The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline by Nancy Springer Read Free Book Online Page A

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.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
    HIRED TRANSPORTATION WAS PLENTIFUL ALONG Park Lane. “Cab!” I hailed with one gloved hand uplifted.
    “Cab!” similarly hailed a gentleman who happened to be walking behind me, and he strode past me to take the next four-wheeler after mine.
    Idly watching as he went by, I stiffened as if I had been struck. Which, in a way, I had. By recognition. I had seen this man twice today already, but he had not been a gentleman then. This tall, broad-shouldered fellow had the accent of a gentleman and the bearing of a gentleman—of course; that was why my eye, if not my conscious mind, had noticed him amongst the East End crowd! He had not looked quite right, because a common workman does not saunter along with one hand tucked into his belt behind his back, head up as if he has never borne a burden. Indeed, this self-assured fellow belonged here in the Hyde Park neighbourhood. He had got rid of the rough leather belt around the outside of his jacket, and he had replaced his ridiculous plaid cap with a bowler hat, so that anyone who did not study his boots would take him for a well-to-do merchant in a sack-suit.
    Entering my own cab swiftly and applying myself to the window, I got my first good look at his face—a remarkable one. This man’s features, while perfectly symmetrical, were pleasantly blunt, not sharp and bony like those of most aristocrats. Artistically speaking, his profile was a model of correct proportion, causing some elusive recognition to niggle at me; where had I seen it before?
    But my main concern at