Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

  At the risk of interrupting her thoughts for they traveled in a straight line and did not take to being broken, I reminded her of something. “Should we not help those pitiable ladies with their escape plan? Since we overheard it and knowing if they fail, they could fall afoul of Mr. Harley, we must do something to help them.”

  Florence drew her lips into a grimace. “Poppy dear, you are right. We shall speak to the Queen about rescuing Mrs. Dupree’s seamstresses. Perhaps Her Majesty will agree to send a carriage to the alley behind the shop at midnight.”

  “The ladies won’t get into a strange coach in the dark of night unless they see a face with which they are familiar,” I said, knowing at least one of the seamstresses would recognize me. My words marked me as a volunteer rescuer of a clutch of seamstresses on the run. Open mouth, Insert foot.

  Florence returned to dictating her list. “Number three would be the mystery lady who was at odds with the corset maker, Mrs. Medici. The butler described her as a tall well-dressed blonde woman who acted warily.”

  Granny queried, “Is being well-dressed a clue?”

  “She would not be a Chartist,” I added. “Unless we have encountered a group of society matrons who are in league with the laboring class.”

  The three of us shook our heads in unison. Hardly the case for there was little sympathy for the invisibles in upper crust of society.

  If there was anything we had forgotten, it would come to us later. We arrived at the Palace only to find that the Queen was meeting with the Privy Council. We were escorted to Her Majesty’s private parlor. I wondered if Lady Beryl might be on the loose and aware of our presence.

  Chapter 18

  Sitting in the Queen’s private salon for yet another meeting, I thought it a quirk of human nature that no matter how many times people revisit a room, they will almost always seek out the same seat. Are we creatures of habit, or like a woodland animal do we pick a perch and return to it for comfort?

  I watched Granny twist her ropey hands, the blue veins bulging in anticipation. Her birdlike body shook from excitement. Speaking of bird bodies, Florence called for a footman, not Moon but another young man she had specifically retained as her mouse catcher.

  Matthew the Catcher arrived with a small cup of mouse pieces that sent Granny and me leaping from our chairs. We paced the room trying not to look while Florence fed the tidbits to Athena using a pair of small wooden tweezers the footman had created for her. Peeking between my fingers I could see Athena enthusiastically gobbling bit after bit as Matthew provided a keen audience.

  After a few pieces, Florence felt Athena’s belly and deemed she had eaten enough. She returned the cup, tweezers, and remaining mouse bits to the footman. He looked at her quizzically.

  “Young owls do not know when they have had enough. They are not like human youngsters,” Florence said. “I must feel her belly to judge if it is full. If I allowed her to keep feeding she might become sick or even die.” It tickled me to hear Florence lecture the young man on the care and feeding of an owl for she enjoyed nothing more than teaching—except healing. And if Florence was happy, then I was happy.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Should I ever be so fortunate to find a baby owl I will bear that in mind.” Matthew left carrying the cup of remaining ickies. While Granny and I reassembled in the low-armed chairs, Florence burst into a chuckle—well more like a big smile—as she was not a woman given to fits of hilarity. “You both have the exact same expression on your faces. You look as if you smelled something foul! It was only mouse bits!” she said.

  I swallowed down a gag thinking I might ask my mentor about the germ content of mouse pieces, but decided it would be best to let Florence and Athena dwell in their after meal contentment. Athena rubbed the top of her feathery head against Florence’s palm, closing her huge eyes in an expression of pure bliss, while Florence cooed softly, bringing the owlet to her lips.

  Lord Melbourne entered the parlor greeting us warmly. He wore an odd combination of looks in his dark eyes: welcome, relief, and discomfort—almost embarrassment. At the least he no longer looked like a victim of melancholy, but from what Florence had taught me, depression can lay dormant only to return with a vengeance. I vowed to keep alert to changes in his demeanor and spread cheer whenever he was present.

  “I trust you had a productive visit with Mrs. Dupree?” His eyes darted from Florence to me and then to Granny. “The Queen should be here shortly,” he said while locking eyes with me. The faux grin on my face was as artificial as the forced twinkle in my eyes.

  As we took our seats two servants delivered tea and cakes on silver trays. The refreshments went untouched. Our silence produced a frown on His Lordship’s handsome brow. “Your quietude tells me you are carrying burdensome news. The Queen and I have some troubling information to share with you, but I shall wait for Her Majesty to arrive before we begin.”

  Turning to Granny, Lord M asked quite innocently, “Mrs. Throckmorten, was the dressmaker able to create something that pleases you? Will you be returning for a fitting?”

  Granny crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. She looked even more like a frazzled chicken. “Don’t ask!” she said through clenched teeth. When Lord M cut his eyes my way, I shook my head. We four continued to sit in silence until the Queen entered with Dash skipping at her side. She took her place on the settee and we began to chat.

  “We are pleased to see you have returned from your mission,” she said. “Were you able to discover anything suspicious at Mrs. Dupree’s shop?” When we did not answer right away, she fixed her eyes on Florence. “Is my dressmaker not well?”

  “I could not say Your Majesty,” Florence said.

  The Queen cast her a puzzled look. “Why is that?”

  “Because we did not see her.” Florence threw her shoulders back as if summoning the strength to inform Queen Victoria, “Mrs. Dupree has gone missing.”

  “Explain, please!” The Queen suddenly lost the control she normally exhibited in our company. Lord Melbourne leaned forward, ready to take action as soon as he learned the details. Men are like that—they will charge ahead to solve a problem with only the barebones of information. This was yet another thing I had learned from Florence. For a lady who had no intimate knowledge of men, she surely knew how they functioned. I often thought of her as someone who could analyze the workings of a cuckoo clock by merely glancing at it.

  Straightening her skirt and settling Athena deeper into her pocket, she proceeded to describe our day. “If I am any judge of character, I suspect Mr. Harley is in no way related to Mrs. Dupree. I believe he has taken over the dress shop and just might be using it as a Chartist’s cell.”

  I admired the way Florence provided the information without subjecting the Queen and Lord M to the chronology of how we discovered it. They would have a quicker understanding of her conclusions if she did not drag them through all the tiny details.

  “Your Majesty has a trusted relationship with the dressmaker. A lady who gained your respect could never be foolish enough to leave her business in the care of a dolt like Mr. Harley.”

  The Queen nodded her head solemnly.

  A little gurgling sound emanated from Florence’s pocket. She put her hand over the burping lump and continued to present her plan. “As to Mrs. Dupree’s health or lack thereof, we can only ascertain her condition by returning to the shop and seeing if she is being held in one of the rooms; if not, perhaps her neighbors might know if she truly has relatives in Paris. By the way Mr. Harley acted I am given to believe she is in the building.”

  “We shall send guards this very instant!” Queen Victoria said.

  “To protect Mrs. Dupree from harm, we should inspect the shop when Harley and his female assistant, Miss Nancy, are not there.” Florence waited to see how this information was received. Lord Melbourne responded first. “If this Harley fellow is harboring insurrectionists, it would do no good to send in a squadron of Dragoons. We could inadvertently ligh
t the fuse that has been smoldering for weeks within the working class.”

  The Queen again nodded in agreement. “It pains me to know my people are so unhappy that they must meet in secret and plan revolts. One would think we were the French,” she said.

  “There is a peaceful resolution to the demands of your people, Your Majesty. And we will achieve it through the cooperation of Parliament.” Lord Melbourne scrunched his face as if processing the weight of the world, or perhaps it was just the lingering scent of mouse guts.

  Florence continued to relay all that we had seen—many things surprised me for I had not noticed them or thought them of no concern. I was learning how important even the slightest detail might be. Nancy with the thread-less needle was one thing, but unlike Florence I had not noticed how the chairs were arranged in the front parlor. The seating was positioned so that they all faced in one direction as if listening to a speaker—perhaps Mr. Harley.

  Chapter 19

  “Do you think that all the seamstresses in the shop are assisting in an uprising?” A deep V edged between the Queen’s brows as she spoke.

  “No, I do not think that at all,” said Florence. “It appears the women are being held at the shop against their will and that this is a recent situation. We overheard them planning to escape at midnight tonight. It is my humble suggestion—let me rephrase that, I strongly believe that we must aid them in their decampment.”

  She paused to see how her information was being received. When neither the Queen nor Lord Melbourne made a comment, Florence continued. I was in awe of how her mind could lay a plan with such precision. When she finally received the funding for her hospital I had no doubt that she would build it one brick of logic cemented on the next and that it would last for generations.

  “As the seamstresses are escaping in an unmarked carriage provided by Your Majesty we can be certain Mr. Harley and his gang will pursue them. While the shop is vacated I can slip inside to see if Mrs. Dupree is being held captive and look for any signs of armaments. The butler may be about, but I believe we can trust him.”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan,” the Queen said. I can send a few Dragoons to accompany you—for your protection.”

  “With respect, Your Majesty,” Lord Melbourne said, “I firmly believe that the sight of a uniform may be just the excuse they are looking for to engage in a riot. I shall accompany Miss Nightingale and Miss Throckmorten to assist the seamstresses. We will take two footmen and use a coach large enough to hold the women. How many are there?”

  “There are eight ladies if we discount Miss Nancy, and the corset maker, Mrs. Medici. Let us hope those two women are home in their beds.”

  Queen Victoria looked thoughtful. “We do not recognize the name of this Mrs. Medici. Lord M is it possible to learn more of her background? I am certain Mrs. Dupree did not mention her. She does not make it a habit of naming her staff to me but the corset maker—Medici—the name conjures dark images.”

  Lord Melbourne was lost in thought. It was only when I whispered his name that he returned to us. “It is sensible to offer the women a carriage in which to make their escape,” he said. “But will they freely enter a strange coach? For all they know the coach might contain Chartists who might wish them harm.”

  “We have thought of that,” I said. “I will remain in the carriage while Florence slips into the shop. Some of the ladies are sure to recognize me. I am sure they noticed that we did not get on well with Mr. Harley and will take a chance that we are anti-Chartists or at the very least that we are friendly and wish to help them.”

  “I will enter the shop with Miss Nightingale for I cannot let a lady put herself in such danger. You will have two footmen with you, Miss Throckmorten.” He cast a fond glance at Granny who has very close to nodding off.

  “Mrs. Throckmorten, you have taken great risks today. Perhaps you would be best served by staying behind to rest,” Florence said. My mentor should have known better. Granny stiffened, taking the words as an insult rather than the consideration they were meant to be. “I most certainly will not stay behind and miss the rescue of those poor imprisoned women. You surely will need me if you are to attend this soiree without Dragoons!” She wore her most determined look; there was no changing her mind when she set herself to a task.

  I thought to divert the subject and asked about Lady Beryl.

  “The woman has not been out of sight of her guard, Samuel, since yesterday,” Lord Melbourne said. “Of course she is indignant at being a suspect. I visited her in the company of my manservant earlier today. She remained in her chambers; her pout lending her the appearance of a gargoyle.” He covered his mouth as if to capture the insult but it floated on the air causing a bit of tittering.

  “That reminds me,” Florence perked up, touching her finger to the side of her head. Was it the vision of a gargoyle that called something to her mind? I could hardly wait to hear what she had to say.

  “Poppy, show Lord Melbourne your sketch of the murder scene. Your details of the painting on the enameled handle of the knife are very accurate.”

  As I took my journal from my pocket I happened to glance up at Queen Victoria’s face. Her expression brought tears to my eyes. I felt sorry for exposing her to the memory of Lady Julia’s murder. Opening to the page with my detailed drawing of the handle of the knife I handed my journal to His Lordship.

  Lord Melbourne looked at the sketch, then at me, and finally continued studying the picture. “Well done, Miss Throckmorten. You do have an eye for elements. This blade appears to be more of a letter opener rather than a knife. What was the royal coroner’s conclusion?”

  A most unladylike snort escaped Florence’s nose and surprisingly she reddened. “Royal Coroner, hah! Mr. Fowler has been imbibing embalming fluid; I can smell it on his breath. I believe his coroner’s license should be revoked. If death ever finds me while I am at the Palace, please do not let that quack near my body.”

  The Queen’s eyes bulged as if someone were squeezing her neck. “Please Miss Nightingale, don’t hold back your thoughts. Speak your mind.” Her unusually witty remark sent me into a fit of giggles with Granny soon joining in. If one could pick a particular attribute for Florence it was that she never, but never bit her tongue.

  Once we had regained our serious composures, Lord Melbourne handed my journal back to me. “That is definitely not a knife. That’s a letter opener. There may be a matching handheld blotter, which would further link Lady Beryl to the murder. It was not proper for me to enter her room; I only spoke with her in the doorway.”

  Florence addressed me. “Poppy, one of us must find a reason to visit Lady Beryl’s rooms. We can’t trust anyone else. It will have to be you visiting her on the pretense of befriending her. You know what an awful actress I am.”

  “That’s an understatement,” I mumbled, trying to force the expression of horror off my face. I was to make nice to a murder suspect.

  Chapter 20

  I intercepted a peculiar look that passed between the Queen and Lord Melbourne. Studying his handsome, fatherly face I was treated to a view of manly embarrassment. “The Queen and I have our own information to share,” he said. “It is something unsettling. I don’t know why I should feel at fault and yet I cannot help myself.”

  The tension in the room must have been crackling beyond the sound of human ears, because Dash leaped from the settee and scrambled about at high speed, his ears flapping and his nails skittering. At the same time Athena popped her head from Florence’s pocket, her feathery little knob turned almost completely around and then poof! She disappeared back into her hiding place.

  Lord Melbourne clenched his hands, a frown wrinkled his brow, and his jaw seemed to lock. The Queen spoke in his stead. “Lord M, you had no way of knowing, nor can we be certain there is any connection to what you did and Julia’s murder…death.”

  “Please, go on,” Granny piped, moving to the edge of her perch.

  With a deep sigh Lord Melbourne
began, “I must face the fact —I know I have mentioned this before—that it was upon my recommendation Lady Julia was permitted to become a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. The girl was at the Palace because of me. I have tried to put it out of my mind but it torments me. That is our news. I am responsible for the girl’s death.” He spoke the last words in a dark ominous tone.

  Unable to bear the sadness that darkened his features, I said, “You had no way of knowing she would be in danger. This should be one of the safest places in England.”

  He seemed to be holding his breath, refraining from speaking the last few words. “I had asked Her Majesty to take Julia as one of her close companions in order to placate Mrs. Ponsonby. Cecile is—was related to the girl in some way. The woman nagged and nagged as only Cecile can until I agreed to have Julia placed in the Queen’s court.”

  Lord M had turned an unsettling shade of gray. “I met with Lady Julia and her parents. She was a girl of good character from a good family and so upon my decision her young life was nipped before it could bud. This all occurred before we left the Palace for Greece. When we returned I thought I would be here to assure her settling in, but then I placed my needs before hers and returned to Brocket Hall.”

  Was this more Palace intrigue or just a coincidence? A thought niggled at the edges of my mind. Why would that crazed butterfly wish to help anyone, let alone a pretty young thing like Lady Julia? Using the process of elimination Florence had taught me, I was left with only one reason. Mrs. Cecile Ponsonby placed a spy at court—someone to watch the Queen and Lord Melbourne. If my supposition was right was it inspired by jealousy or a darker motive? And did poor Julia know what she was committing to? Was she aware she was expected to act as a spy?

  “Have you told Mrs. Ponsonby of Julia’s murder yet?” Florence asked. I was certain her thinking was aligned with mine—it was a bit scary at times, how our observations converged.