Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

  As we stood at the entrances to our bedrooms, Florence and I bid goodnight to Lord Melbourne; who had become in some ways like a huggable uncle. He was kindly, polite, and a bit tantalizing. His dark eyes lit as he kissed first Florence’s hand and then mine, wishing us a good sleep.

  As we parted I pondered the emerald that rested in the velvet bag on his chest. What must it feel like? Not his chest, but the gem. Such a lovely stone might even have belonged to Cleopatra. I let my mind build a fantasy while Lord Melbourne disappeared into his chambers.

  The sound of heavy footsteps caused me to turn, snapping my neck and making it feel like hot water had been poured over my shoulders. A tall, unsmiling Dragoon nodded to us as he assumed his stance in front of Lord M’s door.

  If I had a premonition of what was to come I would have stood on tiptoes, grabbed the Dragoon by the shoulders, and shaken him to call his attention. But instead I had naively wished Lord Melbourne a good night. Smothering a yawn, I followed Florence into our room.

  Chapter 26

  Granny Alice was snoring lightly in her bed when I peeked in on her. Walking silently past her alcove we headed to the seating area in the center of the room. Two pale pink satin armchairs and a rose damask sofa were placed in an appealing cluster around a pink marble table.

  Florence lifted a small ceramic urn from the table and took off the lid. She nodded approvingly. “Worms.” She settled on the sofa, wedged the urn between her hip and the seatback and then ever so gently took Athena from her pocket holding her carefully under the front of her belly, Athena’s not Florence’s.

  Rather than intimidate the baby owl, I sat in one of the armchairs keeping my distance. The little creature blinked its large eyes, fluffed its wings and looked up at Florence. It began to chirp making what was an obvious plea for food.

  With a pleased laugh, Florence opened the urn and plucked out a small worm with the tip of her fingers. “You have been a very patient little girl.” She dangled the tiny morsel in front of Athena who snatched it hungrily and gulped it down. I thought of Roger’s worm game and smothered a laugh.

  Florence, who knew everything about everything, said, “She should be eating raw chicken but I thought it an odd request to make of Mr. Averoff when he did not know of her existence. It was easier to ask for worms.” She caught my smirk and laughed.

  “Did you notice how I picked her from my pocket?” Florence asked, while offering a second worm to Athena. “It’s important that I lay my hands under her belly and not try to grab her from the top or sides. If I were to break one of her sparse little pin feathers she might bleed to death.”

  “Oh dear, she is fragile!” I couldn’t refrain from asking, “May I touch her if I am careful?”

  “Athena has bonded with me. I doubt she will let you, but you are welcome to try, once.”

  I knelt before the sofa and ever so slowly moved my index finger towards the owl. She lunged defensively, her little beak striking my finger, but not breaking the skin. It was a warning for me not to touch her. I resumed my position in the armchair. Just dandy…the sweet little thing did not like me.

  Florence ran her left thumb over the top of Athena’s head and the owl closed her eyes, lost in pleasure. “They bond with one person and rarely accept a second human.” Reaching with her right hand she slowly replaced the lid on the urn.

  Athena’s eyes opened and she looked at the jar, chirping her objections at being cut off from her food supply. “No, little girl.” Florence said. “See how I feel her belly? I can tell she has eaten enough. Baby owls do not know when they have had enough. They can easily die from overeating. In the morning I shall find the kitchen and request some raw chicken pieces from the cook.”

  “You know so much about so many things,” I said, admiring my friend’s capability.

  “Let us create a bed for her before the maids come to help us prepare for sleep. We will need a container with a cover.” Florence slipped Athena in her pocket and we set about finding a small box with a lid that could be perforated. The owl would sleep in the compartment next to Florence’s bed. We were in the middle of our tiptoeing hunt when there came a gentle knock on the door. “That must be the maids,” I said, scurrying to the door.

  A maidservant stood there bearing a tray with a blue china teapot and three cups. The young girl handed it to me, bowed and vanished down the hallway. As I closed the door after her, I smiled at the Dragoon who stood guard in the doorway of Lord Melbourne’s room. He did not return the smile or give any indication that he saw me. Shrugging, I kicked the door closed and carried the tray to the table.

  “That was kind of Mr. Averoff,” I said, placing the tray on the table next to the urn of worms. Not the most appetizing of settings.

  Florence searched a bit more, unable to locate a box that would make a proper bed. She approached the table but Athena began to squeal so loudly she woke Granny. The dear lady threw on her robe and wobbled towards us. “Can you not hush that bird? I was having the most beautiful dream, I was young and there was this man who looked remarkably like Lord Melbourne, and…” Her cheeks colored as she veered away from any further revelations. It was then that she noticed the tray. “Ah tea! What a delightful idea. Shall I play mother?” She leaned over the table.

  Exhausted, the last thing I wished for was to participate in a tea party with my now well-rested Granny who could easily chatter on into the night. Knowing Florence had a long day ahead of her tomorrow, my mind thumbed through kind ways to decline. As my grandmother touched the teapot, the pocket owl began to scream violently, causing Granny to quickly withdraw her hand while looking quite stunned.

  Frantic banging on our door caused the three of us to jump. I guessed we were about to hear a complaint about the bird noise, but instead it was Lord Melbourne’s valet. The man blew out a series of short breaths as if to gain control of his words before he spoke. “His lordship is ill. Poisoned! Dr. Carbuncle is attending him.” I looked past him to see that the door to the room was ajar and the Dragoon stood before it. Lifting my skirts an inch or two, I prepared for a short run around the hulk when the valet spoke the chilling words. “Lord Melbourne instructed me to caution you, if you have been given tea this evening, do not drink it.”

  I turned to see Granny stirring sugar into a cup. “They forgot the cream,” she said. She stopped stirring and was about to put the cup to her lips. I lunged at her, swinging the back of my hand and knocking the teacup from her fingers, sending it crashing to the floor.

  Looking astounded, Granny stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “Poppy Throckmorten! What has gotten into you?” She doesn’t get angry often but when she does, oh goodness!

  Florence ceased her searching and ran to my side. “Lord Melbourne is ill,” I said. “He might have been poisoned! He sent his valet to caution us not to drink the tea!” My friend elbowed past me and out our door. She shoved the hulking guard from the doorway. Granny and I scrambled after her.

  The light of a single candle on the bedside table cast a dim light in the room. The tableau at Lord Melbourne’s bedside caused my heart to drop. A silent prayer whipped through my mind even as I remembered to take note of all that was in the room. The one thing I had learned from my mentor when once before we had visited a crime scene was to be aware of even the smallest thing in the room. I prayed to the angels in heaven that this was not such a setting.

  Dr. Carbuncle sat at Lord Melbourne’s side, holding his head over a chamber pot as the man lost everything he had eaten that day. My stomach churned at the sounds and smells; I had not learned to control myself in the presence of vomit. My dear mentor had vowed to give me lessons in the management of sympathetic whoopsies—another reason I had gravitated towards being a writer rather than a nurse.

  Florence stood over the doctor, her hands on her hips, looking like a thundercloud blotting the light from the candle. “Get up!” she commanded the portly fellow.

  At first the doctor refused to budge but weighing the fury
in her eyes, he took the safest course. The bed creaked as he removed his weighty carcass from the mattress. It was then that I was able to see the full extent of Lord Melbourne’s condition. His lordship was wet from sweat, his thick hair mashed and swirled, and his pallor whiter than the pillow he lay upon.

  Reaching up Lord Melbourne took Florence’s hand. “Do not let anyone drink the tea,” again he began to heave, arching his back while pulling his hand from her grip.

  Florence glared at Dr. Carbuncle, her look so fierce I feared he might burst into flames. “What have you given him?” she demanded.

  The doctor grew anxious in the face of her fury. “Merely an emetic, I carry in my bag for just such emergencies.” He pointed to his black valise that sat on a chair some distance from the bed. “There was something in the tea he drank, but I do not think it was poison.”

  “And you are an authority on poisons?” she snapped. Florence clearly had no respect for the man.

  “He exhibits only mild signs of having been drugged. He was overcome with dizziness, and some cramping of the stomach and chest muscles. The tea smells of laudanum.”

  Standing within inches of his bulbous red nose, Florence had one more question for the doctor. “How do you happen to be here?”

  Lord Melbourne spoke in a tremulous voice, “I sent my valet for the doctor when the feeling became overwhelming.” He panted until he could regain his composure. “I have never known a sick day in my life,” he said, the words coming between gasps. “I had only just finished the cup of tea Mr. Averoff’s servant brought when I was overcome and quickly assumed there was something in what I drank.”

  Seeming to regain some of his strength, Lord Melbourne looked searchingly at Florence and then at me, running the back of his hand over his lips. “I thought it a considerate gesture on the part of Mr. Averoff to send the girl with a tray. As I succumbed to the vertigo, I feared you had also received tea and it might be poisoned.”

  “I sent no tea!” Mr. Averoff had entered the room without our noticing. The poor man was clearly upset for he exhibited pride in helping, not hurting people. His nostrils flared and his hands trembled. He turned to Dr. Carbuncle. “I hurried to find you for I thought the news should come from me and not a servant. Your wife has just now been found in the hall outside your room. She is very weak and has been returned to her bed. One of my servants sits with her, but if Lord Melbourne can be left in Miss Nightingale’s care you may wish to return to Mrs. Carbuncle.”

  The doctor shook himself as if awakening from a deep sleep. Was it uncertainty that caused his hesitation? His Lordship was the Prime Minister of England; his wife was his wife. He seemed confused by the burden of decision making and snuck a look at Florence who was still in a fury. Gathering his wits, he exclaimed, “I must tend to my wife!” He strode across the room, picked up his medical bag and lumbered quickly out the door.

  Lord Melbourne seemed to be gaining his strength and I thought him the better for having shed Dr. Carbuncle and his bag of tricks. I wished there was something I could do to help him.

  “I swear by all that I hold dear, I did not order tea to be delivered to your rooms,” Mr. Averoff said, drawing closer. He looked as if he would gladly take on whatever Lord Melbourne was suffering. “Please to tell me what this servant who brought the tea looked like?” His anxiety becoming tangled in his accented English.

  “I did not see her as my valet handed the cup to me,” Lord Melbourne said. He beckoned to his manservant who stood near the windows, fiercely wringing his hands as if to punish them. When questioned the frightened man could only describe the maid as a lady of young age with white hair. She was neither slender nor plump and neither short nor tall. Upon completing his almost useless description—except for her hair color—he stepped back into the shadows showing every sign of being humiliated by his failure to protect his master.

  It was my turn to offer a description as I had received the tea tray that was brought to our chamber door. “The servant who delivered the tea was a girl of less than twenty years of age. She had a pretty face, though slightly full, and her eyes…what color were her eyes?” A true journalist would notice details. “They were gray! Her eyes were gray and she wore a black collar over a gray dress. But the most outstanding thing about her was that her hair was so light it might have been white.”

  I chewed on my lower lip as if the details were imbedded in it, and if only I could free them, then the criminal tea dispenser could be found among the staff. “The maid acted dazed and avoided looking directly at me. The moment I took the tray she scurried down the hall.”

  Florence helped Lord M into a sitting position and then took the teacup from the table next to his bed. She sniffed it twice. “It is laudanum which would have made you sleepy. Did you add sugar?”

  “Yes, two teaspoons from the bowl on the tray. There was no milk, just sugar.”

  Florence tested what Lord Melbourne had ingested, this time sampling a few grains of the sugar. “There is arsenic in this bowl. Most likely not enough in the entire dish to kill you, but just enough to make certain you became violently ill and weak.” She seemed to linger over it, allowing a few minutes to confirm her diagnosis. “Yes, arsenic.”

  I held my breath, hoping she did not fall to the floor clutching her stomach; but she had been cautious and showed no signs of having been affected by the poison. Florence was knowledgeable, but still I feared for her safety.

  “Whoever sent the tea had to have observed us at dinner,” she said. “They would have known Lord Melbourne took sugar in his tea, but not milk.” She paused mulling over the scene. “Because they brought no cream we can be certain this was a hastily arranged plan and they did not bother with something that would not be of use.”

  Florence faced Mr. Averoff. “If the kitchen in your house is like those in England, dairy is kept in the cold room that requires access by either going into the basement or outside, either of which might draw attention to the maid’s actions which could also be why there was no cream on the trays.”

  Our host shook his head in astonishment. “That is true. You think of everything, Miss Nightingale.” He drew his brow up into a frown. “We have four maids and not one has white hair.”

  Granny stood in the corner worrying her gnarled hands. I stepped to her side and put my arm around her; she was quivering like a little bird in a cold wind. Together we watched Florence as she analyzed what was now a crime scene. I reached in my pocket to confirm my India rubber ball was with me. I was armed and ready to do battle with the toxic tea lady.

  “The tea was meant to assure that our little group across the hall fell into a sound sleep,” Florence said. She glanced at me; it was a look she gave me when she was thinking. I had learned early on that she did not always expect answers from me. “But the arsenic in the sugar is another matter. It was meant to call the doctor from his room and rush to Lord Melbourne’s aid.”

  Florence mouthed the word guard and I nodded in understanding. Whatever scheme was afoot—what had the toxic maid intended to do with the Dragoon once we were all taken ill or merely sound asleep? It would take more than laudanum laced tea to bring down that giant unless he was a part of her plan. But who was she and why hadn’t she taken the emerald before our arrival?

  “To what purpose was all this done?” A voice spoke from behind Granny. It was Mr. Olsen. Sometime during the chaos he had joined our party.

  “What purpose indeed?” Florence asked. But even as she spoke I could see by her face we had both come to the same conclusion.

  Chapter 27

  Lord Melbourne sat bolt upright in bed, grasping at his neck. “The emerald! The sack with the gem is gone!” My heart thrummed so loudly I was certain everyone in the room could hear it. Even by the light of a single candle I could see the frantic look in his Lordship’s eyes. Queen Victoria had relied upon him and he had failed to protect the Greek endowment.

  Caught up in the moment and ignoring the impropriety, Florence sat
on Lord Melbourne’s bed, helping him tear at his nightshirt and search his bedclothes. Mr. Averoff rushed to join them; he leaned over the bewildered Prime Minister.

  “It can’t be gone!” Averoff’s words were tangled in his emotions and came out as a gagging sound.

  “Call Captain Wainright!” Lord Melbourne’s voice was weak as he ordered the sentry at the door.

  Granny leaned into me burying her face in my chest while Florence took a determined stance and glared in turn at everyone in the room. She was about to speak when one of the servants ran into the room. He whispered something in Mr. Averoff’s ear, something that caused the dear man to turn away from our group. Even in the dim light I could see the cords in his neck tighten.

  The silence in the room seemed to last an eternity but in fact was less than a moment. As I was focused on Mr. Averoff I did not notice that Lord Melbourne had risen from his bed and managed to don his robe and slippers.

  Our host faced us to share his servant’s message. He struggled to annunciate the words for they left him incredulous. “Dr. Carbuncle wishes us to attend him in his room as soon as possible.” He fixed each of us with a solemn look. “He has asked me to inform you that Mrs. Carbuncle is dead.”

  Florence stormed out of the room, fury in her sails. Lord Melbourne was unsteady but seemed to have collected his wits and joined me in following my fearless leader.

  We bumped into Roger as we dashed down the hall. “What’s going on?” My devoted protector chirped. He appeared to have just awakened as his face was puffy and his ginger hair looked like a windblown haystack at sunset.

  “Take care! Don’t drink the tea,” I called over my shoulder as I slipped passed him. He ran his hand through his hair. “What tea?”

  Florence, Lord Melbourne, Mr. Averoff, Granny, and Olsen all arrived at the doctor’s suite at the same time. Mrs. Carbuncle lay with the upper part of her torso draped on the bed, while her bottom and legs dangled from the mattress. Her face was a horrible shade of blue. The doctor was whimpering as he attempted to lift her into a sitting position.