The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets

by Nancy Springer

  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.

  CHAPTER THE TENTH

  IT IS MUCH TO THE CREDIT OF THE PLATTER-FACED proprietess that she did not gawk or exclaim as I entered Pertelote’s. She only gazed, and murmured, “My goodness. Good ’eavens. And you carry it off splendidly. My congratulations, Miss, ah, Everseau.”

  So she recognised the wig and the birthmark, remembered my unprepossessing appearance at the time of our transactions, and even recalled the name she had imprinted upon my calling-cards.

  “Thank you.” I smiled. She knew as well as I did that the name I used was not my own, just as I was not what I appeared to be, but I heard nothing mocking, condescending or sly in her voice; hers was a warm sort of discretion, one might even say motherly—

  As if Mum ever mothered me?

  Do not think about Mum.

  “’Ow may I ’elp you today?”

  With some difficulty I disciplined my thoughts to attend to my business, which was to question Pertelote without appearing to do so. Therefore, I had to pretend to be in her shop for some other purpose. “The Spanish papers,” I murmured. “I find them rather awkward. Have you anything…else…”

  “Of course. This way.”

  She led me to a back alcove screened off from the rest of the shop, where she revealed to me a number of remarkable substances—liquid, paste and powdered—that could be discreetly used to enhance one’s eyes. Eye-drops to increase brilliance. Eyelash augmentation to obviate the need for tasteless fakery. Eyelid and eyebrow glosses, “shadows,” and pastel colouring.

  “The secret,” explained Pertelote, “is to use just a ’int. One’s advantage is spoilt if one’s ’and is detected.”

  Seated on a divine little lace-skirted dressing-chair at a well-lighted mirror, dabbing miracle-working unguents onto my face as she directed me, I exclaimed, “Fascinating!”

  “Quite so.”

  “Are these materials used in the theatre?”

  “No, these are too subtle for the stage. These are rather recondite emollients, Miss Everseau. One might find them ’idden in the dressing-table drawers of countesses, duchesses, even queens.”

  Merest cant, of course, yet I found myself half believing her. Greatly impressed, I looked up at her plain large-featured face flanked by buns of grey hair. “I feel honoured. But how ever did you come to discover these?”

  “Why, in the business way.”

&n
bsp; “But how came you into this sort of business?”

  “One who is ugly beyond ’ope dealing in the secrets of beauty, you mean?” She uttered these shockingly frank words with a smile in which I saw not the slightest trace of bitterness, only amusement. “It is ironic, is it not.”

  Her extraordinary honesty both delighted and perplexed me. “That is not what I meant at all,” I told her sincerely. “How does a woman come to undertake such a queer sort of shop as this?”

  I noticed that—oddly, for such a forthright person—she hesitated slightly before telling me, “Oh, well, it was my ’usband’s at first, you see.”

  “Ah! Chaunticleer was your husband?”

  Chaunticleer could not by any stretch of fancy have been his real name, of course. I suppose that is why she smiled rather oddly.

  I extrapolated further. “And was he an actor, or some such, that he entered into merchandising of this sort?”

  “No, not at all.” She seemed less and less inclined to answer my questions.

  “But he has now, ah, passed away?” In the natural order of things she would have taken over the shop because she was widowed.

  “No, ’e’s retired.”

  Her tone attempted to put an end to my curiosity, but I refused to be quelled. “Truly? How delightful for him,” I prattled. “How does he spend his time now?”

  “Oh, in ’is precious ’ot’ouse.” The answer shot out of her in such a harsh tone, one would have thought he killed puppies for a pastime.

  Hothouse?

  I had come here intending somehow to find out whether she had any male customers who required false noses, but had found out instead that she had a husband who, perhaps, cultivated rather nasty flowers?

  “You dislike the hothouse?” I inquired meekly.

  “I dislike the ’usband,” she answered, grimly yet with such disarming candour that we both laughed. Then she changed the subject. “Would you like to see the latest emollients to en’ance the lips, Miss Everseau?”

  In order to placate her, I applied some rosy colour to my mouth, after which I selected amongst the “recondite emollients” she had showed me, making a purchase generous enough, I hoped, to make her think kindly of me. Once the items were done up in a brown paper parcel, I placed it in my string shopping bag, then hesitated in Pertelote’s doorway at the moment of departure. It seemed to me that, having failed to work the conversation around to my objective, I must be direct, and that I must ask now or never.

  “I wonder,” I started in a by-the-bye sort of way, “do you ever have occasion, Mrs., ah…” My pause inquired her name.

  “Kippersalt,” she said, rather reluctantly.

  “Ah. Mrs. Kippersalt, have you ever had occasion to provide false ears, perhaps, or fingers, for people who have lost their own?”

  She started to nod and declare with some small pride, “Why, certainly—”

  But I had not yet finished speaking. “Or a false nose, perhaps?”

  Her nodding abruptly ceased, and her tone of voice turned sharp. “Why do you ask?”

  “An acquaintance of mine has had a most interesting, if somewhat discomfiting, encounter with a man whose false nose came off,” I said. “I just wondered—”

  She burst out, “What’s ’e done now?”

  Interesting!

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “Never mind.” Her usual smile had quite turned into a scowl, and suddenly conscious of her big-boned size and strength, I needed to discipline myself not to step away from her. All that was motherly about her had transformed to menace. “What yer prying for?” she demanded, her accent more Cockney by the moment, her fists on her ample hips as she glowered at me. “’Oo are you? Now ye know my name, what’s yers?” Then, when I did not reply, “I don’t want yer business! Get out and don’t come ’ere again.”

  I did not linger to argue the point, but left with the most lively curiosity capering in my mind. I had, after all, come to Pertelote—Mrs. Kippersalt, I reminded myself, Kippersalt; I must remember that name—I had come only to see whether it was possible for a man with a missing nose to wear a rubber one, and, if so, did she know of any instances?

  Well. It would certainly appear that she did, painfully so, and more so than she desired anyone to know, but what should I do about this?

  Making my way down Holywell Street, I quite wanted to stop and sit somewhere to think, perhaps on paper—but I could not pause, indeed I hastened my pace, for despite my mental abstraction I had noticed quite a majority of masculine heads turning as I passed, numerous unsolicited greetings from the “gents” loitering around the print-shops, and a male pest following me—no, two of them! What in the name of Heaven—

  Then I realised I was still wearing the lip colouring and various tints, “shadows,” glosses, eyelash amplifier, et cetera that I had put on in Pertelote’s hidden alcove.

  Oh, dear. Men were such simpletons. The more artifice, the more they…such imbeciles, to be enchanted by a wig, some padding and a little paint. Had I rendered myself a bit too ravishing?

  At last I reached the more spacious pavements of the Strand. Hurrying away from Holywell Street, searching for some place of refuge, I heard the familiar call of a boy with newspapers to sell: “Piper! Piper!” in a Cockney accent. Striding to where he stood, I flipped my penny into his waiting cap and took a newspaper, which I opened at once, standing where I was, simply to hide behind.

  Having done so, by an effort of will I calmed my own breathing. As was my usual remedy in trying moments, I envisioned my mother’s face and brought to mind her oft-repeated words to me: “Enola, you will do quite well on your own.” But rather than settling me, the thought of Mum made my heart lurch, for that message—IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM—I had not yet replied—had it come from her or had it not?

  Too many problems. What to do about Mum. What to do about the strange behaviour of Mrs. Kippersalt. What to do about the missing Dr. Watson. Scanning the “agony columns” of the newspaper I held, I looked for an answer to “Hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies” and without much satisfaction I found it:

  “M.M.W.: Deadly nightshade. Thank Yew.”

  Not at all helpful. Only frightening.

  The deadly nightshade, an attractive wildflower whose berries were poisonous, while not to be found in any of the usual lexicons of the meanings of bouquets, posed a clear enough threat by its name. The mocking insertion of yew, symbol of graveyards, made it even clearer: a death threat towards, presumably, poor Dr. Watson.

  Good heavens, I had to do something, but what? Immobile behind my shielding newspaper, I stood trying to think, but found it almost impossible to formulate any rational plan when, out of the corners of my eyes, I glimpsed masculine forms lingering nearby, ogling me, and knew they intended to follow me—although I still found it difficult to believe what fools the generality of men were! But experience forced me to conclude that the sight of a pretty woman turned most of them into jackasses. Why, look at how the male clerks in the newspaper offices had changed their manner towards me when I—

  A most illuminating thought opened my eyes wide.

  Male clerks.

  Newspaper offices.

  Hmm. Chancy—for I lacked experience in the feminine art of flirtation—but certainly worth a try. I had nothing to lose by the attempt.

  Folding my newspaper and thrusting it into my string bag along with my parcel, I strode to the nearest cab-stand, ignoring the pests trailing me. Selecting a four-wheeler in which to conceal myself, I told the driver, “Fleet Street.”

  CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

  EN ROUTE, I SET MY PLANS IN ORDER IN MY MIND. The object of my sortie was twofold: to learn a description, if not the actual identity, of the person who had placed “Deadly nightshade, thank Yew”—but also to try to find out whether it had indeed been my mum who had sent the message “desire mistletoe” to me.

  I decided I must address the matter of the bizarre bouquets
first, for Dr. Watson’s life might well be at stake. Secondarily, I admitted to another, selfish reason: Assuming that “Deadly nightshade, thank Yew” had been placed in all the newspapers, I would have several opportunities to try out my plan—but 422555 415144423451 et cetera (IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE) having appeared only in the Pall Mall Gazette, I must know what I was doing by the time I got there.

  In the privacy of the cab I extracted scissors from my bust in order to clip today’s message from my newspaper before discarding the latter. Then, at the busiest corner of Fleet Street (for I did not wish to be noticed) I rapped on the roof of the cab to bid the driver to stop. After paying my fare, I walked a few steps to the nearest newspaper office (it happened to be the Daily Telegraph) and approached the desk, where a young man of the “gent” persuasion was diddling with pen and blotter.

  “Excuse me,” I lisped in the wispiest voice I could manage.

  He glanced up quite indifferently, but upon taking in my pulchritude of person, he straightened to attention like a bird dog on point.

  Cooing, “Would you happen to remember who placed this personal advertisement?” I showed him my clipping.

  “I, um…” With difficulty he managed to read it and ogle me at the same time. “Deadly nightshade, thank Yew. Ah, yes, that is an odd one. I seem to recall—”

  “We do not give out such information,” interrupted quite a starchy female voice; I glanced up to find an older woman in (also starchy) bombazine, obviously a supervisor, standing by. She glowered down upon the young fellow at the desk, but directed her remarks towards me, scolding as if I were a schoolchild, “If you were to place a personal advertisement, you would not desire to have your identity disclosed, now, would you?”

  Taking my clipping back from the hapless clerk, I turned and exited with such dignity as I could muster. So much for the Daily Telegraph.