Free The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets by Nancy Springer Page A

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.”

C HAPTER THE E LEVENTH
    E N 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.