Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

  Florence nibbled on her lower lip. “Until we hear from the Queen, we cannot prepare Mrs. Carbuncle for burial or transport.” She shrugged. “I reckon we should have at it. Let us make ready to store her comfortably in Mr. Averoff’s icehouse while there is still some flexibility to her body for it will be much harder to move her once she is completely stiff.”

  I shuddered at the thought of storing the corpse in the larder with the food. “Is it necessary to put her in there—all alone?”

  “It’s the only way I can think of to slow the decaying of her body until we have the Queen’s instructions for she may wish us to prepare Mrs. Carbuncle for her return to England, if she is to be returned at all.” Up until that moment I had witnessed many emotions on my friend’s face, but never before had I observed such a mix of anger and sadness.

  Someday I might acquire my mentor’s gift for being calm around births and deaths, but I was still a nervous novice. With a grimace I nodded. “I will take one more look through their trunks but then I would really like to leave.” My palms were sweaty and my heart was dancing to a silent Scottish reel.

  Mrs. Carbuncle moaned again, sending me into a case of the jitters. “On second thought there really is no need for further inspection.” The words tumbled from my mouth tripping over my tongue.

  “Oh dear! She may have air trapped in her lungs… or she is trying to tell us something.” Florence uncovered the gray face of the lady. “I will search her bed and then her body. Once I am certain that odious husband of hers did not conceal the emerald on her, I will attempt to expel any air remaining in her. Watch carefully for there may come a time when you have to deflate a corpse.”

  I think not.

  Pretending to observe Florence’s actions, I looked at the wall beyond Mrs. Carbuncle’s head. Through the corner of my eye, I did peek at my friend as she moved rapidly around the bed. Removing the quilt, she rolled the body first on one side making an awful noise from the effort, Florence not Mrs. Carbuncle. And then she rolled the corpse on her other side. Tugging at the sheets, she lifted the corners of the mattress but seeing the netting that supported the mattress, Florence dropped to her knees and peeked under the bed. “Nothing has fallen through,” she said.

  When the bed and the body had been thoroughly searched, Florence adjusted her skirts to move the pocket housing Athena to a position of safety. Then with all dignity aside, she climbed onto the bed and straddled the corpse. “Now pay close attention! For this is how we shall remove any gas from poor Mrs. Carbuncle.”

  I wished I had not peeped, as it was such an unforgettable tableau. Where did my friend acquire such knowledge? Surely not from books?

  Florence set to work unbuttoning, then re-buttoning; she fiddled with ribbons as she explored the remains of the tetchy lady, who was tetchy no more. Florence’s exploration of the body sent shudders up and down my spine; for a lady with an aversion to germs my mentor seemed passionate to intimately explore the corpse. I began to understand that she was doing more than looking for the stolen emerald; she was studying the dead body—increasing her knowledge of anatomy.

  A tiny scream built up in my throat and every doubt I ever had about my ability to follow in the footsteps of Florence Nightingale sucked me down as if I had fallen into a bog of quicksand. I could never be as brash about life and death as she was. My mentor seemed born to confront the grim reaper head on; I was not.

  Deliberately I sent my mind wandering for a happy diversion, choosing to light on the bright blue eyes of Moon, the footman. Imagining something pleasant was a way of leaving the scene without stepping from the room. My fantasies helped me create the appearance of paying attention, when that was the last thing I wanted to do.

  Sitting high, Florence straddled the body without putting her weight on it. She was applying pressure with both hands on Mrs. Carbuncle’s breasts attempting to force gas to pass her vocal chords when Roger and Olsen entered the room without knocking. “What the devil are you doing?” Olsen yelped, startled to see Florence riding Mrs. Carbuncle. “You shouldn’t be doing that!”

  “You are a reporter, Mr. Olsen; unless you have studied medicine, please refrain from offering unwanted advice.” Florence continued to push on Mrs. Carbuncle’s chest with both her hands.

  Olsen flushed. “I did not mean to interfere, Miss Nightingale. It was merely concern for your wellbeing that caused me to speak out. That is a dead body you are sitting on!” He took a few tentative steps toward the bed. “Did you find anything?”

  Florence offered a strange smile; considering her position and what she was doing, any smile would have been peculiar. “We found no clues. There is no need to proceed with deflating her. She had moaned but she seems to have expelled all the air within her.” She hopped off of Mrs. Carbuncle, and adjusted her pocket, allowing Athena to stick her little head out. The owlet came up, looked around and evidently did not like what she saw for she dropped back under cover.

  “Do not worry on my account, Mr. Olsen, for I will not catch anything from Mrs. Carbuncle. I am certain she did not die from a contagion, but rather her overindulgence in cough suppressants or perhaps her husband’s mesmerizing was the final stroke.”

  I exchanged glances with Mr. Olsen whose mustache failed to cover his look of relief at seeing Florence dismount.

  At that moment Granny dashed into the room. “Look what I found!” she said, dangling the missing velvet bag. I nearly knocked her over as I lunged for the sack. “Is the emerald in it?” I grabbed the treasure from her hand, but by its weight alone I knew it was empty.

  Florence elbowed past Mr. Olsen to inspect Granny’s discovery. She took the bag from me, and gingerly explored it with the tip of her finger. “The cord has been cut; that is how it was removed from Lord Melbourne’s neck. We have one more clue, the scoundrel is or was carrying a knife.” She handed the bag back to me, and I clutched it with a shiver.

  “Where did you find it?” I asked Granny, who looked as pleased as punch to have found an important clue. She puffed herself up before answering. “Mr. Olsen and Roger were fumbling around the hall nearest our room. I couldn’t sleep for the noise they were making.” Granny cut the reporter a stern look. “I soon learned what the racket was about and joined the search. I found that clue hidden in a potted plant not far from where we stand.”

  “Just dandy! How did you miss this?” I turned on Roger falling back on our childhood roles, with me snapping orders at him. I did not like myself when I picked on him and yet old habits will linger.

  Granny drew herself up to her full height, which was just below my chin. “The bag was tucked under the lower leaves. Only a short person could see it. It is not your fiancé’s fault.”

  I stomped my foot. “I don’t have a fiancé! Roger Llewellyn Broadribbs is not my intended!”

  Shaking her head, Granny pulled me aside for a whisper. “Poppy dear, keep the lad on a leash for he is trainable. You may not find anyone better to marry, so be patient with him.” When I snorted at her advice she attempted to console me. “I can see the appeal of a career assisting Miss Nightingale; you would never be bored—but how long will it be before she doesn’t need you? Then who will you be? A spinster who was formerly the assistant to the famous Florence Nightingale.”

  I considered Granny’s words and my worth. I liked to think Florence would always need me. Every part of me revolted against the idea of becoming Mrs. Roger Broadribbs.

  “Excuse me,” Florence said. “I believe we have searched every nook, cranny, and medicine container. Now it is time to secure the corpse. Mr. Olsen would you please go to Mr. Averoff’s study and see if the men have completed their inspection of Dr. Carbuncle? Tell them I require their assistance as soon as possible. We should tarry no longer.”

  I watched in a mix of awe and discomfort as Florence set about brushing Mrs. Carbuncle’s hair and fixing her garments, before pulling the quilt around her as if tucking the lady in for the night. “Rest in peace,” she said as she pulled
the top of the quilt over the corpse’s head.

  My mentor had a way about her that would be impossible to emulate.

  Chapter 33

  Florence enlisted the assistance of two Dragoons, and the Queen’s footmen to transport Mrs. Carbuncle to Mr. Averoff’s icehouse. I reddened as my eyes met the bright blue orbs of Moon. Our glance lasted a mere instant, but Roger intercepted it, his face turning dark as the night.

  Wrapped in a quilt from the top of her head to her toes, the late Mrs. Carbuncle was carried from the room, through the hallway and down the short staircase. Mr. Averoff led our strange procession with the aid of a few members of his household staff carrying candles, torches, and lanterns.

  The shortest route to the icehouse was through the kitchen. With a feeling of squeamishness, but trying desperately to imitate my mentor, I followed the parade. The only thing missing were bagpipes but I was certain the corpse did not miss them.

  “You there!” Roger snapped at Moon. “Mind what you are doing! Take care with Mrs. Carbuncle’s feet!”

  I shook my head in disgust at Roger’s petty behavior. If he thought he could win my favor by demeaning a footman, he was wrong.

  We made a creepy procession as we paraded silently through the kitchen causing the drowsy cook and her helper to shudder and bless themselves as we passed. The entire household had been roused to search and to be searched, I had not thought to look at a clock but it had to be near morning.

  One of the guards held the corpse’s wrapped head, while the footmen held her feet—I wondered if that was where the term footman originated—as our procession began to traverse down the slope made slippery by loose rocks. Mr. Averoff performed his penguin waddle alongside Lord Melbourne as they preceded a few feet in front of the corpse. Four of the servants walked on either side of the body bearing candles. Lanterns lined the steep path to the icehouse but even with the lighting it remained an eerie ramble.

  Dr. Carbuncle walked alongside the body of his wife, bracing himself by keeping one hand on her. His weight caused the corpse to tilt almost tumbling from the grip of the bearers. I grimaced imagining Mrs. Carbuncle rolling down the hill in her nightgown; she would have been humiliated.

  Olsen circled the parade like an eager puppy. I imagined the reporter was memorizing every moment and would become a legendary journalist with his detailed description of this macabre chapter in our adventure.

  Roger kept his eyes fixed on Moon looking for an opportunity to belittle the footman. I was pleased to see the footman behave perfectly and Roger frown accordingly.

  The icehouse was just what I expected: a stone building sunk low to the ground, half cave, half square structure. As we drew closer one of the servants opened the door and stepped inside carrying a lantern. From where I stood I could see jagged blocks of rime lined two walls, while stacks of ice lay on the floor. The left wall held jugs and crates, while a cluster of dead chickens hung from hooks over the boxes.

  “You go in with the body, Poppy,” Florence whispered. “I will remain here with your grandmother.”

  I looked at her as if she had asked me to accompany a dead body into an icehouse without her. I couldn’t have heard her correctly. “Me?” The tenor of my voice was embarrassing in its quavering. From where we stood I studied the sparse candlelight reflecting from the orange stone walls through the blocks of ice, then allowed my gaze to take in the quilted corpse about to be marched into the cavern. It was times like these when I would gladly trade places with my mentor and be the one who gave the orders.

  “Athena will catch a chill,” Florence said, using her owlet as a perfectly valid excuse. “I can’t remove her from my pocket without frightening her. I am counting on you, Poppy. See that the bearers are careful with Mrs. Carbuncle and take note of whether the doctor touches her—how and where.”

  “Dandy.” I have been cold before, but never as chilled as at that moment. Holding my arms around myself I stepped inside what felt like a tomb, not that I have ever been in one before.

  A manservant hurried to clear a space on the top of the blocks of ice for the corpse. Lord Melbourne looked at me for approval as if he assumed I had performed this ritual before. The torchlight reflecting off the Prime Minister’s weary eyes made him look much older than yesterday. I feared he might be feeling the lingering effects of the poisons.

  Being new at storing bodies I could only offer a shrug in response. His Lordship nodded to the bearers and they placed Mrs. Carbuncle on the ice bed. I secretly vowed not to eat a speck of food that might have required cooling for the rest of our stay; however long that might be.

  Once the corpse of Mrs. Carbuncle was situated, her husband threw himself upon her body, sobbing theatrically. Obeying my mentor’s instructions I watched where the doctor put his hands, on the chance we had missed something when we searched Mrs. Carbuncle. I still had serious doubts about the man and his treatment of his wife. Accordingly I withheld the full force of my sympathy by allowing myself to remain suspicious.

  Thinking to give him some privacy in his mourning—sincere or faux, I stepped to the doorway where it was warmer; besides everyone else had left the icehouse including the guards and I wasn’t comfortable being alone in there with the doctor. I looked around for Moon, but somehow he too had left.

  Outside Lord Melbourne, Mr. Averoff and Florence stood some distance away, except for Olsen who flitted near the doorway, no doubt taking note of points he would use in his Times series. The man was a vulture.

  Florence waved Olsen to step away, but he ignored her continuing to linger around the opening. Seeing what was afoot, and probably imagining himself to be a hero, Roger marched toward the doorway and tugged at Olsen. I left my post and joined Florence as the clash between the two young men degenerated into a name-calling battle. “Zounderkite! Gormless Dawdler! Flapdoodler! Foozler!”

  Despite the seriousness of the gathering, Florence and I burst into muffled titters that brought tears to our eyes. I had to admire Lord Melbourne’s self-control as these fine young gentlemen exchanged the silliest of insults—many of which I was certain Roger was ignorant as to their meaning, but still he babbled on. It seemed Mr. Averoff was also unfamiliar with the context of the insults, which was a reason to be thankful, as most of them involved affronts to the manhood of the other.

  Having exhausted their vocabulary of slurs and realizing there was no point in continuing their battle of witlessness, both men threw up their arms in frustration, stepped back, and faded into the shadows.

  The five of us, Lord Melbourne, Florence, Granny, Mr. Averoff and I would wait until Dr. Carbuncle finished his farewell, while the guards remained in formation around the icehouse. It was agreed that the storage room should remain locked.

  I fought off the trapped feeling that crept over me. What if Mrs. Carbuncle wasn’t really dead? I shook the sensation attributing it to the stories of Edgar Allan Poe that I had read since I was old enough to slip them out of my father’s library. Trapped in a locked icehouse? Oh my!

  As we stood silently watching the single torch fade within the cavern I felt eyes and turned in time to see Moon staring at me. The impulse to draw closer to him overwhelmed me. I looked about, relieved to see that Roger was nowhere around. Neither was Olsen. Granny was fast asleep leaning against Florence. Lord Melbourne, Mr. Averoff and my friend were engaged in a whispered conversation of which I caught a snippet.

  “Mrs. Throckmorten found this in a potted plant near the door to the Carbuncle’s room.” Florence passed the little velvet bag to Lord Melbourne. “It seems too obvious, too planted—pardon the pun—to be a real clue. Someone wished it to be found.”

  “There is no doubt that is the purse that held the emerald, but why would Carbuncle leave it outside his room? You assume correctly. It is too perfect. Someone is either trying to frame Dr. Carbuncle or the man is attempting to make it look that way.” Lord Melbourne sounded exhausted, his breath coming in short gasps.

  “I have been able to r
ecollect more of what happened when I was at my worst this evening. I remember someone standing behind me. I had leaned over the edge of the bed to be sick in the chamber pot—forgive me. The doctor was across the room; I think he was fetching something from his medical bag. I recall the stench of cherry wood tobacco. It may have been a hallucination brought on by the torments knotting my insides or perhaps it is a clue as to the identity of the thief.”

  “It’s a good clue,” Florence said. “Let us keep our noses alert for the scent of cherry wood tobacco.”

  I should have stayed to listen to Lord Melbourne but the romance-hungry girl in me could not resist the temptation. Slipping into the shadows for my own little conversation with the blue-eyed footman, I reasoned I would not miss much and whatever I needed to know, Florence would inform me about, later.

  Moon and I had danced around our flirtation and although he was a servant and I was a gentleman’s daughter, I convinced myself that once off the isle of Britain, the rules did not apply. My hard work had earned me a reward, and what harm could come from a bit of playful chatter? Inching to the edge of our gathering, I slipped into the shadows.

  Chapter 34

  Clambering down the short embankment, I began to lose my footing on a pile of loose rocks. Just when I thought I would fall flat on my face, a pair of strong arms caught me. Struggling, but not too hard; I hoped I was in the grip of my favorite footman; I tipped backwards almost falling from his grasp.

  “If I were a gentleman and not a mere footman I would use this moment to tell you how pleased I am that you have taken this risk, Miss Throckmorten,” Moon said. “But since I am not a gentleman, I must refrain from sharing my thoughts with you.”

  “Have you any idea how brave or foolish or foolishly brave you are to attempt to speak to me in this clandestine and most personal of ways? Lord Melbourne might lock you in a dungeon and throw the key in the Thames.”