The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets (5 page)

L
ABURNUM, YOU SEE, WHILE A VERY PRETTY FLOWER
, hangs down in yellow cascades, “weeping.”

The blue harebell, long associated with faeries, bad luck and fey events, means “submission to grief.”

The yew is a graveyard tree, signifying death.

So even if it were not for the convolvulus and the asparagus fronds, I would have felt sure: These flowers came from the same spiteful source as that other bizarre bouquet, and might not this evil-minded person be responsible for the disappearance of Dr. Watson?

I scooted downstairs, out the front door and onto the street as quickly as possible, but only to find the confounded fish-mouthed boy—who had approached the Watson residence so very slowly—now trotting off at a goodly pace, just disappearing around the opposite corner.

Oh, no. No, he was not getting away from me. Snatching up the front of my skirt with both hands, I ran after him.

I am long of limb and love to run—I have always been the disgrace of my family, running, climbing, and generally acting like a biped—but that accursed skirt slowed me down even as I hoisted it to my knees, for doing so denied me the proper pumping action of my arms. Other parts of my personage compensated so that my head wobbled and I swayed from side to side, altogether, I am sure, resembling a tall Paris-green goose in a tremendous hurry.

Onlookers regarded me with shock. I remember speeding past a lady who stood like a pillar of salt with both silk-gloved hands to her gawking mouth, and as for gentlemen, how my display of my lower limbs affected them I can scarcely say, for, let a lady in an evening-gown show ever so much bosom, still not an inch of ankle must ever peep from beneath her skirt—but I did not care what I looked like or what anyone thought, for as I sprinted around the corner I spied the street urchin cavorting along not too far ahead of me.

“Boy!” I called to him.

Pleasantly enough, I thought, and I fully expected him to turn, and stop, and we would have a nice little talk, and I would give him a penny—but instead, he took one look at me over his shoulder, his lackwit eyes widened, and he tore off like a hare before the hounds.

The stupid little bounder, whatever was he frightened of?

“Boy! Nincompoop, wait! Come back here!” Without breaking stride I sped after him, gaining on him easily, stunted little slum-bred brat. I should have caught him within a moment if he had not made towards Covent Garden and dodged into streets filled with traffic. Rather than keeping to the pavement, he took to the cobbles, dashing between potato-wagons and carts and cabs and almost under the hooves of coach-horses; here, being born and weaned in the city, he had a great advantage over a country girl who had never been much accustomed to ducking omnibuses! He led me a jolly good chase until finally I lost sight of him entirely.

Stopping at the corner where I had last seen him, I stood hot-faced and panting, one hand hauling up my skirt while with the other I disciplined my wig, which felt as if it were about to take leave of my head—confounded thing, no matter how annoying, I should have put it on beforehand and secured it with hairpins—too out of breath to mutter the naughty phrases that came to mind, I looked about me in every direction, with no idea which way to turn.

I nearly gave up. Actually, I did give up. With a sigh of exasperation and defeat I let my skirt—such parts of it as were not already sodden with horse muck—drop at last to decently cover my ankles. Then, ignoring the stares of dressed-to-be-seen Sunday strollers, I applied both hands to the problem of the slipping wig. Trying to restore some order to my appearance, I lifted it to straighten it—

“Don’t!” screamed a high-pitched voice.

Startled, I looked for the source of this terrified plea and discovered the street urchin, the selfsame boy I had been chasing, staring at me huge-eyed from his hiding place inside one of the crates (meant for displaying dry goods) flanking the closed door of the corner chandler. Standing where I was, I had unknowingly blocked his escape, but I might never have seen him had he not cried out.

“No, please, don’t!” he wailed.

I stood, immobilised by astonishment, with a hand at each side of my wig. “Don’t
what
?” I blurted. I could not imagine what he was so afraid of.

He shrieked, “Don’t take yer ’air off! Don’t take yer nose off either!”

“Oh,”
I said, nodding slowly and wisely, as if he had explained everything. Obviously the boy was a halfwit and needed to be approached cautiously. Taking care to make no sudden movements, as if faced with a cornered animal, I let my wig lapse back onto my head in whatever fashion it so desired. “All right,” I added in easy, soothing tones. “No harm done. Would you like a penny?” Reaching into a pocket, I pulled out a handful of coins.

Hearing the jingling sound and catching sight of the shiny metal, the lad seemed to calm, or at least to shift the focus of his anxiety, as I had thought he might.

“I just want to talk with you a moment. Will you come out?” I coaxed.

“No!”

“Why, then, I’ll come in, if you don’t mind.” I simply plopped myself down to sit on the pavement in front of the crate within which he cowered. Fatigue alone, I think, would not have made me do this—although I was indeed quite fagged from running—but I found the absurdity of the situation irresistible. All around me I heard horrified gasps arise from onlookers, and I sensed how they stepped away, as if my extraordinary conduct might spread some sort of contagion. Just two years before, during the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, a lady had sat down on one of the pathways within the Crystal Palace in order to place a sprig of fir into the top of her boot; not long afterwards she had been committed to a madhouse.

By her husband. Not uncommonly a woman might be put away in a lunatic asylum for insane conduct such as reading novels, going to spiritualist meetings, quarreling, failure to obey, et cetera. Having one’s wife taken off by “body snatchers” in a black barouche was a respectable recourse should her presence become onerous, whereas divorce was a scandal.

It was quite a good thing that I planned to have no husband, I thought, smiling and still panting from “running mad.” Seated knee-to-knee with my quarry as if we were two children playing teatime, I told the filthy little street savage, “How do you do. I am very pleased to meet you.” As if selecting a bonbon, I lifted a penny between my fingers. “I could not help observing your taking quite a lovely bouquet of flowers to the Watson residence just now.”

Warily the boy countered, “Don’t know no Watson,” but his gaze had fixed on the copper coin.

“How did you know which house, then?”

“The man told me the number.”

“What man?”

“Why, the man ’oo took off ’is nose.”

My mind began to feel as fagged as my legs, but I only nodded slowly and sagely once more, deciding to circumvent the nasal improbability for the time being. “And how did you happen to meet this man?”

“’E called me over.” The lad demonstrated a beckoning gesture such as any person of any consequence might use to summon any boy loitering in the street if the latter was wanted to carry a parcel, take a message, hold a horse by the reins or render any simple service.

“Was he in a gig or a dog-cart?” I inquired.

“No! ’E were in a right shiny carriage, ’e were, wit’ orses.”

Refraining from telling him that a dog-cart was also a horse-drawn vehicle, I merely asked, “A phaeton? A brougham?”

“Don’t know ’bout no broom. A fine black carriage it were, with yellow spokes to the wheels.”

A description which could apply to half the vehicles in London. I tried again. “Did you see a coat-of-arms?”

“Sure, ’e had a coat on and harms too. Both harms, and ’ands. ’E give me the posy wit’ one and tuppence wit’ the other.”

Losing his fear of me, the lad was becoming more loquacious—a good thing, as I found myself rather at a loss, trying to question this boy with a head too large for his stunted body and intelligence too small. “Um, what did this man look like?”

“Wot like? Wot’s any toff like? Just a long-faced tove in chin-whiskers ’n a top-’at, except that ’e took ’is nose off.”

There it was again.

“He took his nose off?” I strove to keep incredulity out of my tone.

Apparently I succeeded, or else the horror of the memory had taken such hold of the boy that he could not help but speak. All in a rush he said, “Knocked it off against the door, like, when ’e stuck ’is ’ead out t’ give me the flowers. It fell on ’is lap, an’ I don’t know wot scared me worse, that nose lyin’ there or the way ’e grabbed it and cursed me and shook it at me, tol’ me take the flowers right smart or ’e’d come after me and do the same to me and pull out me eyes into the bargain.”

“Um, did you see any blood?”

“No!” The lad started to tremble. “No more’n if ’is face wuz made of wax.”

“What did he have where his nose should have been?”

“Nothin’! Wot I mean, ’e was just ’oles, like a skeleton.” The boy shivered.

“Holes?”

But the lad had gone into a convulsive fit of shuddering. “Please, don’t take yer ’air off or yer ears or nothin’!”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, why would I? Did the man put his nose back on?”

“I don’t know! I ran! I took ’is flowers just as ’e said and then you come chasing me!” The street urchin started sobbing, not the usual forthright roar of a young barbarian, but a wail of soul-felt distress. His odd encounter, apparently, had upset him considerably. “What were ye chasing me fer?”

“Never mind.” I rose to my feet (aware that each well-bred person passing by gave me a long stare and a wide berth) and handed the child a sixpence instead of a penny, for I felt sorry to have caused him distress. Evidently there was no more sense to be got out of him.

Sense? What sense was there in anything I had learned?

R
ETURNING AT ONCE TO MY TEMPORARY LODGINGS
by the most inconspicuous route, I rang for hot water. While I washed, put on a clean dress, sponged the skirt of the soiled one and tidied my hair—that is to say, took off my wig, combed it out, and pinned it up in an acceptably attractive fashion—I thought.

Or tried to think, but succeeded only in wondering how the man had lost his nose. I vaguely recalled that, sometime during the Renaissance, there had been a colourful Danish astronomer who had lost his in a duel, but dueling was done with pistols now, not swords, and it was banned in England, although still practised in the more backwards little countries of the Continent. I supposed one could possibly get one’s nose shot off by a pistol. The Danish astronomer—I recalled his name now, Tycho Brahe—after his duel, had worn a nose made of sterling silver. I wondered why he had not chosen gold, which could hardly have been in worse taste, but I supposed people thought differently about such things before the reign of Queen Victoria. I supposed, now that I thought about it, there were likely a number of men in England whose faces had been similarly altered, if not in duels, then in wars: the Indian Mutiny, the Second Afghan War, that sort of thing. Surely they did not wear silver noses, or chins or ears as the case might be. What—

There came a timid knock at my chamber door, and my landlady’s girl-of-all-work—a wretched wisp of a child who could not have been more than ten years old—asked, “Will you dine, Miss Everseau?”

“Yes, I will be down directly.” While my current landlady’s disposition was in wretched contrast to Mrs. Tupper’s, the meals she served were far superior.

Meanwhile I sent the girl out for the evening papers, and when I returned to my room after an excellent dinner of roast lamb with mint sauce, I turned up the gas—what luxury to have such ease and effectiveness of lighting, even though the pipes hissed and muttered like a mumbling lunatic. Seated in the least uncomfortable chair, I read all the papers, checking first to see whether there had been any further developments in the Watson case—none were reported—and second to make sure my personal was included: “Hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies: what do you want? Reply this column. M.M.W.”

It was.

Interesting, I thought, that the sender of the bizarre bouquets, letting alone the matter of his nose for the moment, should be a
man
. Flowers were generally considered to be in the female domain, although of course there were always a few eccentric amateur scientists, followers of Malthus and Darwin, trying to cross-pollinate orchids in hothouses. Also, upon further reflection, I supposed that any man who had ever courted and/or married necessarily learned something of the language of flowers. How fortunate for me that both my brothers were confirmed bachelors, thereby remaining ignorant. Undoubtedly Sherlock, keeping an eye on the personal advertisements for any demand regarding Watson, would notice “hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies” and be intrigued, possibly even thinking, quite mistakenly, that it had something to do with Mum and me; I doubted he would guess nearer to the truth. In any event, I hoped for a response of some sort from the hawthorn man in the morning.

Meanwhile, I scanned the newspapers I had been too busy to read this morning and yesterday.

There were quite a lot to go through, and no particular reasons to do so except for the discipline of keeping up with the news. But after a while I found myself reading without comprehension, and occasionally one must make allowances. Yawning, I decided that after I finished looking at the “agony columns” of the
Pall Mall Gazette
, which I was reading at the moment, I would go ahead and throw the whole lot into the fire—

Just then I saw it.

422555 415144423451 334244542351545351 3532513451 35325143 23532551 55531534 313234554411435432513 31533

Oh.

Oh, my goodness. Suddenly wide awake, with my heart thumping I reached for paper and pencil.

First I jotted down the alphabet, thus:

ABCDE

FGHIJ

KLMNO

PQRST

UVWXYZ

Then I started on the first word. Fourth line, second letter, Q. Second line, fifth letter, J.

QJ
?

Realising my mistake, I started over. Fourth letter of the second line, I. Second letter of the fifth line, V. Fifth letter of the fifth line, Y.

IVY. Yes, it
was
for me.

The gas-light whispering in its pipes now sounded like a ghost in the room. A painful yet incorporeal corset tightened around my chest; I found it difficult to breathe properly as I continued deciphering. But it did not take long to complete the task.

IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM

The best and the worst of all possible messages.

It seemed I could no longer put off thinking about my mother.

I slept very little that night. Indeed, had I not left all of my warm, concealing, dark clothing behind at Mrs. Tupper’s, I would not have attempted to sleep at all; I would have roamed the city in search of those less fortunate than I, to give them food and shillings and think less of my own difficulties. Such night time questing was very much a custom of mine; a pox on Viola Everseau for keeping me from it. Instead, I needs must lie on a hard and narrow bed while my thoughts refused to be still, chasing around and around like noisy and undisciplined children.

Was there no order left in the universe? Mum had never initiated communication with me before. Always the other way around.

It was a trick. Just like the last time “Mum”—actually, my brother Sherlock—had arranged to rendezvous, except that now Sherlock had caught on to the code of flowers, saying “mistletoe” instead of “a meeting”—

But surely Sherlock would not be wasting any time on me right now, with Dr. Watson missing!

Perhaps it really was Mum.

If so, my mother must be in some sort of terrible trouble.

But wouldn’t she name her own time and place if her need to see me were urgent?

If someone were setting a trap for me—letting me choose where and when, wasn’t that a way to lure me in?

Strictly speaking, Mum should not have said “mistletoe”; that meant a tryst between a gentleman and his paramour. Mum should have said “scarlet pimpernel.”

Unless Mum simply thought “scarlet pimpernel” was too much to encrypt?

She could have put “pimpernel,” a word no longer than “mistletoe.”

Was that not what she would have done? Was the message fake, not from her at all, a trick?

But why? And by whom?

It was in the
Pall Mall Gazette
and no other newspapers. In Mum’s favourite publication and no others.

It had to be from Mum. I wanted it to be from Mum.

I wanted to see Mum?

Yes.

No. No, I was angry at her, for good reason.

IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM

The message said “love.”

Mum had never in her life said such a thing to me.

It was a trick.

It was what I had always wanted from her.

Either the message was a false one—but from whom?—or else my mother had found some affection for me in her heart after all.

If I did not respond, I would always wonder.

And if I did respond, I would be risking myself and my freedom for the sake of a single fickle word.

When one does not know what to do, prudence might decree that one should do nothing, but I cannot bear such inactivity. Hence my penchant to wander the night—and lacking that release, at dawn after a mostly sleepless night I got up and prepared to go out, even though I had no idea where or for what purpose. I donned my corset-armament-supplies-munitions, petticoats, then a frock sufficiently flounced, frilled, ruffled and beribboned to “promenade” city streets, and went on to beautify (in other words, totally disguise) my face. All the while my mind continued its interminable romping circles: Was the encrypted message truly from my mother? Should I reply to it? What would I say if, and when, I did?

For the time being, much as I disliked indecision, I would wait. That much I knew, for the only time I had called upon Mum for assistance she had made me wait—and wait—and wait some more; indeed she had not responded at all, and my resentment was such that I felt I
ought
not to see her until I had disciplined my feelings, lest I say something I might later regret. But at the same time, if she had now really and truly reached out to me, and I did not respond…What if she had been ill, and had only a brief time left to live? What if this was my last chance to make my peace with her?

Nonsense. If Mum were on her deathbed, she would hardly be asking me to name the time and place for a rendezvous!

But…

And but, and but, and so my thoughts ground round and round until, like a mill ox, they had worn their own tired path. I had all but forgotten about the missing Dr. Watson, the forlorn Mrs. Watson and the sender of bizarre bouquets, he of the most peculiar removable proboscis.

Yet, as I glued my little birthmark onto my temple, up from some hidden kitchen in the cellar of my mind came elucidation on a silver platter, answering my barely asked question of the day before: What did men with faces disfigured by combat do to ameliorate or conceal the defect? Like a dumbwaiter opening to display a tray of éclairs, common sense served the answer: If one needed it, why not a false nose, or ear, whatever, realistically made of flesh-coloured rubber, and where would one obtain such a thing? Surely at one of the establishments dealing in face putty, skullcaps and other theatrical paraphernalia, or perhaps even at the store where I had bought my birthmark and my wig.

Pertelote’s.

Which used to be Chaunticleer’s.

Salvation! Needing something to do right now, I would call there.