Free The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline by Nancy Springer Page A

can assume she did not know what the card was for, or even realise she was carrying a message. The blackguards are currently cutting apart the blue dress you gave her, searching for something on paper. Now tell me, please, who are they?”
    Florence Nightingale said again, “I don’t know.”
    “But you could venture a guess!”
    “As young Lord Whimbrel is just entering the House of Lords, I would guess that his enemies are trying to obtain this artefact in order to embarrass his family name. But equally I could guess that it could be any of the friends or descendants of the officers mentioned in the communication. Indeed, it would be difficult to name any involved person who would not like to find it, including myself.” So disarming was this admission that it convinced me of her innocence. “I truly do not know. But I shall find out.” She said this in the matter-of-fact tones of a woman who does as she pleases with her life. “I have already taken steps in the matter.”
    “How so?”
    “When I received your note yesterday, it worried me. Even though I could not place Mrs. Tupper in my memory, it worried me exceedingly. So bethinking me of a rather well-known private consulting detective, I sent for him this morning. He should be here any moment now.”
    It was as if invisible hands clutched me by the throat, trying to strangle me. I felt Miss Nightingale watching my reaction, puzzled yet shrewd.
    “Who?” I managed to gasp.
    “You might as well tell me your name, dear, for I shall find it out eventually. The gentleman will oblige me, I am sure. I shall employ Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

CHAPTER THE TENTH
    MY BROTHER ! MIGHT WALK IN AT ANY MOMENT ! AND if he should find me here—
    The kindly reader will please remember that I had been under a great deal of duress, without much rest or sufficient food—but truly, there is no excuse. I should have addressed the problem with logic, reasoning it out. I did not.
    I blush to admit that, simply put, I panicked. With a yelp I shot to my feet, possessing no rational plan of action, only a blind fervour to flee the premises; without a word of explanation or farewell I darted around Miss Nightingale’s bed towards the door—
    But, quite nimbly, Miss Nightingale threw back her covers and jumped out of the other side of the bed, her plump bare feet below the lace hem of her nightgown engaging the floor as if it were a sprinter’s starting block; in a few swift strides she reached the door before I could do so, and set her back to it.
    This remarkable event—an invalid blocking my way—surprised me so much that astonishment trumped my senseless flight and halted me in the middle of the room.
    “Of what are you so frightened?” Florence Nightingale asked.
    At the same time I blurted, “What are you doing in a bed if you can walk?”
    “Heavens, the impertinence of the younger generation!” But her sweet, low voice did not vary in the slightest. “Return to your chair, dear, and I will endeavour to explain.”
    Feeling a bit abashed, I did so.
    “When I came home after nearly two years of tremendous exertion in the Crimea,” remarked my hostess, tucking herself back into her customary seat under her covers, “I fell into total collapse, and quite believed I would die.” A sensible enough expectation, as she had been past thirty at the time. “But as the weeks turned to months, indeed, to years, I found myself not only alive, but immersed once more in desperately needed reform, and there was so much important work to be done . . .”
    As a rebel myself, at once I understood. “You did not care to spare time for the social amenities.” Women of her class were expected to go calling, change for dinner, entertain houseguests, attend the theatre, and so on, ad infinitum, spending the better part of their lives serving, rather like epergnes, as useless, decorative objects.
    “Exactly.” She looked at me in a new way; recognition flew between us. “Now I have