr. Dodgson had gone on to another subject. “And what did Mrs. Cavanaugh do after this, er, tiff?”
“She went to Portsmouth,” Jenny said. “I saw her leave, with her little basket over her arm, in a tearing hurry to catch the horsecar. And when she come back, she give the Captain such a look over dinner!” She turned to Mr. Dodgson. “Should I have said something to the police? Or the crowner?”
“Do you infer that this quarrel might have led to the heart attack that killed him?” Mr. Dodgson considered the matter. “You were not asked to give evidence, were you?”
“No one said nothing,” Jenny answered.
“Then it was not your place to offer information,” Mr. Dodgson assured her. “Captain Arkwright’s death was inevitable, given his state of health.”
“I suppose so,” Jenny said with a sigh. “He was that large that he couldn’t even climb up the stairs, and he had me make up the daybed in the study. He couldn’t hardly breathe, poor soul. He were rough in his tongue, but he give me a shilling now and again, to fetch a bottle from the local down the alley.”
“Jenny! You know what Dr. Doyle said—”
“But it was the Captain asked,” Jenny retorted.
Mr. Dodgson digested what he had learned. Then he said, “Miss Bedelia, would you show me into Captain Arkwright’s study once more? There is something I must see.”
“It’s not locked,” Bedelia said with a wave of her hand. “Jenny will let you in.”
“Are you going to change your dress, Miss Bedelia?” Jenny asked.
Bedelia shook her head. “No, I am not. I do not like being told what to do. Papa is dead, and Emma is dead, and I will not have Amelia telling me how to go on in Society. She knows nothing about it. She has only lived here in Southsea, and Papa wouldn’t let anyone come calling anyway. I shall go to London, and no one will ever tell me what to do again!”
She swept out of the room, her bustle wagging behind her. Mr. Dodgson nodded to himself. “She is all grown up,” he said aloud, sadly.
“And a handful she’ll be to whoever gets her,” Jenny commented as she let the scholar back into the study. Here, also, the debris had been cleared, but there were still indications of the previous day’s destruction. The drawers had been fitted back into the elaborately carved desk, and some of the papers had been swept into a tidy pile, but there were shards of pottery on the carpet where some brutal foot had trampled them in.
Mr. Dodgson stooped to examine the fireplace. The coals of the Captain’s last fire had been cleared away, but a few small indications of that fire still remained. Mr. Dodgson unhooked the poker from its place in the brass vase and stirred the ashes. A sliver of charred wood fell from the grate onto the ashes.
Mr. Dodgson looked about him and found a sheet of paper left on the smaller of the two desks. Very carefully, he slid it under the sliver, folded the trophy into it, and slid the packet into his pocket.
Mr. Dodgson sat in the chair behind the desk and considered the room from the point of view of its late owner. He carefully ran his hands over the desktop, then along the edge of the front panel. He examined the drawers, which had been replaced in their proper slots, pulling each one out very carefully. Suddenly he smiled in satisfaction. There was a barely heard snick! as a tiny catch gave way, and a hidden drawer slid open, to reveal a small colored painting on ivory and a packet of yellowing papers, tied in official-looking red ribbon.
Mr. Dodgson stared at the portrait for a few minutes, then carefully wrapped it in his pocket handkerchief and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. Then he carefully opened the papers and scanned them carefully, peering at the straggling handwriting. Finally, he placed the papers in his pocket with the portrait and leaned back in the chair, still gazing at the vases.
“Poor thing,” he said aloud. “One wonders what is the right thing to do.” He stared at the two hideous brass vases, and wondered if Captain Arkwright’s spirit still lingered in Treasure House.
He was suddenly aware of another presence in the study. Miss Bedelia had entered while he was engrossed in his task. She now stood by the fireplace, her hand on the mantelpiece.
“Mr. Dodgson,” she said in a brittle, sharp voice, very different from her former girlish tone. “Have you been in contact with Papa’s spirit? Are you a medium?”
“I cannot say whether your late father’s spirit or soul, if you like, has spoken to me. I have used logic and reason to place myself in his shoes, as it were.”
Bedelia moved around the room, her hand hidden in the folds of the dress. “Have you found the treasure, then? Where is it?”
“I have found something,” Mr. Dodgson said carefully. “Whether it is a treasure depends on one’s point of view.”
By this time Bedelia was next to the desk. “You found what Papa kept hidden, didn’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
Mr. Dodgson looked at her. Bedelia was clutching something in her fist. She edged around the heavy chair, as he rose suddenly and gripped her by the wrist, forcing her to drop the object she had been clutching so tightly.
The sound of wheels on the pavement outside the house alerted them to the arrival of the carriages.
“I believe the funeral party is returning,” Mr. Dodgson said calmly. “Your father’s will must be read before we can proceed any further.”
Bedelia said nothing. Her face contorted in an expression of frustration that passed so quickly that Mr. Dodgson could not be sure that it was ever there at all. Then she curtseyed and left Mr. Dodgson to add the piece of wood she had been holding to his collection of oddities, while she took on the duties of chatelaine and greeted the returning guests.