The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline Page 4

  “Of course, Miss—” She caught sight of me, and her jaw faltered. “Miss, um—Meshle?”

  “Never mind, Florrie.”

  “Ye’re going to look fer Mrs. Tupper?”

  “Of course, Florrie. But let us hope she makes her way home on her own before too long.”

  Would that it were to be so.

  The streets of the East End brawled as always with unwashed humanity—ragged, half-starved street urchins, a beggar with hideous festering “burns” made of soap scum and vinegar, street vendors bawling “Puddings an’ pies!” or “Ginger beer!” or “Fish ’ere! Fresh ’erring!” with voices hoarse from shouting. Walking amidst washerwomen and other sorts of daily help hurrying towards the city, I noticed a tall, muscular workman, his plaid cloth cap rather too large for him, sauntering along; he would be late for his job at that rate.

  Once I had passed the Aldgate Pump, a twenty-foot monstrosity topped with a grandiose lamp, I was able to summon a cab, for the monument to Light and Hygiene marked the beginning of a less odiferous, more respectable part of the city. As the cab-driver stopped for me, I told him, “Florence Nightingale School of Nursing.”

  “Right-o, miss.” I settled back into the open seat of the hansom cab as if I assumed the man knew where I was going, although I myself had no idea; I had heard only that there was such a school somewhere in London.

  As we trotted along, I heard my cabbie yell to another one, “’Ey! Whereabouts be the nursie school?”

  It turned out to be across London Bridge, on the other side of the Thames, in Lambeth near St. Thomas’ Hospital. As I alighted from the cab and paid the driver, I observed—walking the paths of a small formal garden two by two, silently, as if performing a task, in the fine May sunshine—young women wearing starched white collars, aprons, and caps over brown frocks so homely that even my merino seemed handsome by comparison. These, I surmised, were the nurses-in-training.

  As they seemed indisposed to speak to me or even to look at me, I made for the massive front door of the sizeable but unlovely brick building, knocked, then saw a small placard directing one to “Walk In,” and did so.

  Another small sign, with a hand painted upon it pointing the direction, showed me to the office. Within, I found a desiccated-looking matron, dressed in black, who looked me up and down in an appraising manner.

  Oh, dear. She thought I was applying to be a trainee. To my annoyance I found myself babbling with nerves. “I have not come—that is—I’m not, um—I am trying to locate some member of the Nightingale family in regard to a personal matter.”

  The dried-out woman blinked several times. “Some member?”

  “I, um, Miss Florence Nightingale—”

  I was trying to say in the most delicate way that surely the famous spinster herself was no longer available to be interviewed—but I spoke no farther, for quite briskly the matron nodded, reaching for a piece of paper. When she had written upon this, she handed it to me.

  “Thirty-five South Street,” I read aloud, then looked up in astonishment. “Miss Nightingale is alive?”

  I am sure I looked quite mawkish, for the twiggy matron smiled. “Oh, very much so. Although she does not go out at all.”

  Oh, dear, it would be scarcely bearable if she were alive but unable to speak with me. “Is she unwell? Or, um, wandering in her mind?”

  “Senile? Hardly.” The dry stick actually chuck-led. “Nor is she often ill. It’s mostly that, after coming home from the Crimea and taking to her bed, she simply has not got out again.”

  “She’s, ah, um, she’s an invalid?” Bad news, or so I thought, for I knew invalids as peevish, malingering, demanding people who simply chose not to be valid, so to speak. Scarcely a household in upper-class England had not at one time or another suffered under the paradoxical power of the invalid. Many a lady thwarted had taken to her bed for the sake of ordering folk about. Indeed, I had done so myself, for a few weeks after my mother had run away, although in my case it was in order to avoid unpleasantness in general and my brother Mycroft in particular.

  But—nearly thirty-five years?

  The matron said, “She prefers to be referred to as a valitudinarian. But if invalid she is, then surely she’s the most active invalid in London.” Then the woman gestured dismissal as if I were no more than a child. “Run along, dear. It’s time for me to call the probationers in from their constitutional.”

  Out I went, my mind rife with perturbing thoughts of the heroic Florence Nightingale now recumbent. Here lay yet another statue with feet of clay, I brooded. Would the erstwhile “Lady with the Lamp” shed any light at all upon the darkness surrounding the fate of Mrs. Tupper?

  Lambeth was an orderly sort of place, with not many people on the street at this mid-morning hour. Somewhat to my surprise, I noticed that one of the passersby was the same sauntering workman in an overlarge plaid hat whom I had seen in the East End earlier. Perhaps he was employed hereabouts?

  Finding a cab-stand, I got into another hansom and told the driver, “Thirty-five South Street.”

  But rather than starting off at once, he exclaimed, “In Mayfair, miss?”

  My surprise was scarcely less than his, but I hope I concealed it. “Is that where South Street is?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Then let us go there.”

  Small wonder he had checked to see whether he had heard me rightly, for Mayfair is London’s most exclusive neighbourhood. One would expect a woman who has martyred her life for humanitarian causes to live—I don’t know where, but not in Mayfair, with the wealthy and powerful. Was Florence Nightingale rich? I supposed, now that I thought about it, she must have had considerable means in order to do the remarkable things she had done. But why, if she was born into a wealthy family, the sort to be presented at court, had she gone instead to a bloody cesspool of a hospital in the Crimea? And why now, confining herself to bed, did she live amongst courtiers? Jouncing along in the cab, I entertained a doubtful yet lively curiosity regarding Florence Nightingale.

  No amount of thought and speculation, however, could have prepared me for what I found at 35 South Street, just off Park Lane—indeed, the house was so situated as to enjoy a view of Hyde Park! And a worthy house it was, a large, handsome four-storey brick edifice, its area enclosed in wrought-iron railings, its shutters and trimmings painted a rich and restrained green.

  After taking several deep breaths, I climbed stone steps to a stately door with fan-light. I plied a polished brass knocker, quite expecting to be met by a suitably fearsome butler who would question me, then usher me into a hushed, deep-carpeted library or parlour where I would wait alone for a considerable period of time before—

  The door opened, and a young man who was neither a butler nor a footman, but wore an exceedingly fashionable tweed suit with knickerbockers and tall tan gaiters, stood aside with hardly a glance at me and said, “Come in.”

  And from the doorstep I smelled the mingled aromas of tea, pastries, and cut flowers, while I heard the babble of many voices.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, put rather off balance, “am I interrupting something?”

  “Not at all.” He barked a short laugh. “It’s like this every day of the week. Do come in.”

  Sensing impatience in his voice, I did as he said, stepping into a broad, well-lit hallway off of which opened parlour, library, morning-room, dining-room, and so on, several spacious rooms, and in every one of them sat men in city-suits and women in visiting-dresses either chatting, or taking tea, or poring over documents, or writing, or any combination of the above. With quite a shock to my already-fuddled mind I recognised erstwhile Prime Minister Gladstone amongst the crowd.

  I began to realise that my obtaining even a few moments of Miss Nightingale’s undivided attention might present considerable difficulty.

  CHAPTER THE SIXTH

  LIKE A SHIP BECALMED, I DRIFTED UPON THE SISAL carpet just inside the door, for the young man who had admitted me was now
nowhere to be seen, and I did not know how to proceed. Baffled, I studied the furnishings of the passageway: ingenious yet attractive settees that incorporated hat-racks, mirrors, and umbrella-stands into their construction, a towering casement-clock, cabinets displaying memorabilia presumably from the Crimea, embroidered mottoes framed to hang on the walls: Patience and Persistence Prevail, Good Intentions Cannot Mend Bad Sense, Without Progress We Regress, that sort of thing, daintily stitched with borders of flowers.

  As I studied Without Progress We Regress thoughtfully, a silk-gowned young woman, certainly not a servant, sailed past me with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses on a tray. Although there certainly were no wasps to be fended off so early in the year, still, the pitcher was draped with a delicately daisybroidered jug cover. So taken was I with this lovely object that I rather startled when the young lady paused to ask me in the friendly manner of an equal, “Are you here in regard to hospital reform, miss?”

  Despite my pose of womanhood, I found myself replying like the callow fourteen-year-old girl I was. “Um, no . . .”

  “Or concerning the deplorable conditions in our workhouses?”

  I shook my head.

  “You are not on the Army Medical Commission, surely.” Cheerfully the young lady continued her attempt to place me. “The Committee for the Licensing of Trained Nurses?”

  Like a stupid child I shook my head, but then managed to say, “I need to ask Miss Florence Nightingale a question.”

  “That’s easily arranged. See Mrs. Crowley at the desk in the library,” she told me with a nod and a smile.

  Mrs. Crowley, a somewhat older version of the richly gowned young lady who had directed me to her, also smiled and nodded as I said I wanted to speak to Florence Nightingale. She did not ask my name, luckily for me, as I had no idea what it might be today. Nor did she request a card to be sent up to the invalid, or a letter of introduction. Quite without questioning my intrusion in any way, she merely waved me to a nearby seat and handed me a laptop writing-desk complete with pen, ink, and a sheaf of cream-coloured rag paper of the very best quality.

  I regarded this array with such evident bewilderment that Mrs. Crowley told me gently, “Write down what it is you wish to ask Miss Nightingale, and that young jackanapes in the knickerbockers will take it up to her, and as soon as she has time, she will write you a reply.”

  Baffled, I stammered, “But—but I really need to speak directly with Miss Nightingale!”

  Mrs. Crowley’s smile widened slightly. “Oh, no, I see you do not understand that is quite impossible,” she told me with only the kindliest hint of reproach in her voice. “No one speaks directly with Miss Nightingale.” Benignly Mrs. Crowley nodded towards a doorway across the hall, through which was visible the imposing form of Mr. Gladstone. “If His Excellency wishes to ask her something, he sends up a note. They all do.”

  “But—but if she is such an invalid, how can she—”

  “It is astonishing how much she accomplishes from her bed, dear. She takes her meals alone, and works constantly. In addition to household notes, she writes sometimes as many as one hundred letters a day, being instrumental in a great many reforms, although she never allows her name to be mentioned in the press. Amongst those in the know, however, the saying is that there are really three, not merely two, Houses of Parliament, and they are the House of Lords, the House of Commons, and the House of Florence Nightingale.”

  I believe I said rather weakly, “Good heavens. I had no idea. Nevertheless, I really do need to see Miss Nightingale in person—”

  “It is simply not possible.” Mrs. Crowley began to sound the slightest bit tart. “You appear to be a scholar; you do know how to write, don’t you?”

  “But this may be a matter of life or death!”

  Utterly unimpressed, Mrs. Crowley remarked, “Miss Nightingale would not see her parents when they were alive, nor her sister, nor, with few exceptions, anyone else in the past thirty years, so I think it unlikely that she will see you. But you can of course ask.” With a gesture of finality, she indicated the writing implements in my lap.

  Confound everything, if there had been any ivy on the walls of this most peculiar house, I would have gone outside and attempted to climb it to the reclusive Miss Nightingale’s chamber. As there was none, however, I scowled at the paper set before me.

  Even though I felt certain the effort was of no avail, eventually I wrote,

  Dear Miss Nightingale,

  Time is pressing; I will be direct: an

  elderly woman has been abducted by brigands,

  seemingly because she knew you in the

  Crimea and carried a message for you. Her

  name is Mrs. Dinah Tupper. Have

  you any idea where she might be, or who has

  taken her?

  A Friend

  After blotting and folding this, I handed it to the ever-smiling Mrs. Crowley, who took it with a nod and offered the hospitality of the house with a gesture. “Have some tea, dear, or some lemonade, and biscuits. You will be informed the moment you receive a reply.”

  This Miss Nightingale certainly did carry the tyranny of invalidism to an extreme. I pictured her as a thoroughly petulant woman, and although I quite felt as if I wanted to strangle—if not her, then at least something or someone—still, I managed a meek enough nod as I got up and ambled off.

  While attempting to appear purposeless, actually I had become keenly interested in certain aspects of the interior of this house.

  Wandering through the rooms of the ground floor, past tables where numerous visitors partook of finger sandwiches, sliced fruit, hot pastries, and the like—Miss Nightingale certainly gave freely of every hospitality except her own presence!—I eyed embroidered napkins, embroidered table-linens and seat-cushions, even embroidered jam-pot covers! The latter were cunningly stitched with depictions of raspberries, grapes, peaches, apricots, strawberries, currants, or quinces, forsooth, to match the flavours of the preserves they protected.

  Certainly one might expect to find plentiful samples of the ladylike art of embroidery in any upper-class house. Yet I saw no other ladylike arts such as moulded wax flowers, or homemade ruffled silk lamp-shades, or useless little boxes put together out of seashells, or hand-painted glassware, now, did I? Passing into the front parlour, I found no fillet-crocheted antimacassars, but numerous lovingly embroidered pillows. On the walls I saw framed embroidery landscapes as well as the usual plethora of family portraits, some painted, some photographic, a few old-fashioned black-paper silhouettes.

  I gave my attention to the photographic prints—various handsome head studies, some of them in profile like the silhouettes; also some full-length wedding portraits, and a few less formally posed—an old man and a remarkably plain younger woman relaxing in the stonework doorway of a country house, a different old man and a different unlovely woman taking tea at a garden table. I was attempting to guess at relationships when the fashion-plate young “jackanapes in the knickerbockers” came to find me, offering me a note that was, one might assume, my answer from the unapproachable Miss Nightingale. In delicate violet-hued ink on thin violet-scented paper, it quite contrasted with the missive I had sent upstairs.

  I took it, but before reading it, I gestured towards the portraits on the wall and asked the young man, “Would you be so good—can you tell me who these people are?”

  “Oh! Most of them, I can’t say, I’m afraid, but those”—he indicated the old couple at the garden table—“are William Edward Nightingale and Fanny Smith Nightingale, Miss Florence Nightingale’s parents. And that”—the rather toad-faced young woman in the stone doorway—“is Miss Frances Parthenope Nightingale, taken at Embley, the family home. Miss Parthe, as she generally is called, is Miss Florence Nightingale’s older sister.”

  Scanning the ranks of portraits for a similar toad-like visage, I asked, “Which of these might be Miss Florence Nightingale?”

  “None of them. She dislikes to have her
likeness taken or displayed.”

  Small wonder, if she resembled her sister.

  And if she was so ill-favoured, small wonder that she had remained a spinster and had become—bitter? A nearly total recluse, in any event, even from her own family.

  After the tweedy young man had gone off again, I looked at the violet-scented note. Written in small and very correct handwriting rather like that of a bookkeeper, it said:

  I regret that I cannot help you, knowing no one by the surname of Tupper, nor anything of the matter which perplexes you. I am sorry.

  Sincerely,

  Florence Nightingale

  And that was that.

  Except, of course, that it couldn’t be. I would not allow it to be.

  But I left the house willingly and quietly enough, for several intriguing thoughts occupied my mind, thus:

  Someone in that house quite liked to embroider.

  Although no one, to my knowledge, had made a study of the subject, or written a monograph (as my brother Sherlock, for instance, was wont to write monographs upon cigar-ash, ciphers, and chemical reactions), still, it seemed reasonable to hypothesise that embroidery, like handwriting, might vary from individual to individual: dainty or bold, elongated or round, tight or loose, regular or irregular, depending on the stitcher.

  The embroidery in Florence Nightingale’s house had a certain winsome, airy simplicity, and I had seen quite similar embroidery before.

  On the ribbons of a crinoline.

  Now, this was odd. Ribbon was an expensive decoration. Embroidery was a labourious decoration. One or the other was generally considered enough; combining the two was an extravagance worthy of a wedding-gown.

  Why, then, lavish such effort upon a crinoline? The roughest and ugliest of underpinnings? Never to be seen, not even by a bridegroom upon his wedding night?

  Altogether, I felt quite eager to get home and have another look at that humble garment.