Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

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  Blurb: The Giggling Corpse – Book 1

  Florence Nightingale is nineteen and her friend and assistant Poppy Throckmorten has just turned sixteen when they embark on their first big adventure. Lord Melbourne escorts the ladies to Athens at the request of Queen Victoria. He is to insure their safe return with an endowment from George Averoff a young, very wealthy philanthropist who resides in Greece and Egypt. Queen Victoria and Averoff have agreed that the donation will fund Florence Nightingale’s school for nurses.

  The gift is stolen and one member of the British contingent is murdered. Can Florence and Poppy find the killer and recover the endowment before it vanishes in the streets of Athens?

  Clean and wholesome!

  Blurb: The Killer Corset – Book 2

  When a Buckingham Palace lady-in-waiting is killed, Poppy Throckmorten is up to her crinolines helping her mentor, Florence Nightingale, solve the murder. But in tracking the clues, they uncover a plot to kill Queen Victoria herself! Poppy must use all the detective skills she’s learned from Florence to foil the villains before the young monarch’s first meeting with her future husband, Prince Albert.

  Clean and wholesome!

  Blurb: The Cheeky Coroner – Book 3

  There’s a new Royal Coroner at Buckingham Palace, and he foolishly fancies Florence Nightingale. As Poppy Throckmorten chronicles her mentor’s attempts to sell the rare emerald given her by Queen Victoria, another mysterious death is attributed to the jewel. Florence and Poppy must find the murderer before more victims fall prey to the glittering green stone.

  Clean and wholesome!

  “Barbara Silkstone is beyond clever. She's an engaging writer who, with great skill, manages to make her skewed world ring true. The best thing about her characters is that they are not caricatures; they are real with all their dimensions intact. The best thing about Silkstone is that she manages to exhibit equal measures of talent and imagination.”

  ~ Redsgang

  Silkstone is the author of the best selling Mister Darcy series of contemporary comedic mysteries (9 Books)

  Plus: Ten standalone Regency novels and novellas, all with a light, humorous touch. She is also the author of the Wendy Darlin Comedy Mysteries – 5 Cozy Romantic Adventures.

  Check out her Amazon Author page:

  http://bit.ly/Silkstone

  Or visit her at:

  https://secondactcafe.com/barbara-silkstone/

  Chapter 1

  Journal of Miss Poppy Throckmorten January 1840

  Granny and I were fidgety as we stood in the throne room at Buckingham Palace waiting for Queen Victoria to enter. In vain I tried to mimic Florence’s calm demeanor, but the butterflies in my tummy would not rest as the future of the Nightingale School for Nurses was at stake. Finally, this might be the big moment.

  I managed a weak smile at the sight of Athena, the owlet, peeking from Florence’s pocket. The tops of her amber eyes were just visible over the stitching. The little owl had filled out since Florence rescued her. It was becoming obvious that she would need larger pockets before spring.

  Rumor of a curse on the Averoff Emerald had to be removed, once and for all. The falsehood was obstructing the sale of the jewel, proceeds of which would fund Florence’s dream school. Tittle-tattle of the jinx, like any juicy tale, grew legs and spread to all potential buyers of the valuable gem. The fable gained traction after a series of deaths occurred, all connected to the emerald.

  We were on pins and pins, waiting for the expert recommended by Baroness Lehzen to examine the jewel and discover if it held any secrets. We hoped she would vindicate the emerald.

  Lord Melbourne stood on the dais looking both regal and weary. The poor man endured so many trials both as Prime Minister and in his personal life, the tribulations now showed on the chiseled lines that marked his brow. He had shared with me his desire to retire to Brockett Hall, his country estate and admitted that he was counting the days until Queen Victoria and Prince Albert wed. He hoped to resign once the Queen had a trustworthy man at her side.

  The marriage of Prince Albert and Queen Victoria was to take place in the Royal Chapel at St. James Palace in three weeks. Her Royal Majesty bade Florence, Granny, and me to attend, making a jolly joke of her pet name for us—the Derbyshire Damsels. To the best of my knowledge we were the only commoners invited to this historic event.

  Aside from Lord Melbourne, Moon, Dr. Sparks the new royal coroner, and that buffoon, Dr. Carbuncle, there were few familiar faces at this morning’s gathering.

  The irritating Carbuncle recently returned from Australia after a short sabbatical—more like an escape from public humiliation after his wife’s perplexing murder in Athens. I almost laughed in his face when he declared, “That country is too rough for a gentleman of my stature!”

  I peered at him from under my lashes. Was it skullduggery or a new love that put roses on the widower’s droopy cheeks and a twinkle in his rheumy eyes? My intuition told me he was up to something or at least ready to give it a try.

  Speaking of eye-twinkles, I snuck a look at Moon, the footman who held my heart. He looked striking in his Buckingham livery, so much so I could feel my butterflies swooning. Our eyes met for an instant and once again I sensed he just might be my destiny.

  I caught sight of a young man who was observing the assembly. Florence informed me that a reporter from The Times had been invited; the fellow I was eyeing had to be the journalist as he continuously scribbled in a notebook with a graphite stick. So certain was Lord Melbourne that the emerald carried no curse, he wished to publicize the inspection in the newspaper, the better to expedite the sale. He worried about the fruition of Florence’s school more than she did. He was such a kind man and deserved to take leave of the politics of England.

  “The Queen is coming!” announced a footman in a booming voice. Her Majesty had done away with the blare of trumpets finding them embarrassingly brash. She now entered the throne room with a simple call to attention.

  Queen Victoria held herself in a manner that made her tiny form appear as if it floated a few inches above the floor. This day she wore a green gown that sat low on her alabaster shoulders. Her dark hair was done up in the style of the day with a small braid swept back from each side of her face. A dainty tiara rested on top of her head. Diamond earrings caught the candlelight and seemed to make her blue eyes sparkle all the more. With a quick glance in Lord Melbourne’s direction I noted that his bearing had changed, a gentle smile now graced his face. He bowed and greeted our Monarch.

  It was at the suggestion of Dr. Sparks and through the recommendation of Baroness Lehzen, the Queen’s former governess, that Lord Melbourne had procured the services of a renowned curse authority—Madam Tchotchke. Along with her husband, she made the long journey from St. Petersburg, Russia for the sole purpose of inspecting the Averoff Emerald.

  Being as subtle as possible I considered the room, seeking a better look at the curse expert. The foreigner and her husband had been sequestered ever since arriving at the Palace early yesterday in an effort to protect her from being tampered with by Dr. Carbuncle or anyone who held a motive for wishing the tale of a nasty spell to be true.

  Although Florence, Granny, and I arrived at Buckingham the day before, I soon noticed that Dr. Sparks, though new in his position as royal coroner had a knack for insinuating himself into things that did not concern him. Some people did possess that way about them, sticking their noses into the Queen’s business hoping to curry her favor.

  It had only been a few weeks since he replaced Dr. Fowler and yet Dr. Sparks had become a regular at court. I supposed it was his cheeky manner that secretly pleased the Queen. Although his pointed humor was never directed toward Her Majesty, he did enjoy a sharp wit. His teasing found an unlikely target in Florence.
His foolish attempts to make my friend smile only caused her to avoid him. She would not allow anyone to take her lightly.

  Once Queen Victoria was seated on her throne, Lord Melbourne stepped down in front of her. “Your Majesty, I would like to present Madame Tchotchke. I have reviewed her credentials as supplied by Baroness Lehzen, and confirmed she is the expert we have been seeking. She also presents herself as a psychic and wishes me to inform you that she would be honored to perform a reading for Your Majesty. The gentleman at her side is her husband, Mr. Ivan Tchotchke.” He gestured toward the couple as they curtsied and bowed.

  Lord Melbourne extended his hand in the direction of the Madame. The woman walked from the assemblage into the aisle, performed a second curtsy and moved toward Lord Melbourne. Before she could reach him, Dr. Carbuncle popped in, leaned near the Madame, and whispered in her ear. The guards made a move toward him and he folded back into the crowd.

  Madame Tchotchke’s long flowing skirt danced around her ankles, the bold colors of the fabric matching the beads of the many necklaces draped over her bodice. A white peasant blouse with a lowcut neckline, revealed her long neck, bare back, and tanned shoulders. She was a peasant, perhaps a gypsy, but she carried herself like royalty.

  “We are pleased to have your advice in this matter,” the Queen said. “We may need a written statement as to your findings to present to Parliament. Also know that you may be required to speak before that august body since the person who condemned the Averoff Emerald has already confessed his sin before them. Your statement will further cleanse the reputation of the gem.” She did not honor Dr. Carbuncle with even a glance; instead she nodded to the four Dragoons who stood nearby.

  The guards approached, one carrying a velvet pillow on which rested an ornate metal box. He removed the lid and presented it to the Queen; she directed him to show it to Madame Tchotchke.

  The gypsy lady moved her hand slowly over the top of the box cautiously as if fearing danger. Then she smiled and took up the emerald; it was as big as her palm. Not only did she hold the jewel in her power but also, she had a firm grip on her audience. She bobbed her hand in a weighing motion and then held the stone to her right eye peering through it. She maintained that position for what seemed like ages while mumbling something in a foreign language.

  Chapter 2

  Queen Victoria leaned forward perched on her throne, rapt with attention. I was a bit frustrated with my view as the bulky guards had the gypsy woman surrounded. Snaking my way around Florence I moved to a better vantage point.

  Madame Tchotchke placed the emerald to her ear as one would a seashell. What was the emerald saying to her? I wondered if all gifts from nature could speak to us. She listened for the longest time, and then nodded. As if responding to a request she slipped the stone into the bodice of her dress. From where I stood she appeared to drop it between her breasts.

  A gasp of surprise rose from the assembly. The guards each wore a confused look. I imagined not one of them dared grab for the jewel. Lord Melbourne lunged from his post and moved toward the gypsy. “I must feel it next to my heart to be certain it speaks the truth!” she said.

  Madame Tchotchke pressed her hand to her chest and spoke in a husky tone unlike her prior words, “There have been murders attached to the possession of this emerald. Long before it arrived in England, long before its journey—” here she hesitated— “on the Nile River.” She cast Florence a glazed look. “This stone was meant to give you the ability to heal; not power, but a sanctuary where lives may be saved.” Madame Tchotchke slowly reached into her bodice and removed the jewel.

  With a superior smile, she turned and extended the exotic gem to the Queen. “This jewel holds no curse. It has directed me to tell you that it is the victim of a rumor most foul. Your Majesty is aware of the perpetrator and his motives.”

  The reporter scribbled madly. This news would make for an engrossing story in the evening edition of The Times. I struggled to commit the entire goings on to memory for it would make an excellent addition to my journal of Florence’s cases.

  The Queen did not accept the emerald, but rather indicated with a nod of her head that it was to be replaced in the box. I moved closer to get a better glimpse of the gem as the last time I had seen it we were in Athens. Yes, the huge emerald still captured the light in a magical way. A small sigh escaped my lips. Perhaps after the Madam’s blessing we would finally see the establishment of the Nightingale School for Lady Nurses.

  Ivan Tchotchke moved to his wife’s side. He said nothing as he kept his dark eyes fixed on Queen Victoria, all the while licking his lips. His wife had earned her fee and he all but placed his hand out to collect it. Whatever the woman charged, it would be worth it for the relief that swept the room was tangible. The verdict had been passed, and no one had fallen over dead. The scandal begun by Dr. Carbuncle would now be put to rest.

  The rumormonger stood statue-like, humiliated once more. His desperate need to discredit the emerald caused him to wallow in disgrace. I wondered why he did not slip quietly from the assembly since his presence was neither wanted nor required.

  “Madame Tchotchke, you may leave us now. Lord Melbourne will arrange for your payment. In the meantime, Braxton shall see to your comfort. You and Mr. Tchotchke are welcome to stay on for a few days before returning to St. Petersburg.” The Queen motioned for the steward to collect the curse-reader and her husband. The couple curtseyed and bowed, walking backward from the room for one never turns one’s back on the Queen.

  The Times reporter cornered the Tchotchkes before they could exit the room. He blocked their path, and began questioning them. Moving closer, I overheard him introduce himself as Mr. Darrow. His behavior was rude as he was still in the Queen’s presence, but perhaps he was worried the curse-reader might escape him once out in the vast halls.

  I noted Mr. Darrow’s technique since I hoped to become a journalist and his tricks of the trade might come in handy. Watching a professional perform gave me a sense of things to come. For the time being I had to settle for chronicling Florence’s investigations with the hopes of someday writing a book of her early adventures—when she became famous, as I was certain she would.

  “My wife, she is clairvoyant. She can tell the future,” Ivan boasted to the reporter. Darrow scribbled at a furious pace. I vowed to learn how to speed-scribble since it seemed to be a useful talent.

  Dr. Sparks wedged himself between the reporter and the Tchotchkes. The coroner was a man in his early thirties, fine looking, well dressed, with an odd, playful way about him. “See here, Mr. Darrow! The Tchotchkes have come a long way and will be staying at the Palace for a bit. Why not let them rest? Can’t you see Madame has exhausted herself with her reading of the emerald?” He placed his hand on the gypsy woman scooping her away from the pushy reporter. “You will have time enough to interview them. Perhaps when they collect their fee?”

  Appearing dejected but knowing when he had been bested, Mr. Darrow asked to be permitted to return the following day. “That will be the Queen’s decision,” Dr. Sparks said.

  With a stumble, Mr. Tchotchke tripped over his wife, sending her sprawling. She fell headlong, her beads hitting the marble floor with a series of clatters. Dr. Sparks dropped to his knees to assist the woman. Florence bolted ahead of Granny and me, and knelt at the Madame’s side, opposite Dr. Sparks. “I’ve got her!” the doctor said, motioning my friend to move aside. The man certainly did enjoy being the center of attention.

  Florence persisted, despite the doctor flicking away her hands. She felt the woman’s neck and then leaned down and put her ear to Madame Tchotchke’s back. When she raised her head, my friend was as pale as milk. “The lady is dead.”

  A collective gasp ran thorough the crowd. Her husband yelped and then threw himself on his wife, tugging at her chin, pulling at her shoulder in an effort to turn her over. “Ninotchka! Love of my life! Wake up! They will not pay us if you are dead!”

  But Madame Tchotchke rema
ined most sincerely dead.

  Chapter 3

  I stood frozen in dread, watching Florence examine the woman—now a body. Did the gypsy possess a weak heart? Was the journey too extreme for her?

  Lord Melbourne came to my side. “Miss Nightingale, the Queen wishes to learn what transpired. Is Madame Tchotchke truly dead?”

  Rising, Florence set her eyes on the Prime Minister. “Yes. The lady is lost. I propose the Queen immediately adjourn to her apartments for her safety and comfort.”

  Dr. Sparks inserted himself between Florence and Lord Melbourne. “I will receive the poor woman in my surgery to examine her further; however, I am certain she died of a deficiency of her heart. But let me confirm that by a careful examination.” He gestured to two of the guards who undertook to lift the remains of the foremost curse discerner in Europe.

  Florence turned to me. “Poppy, please accompany the Queen and remain with her until I return; that is if Her Majesty permits it. And take Mrs. Throckmorten with you.”

  Mr. Tchotchke fought the guards as they sought to restrain him. “I will be with my wife!” he declared.

  Dr. Sparks shook his head. “That is not advisable.”

  Florence took his meaning and placed her arm around the distraught husband. “I am sorry. Although I did not know your wife, she looked to be a lady who dealt in the truth of matters. I suspect she would wish you to know the cause of her sudden departure. Please let us tend to her while Braxton escorts you to your apartment.” She surrendered her grip on the man, pushing him to the Palace steward. “I promise to take proper care of Madame Tchotchke and will come to you when I determine what took her from you.”