Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

  “What pray tell are you doing?” I could almost see steam coming from her ears; her eyes were like daggers—or letter openers.

  Not being adept at spying or lying, I leaned my hip against the desk, and allowed my eyeballs to spin, which wasn’t too difficult. “I have had one of my spells! There are times when I walk in my sleep as well as when I am in a faint. I did not mean to pry at your things.” Even I didn’t believe me.

  Lady Beryl’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “It is true. I must sleep with my shoes on as a precaution.” It was the lamest excuse ever and I deserved the soaking I received as Lady Beryl splashed the large cup of water in my face. I wiped my nose with my sleeve as she lifted me off my feet by my left elbow and walked me out the door.

  Slam! I stood in the corridor, blinking the water from my eyes. The Queen and Florence would not be happy and Lord Melbourne might think me a lady buffoon. I don’t think I was crying but it felt like it.

  Of a sudden an arm wrapped around me and pulled me into a nook. Moon took out his handkerchief and handed it to me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry but since laughter is more in my nature I broke into a giggling fit. He struggled but finally gave in and joined me. Once I was fairly dry, we proceeded down the hall, retracing our steps towards the Queen’s quarters.

  “I am told I am to accompany you on an adventure this evening. The details are rather sketchy but we are going to the alley behind the dress shop? Does that sound about right?”

  I brought my hand to my mouth. “Oh dear! I had forgotten about our mission to rescue the seamstresses. I imagine I will see you later this evening. Perhaps by then I will be dry.” Placing my finger to my lips I cautioned him. “The walls have ears, let us not discuss the plans.”

  We arrived at the doorway of the Queen’s parlor where we were to reconvene. Perhaps no one would notice my wet bodice or saturated side curls. Why did Lady Beryl use such a big cup? A small one would have been sufficient.

  There were two guards standing at either side of the entrance, which meant the Queen was in the parlor. The guard on the right opened the door and I stepped inside.

  Chapter 24

  I shall always remember the expression on Florence’s face when I entered the parlor. She takes many things in her stride but my dripping appearance caught her off guard. Lord Melbourne jumped from his seat and placed his cloak around me for the room was chilly. I shivered as I curtsied to the Queen whose expression mirrored the one on my mentor’s face.

  Dodging any explanation of my condition, I said, “Lady Beryl has her own ink blotter and matching letter opener. The murder weapon is not hers.” I avoided fixing my eyes on any of them but rather looked lower. “The ceramic murder weapon does not match anything she had in or on her desk,” I spoke to the Queen’s chin. Taking the same chair I had vacated less than an hour ago I held my head high acting as if I had satisfied the requirements of my mission.

  “Does your current condition have any bearing on the murder of Lady Julia?” Florence asked. “Is there something we might gain from learning why you are…wet?”

  “Only that Lady Beryl possesses a temper that can result in unpredictable actions,” I said, giving her my most nonchalant shrug.

  Florence turned to Queen Victoria. “I believe what Miss Throckmorten is trying to explain is that she was caught spying. Our suspect is now wise to us.”

  “Unless and until a more viable suspect is presented, Lady Beryl will be kept from the Queen. Now that she knows we are watching her, there is no reason to be discreet about our surveillance,” Lord Melbourne said. “I will have Captain Wainright put a guard at the door of her room and Samuel will continue to shadow her.”

  “We will put off all meetings until we understand who is behind the assassination attempt for that is how I have come to think of it,” Queen Victoria said. She seemed quite contained in the face of such a frightening prospect. “Lezhen will stay with me; we will keep the guards on my chambers at all times.” The Queen held her spaniel in her lap. “Is there not a sentinel dog about the Palace? A second animal unknown and unexpected would put our mind at ease.”

  “I believe the Dragoons employ a few dogs to walk the grounds at night,” Lord Melbourne said. “I shall request that two large hounds sit in this room while we take the coach to the dress shop to rescue the seamstresses. Your Majesty, please do not concern yourself with the hounds but do keep little Dash confined.”

  Florence released Athena from her pocket and stroked the little bird’s head. She was thinking—Florence was, not Athena. “Once we have helped the seamstresses escape would it not be wiser to bring them to a safe house rather than let them go to their planned destination of the sanctuary at St. Peter’s Church? They must know more than they realize and would be a threat to whoever is behind this plot.”

  “I would not have them here,” the Queen said. “Bring them to St. James’s Palace. They will be safe there and you may question them in private,” she said to Florence. “Until we know where their loyalties lay let us use every precaution.”

  “Perhaps we should act normal this evening and have dinner in the small dining room?” Lord Melbourne said. “Just those of us here plus Baroness Lehzen. No other guests will join us and we will maintain double guards on the door.”

  Florence pocketed Athena. “I am ravenous and we will need our energy for tonight’s adventure.” As if suddenly struck with an idea, she turned to Queen Victoria. “I would suggest you have a royal food taster brought in; but do it discreetly.”

  The Queen nodded, a touch of sorrow falling on her brow, the thought seemed to weaken her. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Where had I heard that expression? It didn’t matter. What did matter was that it was time to attend to my toilette.

  Our group broke up and set about freshening for the evening’s events. It was agreed we would not discuss any of our suspicions or plans at dinner for it could be dangerous if we were overheard. Any threat to the Queen might come from inside the Palace as well as from the Chartists.

  Chapter 25

  The unmarked Palace coach pulled between two streetlights, four shops down from Mrs. Dupree’s emporium. We had all taken care to dress in gray making us nearly invisible in the sooty air.

  Moon opened the door and unfolded the steps so that Lord Melbourne could hand Florence from the carriage. I tamped down my fears. My friend was insistent on approaching the shop alone—except for the company of a short man who slipped along the darkened shadows of the shops just a few steps ahead of her. How Lord Melbourne had found Jack Jones, I did not care to ask, but the little fellow was an expert at picking locks.

  Florence walked along the street as if it was daylight and she had friends surrounding her. Someday I hoped to have a smidgen of her confidence. Thank goodness it was a short distance or she might have found herself in trouble since a lady walking alone at night was prey in many ways.

  Under the faint glow of the single streetlight I watched as Jones skittered to the darkened door, fiddled for a second, and then scampered off into the night. He reminded me of a rat grabbing a piece of cheese from a trap.

  Walking gingerly up the steps, Florence rapped once softly on the door, then opened it and slipped inside. There was a good chance that Mr. Harley or one of his people had stayed the night to guard the shop. Perhaps a Chartist guard lurked between the fabric counters; if he did he might regret challenging Miss Florence Nightingale for though she believed in protecting the working class, she did not take kindly to thugs.

  Lord Melbourne removed his pocket watch and squinted at it. “It is five minutes before midnight.” He rapped on the top of the carriage and the driver slowly left the street, the horses moving as if on padded hoofs.

  We pulled into the alley behind the shop, and waited in near silence. Less than a minute later a dark form tumbled from an open window on the second floor. The escapee clung to a long knotted cloth and then dropped lightly to the ground. She held the bottom of the fabric
steady until the next seamstress shimmied down to join her. When three were standing together, two women broke off and inched along the wall. I barely saw them in the darkness but when they drew closer one of our horses whinnied. The women jumped back stricken, for horses did not linger in alleys unattended. More bundle-like seamstresses continued to slide silently from the window, working their way to the ground.

  It was now my turn to step out of the shadows. Realizing these women must be in a state of extreme agitation, I approached slowly. Lord Melbourne had been reluctant to permit me to leave the carriage. When I stepped down I could almost hear Moon’s heart thumping—or was that mine? The ladies were struggling to save their lives; anyone of them might be carrying a knife or scissors.

  Speaking in a gentle whisper, I came out of the shadows. “Ladies, it’s me. Miss Throckmorten, from this afternoon? I have come to help you escape.”

  The largest of the women lunged at me. Dang! I dodged her and barely missed being stabbed in the arm by the scissors she carried. I stuck out my boot and tripped her hoping she didn’t land on her weapon; it was crucial she did not stomp off into the night barking a warning. The scissors hit the cobblestones with a clank while her body made a loud offing sound.

  “Please do not be afraid”” I yell-whispered. “I have brought some friends to help you.” It was like gathering feral kittens in a basket to calm them and inform them they were among friends.

  Guiding them to the carriage as quietly as possible, I introduced them to Mr. Moon and Mr. Melbourne, since using titles would have only upset them. I doubted a single one of them had ever encountered a peer, and having a footman seemed like putting on airs.

  Alert for Mr. Harley’s henchwoman in crime, I asked after Miss Nancy. “She sleeps in the front parlor to keep away burglars.” One of the women answered.

  I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. This was not good news, for despite Florence’s height and physical strength she was no street fighter. To the best of my knowledge she carried no weapon and relied on her wits. She could out logic the best of them but she wasn’t prepared for Miss Nancy in the parlor with a candlestick.

  “And what of the butler?” I asked. The same woman responded. “Mr. Bailey was made redundant at the end of the work day. He was sent packing with little notice. The dear man is gone.” This was beginning to sound more and more as if a dark scheme was in the making.

  While Moon and Lord Melbourne were engaged in situating the women, I slipped down the crooked cobblestones moving unnoticed, then squeezed between two buildings. The small passage stunk worse than a pigsty. I held my nose until I approached the front of the shop.

  Careless of my footing and concerned for Florence I tripped over a pile of rags on the front stoop. “Ouch!” The rags stood up, and in the half-light of the streetlamp I recognized Roger Broadribbs!

  “Bindich!” I muttered. The word meant nothing but there are certain times when only a nonsense word will do.

  From what I could tell he was dressed like a chimney sweep, his face darkened with soot. “What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?”

  “Don’t be mad Poppy. I was certain you would return here, so I disguised myself and … well, I just waited.”

  “And what are you going to do now that you have found me?”

  “I saw Miss Nightingale enter and knew you couldn’t be far away. You might need my help although I cannot say I understand what this is all about.”

  Suddenly a thud resounded from the shop. I shoved Roger aside while clearly and distinctly ordering him not to follow me. Florence would not recognize him in the dark; she might deliver him a severe clobbering. “Stay here. If you come into the shop, I shall never speak to you again!” I speed-whispered and then crouched down, creeping in the front door.

  Chapter 26

  It was nearly pitch black in the front parlor of the dress shop, but the soft light of a candle from somewhere in the next room allowed me to make out the silhouette of a tall woman standing in the hall. Rather than call out, I waved to Florence who raised her hand in a stop motion. Obediently, I froze.

  Florence skirted her way toward me, leaned down, and whispered in my ear. “I have just been forced to whack Miss Nancy on the head—no permanent damage.” She moved her head toward a lump that matched Roger’s, aside from the costume.

  “I knew you would follow me. When will you learn to listen?” She tugged at my sleeve. “Since you are here, let us get on with it. Have the seamstresses made it safely into the carriage? Good. I have seen nothing of Mrs. Dupree but Miss Nancy was quite protective of the cellar door. Rather than going upstairs, it seems more logical that if the mistress is being held captive it would be where the women could not hear her cries for help.” Grabbing my arm, she led me to the basement door. I was thinking clearly enough to lift the single lit candle and carry it with us.

  The stairs creaked under our feet. I was prepared to feel a hand come out from between the steps and grab my ankles, but we made it to the bottom without any such occurrence. The smell was an abominable combination of a water closet and dead flowers. I fought down the bile that rose in my throat.

  The underground vault was a conglomeration of bolts of fabric, huge spools of thread, and barrels labeled gunpowder. I reached to touch Florence but she had lunged ahead spurred on by something deeper in the cavern. Not trusting myself to negotiate around the explosives while carrying the candle, I remained still—all except my knees, which trembled like leaves in a gale.

  “Hand me the candle!” Florence called.

  “Come and get it. I dare not move,” I spoke through tightened lips trying not to blow out the flame.

  With a snort of frustration Florence stepped toward me, her steady hand taking the melting taper. “There is a body lying just under those timbers. We must get a better look.”

  Following Florence into the shop seemed like a noble act, but now I was not so sure. How could I possibly protect her from a body and barrels of gunpowder? I scanned the floor around me and seeing nothing trip-able, I tiptoed after my friend hoping it wasn’t a corpse-type body but more the temporarily passed out kind.

  My friend held the candle over the form of a woman, dressed to the nines with a thick coil of rope binding her arms and legs, and a yellow cloth tied round her mouth. “This must be Mrs. Dupree. She is dead,” Florence said. “I would hope she passed quickly but we won’t know until Mr. Fowler has had at her.” She spoke tersely but I sensed she was affected.

  Holding the candlestick fixedly and bending over the body, Florence sniffed the corpse coming so close to the dead woman’s face I wondered if my mentor had forgotten about germs. “I smell no arsenic or other poisons. Though there is a strong scent of something like roses, but not flowers. Odd.” She stepped back appearing to formulate a plan.

  “If this is Mrs. Dupree she is not going anywhere, but we do need to bind Miss Nancy and request assistance from the Dragoons before Mr. Harley returns.” Florence said. “I will continue to hold the candle while you take up a spool of the thickest thread.”

  Giving the yarns a quick look I grabbed a roll of cord and followed Florence up the stairs, where Miss Nancy was beginning to come around. Standing the candle on a sideboard, and then using a technique I had seen her use before when bandaging wounds, Florence quickly bound the woman so that when she came around she wore an expression that made her look like a rabbit confronting a pack of dogs. She opened her mouth to scream only to receive a wad of fabric wedged tightly in her jaw.

  “Now run and tell Lord Melbourne. He must leave with the women and send at least a dozen Dragoons back here!” Florence pointed toward the door.

  “I can’t leave you here alone even for the short time it would take to alert His Lordship. What if Mr. Harley returns?”

  “Poppy Throckmorten, listen to me! Someone must get to Lord Melbourne and you are the only one who can do it!”

  A small groan escaped my lips. There was another way. “Roger i
s just outside the door!” I said.

  “Roger? Roger? Broadribbs?” Her eyes were like two beams of light as she stared at me. “Do not bother to explain. Just send him to Lord Melbourne with the message I have just shared. We require soldiers!”

  “No. We do not!” I was amazed I spoke out so boldly but it made more sense to get the corpse and Miss Nancy out of the shop where we could interrogate them—well, not Mrs. Dupree. “If a troop of Dragoons were to meet up with the Chartists on the street, the anarchists might seize the opportunity to begin a riot.”

  An expression of mentor pride flashed across Florence’s face, to be quickly replaced by a command. “Send Roger Broadribbs around back to the carriage with a request that Lord Melbourne direct the driver to bring the coach to the front immediately.”

  Poor Roger appeared stunned when I ordered him to perform. “Is this to protect you?” he asked.

  I had to throw him that bone. “Yes. You are protecting me, and all of us. But go now! Tell Lord Melbourne to bring the coach here straightaway! Call out your name as you approach the carriage. In your current state Lord Melbourne and Moon will not recognize you.”

  “Moon is here?” he growled.

  “Just go before I let someone else help me!” The man-child had a way of rattling my nerves.

  Chapter 27

  Three minutes later, the coach and six rolled quietly up the street. I was amazed at how silent a half-dozen horses can be; it was as if they wore slippers on their feet. It wasn’t until the following day that Lord Melbourne would describe how terrified the women were to learn they were being taken to the front of the shop. To prevent them from clambering from the coach he convinced them that they were rescuing Mrs. Dupree.