“Please remove the dogs and remain in the next room with them,” Florence commanded the guards. She cast a stern look of warning that held each of us with her eyes. “No one touch that corset!”
She strode across the room standing within inches of the peach lacey weapon of death that only minutes before Granny had clutched to her bosom.
“The alchemist has determined Mrs. Dupree was killed by a form of curare. The poison must be injected into the victim in a manner that breaks the skin. The coroner discovered a pattern of tiny scratch marks on Mrs. Dupree’s body that are the length and width of the whalebone markings of a corset.”
Granny gasped, clutching her throat. I rushed to her side, supporting her tiny frame before she crumbled.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Throckmorten,” Florence said. “As long as the whalebone stays did not touch your bare skin, you are safe. And we do not know for certain that this corset contains poison but if it does then we know it was designed to kill the Queen.”
Granny recovered standing upright but clinging to me.
Florence pointed to the corset that lay in the center of the room. “We must discover how that piece of lingerie arrived here but first it must be taken to the royal alchemist for analysis.”
The realization that the killer had somehow smuggled the poison into her private rooms had to leave Queen Victoria feeling vulnerable and violated. She locked fearful eyes with Lord Melbourne, but then quickly found her strength of will and self-possession. These were the qualities that placed her on the throne despite the machinations of her evil uncle, Lord Cumberland who glowered at his niece.
“Heads will be lost over this!” the Queen said. “Thank you, Miss Nightingale. You have saved the Crown.” She did not look at her uncle or his wife.
“What is curare?” she asked.
“Does Her Majesty wish the particulars or merely a general explanation?” Florence took care in her response.
“I would like to understand what Mrs. Dupree endured on my behalf and what my enemies thought to be a fitting way for me to leave this earth.” Queen Victoria’s words caused my lip to tremble. She was indeed a brave woman.
Feeling exhausted from the suspense I settled into a chair near her settee without asking permission to sit in her royal presence. I was taking liberties with our friendship since I did not wish to interrupt the flow of Florence’s revelations.
Lord Melbourne summoned one of the Dragoons back into the room. Using the tip of his sword the guard lifted the corset and placed it in the red box. Florence secured it and instructed him to take it to the alchemist immediately. “Do not let any one interfere with your mission for your Queen’s life depends on it. Inform him that we must know if this is the corset that killed Mrs. Dupree and if it bears curare—or any other poison. You are to wait for his answer and return to me immediately.”
As he turned to leave, she issued one further order. “Tell the alchemist that he is to lock the corset in his most secure cabinet. Tell him we are holding him personally responsible for its safekeeping. Under no circumstances must it be returned to the Palace.”
Florence looked to the Queen who nodded in agreement. The Dragoon left carrying the red dress shop box at arm’s length from his body.
“To answer your question, Your Majesty,” Florence began. “Curare is a plant known to alchemists and those who dabble in exotic poisons. It causes weakness of the skeletal muscles and eventual death by asphyxiation. Mrs. Dupree died due to paralysis of her diaphragm. She could not breathe.”
Queen Victoria brought her hand to her mouth muffling the sound of an un-sovereign like cry. “Whoever killed that good lady shall suffer the ultimate punishment. He shall be hanged, drawn and quartered.” She cut Lord Melbourne a blistering look and then focused her sad blue eyes on Florence. “You must discover the identity of the killer, Miss Nightingale. And it must be done soon for I am to meet with Prince Albert at ten o’clock this evening. I would prefer to judge his qualities with a clear head—preferably on my shoulders.”
I snuck a peek at Lord Cumberland who seemed to be truly surprised at this turn of events. Although he lusted for the throne one could only hope that poisoning a corset was beneath the standards of a war hero. He must have felt me staring at him for he turned his one good eye in my direction, the battle scar on his face made prominent by the candlelight. How had I not noticed his wound before since it added to his ferocity?
“Who brought that red box in here?” Florence asked, directing the question to Granny and Lehzen. The Baroness answered first.
“I did not note how it arrived and hardly gave it a second thought. The Queen’s dresser frequently brought packages into this room. Lady Beryl would have had to receive it but I do not recall when I became aware of it. It might have been sitting there for days or just arrived this morning,” said the Baroness.
Making all but Queen Victoria and Lord Melbourne quiver under the sharp gaze of her eagle eye, Florence studied Lord Cumberland, Duchess Frederica, Baroness Lehzen, Granny, and me. The intensity of her scrutiny had a way of making one feel completely dissected.
I suddenly remembered my appointment with Bailey at St. Peter’s Church. It would not be a pleasant meeting as he was waiting to hear the results of the autopsy. How could I tell him he might have saved Mrs. Dupree if only he had known she was bound and corseted just one level below his feet?
Florence’s revelations were temporarily put aside until the corset could be analyzed and more evidence brought to bear. As the group milled around the room, I thought it a perfect time to make my exit. Excusing myself I backed out of the Queen’s presence in a backward curtsy that lasted until my bottom bumped the door. As I left the room questions began to pop up in my mind like mushrooms in moss; questions that Bailey might be able to answer—if he kept our meeting.
Chapter 33
The setting sun blanketed the City in an orange fog as the discreet carriage made its way to St. Peter’s Church. Two footmen one of whom had the curious name of Moon accompanied me. If I was not so nervous I would have savored the knowledge that he rode atop the carriage, but I had a dangerous puzzle to solve and some of the pieces were still missing.
The interior of the church was so dark it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. The smell of melted wax and incense hung heavy in the air. Strangely the scent reminded me of Mrs. Medici. Perhaps the corset maker spent a portion of her time as a church lady? I cautioned myself for I had a habit of attributing good to people before I had learned their true nature.
Just as I was about to head to the sanctuary located on the side of the altar, I saw a form kneeling in the last pew; it was Bailey, barely visible in the darkness. His hands were folded and his head kept turning in an owl-like motion perusing the nave of the church, repeatedly. He watched me as I slipped into the seat next to him and assumed a praying position. I had carefully chosen the words I would use to explain how Mrs. Dupree had died, trying to soften the horrid details.
Before I could speak, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Please take care Miss Throckmorten as I fear for you and your friends. Mr. Harley and a couple of his henchmen are hunting for you.”
“But why? How?” Suddenly my skin felt itchy as if ants were scampering over my body. I dropped back to rest my bottom on the seat and waited to hear more.
“It occurred to me that Mrs. Throckmorten had informed Mr. Harley that you ladies could be reached at Brown’s Hotel. I was concerned for your safety. This morning I went to the lobby of Brown’s and lingered, sitting behind a newspaper so as not to be seen. Mr. Harley and a couple of ruffians barged in causing quite a ruckus.” He shook his head.
“They rousted the desk clerks demanding to be told Mrs. Throckmorten’s room number.” The concern in his eyes was touching. “The clerks claimed not to know of any Mrs. Throckmorten, whereupon Mr. Harley announced he would be returning early tomorrow morning and the hotel had best produce Mrs. Throckmorten and her lady attendants or there would be grief t
o pay.”
My chin hit my praying hands and a gulp stuck in my throat. I know my eyes grew large because they suddenly felt dry as if an ill wind had blown through the church.
“The Chartist thugs caused such a din that they frighten most of the guests in the lobby. Mr. Harley claimed your friends had something that belonged to him. He mentioned the seamstresses but it might be more that he is wanting.” He wrung his face with his hands and said, “Can you tell me who you are and what you have done with Mrs. Dupree and the women?”
I then proceeded to tell him what Florence had learned of Mrs. Dupree’s death. The poor man slumped in his seat, obviously overwhelmed at my report. “Steady yourself, Mr. Bailey, for we are not without resources. Miss Nightingale and I have been retained by Queen Victoria to solve a murder in Buckingham Palace.”
He appeared shocked as he studied my face. I could imagine what he saw, a young girl barely old enough to be away from her nanny’s skirts, claiming to be an agent of the Queen. It was clear he was struggling to accept my claim.
I continued, “On our mission gathering evidence we stumbled upon the horrific situation at the dress shop. Rest assured the Queen’s guards will be greeting Mr. Harley and his crew when they return to Brown’s tomorrow. Those loathsome creatures will not be roaming the streets of London any longer. It is one thing to have a just cause and seek resolution through the proper channels but it is another to conduct a campaign of violence.”
An elderly man entered the church, walked to the side aisle and lit a candle. I felt my entire body grow tense. When he knelt at the railing I silently reprimanded myself for allowing my nerves to rule my common sense but I felt the need to withdraw. “Let us step into the vestibule,” I suggested.
Out of sight in a corner and certain my voice would not carry I asked, “Where can we find Mrs. Medici?”
“You do not want to find her, the woman can strike fear in the hearts of even the bravest men. Her wicked brews are matched only by her nasty temperament. Do you think she might have poisoned Mrs. Dupree?”
“That is what we need to find out.” I put my hand in my pocket to reassure myself that my India rubber ball was handy. “Please tell me where Mrs. Medici lives.”
He shook his head. “That woman is like a shadow, she comes and goes as she pleases. If Mrs. Dupree gave her an assignment she saw to it with keenness, but when she did not have the making of a corset to keep her busy she would vanish like smoke.” He hesitated. “She is a descendant of the Medici’s of Florence, Italy and often boasts of her family’s dark doings with chilling effect on those she wishes to intimidate.”
The irony of the Medici’s beginnings struck me but I said nothing to Bailey. Florence Nightingale was born in Florence and named after the city. What odd games the fates often played. I thought not to dwell on the coincidence, but asked, “The woman Mrs. Medici spoke to the day the young lady was looking at ribbons, once again please describe that stranger to me.”
“Oh Miss Throckmorten, I wish I could tell you more. If only I had known there was evil about I would have studied her face and form until she blushed.”
“Just close your eyes and think back.”
The butler did as he was instructed; facing me he stood still and closed his eyes.
“She was taller than my height. Her hair was light, perhaps not blonde, it could have been shades of gray.” Although his eyes remained closed he squinted as if to see into his memory better. “She was well-dressed with a hat adorned with pheasant feathers. I do recall that her face was aged and now that I think about it, she might have been older than I first assumed, although her form belied her age.”
I became certain the Queen was in danger from a member of her own court. Confident I had the right person in mind I needed Bailey to confirm the identity of the woman by confronting her. The butler had become a key witness; it was urgent for him to speak with Florence and the Queen. “I have a carriage waiting and will take you to a place of safety.” I dare not inform him he would be whisked to Buckingham Palace as he might panic and disappear.
We slipped out a small door just off the vestibule; the darkness covering our escape—I hoped. Moon helped us both into the carriage and we were off. My mind raced like a hamster in a wheel; it spun round and round going nowhere. A niggling thought kept interfering with my concentration. There was someone else who might require rescuing. Who was it?
The answer hit me like a smack in the face, not that I had ever experienced a face smack. Knowing how dogged Roger could be, it would be just like him to present himself at Brown’s Hotel in search of me and to relieve his curiosity about the place. He might have met up with Mr. Harley! “We must make a stop before we reach our destination,” I told Bailey. He seemed to accept that his fate was in my hands and made no comment.
Putting down the window I banged on the side of the coach. It came to a halt under a streetlight. Moon jumped down and peered in the window. “Roger Broadribbs may be in serious trouble! Do you recall where we brought him yesterday? It was a small hotel in Charing Cross.”
Moon looked past me assessing Bailey and then locked his eyes with mine. “I do recall the hotel. It is called Hill’s. You are worried about Mr. Broadribbs?” He spoke the name with distaste.
“I am certain he is in danger.” Roger being Roger, he would have gone there. Mr. Harley was not the sort to forget the countenance of the young dandy who punched him in the nose. Particularly one who knew the Throckmortens.
“Please inform the driver to take us there with great haste. I will explain everything to you later.” I had a strong sense that harm had come to Roger.
“Trust me,” I said to Bailey as I perched on the end of my seat holding the strap to steady my shaking hand.
Once at Hill’s Hotel, I asked Moon to accompany me into the lobby. The desk clerk cut me the oddest expression when I asked for Mr. Broadribbs. The thought darted through my head that respectable young women do not seek out men in their hotel rooms, but the clerk complied while raising one brow at my footman.
Moon and I took the stone stairs to the second floor and knocked on door number 201. After a series of raps, Roger responded sounding like he had a mouthful of pebbles.
“It’s Poppy. Let me in!”
A few long minutes passed, accompanied by fumbling at the door latch, before Roger presented himself. The poor thing was not a pretty sight. His left eye was blackened and his lip was split. Clearly he had encountered Mr. Harley.
He reached out to me. “Those ruffians didn’t hurt you, did they?” He cringed as he spoke, whether from pain or the sight of Moon I wasn’t certain. “I would invite you in to my room, but your reputation…”
“No. Those thugs did not find me. At the moment it is your injuries that need attention. Get your coat and come with us.” I indicated his topcoat that lay on the floor just inside the door.
“Poppy, we can’t go back to Brown’s Hotel. That gang of dress designers is after you—and your Granny and Miss Nightingale!”
“I promise we will avoid that roving band of fashion fiends.”
Chapter 34
Bailey’s eyes were the size of chicken eggs as the carriage pulled under the canopy at the Palace. Despite my having told him I was in the Queen’s employ, I had a feeling he hadn’t put full credence to it until that moment.
Holding a cloth against his bleeding lip, Roger said something that sounded like, “Shu you er stayin’ yat Buck-in-hem!” He mumbled something else but I could not make out the words.
Once again Moon held my hand as I exited the carriage. “Thank you,” I said, meaning every bit of it. I could not have managed with anyone else.
We were greeted by one of the servants and ushered to a room I had not been in before. There were at least six or eight Dragoons standing outside the door. Captain Wainright was among them. “You are expected, Miss Throckmorten.” He opened the door and I entered followed by Bailey and dear Roger who must have been wondering how much damage he had
received from the blows to his head. Goggle-eyed he took in the candlelit chandeliers, the thick carpets, and the huge portraits that lined the walls.
The assemblage took my breath away for I had been hoping for a quiet time with Florence to inform her of all I had discovered, but it was not to be. We were in one of the lesser throne rooms. Neither Queen Victoria nor Granny were there. Had something horrible happened? I took some deep breaths hoping to soothe my over-active imagination.
Lord Melbourne stepped to my side. He no longer bore the look of melancholy but rather that of man who would enjoy the slightest excuse to unsheathe his sword. “Miss Throckmorten, are you in good stead? Have you suffered any harm?” He allowed his gaze to slip to Roger.
Once I assured him I was of sound body and mind, he turned his attention to my battered friend. Having met him during our first adventure which took place in Greece, Lord Melbourne knew of Roger’s obsession with me. “Mr. Broadribbs! I am surprised to see you. I trust you gave as good as you got. That is quite a bruise you have.”
“It’s better if he doesn’t try to talk. His lip in not up to it right now.”
I then presented Bailey to His Lordship, sharing how the butler fit into exposing the possible assassination scheme. Lord Melbourne listened, took it all in, and then said, “Fear not, Mr. Bailey. Her Majesty protects her friends.”
The tension crackled in my ears. Florence must unearth the would-be killers before the Queen’s meeting with Prince Albert. Her Majesty could hardly be at her best if she knew the assassins were still on the loose. How could our country show its best face when we were on the alert for some undefined attack? I had a sense that something more had happened since I left on my mission. I looked about for Florence, and was relieved to hear her voice. She came up behind me.
Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 31
