by Andrew Lane
Thoughts of his brother reminded him that he ought to write to Mycroft, reassuring his brother that he had arrived safely in Oxford. He did so, then sealed the letter up and left it, intending to post it on the morrow. Checking his watch he found that he still had several hours before dinner. He didn’t feel like going out again, so he got on to the bed and closed his eyes, intending to rest. He drifted for a while on the edge of sleep, kept from falling deeper by the noises from outside, but eventually he did sleep, and found himself dreaming of a dinner table where all the other guests – boys of his own age – were stuffed and varnished. He awoke with a start to find that it was dark outside. Shaking off the last vestiges of the dream, he got up, unpacked his possessions, washed in the cold water in the bowl and changed his clothes before heading down the stairs to dinner.
CHAPTER THREE
Dinner was a surprisingly entertaining affair. There were five of them around the table – apart from Sherlock they were all students at Christ Church College. Initially he felt out of place, younger and less experienced than the others, but soon he realized that the various things he had done in his life made him into something of a celebrity in their eyes – not just travelling to Russia, America and China, but even something as simple as living in London, which they regarded as the centre of sophistication. As dinner went on he found that they were asking more and more questions of him, and he was finding it more and more difficult to answer those questions without getting into dangerous territory regarding Mycroft’s sensitive job in the British Government and the schemes of the Paradol Chamber. He had to resort to various stratagems to turn the conversation back to his co-diners and find out more about them.
Thomas Millard was a rather plump youth with thick glasses and thinning hair. He was studying theology, with a view to becoming a vicar like his father and his grandfather. He had a way of speaking that made it sound like he was giving a sermon, even when he was asking Sherlock to pass the gravy boat. Mathukumal Vijayaraghavan was a slight Indian boy with black hair and dark eyes, who said little but listened to everything – he was, rather oddly, considering his first name, actually studying mathematics. Reginald Musgrave was a tall chemist who spent most of the meal discussing cricket with the person sitting beside him – Paul Chippenham, who was studying natural science. None of them seemed to mind that Sherlock wasn’t yet a student at the University itself.
As promised, the main course was haddock, with potatoes and beans, but it was preceded by mulligatawny soup, the spicy flavour of which made Vijayaraghavan raise his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Remind you of India?’ Musgrave asked.
‘Not in the slightest,’ the boy replied. Sherlock wondered whether he was the only one who could detect the ironical tone in his voice.
When Sherlock tried to turn the conversation to the subject of Charles Dodgson, in an attempt to prepare himself for the meeting the next day, all four of them raised their eyebrows and shared amused glances. Vijayaraghavan was the only one to say anything, and all he would murmur was ‘An interesting man. Very, very clever. Very, very strange.’
‘I say, did you hear,’ Musgrave said excitedly, ‘that he was questioned by the police last week?’
The others shook their heads.
‘What was that about?’ Chippenham asked.
‘Some thefts that had occurred, but here’s the thing – the things that were stolen were body parts, and they were taken from the mortuary!’
‘What is a “mortuary”?’ Vijayaraghavan asked in his quiet, precise voice. ‘I do not recognize the word.’
‘It’s the place where people’s bodies are taken after they die,’ Musgrave explained.
Chippenham added, ‘But only if they died in some unusual way – either murder, or due to some kind of disease or an accident that might need to be investigated. A pathologist will cut the body up and examine the organs in order to ascertain the cause of death so that it can be recorded properly. Otherwise, when the cause of death is obvious, the bodies just get prepared, put into a coffin and then left for a while in the front room so that people can sit with them and say goodbye. Then they are buried.’ He nodded towards Millard. ‘In anticipation, that is, of the resurrection of the dead and the achievement of life everlasting at some undefined time in the future.’
‘I thought,’ Sherlock said, remembering the endless sermons that his Uncle Sherrinford had written for sending to ministries all over England and abroad, ‘that people went straight to heaven or hell when they died. I didn’t realize they had to wait around until the Resurrection. And how do they get out of their coffins, which have been buried six feet underground? It’s all going to be a bit messy, isn’t it?’
A look of panic crossed Millard’s face. His gaze skittered around the dining room as he tried to think of some theological response, and failed.
Sherlock’s mind – at least the part of it that wasn’t still thinking about the moment of resurrection, when literally millions and millions of dead people would be climbing out of their buried coffins – was still fixed on Charles Dodgson and his connection to these bizarre thefts. ‘Why was Dodgson questioned?’ he asked. ‘I mean, he’s a mathematician and a lecturer, not a pathologist or a doctor. What possible connection could he have?’
‘Ah, there’s the interesting part,’ Musgrave explained. ‘Dodgson is well known around Oxford for this photography lark that he does – capturing a picture of a scene or a person using light and chemical stuff and glass. Apparently, as well as taking photographs of the river, the college buildings and of his friends, he also takes them of dead bodies.’
‘Why?’ Sherlock asked, noticing that Vijayaraghavan beside him was shuddering again.
‘What he told the police is that he’s fascinated with the way that the body works, and he wants to make a record of all the bits for posterity, and to help with the teaching of anatomy here at Oxford.’
‘As if anyone needs to,’ Chippenham sniffed. ‘Leonardo da Vinci drew all the aspects of the functioning human body three hundred and fifty years ago. There is no more to be said on the matter.’
And that was the end of the discussion about Charles Dodgson.
They repaired to the sitting room after dessert, which was sherry trifle. Coffee was served, and Paul Chippenham fetched a bottle of port from his room, which they drank out of small glasses.
Musgrave pointed at the stuffed cat, curled up – as it always would be – by the fire. ‘You’ve met Macallistair, I take it?’ he asked Sherlock.
‘I have. What’s the story there?’
‘It was before my time, but apparently Mrs McCrery was completely in love with that cat. She used to heat up its dinner every night, and it’s said that the cat ate better than any of the students who were here. When it died – as all pets do, in the end – Mrs McCrery was devastated. She stopped cooking, stopped cleaning the house and just retreated into herself. One of the students in the house at the time was studying anatomy, and was a bit of an amateur taxidermist. In desperation, he offered to stuff the beast for her, so she could always have it around. She agreed, it’s been here ever since, and the house has been happy all that time.’
‘There’s a parrot in the visitor’s room,’ Vijayaraghavan said quietly. ‘I am told that it is much the same story. She loved the parrot, the parrot died, and one of her lodgers offered to stuff it for her – although whoever did it was not as talented as the person who stuffed the cat. It looks decidedly dowdy.’
‘I did hear,’ Chippenham added, ‘that the student who stuffed the parrot kept all the meat on ice, and then had a friend of his who was a butcher sell it back to Mrs McCrery as fresh grouse. The entire household dined on parrot that night, without anyone apart from the student in question knowing.’ He paused. ‘Apparently it was delicious.’
Sherlock remembered his talk with Matty earlier. ‘Has anyone seen any of the students who used to be here since they left?’ he asked casually.
There was a long silence a
s the other four thought for a while and glanced at each other.
‘I’m sure we’ve seen them around – somewhere,’ Millard said with a trace of concern in his voice.
After that, the conversation turned to other, more pleasant matters. When Millard brought out a silver case of small cigars and offered them around, Sherlock decided it was time to leave.
He slept heavily, with no more dreams of stuffed and varnished dinner companions, and awoke to a bright blue sky.
The other four had already risen, dressed, eaten breakfast and left by the time he got downstairs. Despite Mrs McCrery’s insistence about breakfast at seven o’clock on the dot, she managed to rustle up some bacon, sausages and egg for him, along with a pot of tea. He left the boarding house in a good mood, whistling one of the tunes that he had heard Pablo Sarasate play at the recital.
Christ Church College was only a short walk away. The entrance was a huge arch that was almost entirely closed off by a wooden gate. A doorway in the gate allowed students and lecturers in and out.
As Sherlock made to go through the doorway, a gruff voice from inside said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Off to the left, through the doorway, was a small window in a stone wall. Behind the window a man in a dark uniform was making notes on a piece of paper. He had a flourishing moustache and luxuriant sideburns. He hadn’t looked up when Sherlock was going through the doorway, and didn’t look up when Sherlock stood in front of the window.
‘I have an appointment to see Mr Charles Dodgson,’ Sherlock said.
‘At what time, sir?’
Sherlock frowned. ‘I’m not sure. It was left ambiguous.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Mr Dodgson. Very precise, he is. Very particular about times and places and suchlike.’
He reached out to take a clipboard off a shelf to his left, and Sherlock noticed a tattoo on his forearm as the cuff of his shirtsleeve pulled back. It was a fish, entwined with an anchor, but the colours were subtle, more like watercolours than the bright tattoos that sailors normally got at ports like London or Southampton, and the lines were so fine and so precise that they could have been drawn on with a single hair. ‘South China Seas?’ Sherlock ventured.
The man smiled, making the ends of his moustache curl up. ‘Indeed, sir. Very clever of you to spot that.’
‘I would say . . . Shanghai.’
‘Correct again, sir.’ He cocked his head to one side, eyes twinkling. ‘Care to narrow it down further, sir?’
‘Down on the quayside,’ Sherlock said, suddenly thrust back in his mind to the heat and the smell of the Shanghai docks, and a small shack in which an ancient Chinese man sat making the most marvellous pictures on the skins of sailors who would never appreciate the artistry. ‘Chen-shu’s shop.’
‘Well, bless my soul!’ The man leaned back in his chair, amazed. ‘I never thought I’d meet someone who could tell where in the world a tattoo had been done.’
‘Sheer luck,’ Sherlock said. ‘I just happen to know Chen-shu’s shop. I took tea with him, a few times, while I was waiting for my ship to leave.’
‘An artist,’ the man said. ‘A true artist.’
‘But he made a terrible cup of tea,’ Sherlock remembered.
The man straightened, brushing down his jacket self-consciously. ‘I spent five years before the mast, all over the Asiatic. Then I came here, because the wife wanted me to settle down. My name is Mutchinson, that’s Mr Mutchinson, and I’m the Porter here at Christ College. It’s my duty and my privilege to check everyone in and out, to lock the gates at ten o’clock at night and not to open them until six o’clock next morning, and to patrol the walls of the college to spot any young gentleman who comes back late after an evening in the taverns and tries to climb over.’
‘And I’m sure you do a wonderful job of it.’
‘Mr Dodgson, you said.’ He consulted the clipboard. ‘Would you, by any chance, be a Mister Sherlock Holmes?’
‘I would.’
‘Mr Dodgson notified me that you might be visiting. I am to escort you straight up to his rooms when you arrive.’ He glanced over his shoulder, into the shadows. ‘Stevens, look after the lodge for a minute – I’m escorting a visitor.’
Within a few seconds he was out of the lodge and leading Sherlock into the quadrangle – a large area of grass, bordered with a paved path, that lay just inside the main gates. He headed around the path, avoiding the pristine green grass, and through an archway. All the while as he led Sherlock along several zigzag paths, across tiny open areas and then finally up a set of narrow and twisted stairs, he engaged the boy in conversation about China and sailing. It was obvious he missed the old days, and by the time they arrived at Charles Dodgson’s door the two of them were best friends. Sherlock had a strong feeling that, if ever Mr Mutchinson found him climbing over the walls of Christ Church after the gates were locked, then the Porter would turn his head and look the other way.
Mutchinson rapped on the door, which was tiny and warped. ‘Mr Dodgson – a visitor for you, sir!’ He turned his head to look at Sherlock. ‘Mr Dodgson hasn’t got any tutorials this morning, otherwise I’d have asked you to wait,’ he said more quietly.
‘Thank you, Mutchinson. I will attend to him m-m-momentarily,’ a thin, reedy voice called from inside.
‘Will you be dining in college tonight, sir?’
‘I will, Mutchinson. Is there any of that rather excellent claret left?’
‘I dare say, sir. I dare say there will be.’
‘And giraffe? Will there be giraffe?’
‘No sir.’ Mutchinson turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. ‘We appear to be completely out of giraffe. It will be mutton, sir.’
A sigh came from inside the room. ‘There’s never any giraffe, and precious little hippopotamus on the menu these days. I sometimes fear for this college.’
‘Good luck, sir.’ Mutchinson nodded at Sherlock, then turned around smartly and marched off down the stairs.
Sherlock stood there for a few moments. Nothing happened. He could feel his heart beating fast within his chest. This meeting was going to be important, and he wanted to make a good initial impression. He wondered whether to knock on the door himself and remind Mr Dodgson that he was there, but he didn’t know how the man might react. Could he take offence at being reminded?
Eventually, just as he was about to screw up enough courage to knock on the door, it abruptly opened.
The man standing inside was tall and thin – taller and thinner than anyone Sherlock had ever seen. His hair was a glossy brown: straight on top but curled at the ends, which were further down his cheeks and neck than fashion normally dictated. His suit was slightly too small for him, and his wrists projected from the ends of his sleeves. He wore white cotton gloves on his hands – inappropriate both for indoors and the weather, Sherlock thought. He wondered briefly what it was about his hands that Dodgson was trying to hide. He put the thought to one side. Looking down, he could see Dodgson’s socks in the gap between the bottom of his trousers and his shoes, which were scratched and had traces of mud on them. A walker then, and one with little money to spend on either clothes that fit or shoe repairs. Or one who cared little about his appearance. Or perhaps both.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Dodgson? My name is Sherlock Holmes. I was told to report to you here by—’
‘By your brother M-M-Mycroft, of course.’ Dodgson’s voice was as thin and reedy in person as it had sounded from outside the room, and he had a slight stammer on certain letters. ‘Come in, come in. I can offer you tea or sherry, or tea and sherry, although I do not recommend the m-m-mixture. I can also offer you biscuits in the plural, as I have three left and I only require one myself.’
‘Thank you.’ Sherlock entered the room, which was larger than the cramped stairway outside had suggested. It was furnished as a sitting room, with comfortable chairs, a table and bookcases. Other doors led off to other rooms – presumably a bedroom and perhaps a dining
room, although Sherlock was fairly sure, from what his brother had told him, that the students and lecturers all ate together in some large refectory on the college site.
Dodgson gestured to a chair. ‘Please, sit down.’
Sherlock noticed a book open and upside down on a side table. ‘My apologies, sir.’ He said politely. ‘I am disturbing you.’
‘I was merely reading a b-b-book,’ Dodgson replied. ‘It is an activity which can be easily interrupted and then be restarted, unlike the activity of b-b-beading a rook, of course. Once you have started beading a rook you have to keep on going to the end, if only because rooks are such impatient c-c-creatures. Once they start shaking their wings the beads go everywhere, and you have no option but to start again.’
Sherlock stared at him. Giraffes and hippopotamuses for dinner, and rooks covered with beads? What was going on in this man’s mind?
Dodgson folded himself up into a chair that was far too small for him and gazed at Sherlock.
‘Where have you been living?’ he asked, normally but seemingly randomly. ‘Not at the family home, I suspect. Your brother has told me a little about your circumstances.’
‘Recently I have been living in London, and before that China. Before that I was with my aunt and uncle in Farnham.’
‘Ah, Farnham. Yes, I have recently purchased a house in Guildford for my own family.’ He glanced sideways, out of the window. ‘My father died a few months ago. Your father is in India, is he not?’
‘Yes, he is.’
Dodgson considered for a moment. ‘China? What took you there, might I ask.’
Sherlock couldn’t help himself. ‘A three-masted schooner,’ he said.
He had judged Dodgson’s attitude perfectly. The mathematician let out a sudden sharp laugh. ‘Oh, very good!’ he said. ‘Very quick.’ He stared at Sherlock for a moment, seemingly re-evaluating him. ‘So you’ve been to China. Where else in the world have you travelled?’
‘France, America and Russia,’ Sherlock replied, remembering briefly his various adventures in those countries.
