Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set
Page 36
“Hold the light closer,” she snapped at Moon. “Poppy, come here. I want you to witness this!”
My stomach flip-flopped but I did as she requested. Hesitantly approaching the table I convinced myself that this could make an engrossing addition to the chronicles of Florence’s adventures.
Moon held the candle over Madame Tchotchke’s shoulder, while Florence braced the corpse. I inched closer, certain more than ever that medicine was not my calling.
“What color is Madame Tchotchke’s shoulder and upper torso?” I peeked with one eye and then both. The air rushed out of me is one long gasp. “She is green. Her back and her shoulder are as green as an unripe apple.”
“Thank you, Poppy. You may be seated before you faint.” Shaking my head I stood next to Moon. Florence released her grip on the body and it dropped back on the table with an awful bump. Knowing my friend’s feelings about germs I waited to see if she would at the very least wash her hands. As if reading my mind, she said, “There is no time to clean my hands. We must leave everything as we found it.”
Covering Madame Tchotchke, she scooted us out of the room, removing and pocketing the small piece of paper Moon had slipped into the lock. We hurried up the passageway and into the outer corridors, Florence and Moon handing their candles to the first sentry we met.
Quietly slipping into the Queen’s sitting room, we stood near the door pretending to follow the tale Dr. Sparks was recounting. With luck he had not missed us, but he had missed something important although I wasn’t sure what. What did the green tinge on Madame Tchotchke’s body indicate? He would surely be humiliated to have missed this … this … greenness. Would he be upset with Florence for calling attention to his negligence?
Chapter 6
We must have been gone longer than I realized as Granny rolled her eyes at me. She remained settled on a loveseat with a tiny lump covered in cloth resting on her lap. Upon closer inspection I saw Athena’s little head peeking out between the folds of the fabric.
The Queen had managed to draw Dr. Sparks into sharing some of the things that gave him pleasure. I could almost read Florence’s mind. There is nothing a man likes to talk about more than himself. As he continued to share his interests, it became clear Dr. Sparks was a man of many hobbies. The most fascinating to me was that of hot air ballooning.
I was immediately caught up in his romantic descriptions of lifting off in the early morning, rising with the sun. “I have traveled most of Europe with my balloon, always drawing a crowd of amazed onlookers. The wicker basket holds four people and is quite comfortable,” he said.
“The balloon and basket were made in Prague, specifically to my design.” He smiled at Florence. “I imagine you would so enjoy a flight over the countryside, Miss Nightingale. We inflate the balloon with hot air until it lifts slowly as if a giant is cradling us in his arms. When we catch a good breeze, we leave the troubles of the world behind and drift off into the blue. It is one of the most pleasurable things I have experienced.”
As he waved his hand in a skyward motion, he locked eyes again with Florence. Sparks had the demeanor of an infatuated puppy. Surely Florence could throw him a bone, and be nice to him, now and then? A rush of guilt hit me, for only minutes earlier our little party had broken his trust and invaded his private domain; and yet this poor man was trying so hard to curry my friend’s favor.
“We have seen drawings of the balloons rising at Vauxhall Gardens. It must be thrilling to witness such an event,” Queen Victoria said. “In our private library we own a book about Letitia Ann Sage. The reading of it gives us gratification for it is an escape from every day life,” I noted the Queen spoke using the royal We, allowing for the coroner’s presence.
Sparks nodded. “Ah yes, she was the first lady to enjoy the pleasures of a hot air balloon flight. Miss Sage was fortunate to experience what few people, let alone ladies have felt. There is a special quietude as the balloon kisses the clouds; it is both poignant and heavenly.” The doctor knew he held us rapt with his description.
“We often wish for the freedom to enjoy a little adventure,” Victoria said. “Tell us more Dr. Sparks. We have also heard of balloon ascensions occurring at the Liverpool Festival.” The Queen’s eyes seemed illuminated from within. A person entering the room for the first time would not have imagined a death had occurred there earlier that very day.
“The balloon rising and the ground dropping away is a sensation like no other; mere words cannot describe it. I often wonder if it is how God must feel as he looks down on us mortals. I do not mean that to be sacrilegious.” He locked eyes with the Queen. “Perhaps someday Your Majesty will allow me to take you flying in my balloon?”
“So you do have your very own balloon?” Queen Victoria said. She appeared almost giddy with curiosity.
“May I interject, Your Majesty?” Lord Melbourne proceeded to plow ahead without waiting for permission. “Her Majesty must keep in mind her subjects before she takes risks such as ascending from a bag of hot air. What would England do if you should fall from the sky?”
“It is just a curiosity on my part, Lord M. But let us say nothing of this conversation to Prince Albert.” She ran her eyes over the group. “He would only worry.”
That familiar look passed between Lord Melbourne and the Queen. It was time to speak in private. Victoria addressed the coroner, “Dr. Sparks, you may leave us now. Please do nothing with Madame Tchotchke’s body until her husband has come to a decision.”
The coroner backed out of the room, managing to sneak a wink at Florence. He was a cheeky fellow indeed! And not too bright if he presumed to win her affections at all, let alone with such ungentlemanly tricks.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than the Queen pinned Florence with her huge blue eyes. “Miss Nightingale, did we provide you with sufficient time to inspect Madame Tchotchke’s body? Did you find anything that would disallow Dr. Sparks’ conclusion that the woman died from failure of her heart? The man seems so knowledgeable on so many subjects, I doubt he might be wrong in his diagnosis.”
I could read my friend like one of her suffragette pamphlets. She was not pleased when a pseudo scholar—especially one who flirted with her, challenged her conclusions. It was fascinating to watch her jaw clench causing her to appear as if she were a bulldog in a foul mood.
Chapter 7
Florence tightened her expression momentarily. “If Your Majesty would please be patient, I will detail what Madame Tchotchke’s corpse revealed, but not just yet. I wish to be unbiased in my conclusions.”
The Queen seemed to bristle at being denied full access to Florence’s findings. “We do not like being kept in the dark; if you harbor a theory, please share it. Remember, Miss Nightingale that you are uncertified in such things. Unless you are sure of your findings, the coroner’s report will be held as the truth and yours merely discarded as feminine intuition. Surely you don’t wish that to happen.”
Now it was Florence’s turn to have her feathers ruffled. She reminded me of Athena on the occasions when the owlet felt the need to bluff by fluffing its plumage to increase her size. My friend drew herself up to her full height, plus more. I blinked my eyes to be certain I was seeing correctly and then swallowed a smile. It wasn’t often that someone upset Florence, but the Queen managed to do just that.
It was a relief when Lord Melbourne intervened. “Your Majesty, I believe Miss Nightingale may form the opinion you do not take her seriously.” He turned to Florence, giving her a kindly look. “We do think highly of your abilities to solve mysteries that confound others. Is there anything you can share with us at this time?”
Florence caught Moon and me exchanging puzzled looks. The frown she sent my way could have chilled boiling water. I felt my face redden and lifted my chin as if to claim my innocence. I was not mocking her—not now, not ever. If she chose not to mention the greenness of the dead woman, then who was I to question her? She would reveal her reasons in jolly good time.
The Queen graced Florence with a nod of acceptance. It placated her for the time being. A death so near her wedding date must surely have left her nerves raw.
“Let us reconstruct the events that led to Madame Tchotchke’s collapse,” Florence said gathering her composure. “Who was standing closest to the woman, besides Dr. Sparks and myself?” Florence let her eyes dart from one of us to the other.
Lord Melbourne spoke first. “Wasn’t Carbuncle nearby?”
“It appeared he whispered in her ear,” I said, watching Florence for a reaction. “You don’t think he would be foolish enough…” I did not finish the sentence because reminding everyone of Dr. Carbuncle’s behavior would be disquieting.
“Your Majesty?” Florence asked. “Did you observe anything?”
“I could not see over the crowd despite being on my throne. The guards surrounded her,” said the Queen with a touch of frustration in her voice.
“It was that fool of a husband of hers,” Granny said. “He threw himself on her and made her fall. She must have cracked her head like an egg on the hard floor.”
“No, Mrs. Throckmorten, Madame Tchotchke did not injure her head. She fell with her hand under her chest, thereby protecting her head from the initial impact,” Florence said.
“I am reluctant to admit this as we did have a problem with a rogue reporter in Athens, but Mr. Darrow was closest to the Tchotchkes,” I said. “He was nose to nose with the Madame.”
Florence responded to my suggestion with an affirmation, then a cloak of silence seemed to fall over the room. No one spoke for the longest time. I lost myself in reconstructing the scene of Mrs. Tchotchke’s demise. Who had done what? I had been so caught up in watching the techniques of the professional journalist I had forgotten to be observant of the entire setting. Would I ever learn to be as alert as Florence Nightingale or was I doomed to perform as a child in a fairy tale—naïve and clueless?
No new evidence came to light that day. We adjourned, agreeing that the Queen’s guard must be doubled for the evening.
I endured an uneasy night fighting off greenish monsters that came at me with arms extended. At one point somewhere near dawn Granny found me staring out the window of our chambers. My somnambulism had returned.
Chapter 8
Prior to the burial of Madame Tchotchke, Florence found a means to investigate the corpse a third time. She spent an entire morning with the body while Dr. Sparks took yet another day of relaxation to further demonstrate his ballooning skills to Moon. The two men appeared to have developed a bond—not as colleagues but as master and trusted servant.
While Florence was involved in the morgue, Granny and I welcomed the Queen’s offer to spend time in her private apartments. Victoria had grown edgier as the wedding date drew closer and Albert had not yet returned from his homeland of Coburg where he was settling his affairs. He wrote her daily and frequently twice a day. Each letter put her mind at ease only to give rise to another feeling that something might happen to him. She continued to allow her power-hungry uncle, Lord Cumberland to nip at her nerves, even worrying he might cause Albert harm.
The Coburg Prince’s letters so delighted Victoria, she purred like a kitten. His initial letter was her favorite, perhaps because it was much more loving than she dared hope. She repeatedly shared a line or two with us while pledging us to secrecy. The Queen read in a soft voice:
Dearest Victoria,
According to your wish, and by the urging of my affection to talk to you and open my heart to you, I send these lines. I need not tell you since we left all my thoughts have been with you—and that your image fills my whole soul. Even in my dreams I had not imagined I would find so much love on earth.
His love sonnets arrived once and sometimes twice a day. I felt myself melt as I listened to her recite and imagined Moon writing such caring words to me. It gave the Queen pleasure to share these lines with us and anything that put her mind at ease was a blessing.
Ivan Tchotchke demanded his wife be buried in a new private cemetery called Highgate. The picturesque graveyard was located a short carriage ride to the north of London and was thought of as an elite final resting place.
The Derbyshire Damsels attended the small burial service on a dreary winter day made worse by the histrionics of the lady’s mercenary husband. Ivan Tchotchke unnerved me, perhaps because I saw his true nature. He erred enough times to make it clear he cared little for his wife. I imagined he might find a way to make a profit from boasting his wife was interred in London’s finest graveyard.
Lord Melbourne had not attended the funeral as it was beneath his station and would have lent prominence to the gypsy woman’s status. The Prime Minister does not attend funerals willy-nilly. His presence would have been a comfort to me but I doubt Mrs. Tchotchke missed him.
My friend, now in full detective mode, watched the ever-changing expressions on the widower’s face as they lowered the simple coffin into the ground. Mr. Tchotchke was a wellspring of guilty looks, so much so I doubted he had killed his wife. He looked way too guilty. If he wanted to do away with her why not wait until they were back in Russia? I caught myself shaking my head mentally absolving him of her murder.
A gray mist lay over the cold graveyard as we began to make our way back to the road where one of the Palace carriages waited. Granny clung to my arm while we stepped over the uneven frosty terrain. We passed an elaborate headstone with a weeping angel, one with a lady who seemed to be tending to her dying husband, and one with a huge granite dog sitting atop an engraved slab. Granny began to grumble. “These gravestones are too showy. No one in Derbyshire would ever put on such a pitiful display. What is this world coming to?” We both shivered as we followed Florence to the coach.
Just before she stepped into the coach, my grandmother turned to me with mischief in her faded blue eyes. “I wouldn’t mind having a marker with a likeness of Lord Melbourne.”
She caught me unaware, and I gasped.
“It’s just something to think about,” she said. “I don’t plan on leaving any time soon.” With a giggle and wiggle she took her seat.
We returned from the cemetery chilled and in a somber mood. Mr. Tchotchke, who traveled in a separate carriage, immediately set about pestering poor Braxton to arrange an appointment with Lord Melbourne. The Russian wished to be paid the fee due his wife and some recompense for his suffering. “Suffering?” I mumbled. “That theatrical little toad hasn’t bent an eyelash over the loss of the woman.”
“He must not be allowed to leave England until I determine who the killer is. The husband remains at the top of my list. Spouses are always the first suspects,” Florence said as we stood near the fireplace in our chamber, each of us warming our cold hands and frozen noses.
“Please tell us what you have deduced thus far,” I begged. Granny wore her most pathetic expression but Florence would not be moved. “Not until I am certain. A wrong guess may affect my thinking. I don’t wish to unconsciously bend what I learn to fit a foregone conclusion. That is a beastly habit left best to Dr. Sparks.”
Chapter 9
Braxton informed us that Lord Melbourne had been called to the Houses of Parliament for an emergency meeting and would not be available.
I looked forward to telling him about Highgate and the sculptures I had seen there. But he was not expected to return until late. His Lordship had become both a father figure and a solid pillar I could rely on when feeling befuddled by the rigors of court life.
Braxton conveyed the Queen’s apologies. Her Majesty was nursing a pain in her head and wished to rest in dark and silence. There must be times when her responsibilities overwhelm
ed her.
As our presence was not required, Florence gathered up a stack of medical books that had been delivered to our chamber. She removed herself to one of the smaller parlors near our apartment in order to scrutinize them undisturbed. That left Granny and me on our own, but we had different needs. Granny required a catnap while I felt restless; my mind racing like dogs on a hunt.
I would have loved to solve the mystery of Madame Tchotchke’s death but being only an apprentice and not a good one at that, it was pointless to let my brain hounds run unleashed. If I possessed a grain of discipline I would have tended to my journal, updating my entries and reviewing what I might have missed. But discipline was not my strongest asset, I was sometimes certain I lacked any at all.
Knowing neither of my companions would miss me; I slipped from our chamber deciding a turn around the Palace grounds would do me good. Strolling near the front drive, breathing deeply of the fresh autumn air and watching the leaves flutter from the boxwood trees, I was startled by the clattering sound of hooves. I stepped back off the path just in time to avoid the six dark thundering horses pulling a large ornate black and brown carriage.
Peeking from around the shrubbery, I watched as the impressive coach pulled to a halt at the front entrance. An ornate crest adorned the side of the door. Not being an expert on matters of heraldry I could not tell what it signified. A groom dropped from the top of the coach while four Palace guards rushed into position.
A tall, lanky man of about Victoria’s age stepped from the carriage. He wore a white uniform with gold epaulets and a red sash across his chest. Was this Prince Albert, surprising the Queen with an early return? He was not as I imagined for despite all the trimmings he carried himself in a way I can only describe as unsure. Could this dithery fellow be the man who wrote such stirring letters to our Queen?