“Poor Mr. Tchotchke,” Granny wedged herself between Lord Melbourne and me. “Do you think his wife cracked her head on the floor? He is going to feel awful if his misstep was what killed her,” she confided. Granny was never one to mince words.
“Florence will see to this. In the interim, let us ask if the Queen wishes us to attend her,” I responded, struggling to shake the sense of finality—one minute a person is standing before you speaking and the next minute their soul is winging upward.
“Of course Queen Victoria wants us!” Granny chirped. She swung on her heels and bumped her path through the assemblage looking like a determined dandelion puff.
I could hear the sounds of Mr. Tchotchke’s anguished cries as the curse-reader’s body was carried away. “You will not touch my wife! I forbid it!” He hollered. “Let me come with her!”
“Stay here!” Florence snapped, her words like the crack of a whip. I heard no more from Mr. Tchotchke as Moon and four Dragoons escorted the Queen’s small entourage to her private sitting room.
Once in Her Majesty’s apartments, she beckoned Moon to come in but ordered the soldiers to stand outside and secure the door. My favorite footman seemed to have ingratiated himself into the Queen’s company since the matter involving the poisoned corset. His rise in importance pleased me indeed.
Baroness Lehzen, Lady Jane, Granny and I remained with Queen Victoria, who was justifiably unnerved by the death of Madame Tchotchke. Her Majesty held her small spaniel, Dash, in her lap, stroking his head. “I am beginning to believe that there is a curse on the Averoff Emerald,” she said, neglecting the royal We as she did when we gathered informally.
Another murder in Buckingham Palace could be perceived as a misguided threat against the Queen. I reached in my pocket reassuring myself that my India rubber ball was at the ready. I had become quite accurate with the little missile.
The door opened, and we all turned as one. Smiling at the sound of our collective sigh I watched Lord Melbourne stride into the room. His presence seemed to anchor us in the reality of the situation.
“Your Majesty, I have sent four Dragoons to accompany Miss Nightingale, Dr. Sparks, and the unfortunate Madame Tchotchke to the doctor’s morgue. All we can do is wait for the results of their examination. I would hazard a guess that the woman had a disorder that was provoked by the long journey from Russia.” He steepled his fingers just below his chin and spoke reassuringly, “Let us put aside what we are all thinking—that the Averoff Emerald is cursed. Such things are fairy stories.”
“I trust the jewel is on its way back to the Tower,” the Queen said. She resembled a startled fawn. Once again death had come to Buckingham Palace. I could return home to Derbyshire, but Victoria must remain always perched on a blade of fear.
Lord Melbourne nodded. “It is. We can only hope that Madame Tchotchke’s pronouncement carries some weight, although it will be even more difficult to encourage a buyer once word gets out of her demise immediately after declaring the stone taint-free.”
“It does seem the death tally surrounding the jewel is a bit more than the average for a curse-bearing gem,” I said, thinking back to my recent readings on hexed jewels. Once Florence accepted the stone from Mr. Averoff and people close to Queen Victoria began dropping like autumn leaves, I did a bit of research. “I believe the Red Ruby of the Rubicon took more lives, but times were different then.”
I smacked my forehead. “Oh my goodness! That reporter will make headlines of it in The Times. How will we ever fund the school?” I slumped back in my seat, the arms of the chair forcing my stiff crinolines forward in perfect imitation of the bow of a ship. I shot a glance at Lord Melbourne and then the Queen; both allowed a quick little smile at my oft-repeated faux pas before resuming their serious expressions.
“A part of me wishes Albert was here for he can be so logical,” the Queen said, then caught herself. “Not that you are anything but rational, Lord M. It is merely that he has no association with the stone and so…” she kissed Dash on the head and did not finish her thought. She was gradually weaning herself from her dependence on Lord Melbourne and coming into her own. The fact that she would soon marry a man she loved and respected had affected a change in the lady—she was growing into the crown that occasionally still quavered on her small head.
Baroness Lehzen had been strangely silent, but now she spoke. “As I did attest to Your Majesty and Lord Melbourne, Madame Tchotchke came with the highest recommendations. I would have chosen someone from my homeland, but she is… was… a legend even in Germany.” She fretted with her handkerchief; her countenance a knot of concern. “The gypsy woman did look rather pale, although I only just met her. Perhaps she does… did… suffer from some malady.”
The gloominess in the room seemed to deepen. There was only one thing left to do, but before I could manage to cobble together the words Granny spoke. “We shan’t know until Florence returns,” she grinned as the words fell from her pink lips, “so let us talk about something cheerful—the wedding!”
At first Victoria looked perplexed but then she smiled the sweetest smile. “Mrs. Throckmorten, you are blessed with a gift for lightening the darkest of days. Thank you for diverting our minds. I will share with you what I can. What would you like to know?”
Granny jumped out of her chair, catching her spectacles as they slid off her tiny nose. “The most important thing is what are you wearing and what should I wear? I packed a new pair of lace gloves that will match any of the dresses I brought with me from Derbyshire.”
Lord Melbourne smothered a guffaw. There were times when I couldn’t wait to reach my grandmother’s age for she was allowed to say the most inappropriate things without fear of judgment or condemnation. Age did have its merits.
The Queen looked fondly upon my grandmother. “You do love your gloves. I imagine any color you choose will flatter both your gloves and the occasion. My dress is white; I will forgo a veil or tiara and instead wear a wreath of flowers. I know it is unusual but I feel that white is the perfect color for a bride.” Her royal countenance took on an impish grin to match Granny’s. “You must not tell Prince Albert for I wish him to be surprised.”
“Tell him? I have not yet met your Prince!” Granny yelped.
“Your Majesty, we are honored to be invited to your wedding,” I interrupted before Granny went too far. “I speak for Florence and my grandmother when I say that we wish you and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha all the happiness in the world.” I had practiced my little speech hoping for the opportunity to talk directly to the Queen. Little did I imagine the opening would occur while my friend and mentor was examining yet another Palace corpse.
Granny was about to ask another question when Florence entered the room. The expression on her face was pure, unsullied anger.
Chapter 4
“Dr. Sparks seems to enjoy teasing you. It could be his remarks were not meant to pique you at all.” Lord Melbourne sought to console the notorious Nightingale ego, which had been stepped on. “He may have meant to merely relax you in a stressful setting. The duties of a coroner cannot be pleasant. You must make accommodations for his expertise and the fact you found yourself in a mortuary.”
“Tread carefully, Lord M,” Queen Victoria said. “Miss Nightingale may misunderstand your words and presume you do not take her seriously. Do you not recall she has witnessed and critiqued Dr. Fowler’s autopsies?” A faint smile played across her face. “She is no novice to the world of the recently departed.”
Florence joined us in the private parlor but she had yet to sit down. She held Athena in one hand, caressing her head with the other as she tried to bridle her anger. “Dr. Sparks examined Madame Tchotchke armed with his foregone conclusion she suffered from a deficiency of the heart. He ignored the signs I called to his consideration. So fixed was he to declare her a victim of a failed heart, he declined to consider all her symptoms.”
“You think she did not die from heart trouble?” Lord Melbo
urne asked, subdued by the Queen’s reprimand.
“I am fairly certain she did not. Dr. Sparks ushered me from the morgue paying no mind to the clues that were perfectly straightforward to me. The overbearing, arrogant fool stated that I was a mere girl, had no medical training and…” Florence stopped repeating the coroner’s insults for they would only diminish her capabilities in the view of the Queen.
“There are times when I think I perceive nothing of men and other times when I have an inkling of what is in their hearts,” Queen Victoria said. “I have noticed how Dr. Sparks looks at you. Perhaps he cannot bear your corrections because of his feelings for you. The man may be cheeky but he is smitten, Miss Nightingale.”
I gulped so loudly that everyone turned to look at me. The last thing my friend wished for was a romantic entanglement. She had turned down several eligible gentlemen in pursuit of her dream to create a school in which learned doctors would teach women nursing. The thought about a man muddying up her plans tied her in knots of frustration.
Florence slipped Athena into her pocket and then placed her hands on her hips. “If Dr. Sparks is smitten, he had best get un-smitten, fast! He must be brought to respect my knowledge for although I have not attended the fine medical institutions he has, I have learned much in my almost twenty years on earth!” She took a seat having vented her anger.
Dr. Sparks recently replaced Dr. Fowler who had become quite dotty from tippling embalming fluid. If the new coroner held any romantic inclinations for Florence, he had not a cat’s whisker of a chance for she was devoted to her vocation. He should know enough to respect her abilities for she would make every effort to outshine him. My friend was competitive to a fault.
I thought of the loving manner in which Queen Victoria spoke of Albert, certain Florence would never speak so impractically of any man. The words Victoria used, I might use to describe Moon—if we were engaged—which could never happen.
As if suddenly recalling something, Florence jumped to her feet. “I promised Mr. Tchotchke I would attend him after we had examined his wife. Poppy, would you join me, and observe his reactions to my news?”
Lord Melbourne rose from his chair. “I should be with you; it is the proper thing for me to represent the Crown at such a time.” He motioned to Moon to join us as we backed out of the Queen’s presence and into the long corridor that would take us to the Tchotchkes’ room.
We found the recent widower sprawled in a chair, well into his cups. He had requested and been given a decanter of red wine of which there was but a smidgen in the bottom; we were soon to learn it was his second carafe. Mr. Tchotchke glared at Florence as if she was responsible for his wife’s death. “Tell me! What in this fine palace killed my Ninotchka?” He slurred his words as he worked to stand, only to fall back on his bottom.
Wrapping her skirts and sliding into an armchair near the man, Florence assumed the role of comforter. I was certain she would not bring up her difference of opinion on the diagnosis, for to do so might open a large can of ugly worms. I recalled all she had taught me about interviewing a suspect—I had no doubt the husband was at the top of my friend’s list of possible killers. Listen more, speak less, was Florence’s rule. Now I watched as she showed me how it was done.
There was honest sympathy on her face as she spoke. “I am sorry to tell you that Madame Tchotchke may have died from heart failure.” Florence bit down on the words, painful as they were for her to utter since she did not agree. “Dr. Sparks believes that she had been suffering with a weak heart for a long time.”
The Russian squinted his eyes as if having difficulty in seeing Florence. “So you are saying she was sick before we caravanned to this fancy, schmancy castle?” He harrumphed and then progressed to his true concern. “Any illness my wife may have had does not make her words about the emerald less true.” He glanced up at Lord Melbourne, then shifted his eyes to me and finally they alighted on Moon. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts.
Tchotchke turned back to Florence. “We still get paid for my wife’s work and something more to bury her? It is only right!”
Marked by how deeply unaffected he was at the loss of his wife, I turned away in disgust. Moon shot me a grimace as I stepped behind Lord Melbourne. I did not wish to hear this man expose his selfish heart.
“You will be paid Madame Tchotchke’s fees and more. I will speak with the Queen. We will release your wife to you for transport back to Russia. You might wish to think of burying her here in England; but we shall discuss that tomorrow.”
I must confess Mr. Tchotchke’s cold heartedness made my flesh creep. I slipped outside to wait for Florence since being in the same room with the mercenary Russian was more than I was capable of tolerating. A moment later I heard the door creak open and Moon stepped to my side.
“That man is a toad. I could not bear being in his presence,” I said.
“No lady should have to endure a husband like him. I overheard Miss Nightingale tell the Queen that she differs strongly from Dr. Sparks’ conclusion on the cause of Madame Tchotchke’s death. Perhaps we can help her get to the truth?” Moon seemed all business now. There was no flirting in his manner—for which I was thankful. This was not the time to get cutesy.
An idea popped into my head. “The coroner should be reporting his findings to the Queen. If while he is in Her Majesty’s presence, the door to his surgery was left open, Florence might be able to complete her investigation of the body.”
Moon’s face lit. “I will make certain to wedge a paper in the lock just as the doctor is called away.”
When Lord Melbourne and Florence joined us in the corridor, we hatched a plan. His Lordship would advise the Queen to summon Dr. Sparks for the presentation of his findings, while Florence, Moon, and I snuck into the morgue.
Chapter 5
This was my first sojourn into the bowels of the Palace since I had avoided accompanying Florence in the past. The site was more appalling than I had imagined. The cool damp air embraced me while my ankles wobbled over the slimy cobblestone floor. I don’t always believe in ghosts but this was one of those occasions when I was sure the shades of the dead lurked in the shadows ready to pounce.
Carrying a candle Florence led us into the coroner’s chambers acting as if we were attending tea at a friend’s home—on a particularly dark day. My mentor found delight in the strangest of places. Thankfully, I did not require a torch as Moon walked by my side bearing a tall taper. My sole intention was to have this over with as promptly as possible. The Queen and Lord Melbourne agreed to retain Dr. Sparks until they saw us return—if we returned.
A rat scurried out, took a glimpse at Florence’s bold expression and dropped back into its hole. The stink in the chamber was one I would never forget. The overriding scent was recognizable from my days assisting my friend as she went about her healing—it was sweet vitriol—ether. I inhaled a quick, deep breath that led to a wave of vertigo. Reaching out I grabbed Moon’s arm sending the candle wobbling, and the hot wax dripping onto his fist.
He faltered but blessedly did not give up the flame to the chemical laden floor. He studied me with concern. “Would you prefer to stay in the corridor?” One look at my face and he divined the answer. Stand outside the door, alone? Not me!
Florence negotiated her path around the musty counters and cluttered cabinets, acquainted with the area from previous visits. I concentrated on the back of her head, watching her dark bun of hair float like a raven on a mission. Raven? I thought to inquire after Athena. I imagined the bird swooning in Florence’s pocket.
In a whisper, I called out, “How is Athena coping? With the smells?”
Without turning back, Florence said, “I left her in your Granny’s care since the stench of the chemicals upsets her.” I hadn’t noticed my friend giving my grandmother the bird, but then they had become proficient at the subtle passing of the owlet. Granny had turned into the official owl sitter.
We reached a table in the center of the room.
The body rested under an enormous black cloth. What a lonely way for Madame Tchotchke to spend her first night as a dead person. A flutter of sorrow passed over me. If she were truly a psychic, she would have known this end was coming and perhaps refused the Queen’s invitation. I contemplated her husband’s greed and visualized him nudging her to take on the commission—to carry out the journey from St. Petersburg to London.
I felt weak at the knees. Having seen corpses before—one could not assist Florence and not see dead people—I still felt smothered by the setting. Wobbling, I allowed Moon to seat me on a rickety old stool some distance from Madame Tchotchke. Adjusting my bottom on the bench a shudder suddenly racked my body at the thought of the many coroners in bloody surgical garb who had sat on this very chair over the centuries.
Florence stood over the body, holding her candle in one hand and the edge of the dark cloth in the other. Slowly she uncovered the corpse. Madame Tchotchke lay fully clothed except for her beaded necklaces. Motioning Moon to step closer in order to cast his light on the corpse, Florence placed her candle on the table beside her. She proceeded to examine the body as the tapers cast weird shadows on the rough stone walls. I regarded Moon who locked eyes with me, together we gazed at each other unable to contribute anything to the examination.
I heard a thud and peeked at the table. Florence had turned the body on its side. I was certain I was going to be sick. If my friend thought I would ever accomplish such a thing as body flipping, she was mentoring the wrong girl. I might be strong in some ways, but corpse probing was not one of them.
When I cut my eyes back to Moon, he was staring at the ceiling. I looked down while panting to prevent myself from passing out. The room was silent except for Florence’s occasional clucking. I guessed she had found the clues Dr. Sparks had ignored.
Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 35
