The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan by Nancy; Springer Read Free Book Online Page A

I had seen in the Ladies’ Lavatory.
    I had scarcely time to realise the peril in which I had placed myself before the butler’s voice sounded behind me: “Lady Otelia Thoroughfinch, Viscountess of Inglethorpe, wishes to see you in her private sitting-room.”

C HAPTER THE S EVENTH
     
    O H.
    The viscountess herself.
    Oh, my. I felt an almost insurmountable urge to flee, as if somehow she knew—which of course she couldn’t possibly—but what if she recognised me? And what if she then realised that I was not from the Women’s Gazette at all, but was poking my rather pronounced nose into her affairs? What if she suspected I was in receipt of a peculiar pink fan—
    All these frightened thoughts cried out in my mind even before I turned to follow the butler upstairs. At times such as these it is a very good thing that my father had been a logician, and I had educated myself with his books, as follows:
    Premise: Viscountess Inglethorpe and I occupied the parlour of the Ladies’ Lavatory at the same time.
    Premise: She will recognise me.
    Conclusion: Inconclusive.
     
    Weak premise: She noticed me and recognises me.
    Premise: She will realise I am NOT a reporter from the Women’s Gazette .
    Conclusion: Not valid, as such a reporter might very well use the Ladies’ Lavatory.
     
    However, just as these calming, rational thoughts began to take hold—also, just as I achieved the top of the stairway—there was a bang as the heavy front door whammed open, and a man’s voice roared, “Ha-ha!”
    I jumped and squeaked like a snared rabbit, for it was the voice of the exceedingly inhospitable man with the mastiff and the sunk fence!
    But it couldn’t be! my logical mind attempted once more to intercede. What possible reason—
    “Ha-ha! Here we are!”
    The butler, who in the expressionless way of butlers seemed as startled as I, said, “Excuse me just a moment, miss,” and went downstairs again to see what was what, leaving me peering over the railing.
    “File on in! Ha-ha! Gawk all you please, ragamuffins.”
    Oh, my evil stars, I could see now—it was the same burly man who had threatened to leave me rotting in his midnight ditch. Progressing into the entry hall resplendent in ascot, paddock-jacket, charcoal breeches, and cream-coloured gaiters, with his pugnacious face straining to maintain a smirk that was probably intended to be a smile, he was followed by a most unlikely company: orphans filing in two by two, little girls in the traditionally hideous brown gingham pinafores, with their hair cropped so short (for the prevention of lice) that they scarcely looked female despite their ruffled caps.
    The butler approached the ha-ha man and bowed gravely, murmuring something.
    “Just giving the little beggars a treat, ha-ha!” the man roared. From my refuge behind the stair railings I watched in fascination as his balding forehead turned tomato red. “Anything wrong with that?” The butler’s deferential manner had apparently concealed some question of the man’s presence under the circumstances.
    “Look but don’t touch,” admonished a starchy middle-aged female at the end of the brown gingham line—a matron of the orphanage, I knew the instant I saw her, not merely because of her plain brown dress and her even more severe demeanour, but because she wore, like all such matrons, the most outlandish and unmistakable hat, white cotton starched into the shape of an inverted tulip with ruffles around its edge. The minute I had a chance, I must draw a picture of an orphanage matron like a plain brown tower with a bulbous white beacon on top.
    “Shall I notify the viscountess?” the butler was asking. Or not asking, really. Warning.
    “No need! Just showing the darlings what they have to look forward to, ha-ha! If they go into service in my house, you know, ha-ha!” With which outrageous statement—for quite plainly, from the butler’s manner, this was not his house—the smirking and glowering