Indeed, all of my sensibilities seemed at odds with one another, thoughts running like frightened quail in all directions: I had failed, I could do nothing now to save the hapless Lady Cecily, nor could Sherlock with a hurt foot, I hoped it was not actually broken, I wondered whether he had gone to see Dr. Watson about it, I wondered why he had not invited his good friend Watson to accompany him into the ha-ha. I wondered where those Merganser villains were keeping their victim. I wondered where my mother might be roaming, whether she might be in any danger…Don’t think of Mum. I wondered whether Sherlock had gone yet to talk with Mycroft. Confound Mycroft, he would tell Sherlock the exact location of “a public place.” I must not go near the Ladies’ Lavatory again, or wear a scholar’s dark dress, as Mycroft had seen me in it. My alternatives in regard to disguise dwindled each time I was sighted by one of my brothers. Sherlock had seen the tweed suit; I must get rid of it. Mum had left behind a tweed suit when she had run away…why ever on Earth did I keep thinking of my mother? Lacking Mum, I wished Sherlock were the one who had legal guardianship of me instead of Mycroft; I sensed in Sherlock a certain sympathy…no. I must trust neither of them. How much had Sherlock learned of me the night before? Far too much; how could I have been such an idiot as to let him so near me for so long? Sherlock now knew that I kept numerous useful items bestowed upon my personage. Had he seen where I kept them? Had he noticed in the dark my womanly figure? Did he know about my bust enhancer, my dress improver, my hip regulators? Must I start all over again as Heaven knew what, perhaps a Gypsy fortune-teller, in order to elude him?
Yet—yet I so wished to encounter him again. I imagined chatting with him as we walked side by side along some cobbled London street. So many things I wished I had asked him the night before. What did he hear from Ferndell, the ancestral hall where both of us had been raised? How were Lane the butler and Mrs. Lane the cook, and their lackwit son, Dick, and the somewhat more intelligent collie dog, Reginald? What news of Kineford village? And here in London, how were Dr. and Mrs. Watson, and how was Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady, whom I had met the day I took the cipher book away? And speaking of the cipher book, When you went to Ferndell, my dear brother Sherlock, to investigate, what did you find—what did Mum hide for me behind the mirror?
In that moment my heart clenched, all my fluttering quail flew away, so to speak, and the volcanic tumult in my mind focussed itself with fierce, nearly insane energy upon this one question: Had Mum left any sort of message for me?
A question utterly without any practical merit.
Yet somehow, at that time of turmoil, it seemed supremely important. Because I understood, finally, why I had not yet attempted to locate Mum.
Why I hesitated to see her.
What sort of daughter I was: the frightened sort, actually.
I felt not at all sure, you see—I knew Mum cared for me in her way, but—whether she would want to see me…
Don’t be a coward, Enola. Say it. Or if you can’t say it, think it.
I did not know whether I was a fool to think Mum loved me.
But if she had left me some message in the mirror…
That question took over the day like so much molten lava, flooding my mind and burying any ordinary mental commerce deeper than the marketplace of Pompeii. The need I had so long postponed could be put off no longer. That morning, without some word from my mother, my life seemed not worth living.
My mother, you see, ten months ago when she had departed so unexpectedly upon my fourteenth birthday, had left behind for me a little handmade booklet of ciphers which, when solved, had led me to considerable sums of money hidden in her brass bedposts, behind her watercolours, et cetera—money that had enabled me to escape boarding school by running away in my turn. Most unfortunately, I had lost my cipher book to a cutthroat, and it had then made its way into Sherlock’s hands. I had regained it by stealing it from his lodging, only to discover, by the pencil marks he had made upon the pages, that he had solved the one cipher I could not, a cipher on a page decorated with pansies:
HE SE BE RS LA IN IR
AR AS YO EN SE MY RO
TEUOEMR
Pansies look like little faces—perhaps that is why they symbolise “thoughts.” Mum had affectionately called them “Johnny-jump-ups,” but to me they seemed like elfin ladies with their hair piled—two dark petals on top—and on the three lighter petals below, their ancient, wizened features. If I had thought more about pansies, and less about finding something, when I saw the cipher, I might have guessed how Mum had encoded her message: Once one has placed the three lines in order beneath one another, it is easy enough to see how Mum had arranged her letters like a pansy’s five petals. And then, reading each “pansy” individually, it is simple to decipher:
H E
S E
B E
R S
L A
I N
I R
A R
A S
Y O
E N
S E
M Y
R O
T
E
U
O
E
M
R
Once one has placed the three lines in order beneath one another, it is easy enough to see how Mum had arranged her letters like a pansy’s five petals. And then, reading each “pansy” individually, it is simple to decipher:
HEARTS EASE BE YOURS ENOLA
SEE IN MY MIRROR
Mum had secreted something inside a hand mirror, or perhaps behind a wall mirror’s brown paper backing.
Heart’s ease be yours, Enola.
Mum’s true wish for me? Or merest word-play? Heartsease is another name for pansies.
Or had Mum chosen pansies for a purpose? Might this cipher, had I solved it, have led me to the one thing I most wanted from her and the one thing I most lacked: some message of explanation, farewell, even—dare I say it—affection?
I would delay no longer; I would find out.
Instantly, the moment I resolved to act, my tears ceased along with my trembling and my barefoot pacing of my bedroom. Still in my nightgown, but all galvanised by purpose now, I seized upon my laptop writing desk, thrusting aside the papers I had left upon it previously, and sat down to communicate with Mum via the personal column of the Pall Mall Gazette.
I scrawled,
Mum, I never found what you left in the mirror. Please tell me, what was it?
Hmm. Quite a long message to attempt to encode.
Moreover, Sherlock and Mycroft, whom I quite wished not to know of this business, could decipher any code I knew as easily as Mum could.
Any code except this one:
My chrysanthemum: the first letter of fidelity, the third or fourth of thoughts of absent friends, the second of fascination, the second of fidelity again, the second of fascination again, the first of remembrance
In the language of flowers, you see, “fidelity” is ivy, first letter I. “Thoughts of absent friends” indicates zinnias, the third or fourth letter of which is N. “Fascination” is ferns, second letter E. And so on to rosemary for “remembrance.” Thus far I had encoded I NEVER.
Egad. This would simply not do, being far too lengthy, cumbersome, and—even though I tried to use only flowers whose meanings were quite immutable—still, prone to error.
After crumpling this effort and throwing it aside, I sat frowning until I remembered how Mum had most recently communicated with me: in plain English with a veiled meaning.
After thinking about this for a while, I smiled and tried again:
Narcissus bloomed in water, for he had none.
Chrysanthemum in glass, for she had one.
All of Ivy’s tendrils failed to find:
What was the Iris planted behind?
There! A sort of riddle, merest nonsense about flowers. Narcissus was a flower—but before the gods had turned him into one, he was the Greek youth who had fallen in love with his own beauty
when he saw his reflection in a pool of water. He did not have a mirror, but Chrysanthemum, or Mum, my mother, bloomed in glass—a looking-glass. Ivy was, of course, me, and I had failed to find the Iris—another flower named from Greek mythology, Iris being the goddess who brought messages from Olympus to Earth via the bridge of the rainbow. It was a message, then, that Mum had “planted” for me, presumably behind the glass.
Much relieved, I inked copies of my riddle-rhyme for the Pall Mall Gazette and a few more of Mum’s favourite periodicals. Since I was not yet washed, fed, or dressed, I would send these via the midday post, which would get them to Fleet Street before I could. All I needed was a few postage-stamps.
Searching for these, impatiently I cast aside the papers I had already cast aside earlier—
Until something I had written caught my eye.
A list compiled—heavens, was it only yesterday? It seemed a week ago.
Her chaperones, proud and richly clothed, seem to be of noble blood
The chaperones seemed to wield familial authority over her
They dressed her in greenish yellow; might they be of Aesthetic taste?
Cecily and her entourage took a cab, number ______
She most likely got the fan attending a pink tea—the Viscountess of Inglethorpe’s pink tea?
For a moment, reading this, I stood like a pillar of salt in the middle of my room. Then, “Blast and confound!” I cried, flinging up my hands in despair of myself. “I am a dolt!” How had I let a whole morning slip away while I dithered about bygones? I needed to get to work at once.
I knew now who might be able to tell me where Lady Cecily was imprisoned.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
I NEEDED TO BE EXCEEDINGLY CAREFUL—THAT IS to say, most thoroughly disguised, for I needed to venture where I knew I should not.
Where I risked being recognised.
And what if, after all, I could not find—
No what-ifs, Enola. Just get dressed.
Easier said than done. The role I needed to take on was that of Lady, requiring a handkerchief-linen camisole and drawers to protect me from my own corset, then the corset itself (not strait-laced, of course, but necessary to support the various improvers, regulators, and enhancers that would carry my supplies whilst providing me with the requisite hourglass figure), then a soft cover over the corset’s hard corded cotton and steel, then several silk petticoats, plus the dress itself—a semi-bustled and pleated lapis blue promenade dress with jacket, suitable for shopping—and its matching hat, embroidered handkerchief, gloves, gaiters, and parasol. Perhaps fifteen pounds of clothing, not counting my best boots.
But that was not all.
In addition to being a Lady, today I needed to be Beautiful, as this was the guise in which I was least likely to be recognised as Enola.
So I had to take my own hair—which, like the rest of me, most unfortunately attests kinship with my brother Sherlock, being of the same dull and indeterminate tree-trunk hue as his—I had to yank my hair to the top of my head and pin it there, then hide it under my ever-so-luxuriant chestnut wig, into the coif of which I had incorporated and fastened my hat. Also I put a fringe of curls across my forehead—de rigueur, as Princess Alexandra wore them—and I applied various disreputable substances to my lips, cheeks, eyelids, and eyelashes as subtly as I could. After much practice, and perhaps because the blood of the Vernets runs in my veins, I am able, I think and hope, to paint my face in such a way that my art is taken for nature’s own.
Then, and only then, was I ready.
Mid-afternoon, and still I had not eaten, but there was no time to do so, for my best chance—not a very good chance at all, considering that there were approximately twenty thousand cabs in London; confound my dolichocephalic head that I could not remember the identifying number of the one cab I sought!—still, cab-drivers waited for their fares at the same cab-stands day after day, so I would begin my search at the same place and hour I had formerly seen him.
One person who might know where Lady Cecily was: the cabbie who had conveyed her shopping for her trousseau, and then, presumably, home.
I would look for him outside the Oxford Street Ladies’ Lavatory.
Which was, most unfortunately, the same place where my brother Mycroft was likely to be looking for me.
Perambulate, I reminded myself as I descended from my own conveyance. Mince along with itty-bitty birdy steps. Twirl your parasol. You’re a beautiful lady all dressed up to go shopping.
Off I sailed, thus, graciously, like a heavenly blue ship amid London’s sooty maelstrom. Soldiers, scullery-maids, clerks and clerics, a blind beggar led by a barefoot child, a one-armed greybeard with his Victoria’s Cross prominently displayed, a fuzzy-haired slum woman selling corn-plasters, gentlemen tipping their top-hats, paper-boys dotted red with skin eruptions, a ragged little girl hoarse from selling apples, an inky scholar with shoulders narrow, sloped and lopsided from carrying books—such was the grimy, motley crowd through which I strolled as if through a meadow of dark daisies.
At a genteel gait I approached the cab-stand, scanning its ranks while appearing, I hoped, only to gaze about me with idle superiority. I had no idea how I was going to find the cab I wanted, for I had not seen the driver’s face, and I had no clear memory of the vehicle itself—they all looked so much the same! On the way hither I had taken pencil and paper in hand, attempting a sketch, but had produced only a blur except for the horse, which came out rather nice—I adore horses—so there I sat like a child drawing a picture of Black Beauty? Really, Enola. Disappointed in myself, I thought that perhaps when I arrived on the spot I might recognise the cab if it were there.
Too many perhapses, mights, and ifs.
I saw nothing at all familiar among the ranks of cabs.
On a nearby pavement, however, directly in my path, stood a pair of figures all too familiar to me: my brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock.
I am ashamed to say that the sight of them sent my mental faculties, along with my heartbeat, into temporary abeyance. I halted.
But then, as often happens at such moments, my mother’s voice chided from within my own mind. Nonsense, Enola. You will do very well on your own.
The oft-spoken, well-remembered words starched my spine. Collecting my wits, I started walking again.
Luckily, engrossed in what appeared to be a most animated conversation, Sherlock and Mycroft had not yet observed me. They stood approximately at the place where I had previously encountered—and booted—Mycroft. Dressed much as he had been that day, that robust gentleman appeared unharmed by the experience. Sherlock, however, while impeccable in his black broadcloth city suit, wore upon his right foot a carpet-slipper, and leaned heavily upon a cane.
Carefully in control of my pace and bearing, I soodled along, head up, hat fetchingly cocked, parasol aloft, making sure that I stood out like a blue beacon among the throng—a beautiful lady who wants the whole world to give her its covert glance—so as not to be seen. How ironic, to conceal oneself by being looked at, but there it was: my brothers had no interest in women; observing a paragon of fashionable feminine pulchritude approaching, they would give her not a second glance.
And so it proved. As I passed them, like automatons they touched their hat-brims without pausing in their conversation. “…cannot be allowed to go on,” Mycroft was saying in his usual pompous manner. “You were much remiss, Sherlock, to let her go blithely on her errant way.”
“I beg to differ. She seemed far from blithe.”
Indeed? My distress had showed, apparently. Although what point Sherlock was trying to make I know not, for I heard no more, continuing on my “errant” way.
And disciplining my mind to focus on the task at hand: trying to find the cab in which Lady Cecily had disappeared.
But I still did not recognise anything familiar in the ranks before me.
Nearly at the end of the cab-stand, and out of sight of my brothers, I halted, took a deep breath, and turned
to survey the scene one more time. Without any pleasing result, except that I found the humble brown gaze of a cab-horse looking back at me.
A big, placid dun horse. On impulse—for his was the most honest greeting I had received in many a day—I stepped to his head and patted his cheekbone with my silk-gloved hand. With a hay-scented snort of approval he lowered his head so that I could rub his forelock.
Sitting on his box, the cab-driver put aside his reading material—it appeared to be the Illustrated Crime Gazetteer—and eyed me uncertainly.
“What a sweet horse,” I remarked, finding it a pleasure to speak naturally, in my own aristocratic accent. “So good-tempered. And willing, is he not?”
“That ’e is, m’lady, a ’ard worker an’ a easy keeper.” Warming to the topic, the cab-driver leaned towards me. “The best I ever ’ad, an’ a great good fortune to a h’independent such’n as me.”
He owned his horse and cab, he meant, rather than driving for a cab company, and while he kept his income, he also took his risks; a lame horse could ruin him. Smoothing the dun horse’s black mane, I nodded. “He’s as sturdy as a brick, isn’t he? What’s his name?”
“Why, ’e’s a she, m’lady, an ’er name is Pet.”
My smile widened. Pet snorted softly and nosed my skirt as if she might locate a treat in one of my pockets.
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 8
