Regarding any description of the occupants of the cab/phaeton/brougham/barouche/carriage/coach, that is to say, the men who had abducted Mrs. Tupper: no one seemed to have seen them getting out of the conveyance and going into the house. Nor had anyone, anyone, observed the kidnappers coming out of the house with Mrs. Tupper in hand, or noticed which way they went. Apparently, the neighbourhood’s curiosity had been all for their arrival, not for their departure. And by this time, even if anyone had told me what they looked like, I would not have believed a word.
Fit to scream with frustration, and nearly despairing, I returned to the house, lest news arrive from Florrie or her mother, or a demand from the abductors, or something of the sort.
Suppertime had long since passed, but I had no thoughts of eating, nor could I bring myself to sit down, rest, and wait. Rather, I paced the ransacked lower room, kicking broken china out of my way and trying to think. Two rough men demanding a message? We know you were a spy for the Bird. Mrs. Tupper, a spy? Ludicrous.
What in the name of nonsense could “the Bird” mean?
What message? My understanding seemed as dim as the single candle I carried for light, as day had long since turned to night.
What in the world could Mrs. Tupper have got herself mixed up in? I could not imagine her intentionally withholding from two rough thugs anything that they wanted. Mrs. Tupper, for all her adventures in the Crimea, seemed to me hardly the sort of person to indulge in heroics. I believed that if she had any inkling what the villains wanted, she would have given it to them at once.
Yet, evidently they had left without it, for why else would they have taken her with them? They believed she knew where it was, and they intended for their master or employer—the man I called X, or perhaps the mysterious Bird—to induce her to relinquish it—
It? What was “it”?
The two intruders had plundered the house as if in search of some physical object.
But obviously they had not found it.
Just as obviously Mrs. Tupper knew nothing of it.
Yet—might it nevertheless be here?
When I was a little girl—less than a year ago, that era before Mum took her unannounced leave, but it seemed a distant past, those green sweet-scented countryside days before all this grey London smut—when I was thirteen-going-on-ten instead of fourteen-going-on-thirty, I used to run out into the woods of Ferndell Park, my home, and look for things, anything, just searching. Climbing trees, peering into the crannies of the rocks, pretending there was some treasure to be found. The trove I accumulated had included jay-feathers, yellow-striped snail-shells, someone’s garnet earring, plover-eggs, pennies that had turned green, interesting stones that I suspected might contain gems within them—and I suppose I still look for things of value in unlikely places; this has become my life’s calling.
Undertaking to search Mrs. Tupper’s house, then, I set about the task not only with energy born of desperation but with the keen interest of a lifelong Nosey-Nellie and with a practised eye to note anything unusual, anything at all.
As the mysterious intruders had most rudely strewn Mrs. Tupper’s poor belongings, I took the opposite approach: I put things away. Lighting every candle, every lantern and oil-lamp (in outrageous defiance of the usual parsimony of the place), inch by inch I inspected the dwelling and every item therein by replacing each thing where it belonged.
Or, in the case of broken dishes, sweeping up the shards and depositing them in the dust-bin.
Also shattered were the two crockery spaniels who had guarded the ends of the mantel. I inspected their interior surfaces carefully, but saw no sign that anything had been concealed in them.
The contents of Mrs. Tupper’s carved memorabilia box lay torn and strewn on the floor. I inspected them as I collected them: my landlady’s babyhood record of baptism so old and brittle it had broken into pieces along the folds, equally ancient sepia-toned photographic portraits most likely of family members, a similar one of stiffly-ranked children being promoted from the Sisters of Mercy Ragged School of Hoisington—Mrs. Tupper had done well for one who had made her start in a ragged school!—the wedding photograph I had seen before, her yellowing marriage certificate, the deed to the house, et cetera. From all of this I discovered that Mrs. Tupper’s first name was Dinah, but nothing more.
The hour was late, but I could not possibly sleep; I continued working. When I had inspected and tidied the kitchen and parlour to my dissatisfaction, I tore myself a hunk of bread and forced myself to eat it, knowing I needed to safeguard my strength. Then, gnawing the crust, I trudged upstairs to assail Mrs. Tupper’s bedroom.
First, and in haste, begrudging the time, I stopped in my own chamber to rid myself of the increasingly annoying corset, bust enhancer, hip regulators, and other paraphernalia of Miss Meshle. With muted relief I shed my buxom fair-haired disguise to be my scrawny self. In my stocking feet, a dressing gown, and my own lank hair and wedge-of-cheese face, I proceeded to my task.
Every drawer of Mrs. Tupper’s dresser had been dumped. With lighted candle in hand I inspected that humble item of furniture for any false bottoms where writings or papers might be concealed; I even pulled it away from the wall to look at its back, and I scrutinised each drawer, inside and out, as I replaced it. Nothing.
With a sigh, I then set about picking up clothing from bed and floor. As I folded Mrs. Tupper’s poor, dear old-fashioned pantaloons to return them to the dresser, tears ran down my face; imagine, having strange men in one’s bedroom laying callous hands upon one’s underpinnings! How perfectly dreadful.
My feelings of lachrymose outrage continued as I examined the empty wardrobe, then began to return strewn and rumpled clothing to its hangers therein. Mrs. Tupper was a good, decent woman, I thought as I handled the muslin blouses and woollen skirts, some of them neatly patched, that she wore on weekdays. No doubt she had been wearing blouse, skirt, apron, and ruffled house-cap when she had been snatched away. How distressed she must be, for Mrs. Tupper never let herself be seen upon the street without first exchanging her apron for a starched white “pinner” and her house-cap for a bonnet!
Skirts were for everyday wear; special occasions required dresses, and Mrs. Tupper managed dresses just as she did everything else: with thrift, moderation, and regularity. She owned no more than four. Each spring she put great thought into the purchase of a new, sensible one appropriate to a woman of her age and humble station yet reasonably current in fashion. And each winter she “made over” one of the older dresses, taking it apart, turning its fabric to the unstained side, and altering its cut and trimming to reflect current trends. What was beyond saving she discarded. She did not keep anything out-of-date; she had got rid of her bustle, for instance, within a year after that ridiculous shelf-like dorsal protrusion had gone out of style.
I was a bit surprised, therefore, to find, amongst the other clothing I rescued from the floor, quite an old-fashioned crinoline frock that must have dated back to the times when it was difficult for a fashionable woman to fit the breadth of her skirt through a doorway. Very well made this dress was, with a ruffled peplum, ruffles at the shoulders also, and yards and yards of Prussian blue silk in its vast skirt, which spread full circle in the style of thirty years ago.
Perhaps the thrifty Mrs. Tupper had kept this relic for the sake of the fabric?
But would she not have cut it up and made use of it long before now?
A sentimental memento, then? Her wedding-dress? It was quite fine enough for one.
But no, I had seen Mrs. Tupper’s wedding photo, and I did not recognise this dress from it.
So why in Heaven’s name, given her stingy habits and her limited wardrobe space, had she preserved this voluminous gown?
And also, I saw to my renewed surprise as I glanced towards the next garment awaiting me on the floor—she had also kept its crinoline!
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
THE GENTLE READER WILL KINDLY UNDERSTAND that I am not attempting
to excuse myself, but merely reporting the truth of the matter, when I say that, at that moment, daylight was dawning literally although not, alas, metaphorically. I had been up all night, had grown stupid in consequence, and I looked upon the crinoline without analytical insight, merely girlish bewilderment: no one had worn the abominable things since 1860 or thereabouts, so why did Mrs. Tupper still have one?
Picking up the crinoline, feeling its heft and the scratchy rigour of its linen-and-horsehair fabric, I could quite see that, although now unstarched and much flattened, nevertheless it had been at one time quite formidable, fit to support and flare even the heaviest nine-yards-of-fabric flounced-and-ruffled skirt. Constructed in the form of a tiered petticoat, the crinoline widened enormously from top to bottom, each panel much larger than the last and gathered into it, the seams being covered by sturdy grosgrain ribbon embroidered with flowers.
I found myself gazing at those blossomy embellishments.
Unlike most well-bred young ladies, I had never been taught to embroider. My mother, a Suffragist, had scorned the drawing-room graces, encouraging me to read books, ride my bicycle, wander the woods, and climb trees, not to mould wax roses, string seashells, hem hankies, or bead eyeglass-cases. I knew how to do sensible everyday sewing, of course, such as darning stockings or mending a seam, but not decorative stitchery of any sort.
Perversely, then, I quite admired the crinoline’s adornment of blue ribbon embroidered with flowers of pink, peach, yellow, lavender, and other lovely pastel hues, for I thought embroidered posies very pretty indeed and wished I knew how to make them. I had even gone so far as to learn a few basic stitches from the Girl’s Own Paper—well, only two, actually, French Knot and Lazy Daisy, which I recognised on the crinoline’s ribbons. I had never seen embroidered ribbon before, but I would have expected a repeating pattern of some sort; the blue grosgrain, however, was decorated with a sweet and artless sequence, random as to both colour and arrangement, of wild roses and starflowers—quite winsome while simple to achieve, I realised, peering more closely. The starflowers were five Lazy Daisy stitches around a French Knot, and the little roses were nothing more than thread wrapped under and over three crossed stitches—
What ever was I thinking? My poor deaf landlady missing, kidnapped, maybe injured or even—despatched—and there I stood gawking at embroidery?
Thrusting the crinoline into the wardrobe, I continued my search for something that might help explain what had happened to Mrs. Tupper, or give me some clue as to her whereabouts. After putting away her few remaining clothes, I examined her bed as I put it back together, looked under her night-stand and her wash-stand, even studied her stacks of gossip-and-fashion periodicals, but without any helpful results. I even turned up her carpet, and found nothing under it. With a sigh, I sat down on her bed, looking about me and trying to think. I had looked at the floor. I studied the walls. I lay down to scan the plasterwork of the ceiling. . . .
I was awakened only an hour or two later by Florrie. “Oh, Miss Meshle,” she gasped, “such a turn ye gave me. All the lamps on and no sign of ye downstairs or in yer room—I thought they’d come and got ye, too!”
“What? Who?” I mumbled, unable momentarily to remember where I was or what I was about or even who I was. Miss Meshle? I thought my name was Enola Holmes.
“Miss Meshle,” said Florrie anxiously, “ye don’t look like yerself. Why, ye’ve lost that much weight overnight wot with worrying about Mrs. Tupper and all, it’s a wonder ye’re yet alive.”
The simple girl had never seen me without my padding, plus the rubber devices I usually stuffed into my mouth and nostrils to fill out the shape of my face. I looked quite different, I am sure, and she thought the change was wrought by Mrs. Tupper’s disappearance.
“Now she may well be dead, wot me mother says—”
This jolted me upright. “Florrie, do please hush!” Mrs. Tupper, perished, murdered? Such nonsense—well, perhaps not nonsense—still, it did not bear saying.
Florrie did not hush. “—but the rest of us must go on living, an’ if you hain’t et something yet, you should ’ave an egg an’ a cup of tea straightaway.”
What an odd creature the girl was, with her clumsy bony personage and her round childish face. Trying to take care of me, forsooth. I found myself almost smiling as I sat on the edge of my landlady’s bed. “Florrie,” I asked gently, “is there any news of Mrs. Tupper?”
“I don’t know wot you’d rightly call it news, miss, for folk talk of nothin’ else, and some says she were taken by Red Anarchists, but others says it’s them gangs from the dockyards are to blame, and some even says it’s Jack the Ripper.” Florrie shivered. “It couldn’t be that, could it, miss? Mrs. Tupper were a respegguble woman.”
Her use of the past tense, already, jarred me to my feet. “She still is, I hope. You’re quite correct, Florrie, I need something to eat so that I can better think what to do.” According to Dr. Watson’s accounts of my brother Sherlock, starvation and sleeplessness increased the acuity of the great detective’s mental processes, but alas—for I begrudged the time—I found that I functioned much better when rested and fed.
“’At’s right, miss.” Florrie started downstairs.
But as I turned to follow her out of the room, my glance caught on the wardrobe still hanging open, and on its contents.
“Florrie,” I called after the girl, “would you happen to know why Mrs. Tupper kept this?” I pulled out the exquisite old-fashioned blue silk dress.
“Oh, yes, miss!” With considerable enthusiasm, Florrie reversed course, running back into the bedroom. “She showed it to me once, miss, because it were given to her by the lady I was named after. Or not me, exactly, bein’ I were named after my aunt, but my aunt were named after her.”
Confound the babbling girl, she made my head ache. I think I persevered only because there was nothing else to do. “Who?”
“The lady, miss, the one wot gave Mrs. Tupper the dress!”
I took a deep breath. “Start over, Florrie. Slowly, please. Who gave Mrs. Tupper this gown?”
Anxious to please me, Florrie frowned with distress. “I disremember her name exactly, miss, but she were famous at the time. The Lady with the Lamp, they called ’er when Aunt Flo was born, but nobody ’eard nothing ’bout ’er fer years now.”
Mrs. Tupper had said something about a Lady with a Lamp, hadn’t she? With some strain my weary brain began to make connections. Thirty-four years ago, forgotten now. Crimean War. Fine clothes she give me, better’n what I was married in—this had to be the mid-century crinoline dress I held in my hands.
“Now, what were that lady’s name?” Florrie muttered.
One of those crossword-puzzle names once famous but slowly being forgotten . . . But what could any of this possibly have to do with our immediate and pressing difficulties? “It doesn’t matter.” I put the dress back into the wardrobe and closed the doors on it. “Come along, Florrie.”
The girl obeyed, trailing downstairs after me, but she kept mumbling. “Florence. Florence something,” as I slumped in a kitchen chair and she put the kettle on for tea. “Peculiar name, sort of dark. Blackwell? Blackwood? Blackbird?”
Suddenly it came to me. “Florence Nightingale.” “’At’s it!” Florrie appeared much relieved. “Night-in-gaol, must’ve ’ad a scoundrel back o’ the family somewheres, but she were a fine lady fer all that—”
“Not Night-in-gaol,” I interrupted, forgetting to erase my aristocratic accent, such was my fatigue and irritation. “No slur of imprisonment exists. A nightingale is simply a sweetly singing bird of the thrush family—”
Within my mind I experienced a sensation reminiscent of the flash powder exploding above a portrait photographer’s camera, and I rocketed to my feet, nearly upsetting the table. “Ye gods!” I shouted in a most unruly fashion. “The Bird!”
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
THE LADY WITH THE LAMP HERSELF MUST BE deceased by now, I assumed, because any ve
teran of the Crimean War I had ever met had been tottering on the edge of the grave, and those men had been youths at the time of the conflict, whereas Florence Nightingale had been a middle-aged woman; surely, as I had not heard her name mentioned in years, she had long since passed away. But perhaps some surviving member of the Nightingale family might know something of Mrs. Tupper’s history, or even of her present whereabouts? It was a most tenuous clue, but I clutched at it in the proverbial manner, for it was the only straw I had.
After gulping some bread and tea, I ran upstairs to dress, casting about in my mind for the best way in which to present myself. Miss Meshle was too vulgarly working-class to merit respect or receive admission, yet the pristinely upper-class Miss Viola Everseau would take hours to put together, and I had no patience for her; my hands shook as I snatched clothing out of my wardrobe, settling upon a plain and narrow brick-coloured merino dress. In this, with my mud-brown hair in a bun and a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles upon my bony face, I would pass as a particular variety of upper-class female, the kind who espouses causes and studies (or attempts to study, when not being harassed by proprietary males) at the British Museum, an unconventional young woman with no interest in marriage, but nevertheless a lady of sorts—even though no lady who aspired to beauty would ever be seen in eyeglasses.
Glancing into the mirror, I quite approved of the glasses, for their heavy dark rims disguised my face, especially the length of my rather alarming nose. I added a slightly mannish black hat. Excellent. I had rendered myself such a free-thinking spinsterish object that no one would take any notice of me. There remained only the matter of jacket and gloves—ink-stained, of course—as I sallied forth, calling, “Florrie, will you stay until I get back?” I wanted her there at the house in case someone came with news.
The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline Page 3
