The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets (9 page)

T
HERE WOULD BE NO NEED, AFTER ALL, TO RISK
my freedom by writing a letter to my brother Sherlock.

Instead, nearly giddy with excitement, I seized upon a fresh piece of paper and began to compose a communication of another sort.

Several moments later, I finished, thus:

5453411155 43535343 315323435155 3211543132 114455231533 114413 125334 3334 13421414513444112354. E.H.

I did not allow myself to hesitate over my bravado in signing this with my own initials. I daresay I resembled my brother Sherlock not only nasally but in other ways; it seemed that, like him, I needed to have my little moments of drama.

And surprise. For which reason, I have withheld from you, gentle reader, the sense of the above message at this time, and while I am sure you are capable of deciphering it, I hope you will refrain for the few remaining pages of this narrative.

Once I had inked a final copy of my cipher, blotted it, folded it and sealed it with wax, I considered how best to convey it to the
Pall Mall Gazette
, as soon as possible so that it would appear in tomorrow morning’s edition. I could not possibly trust this important errand to some street urchin. But a uniformed messenger boy or a licenced commissionaire could be questioned and traced back to me. Eventually, rolling my eyes, I realised I was on my own, as usual, and rose to see about it. With a combination of pencil and “recondite emollient” I coloured the sticking plaster on my face to be, I hoped, less noticeable, at least after dark—I could not have attempted this undertaking in daylight. But at nightfall, in my rusty-black dress and shawl, wearing my wig and my most wide-brimmed face-shadowing hat with a strip of veil attached for good measure, I ventured forth to Fleet Street.

All went well. An indifferent night-clerk who hardly looked at me took my money and my message, promising to send it straight along to the printing press.

Good. But I knew that, if I returned to my lodging now, ordered supper like a sensible young lady, and prepared for slumber, I would not be able to sleep. I still felt electrified through and through with anticipatory excitement, plus worry—about Dr. Watson. If he was where I deduced he was, he would survive this one additional night, and all would be well. Over and over again I reviewed my reasoning with the same conclusion. Yet I could not seem to find confidence in my own mental ability. What if I were overlooking something? What if I were mistaken? What if I were a stupid, blundering girl who should have run straight to the great Sherlock Holmes, a man of action, and let him handle everything?

I could not bear to go back to my room and wait. Instead, emboldened by the dagger riding in my corset and feeling myself to be a sufficiently inconspicuous figure in the dark, I made my way back into the “abominable little labyrinths of tenements crowded and huddled up together, to the perpetual exclusion of light and air, and the consistent fostering of dirt, disease and vice…the stifling courts, lanes, yards and alleys shouldering one another and cabining, cribbing, and confining whole nests of poverty-stricken inhabitants,” as the
Penny Illustrated Paper
would have it—in other words, to the neighbourhood behind Holywell Street, where that morning I had seen a girl wearing a pinafore with no dress under it, her bare feet blue with cold.

At this time of night the streets swarmed with half-drunken men and women, street vendors hawking cheap shellfish or ginger beer or sweets, and on every block a painted female selling something else. And beggars—entertainers, some would have preferred to be called. I stopped to watch a grubby man who had trained a rat to stand on its hind legs in his hand whilst he plied a white handkerchief to make it represent in quick succession a Roman senator in toga, an Anglican clergyman in alb, then a white-wigged barrister, and with the addition of a second handkerchief, a lady being presented at court. He attracted a laughing crowd which dispersed like smoke the instant he pulled off his cap; I was the only one to give him a penny. Then I went off to find the children left behind—or left entirely—by their gin-seduced parents.

It had been too long since I had ministered to London’s poor. Not just days, but weeks.

Finding ragged boys huddled together under an archway like puppies, lacking food to offer them, I gave each a shilling—and then had to run away because they sprang up to alert every other little vagabond on the street; had I not hidden myself I would have been mobbed, my pockets ripped off.

So it went throughout most of the night. Eventually I was able to locate the girl I most wanted to find, shivering in her pinafore, in the area where I had seen her before. Taking her to a used-clothing store, where I knocked up the proprietor, I supplied the girl with clothing, shoes and stockings as well as money for food. Dazed and suspicious, she gave no thanks, nor did I expect any. Blessed weariness and a certain inner peace were my reward. A few hours before dawn I returned to my lodging, at last ready to sleep.

Or so I hoped. I suppose I did doze for a while. But daylight found me wide awake, dressing with care so as to be prepared for any contingency—money, dagger, bandaging, biscuits, sewing-kit, pencil and paper, latch-keys, smelling-salts, head-scarf, spare stockings in my bosom enhancer, plus a clean handkerchief, gloves, more money and—I hoped never to forget again—some candies in my pockets. Despite my best efforts to be calm and efficient, I found myself in such a nervous state that I could barely touch the breakfast the girl brought up for me.

Well before it was time, I hovered, wigged and hatted but unable to sit, at the window from which I could view the Watson residence across the street.

I watched the parlour-maid come out with a bucket of soapy water, get down on her knees and scrub the stone steps white, as she did every weekday morning.

It was going to be a while. Sighing, I forced myself to sit down. With my fingertips I played imaginary melodies upon the windowsill as if it were a piano. Or perhaps I should say imaginary disharmonies, for I have never taken a piano lesson in my life.

The milkmaid passed, as usual, but leading a donkey—not as usual; someone on the street must be so ill as to require fresh, warm donkey milk.

I studied the humble creature as if I had never seen such a long-eared animal before.

After milkmaid and donkey had passed from sight, I drummed with my fingertips on the windowsill some more.

The Watson family’s parlour-maid, who had long since finished scrubbing the steps, came out again to give similar attention to the windowpanes.

The ice-man’s wagon trundled around the corner, drawn by a wise old nag which stopped at each house on its own whilst its master made deliveries. During the considerable length of time it took them to progress through the street, I watched with fullest attention to every detail, including the colour of the horse; not content today with “grey” or “bay,” I decided it was a “roan.”

The ice-man and his grizzled nag disappeared from view. My fingers became tired of tapping and lay still. No longer in a state of fevered anticipation, but feeling a leaden ache of longing, I waited.

And waited.

And scarcely noticed at first the barouche that rattled in from the north, for I was expecting a cab. Idly I watched the carriage, which had its top down, as it rolled near, expecting that it might carry some elderly lady, accompanied by nurse, out for a daily airing. Now I could see the passengers—

I shot to my feet and screamed with joy at the same time as I clapped both hands over my mouth as if my brother might hear me.

Not, to my astonishment, my brother Sherlock.

Unmistakable with his top-hat and monocle, his heavy gold watch-chain draped across an ample expanse of silk waistcoat, it was my other brother, Mycroft!

The one who did not trouble himself to look for me, only sat on his throne and gave orders. The one whose customary orbit of home, government office and Diogenes Club never varied. The one who could not be bothered.

Or such had been my previous suppositions.

Quite mistaken. Evidently Mycroft
had
tried to find me; he had come closer than Sherlock to mastering the floral code Mum and I used, and had come perilously close to understanding what would lure me in: for plainly it was he who had placed in the
Pall Mall Gazette
the cipher reading IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM.

As evidenced by the fact that it was he who had responded to my reply: “5453411155 43535343 315323435155 3211543132 114455231533 114413 125334 3334 13421414513444112354. E.H.”

And now, gentle reader, you shall know the meaning of this, if you have not already yourself deciphered it, thus: Arrange the alphabet into five lines of five letters each, excluding Z. In the cipher, the first two numbers refer to the fifth letter of the fourth line, T. Then, fifth letter of the third line, O. Fourth letter of the first line, D. First letter of the first line, A. Fifth letter of the fifth line, Y.

“TODAY.”

In full: “TODAY NOON COLNEY HATCH ASYLUM ASK FOR MR KIPPERSALT.”

Signed, “E.H.”

This was the summons Mycroft had read in this morning’s edition of the
Pall Mall Gazette
—a summons he could hardly refuse, no matter how much it puzzled him.

I could only imagine what had happened when Mycroft had arrived at Colney Hatch and “Mr. Kippersalt” had been brought forth. But obviously the imperious Mr. Holmes—either of my brothers, quintessentially upper-class and accustomed to being obeyed, could have filled that role—Mycroft had prevailed in liberating “Mr. Kippersalt,” for there in the other side of the barouche, as it pulled up to his home, sat—yes—eureka, I had got it right! The other man was definitely Dr. Watson.

The kindly physician himself, looking a bit less than jaunty, as was understandable considering his recent ordeal, but plainly alive and whole.

And widely smiling.

The scene that followed could not have been more satisfactory to this observer. Alerted by the parlour-maid’s scream as she saw who was in the open carriage approaching the house, Mrs. Watson hurtled out of the front door and dashed on flying feet down the steps. As Dr. Watson rather shakily emerged from the barouche, his wife embraced him right there on the pavement.

Even better: Here came a hansom cab with horse most illegally at the gallop, and as the conveyance jolted to a halt, out of it sprang a tall, whip-thin man who shook his old friend’s hand again and again. Never have I seen my brother Sherlock happier.

Grinning with delight even as my heart ached—a familiar bittersweet feeling, that of enjoying affection from afar—I watched until they all went inside, the cab and the barouche drove away, and it became apparent that the moment of drama was over.

Then, still smiling but with a sigh, I set about packing my bags. It was time for me to return to my room in the humbler, but more distant and secure, residence of Mrs. Tupper.

I
N THE NEXT EDITION OF THE
P
ALL
M
ALL
G
AZETTE
I noticed the following in the personal advertisements:

To E.H.: Yours are the laurels. We humbly thank you. S.H. & M.H.

What? How surprising, and how very gratifying!

Comfortable in my old room at Mrs. Tupper’s, in a dressing-gown, with my feet propped on a hassock, I read it again:
To E.H.: Yours are the laurels. We humbly thank you. S.H. & M.H.

I felt quite a foolish smile take charge of my patched-up face as I enjoyed this most unexpected acknowledgement.

Quite handsome of my brothers, I thought, to take any notice of me in the matter, which had been simple enough once I had understood about the asparagus.

A spear of Gus.

Gus being short for Augustus.

Who could be none other than Augustus Kippersalt. Upon first finding the name of Augustus Kippersalt in the borough record-books I had dismissed him from my mind, as he had recently been sent to a lunatic asylum, and so, I had thought at the time, could not be the Mr. Kippersalt I was seeking.

In a sense I had been correct, as the Mr. Kippersalt I was seeking no longer existed.

But Pertelote’s husband
had
been Augustus Kippersalt.

Who, I realised because of my interesting experience lying amidst a great deal of asparagus and my even more interesting asparagus-related insight, did not reside in Colney Hatch at all. In fact, I would wager my nose that he was “planted” in quite an oversized hothouse box. I believed this so strongly that—a trifle regretfully, for I rather liked Pertelote—I had sent to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard an anonymous note detailing my suspicions and suggesting that he might want to check into the matter.

As the murder of Augustus Kippersalt had been concealed, no death certificate had ever been filed.

So, as he was still legally alive, Mr. Kippersalt might be declared mad. How Flora had forged the paperwork I did not know and might never know. Neither did I know how she—probably disguised as a man—had lured Dr. Watson out of his club, or upon what pretext she had arranged for the “body snatchers” to put him away. But in essence, it was obvious to me how she had taken her revenge.

“I put ’im where ’e put me,” she had said, or something of the like, to her sister whilst I listened from outside the window. “The place ’ll do for ’im.”

I imagined that being confined to Colney Hatch for any length of time might indeed have “done for” Dr. Watson, but I hoped that, having spent only a week there, he had come to no great harm.

It was perhaps fortunate that I had cut my face, as this circumstance kept me from acting too soon, and thereby perhaps giving myself away.

Not until nearly a fortnight later—well after Dr. Watson had resumed the routine of his medical practice—did the lovely Miss Everseau once again pay a social call upon the gentle-hearted Mrs. Watson.

With my “recondite emollients” subtly disguising my almost-healed face and with my little birthmark glued to my temple, with my wig in quite a stylish coif secured over my own incorrigible hair and with the very latest in hats pinned to the front of the wig, I daresay I looked fetching, if not positively divine, in lace-trimmed buttercup-and-cream mousseline. For this occasion I carried a bouquet of primrose, apple blossom and mignonette: primrose for happiness yet to come, apple blossom for good health and mignonette—I hoped Mary Morstan Watson would understand the mignonette as expressing my very high estimation of her. The mignonette itself is an unassuming little blossom, but it gives off the sweetest fragrance. It is a gift for a person of remarkable virtue hidden by equally remarkable modesty.

As I stood once more on her well-scrubbed doorstep and sent in my calling-card,
Miss Viola Everseau
, I did not doubt that she would see me, but I wondered whether she would confide in me as before.

My mission, you see, was to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing more.

Although as it turned out, much, much more was in store for me.

“Miss Everseau!” As artless as a spray of mignonette in her meek taupe at-home dress, she hurried to me with both hands extended in welcome. “How very thoughtful, how very exceptional of you to call again! And what lovely flowers!” She buried her face in their aroma before handing them over to the parlour-maid. “Really, you are too kind.”

“I beg to disagree. I believe you to be a woman who deserves every kindness.”

“But I want for nothing now. My happiness is complete; I am sure you know, John is back, safe and sound.”

“So I heard, with great relief, although not such, I imagine, as to match yours.”

“Oh! I quite nearly fainted with joy when I saw him. Please, do sit down! Let me ring for some refreshment.” I need not have worried about her reticence; she showed every indication of wishing to tell me the whole story. I needed only to ask her in a general way, as we sipped tea and nibbled lemon-wafers, whether the police deserved any credit for her husband’s safe return.

“Not at all. The police confess themselves utterly at a loss in the matter.”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, then?”

“Even he remains confounded. We have no idea who the villain was…what happened, you see, is that a man John did not recognise at all came into his club asking for him, and told him that Mr. Sherlock Holmes most urgently requested his assistance in a matter of some delicacy. John says he became a bit suspicious when the messenger told him to leave his cards, his black bag and so forth behind the davenport so as not to appear to be a medical man—it was an odd-looking fellow, you see, something wrong with his face—but still, he seemed plausible, and of course Mr. Holmes has often summoned John on queer adventures. So off he went like a lamb to the slaughter, and no sooner had he followed his betrayer around the first corner than a constable and some other gentleman leapt out of a black carriage and seized him. Naturally he struggled against them and protested, ‘What are you doing? I cannot be delayed; I am on my way to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes!’ Then the one with the odd face said, ‘You see how it is?’ and the constable said, ‘Yes, indeed. Classic monomania. Come along, Mr. Kippersalt.’”

“Kippersalt?” I exclaimed, playing the part of one who knew nothing of the matter. “Have I not recently seen that name mentioned in the news?”

“Yes, it was the name of that man who seems to have been murdered and buried in a hothouse.”

“Might there be a connection, I wonder?”

“Mr. Holmes thinks so. He is looking into it. At any rate these people in the black carriage thought John’s name was Kippersalt. He told them, ‘You’re terribly mistaken; my name is Watson! Dr. John Watson!’ but they continued to lay hands upon him, saying, ‘Now, now, Mr. Kippersalt, come along quietly,’ and when John insisted, a nurse appeared out of the carriage, saying, ‘Do please calm yourself, Mr. Kippersalt,’ and he felt the jab of a syringe. The next thing he knew he was in the lunatic asylum, and no one would listen to him. The misunderstanding was quite enough to drive one mad, he says, if one were not deranged already.”

“How very clever,” I murmured, now seeing how Flora had combined Kippersalt’s name and Watson’s fame to the downfall of the latter. “How very
diabolical
,” I amended.

“Diabolical, indeed!”

The maid came in with my offering of flowers attractively presented in a green glass vase, placing it on top of the spinnet. The fragrance of mignonette filled the pleasant little parlour—much more pleasant without any bizarre bouquets in it.

After the maid had departed, I asked, “Is it known who arranged this fiendishly legal abduction?”

“We cannot yet say, but John thinks it was tit-for-tat by some insane person whom he may have committed in his career. When he can spare time from his practice, he is studying his medical records for clues.”

“Who found him, then? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not at all!”

I quite expected her then to credit Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

But instead she said, “The identity of John’s rescuer is perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the entire affair. It seems…” For the first time Mrs. Watson hesitated, and I did not press her, for I felt myself to be on questionable ground, ethically. But with a little frown and a lift of her chin, Mrs. Watson leaned towards me. “I cannot think what possibly can be the harm of telling you, Miss Everseau: Miss
Enola
Holmes was instrumental in returning my husband to me.”

“Miss Enola Holmes?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s younger sister.”

“Sister? I did not know he had a sister.” The keen interest in my voice was not feigned, for in that moment I realised how very useful Mrs. Watson’s disclosures could be to me.

“It is not generally known,” she explained, “for the girl is a worry to her family, very willful and boyish, indeed to the extent that…well, her brothers do not exactly know where she is.”

“I beg your
pardon
?”

Mrs. Watson then spoke at considerable length; I will spare the gentle reader her narration of how I had come to be on my own, hiding in London. What mattered to me was that her account tallied exactly with my own estimation of my brothers’ knowledge of me: with one enormously important exception, which I uncovered somewhat as follows.

“You have never met this extraordinary girl?” I inquired.

“No! We have no idea how or why she involved herself in the matter.”

“You have only just learned of her existence?”

“Well, no, I did hear—you see, my husband confided in me—he had become so concerned about his friend’s emotional state that he took it upon himself to contact Dr. Ragostin.”

“Dr. Ragostin?” I echoed with appropriate incomprehension.

“The so-called Scientific Perditorian.” Her tone carried as much scorn as her sweet voice was capable of conveying. “A charlatan, John now thinks.”

“Your husband learned nothing from this Dr. Ragostin?”

“He never even
saw
the man. He dealt only with a young woman who served as secretary.”

“I wonder whether it could be my friend Marjory Peabody,” I murmured in absent-minded tones. “Terrible what the decline in agriculture has done to the old landed families, you know. Marjory has been forced to take a position with some sort of doctor. Do you know Dr. Ragostin’s secretary’s name?”

“I’m sorry to say I do not. I know nothing of her.”

“Not even her appearance? Is she fair-haired, and plump?”

“I really cannot say. My husband barely spoke of her; he took no notice of her.”

My demeanour as Mrs. Watson told me these words of salvation remained, I think and hope, quite civilised, as did my manner as she continued to detail the mystery surrounding Enola Holmes and her role in the rescue of Dr. Watson. But all the while, as eventually the tale was told and I arose, congratulated Mrs. Watson, embraced her, with fervid good wishes, and departed—a perfect lady—during all of this my mind, like a dirty-faced child, leapt and shrieked, turned cartwheels and displayed the most immodest hand-stands whilst joyously yelling: Hooray for the simple, goodhearted Dr. Watson!

A few weeks ago I had written on a list:

But from what Mrs. Watson had just said, one must assume nothing of the sort!

Unless—could she have been coached to say this to entrap me?

No, I felt sure not. It was simply not logically possible, for no one could have known or expected I would be visiting, in whatever guise. Moreover, Mrs. Watson’s observations had the ring of truth about them, the tender forbearance of a wife towards a somewhat obtuse and absent-minded husband. As I walked away from Dr. Watson’s residence, mentally I invoked blessings upon his kindly and rather dense head forever. Heaven love the man, he attached no importance to Miss Meshle; he failed to remember her last name, let alone her first.

And such being the case, even if he had confessed to Sherlock Holmes concerning his visit to that charlatan, Dr. Ragostin, he had not told my brother anything of Ivy Meshle.

Hence, great happiness to me:

I could be Ivy Meshle again.

I could continue to pursue my life’s calling.

(Necessarily I restrained myself from skipping, rather than walking at a well-bred pace, as I trod the very respectable pavements of Oxford Street.)

And someday, after I had come of age and could no longer legally be sent hither and yon against my will, someday, nearly seven long years away but nevertheless worth dreaming upon, someday I would pursue that calling under my own name.

Enola Holmes, the world’s first and only
real
private consulting Scientific Perditorian.