The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline (6 page)

I took it, but before reading it, I gestured towards the portraits on the wall and asked the young man, “Would you be so good—can you tell me who these people are?”

“Oh! Most of them, I can’t say, I’m afraid, but those”—he indicated the old couple at the garden table—“are William Edward Nightingale and Fanny Smith Nightingale, Miss Florence Nightingale’s parents. And that”—the rather toad-faced young woman in the stone doorway—“is Miss Frances Parthenope Nightingale, taken at Embley, the family home. Miss Parthe, as she generally is called, is Miss Florence Nightingale’s older sister.”

Scanning the ranks of portraits for a similar toad-like visage, I asked, “Which of these might be Miss Florence Nightingale?”

“None of them. She dislikes to have her likeness taken or displayed.”

Small wonder, if she resembled her sister.

And if she was so ill-favoured, small wonder that she had remained a spinster and had become—bitter? A nearly total recluse, in any event, even from her own family.

After the tweedy young man had gone off again, I looked at the violet-scented note. Written in small and very correct handwriting rather like that of a bookkeeper, it said:

 

And that was that.

Except, of course, that it couldn’t be. I would not allow it to be.

But I left the house willingly and quietly enough, for several intriguing thoughts occupied my mind, thus:

Someone in that house quite liked to embroider.

Although no one, to my knowledge, had made a study of the subject, or written a monograph (as my brother Sherlock, for instance, was wont to write monographs upon cigar-ash, ciphers, and chemical reactions), still, it seemed reasonable to hypothesise that embroidery, like handwriting, might vary from individual to individual: dainty or bold, elongated or round, tight or loose, regular or irregular, depending on the stitcher.

The embroidery in Florence Nightingale’s house had a certain winsome, airy simplicity, and I had seen quite similar embroidery before.

On the ribbons of a crinoline.

Now, this was odd. Ribbon was an expensive decoration. Embroidery was a labourious decoration. One or the other was generally considered enough; combining the two was an extravagance worthy of a wedding-gown.

Why, then, lavish such effort upon a
crinoline
? The roughest and ugliest of underpinnings? Never to be seen, not even by a bridegroom upon his wedding night?

Altogether, I felt quite eager to get home and have another look at that humble garment.

HIRED TRANSPORTATION WAS PLENTIFUL ALONG Park Lane. “Cab!” I hailed with one gloved hand uplifted.

“Cab!” similarly hailed a gentleman who happened to be walking behind me, and he strode past me to take the next four-wheeler after mine.

Idly watching as he went by, I stiffened as if I had been struck. Which, in a way, I had. By recognition. I had seen this man twice today already, but he had not been a gentleman then. This tall, broad-shouldered fellow had the accent of a gentleman and the bearing of a gentleman—of course; that was why my eye, if not my conscious mind, had noticed him amongst the East End crowd! He had not looked quite right, because a common workman does not saunter along with one hand tucked into his belt behind his back, head up as if he has never borne a burden. Indeed, this self-assured fellow belonged here in the Hyde Park neighbourhood. He had got rid of the rough leather belt around the outside of his jacket, and he had replaced his ridiculous plaid cap with a bowler hat, so that anyone who did not study his boots would take him for a well-to-do merchant in a sack-suit.

Entering my own cab swiftly and applying myself to the window, I got my first good look at his face—a remarkable one. This man’s features, while perfectly symmetrical, were pleasantly blunt, not sharp and bony like those of most aristocrats. Artistically speaking, his profile was a model of correct proportion, causing some elusive recognition to niggle at me; where had I seen it before?

But my main concern at the time was, what to do about him?

My cab had driven scarcely a block when I reached a decision. Thumping with my fist at the interior of the roof, I signalled my cab to halt.

Exiting, I told the driver blandly, with no explanation, “Thank you, my good man,” paying him a full fare. Then I walked back the way I had come. The other cab, hired by the man who was following me, had pulled up behind mine, naturally enough. With the corner of one eye I saw Classic Profile, as I was beginning to call him, studiously turned towards the far window as I walked past.

When I came to a girl selling posies, I paused to buy myself a nosegay of lily-of-the-valley, for two purposes: to show reason for my sudden apparent change of mind, thereby calming any alarm in my adversary, and also in order to turn and have a look at his whereabouts. I saw that, while my cabbie had of course driven on to find another fare, Classic Profile’s cab remained, as I had hoped, where it was.

Smiling, with my posy to my face as if I were enjoying its fragrance, I walked on a bit farther, then hailed another four-wheeler.

Paying him in advance “for my own convenience,” as I vaguely explained, I told him to take me to the British Museum, then stepped in. But just as he slapped his horse with the reins, I stepped out again, by the door on the other side, the street side. Keeping my cab, now rolling away from me, between myself and the observer whom I considered would be most interested, I retreated behind somebody’s parked carriage to watch.

As my now-empty cab proceeded down the street, the one occupied by Classic Profile fell in behind it to follow it out of sight.

I admit that I then congratulated myself upon my own cleverness.

For a few moments. Until my own more-severe self squelched me.
Enola, that is quite enough. What have you accomplished? Evidently the fellow knows where you live, as he followed you from the East End this morning.

I had gained a little time, that was all, and in order to use it, I hurried home.

 

“Not a word of ’er, Miss Meshle,” Florrie replied to my inquiry concerning Mrs. Tupper. Wringing her hands, the gawky girl cracked her protuberant knuckles most provokingly. To distract her, I handed her my nosegay as I rid myself of hat and gloves.

Then with no preamble I showed her what I had prepared for that purpose: in the cab on the way home, using the paper and pencil I always carry along with other essential supplies in my bust enhancer, I had made several drawings of the mysterious gentleman who had followed me. I had portrayed him with cap, without cap, full face, profile, et cetera. While only crudely talented as an artist, I do have a knack for “capturing” faces in an exaggerated way, especially when I am feeling a bit wrought.

Which I was. Feeling wrought. Quite. What
ever
might be happening to my poor deaf landlady?

“’At’s
’im
!” Florrie shrieked immediately. “The young one wit’ the good teeth! ’E hain’t got no beard but ’at’s ’im just the same, wot took Mrs. Tupper!”

“Along with the other villain.” I wanted to make sure her story was not changing. “An older man with bad teeth.”

“Yes’m!”

“And it was the older, rougher brute of the two who hit you?”

“No! No, Miss Meshle!” Florrie had the strong hands of a lifelong labourer, yet her finger shook as she pointed at my drawings of the bland-faced youth I called Classic Profile. “It were
’im
! ’Im ’oo slapped me an’ Mrs. Tupper!”

He had struck a poor old woman?

Good heavens! But to look at him, one would think he was a perfect gentleman. I felt a chill crawl like a serpent down my spine as I realised: What sort of person hid behind his pleasant face?

Still stabbing her big finger at my sketches, Florrie exclaimed, “’Owever’d ye get a hold of ’is picture, Miss Meshle?”

I did not reply, for already the girl knew far too much of me; I would certainly not tell her that I had drawn the likenesses myself.

“Florrie, lock the doors and don’t let anyone in without consulting me first,” I called over my shoulder as I ran upstairs, for I had urgent business there.

A few moments later, with the stiff and scratchy bulk of Mrs. Tupper’s antique crinoline nearly smothering me, I sat beside the window in my room so that I could examine the irksome thing in the light.

Hmm.

All my emotions funneled into a focussed intensity of interest as I studied the blue ribbons embroidered with flowers. First of all, I noticed that said ribbons were not sewn to the crinoline firmly so as to cover its seams, but merely basted lightly in place, as if meant to be removed.

They had been stuck to the crinoline, I surmised, in order to be transported in secrecy to a destination? But why had they been placed on such an ugly—

“Of course,” I whispered as the answer dawned on me. “A crinoline does not need to be
washed.
” Whereas petticoats or any other feminine underpinning might be entrusted to servants and washerwomen, perhaps to be stolen or lost, a crinoline need never leave the possession of its wearer.

“How very clever,” I murmured, my respect for Florence Nightingale’s intelligence increasing by the moment. To encode the trimmings of women’s unmentionables—this
had
to be her idea, sprung from a brilliant feminine mind that knew no man would look twice at embroidered ribbon. The two louts who had searched the house had missed it entirely. Even my brother Sherlock, I expected, might have done no better. Heavens, I had nearly overlooked it myself.

With such admiration I scanned the—the cryptograms, for so one might as well call the simple flowers embroidered upon the ribbons.

The gentle reader will perhaps recall that these were starflowers and little round roses in quite a variety of colours—pink, red, yellow, peach, lavender, white, violet, many more—occasionally interspersed with green leaves. I tried first to see whether I could discern any pattern in the use of colour, and in order to do so, I got out my scissors and detached the ribbons from the crinoline—they were, as I have said, merely basted on, quite simple to remove. The denuded crinoline I tossed into a corner, where it stood upon its own folds, a gauzy white presence, like a ghost of Mrs. Tupper.

Quickly dismissing this unfortunate thought—one must not lose hope!—I took the ribbons and placed them in order from top to bottom of the crinoline, that is to say, from shortest to longest, by laying them out upon my bed.

Arranged that way, they reminded me of lines of print. Indeed, I thought, the varied colours of the embroidery might be of no significance except to serve as a blind, to keep the casual observer from noticing that the flowers themselves were not nearly so varied.

Five Lazy Daisy petals; the simplest of starflowers.

And a few whipped stitches; the smallest, simplest of roses.

And leaves.

And, occasionally, spaces of blue ribbon untouched.

It was the spaces that truly decided me. Why on earth would anyone leave
spaces
if decorating ribbon with embroidery? The odd display before me simply had to be a code.

But how in the world could letters, words, sentences be encoded with only three symbols: star-flower, rose, and leaf or, occasionally, double leaf?

Because my leaden head rebelled at the task before me, I forced myself to think on paper, as I often do, transcribing the embroidered message as symbols. Composing this account upon a type-writing machine as I am now doing, I can achieve much the same effect by using an asterisk to designate a star-flower, a period to designate a miniature rose, and a slash to designate a leaf. Couched in this way, the message read: