The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets by Nancy Springer Read Free Book Online Page A

see, stood almost directly across the street from the Watsons’.
    Mentally I begged fate or fortune as I plied the door-knocker: Please, might the room in question have a window facing in that direction.
    It did.
    Perfect.
    Perfect, I mean, in that one all-important aspect. In others it was dreadful—chill, bare and cheerless, with a bed as hard as a board and nearly as narrow, and a flinty-eyed, disagreeable landlady who named far too high a weekly cost. Small wonder the shrew’s spare room had remained vacant until now. I haggled with her over rent and terms, but only for the sake of appearances; the truth was, I would have taken the room at whatever price, and ended up handing over my money and receiving my latch-key within a few minutes.
    I needed to be in place by the following morning, you see. Already, during the half-day I had spent away, a second suspicious bouquet might have arrived at the Watsons’ door—a most provoking thought. But even so, I felt no doubt that the malicious sender would eventually provide another, and when it arrived, I must not miss it.
    So I had my cab-driver take me to Aldersgate, where I dismissed him and, after going in one door of the railway station and out the other, I engaged another cab. Such precautions had become second nature to me; I must never forget that cab-drivers can be questioned and that I was a fugitive, with the world’s greatest detective taking quite a personal interest in me.
    I had the other cab, then, take me to an East End street where few if any cabs had gone before: that is to say, to my lodging. And I had the driver wait while I packed the things I needed, meanwhile attempting to explain to a rather dismayed and doubtful Mrs. Tupper, “I am going to visit my aunt for a few days.”
    “Eh?” She lifted her hearing-trumpet to her ear.
    “I am going to visit my aunt.”
    “Eh?” With her watery old eyes widened to their utmost, she still could not understand, yet would not venture nearer to me. Standing in the doorway of my room, watching a lovely young lady throw clothing into a carryall, knowing that for the past month a girl who more resembled a scarecrow had barely stirred from the room, I am sure she wondered whether I had gone mad, whether she ought to summon a constable to have me committed lest I constituted a threat to the body public. “Eh? Going where? At this time of night?”
    “Going! Visit! Aunt!” I shouted into her ear-trumpet. With a satchel in each hand I whisked past her out the door.

    The next morning—Sunday—found me applying rouge, birthmark, powder, et cetera, in order to face the day in lovely ladylike guise—quite a nuisance, this new disguise; all over London, women readying themselves for church were struggling less. But at least my wig did not yet need to be restyled; atop a bedpost—for I did wish to put on the hot, heavy thing until necessary—it perched at the ready with its hat still pinned in place. So as not to be seen without it, I made the loathsome landlady bring my breakfast upstairs, leaving it on a tray outside my door. Meanwhile, corseted to simulate an hourglass figure and wearing quite a fetching puffed-and-pleated Paris-green day-dress, I sat in the window with a pair of opera glasses close at hand, watching the street in general and the Watson residence in particular while taking advantage of the concealing qualities of lace curtains.
    As regarded concealment, only my precipitous arrival made it necessary. After a few days it wouldn’t matter if Mrs. Watson saw me about; indeed, I might approach her and tell her how fortunate I had been to see the “Room to Let” sign on my previous visit just when I was looking for a new lodging-place, and was there any news of Dr. Watson?
    On the other hand, I quite hoped this vigil would not last so long as a few days, for even within the first few hours it had become exquisitely boring. “Nice” streets were too quiet.
    A scattered procession of cabs with