Read Online The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets by Nancy Springer - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Springer
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Meanwhile I sent the girl out for the evening papers, and when I returned to my room after an excellent dinner of roast lamb with mint sauce, I turned up the gas—what luxury to have such ease and effectiveness of lighting, even though the pipes hissed and muttered like a mumbling lunatic. Seated in the least uncomfortable chair, I read all the papers, checking first to see whether there had been any further developments in the Watson case—none were reported—and second to make sure my personal was included: “Hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies: what do you want? Reply this column. M.M.W.”
It was.
Interesting, I thought, that the sender of the bizarre bouquets, letting alone the matter of his nose for the moment, should be a man . Flowers were generally considered to be in the female domain, although of course there were always a few eccentric amateur scientists, followers of Malthus and Darwin, trying to cross-pollinate orchids in hothouses. Also, upon further reflection, I supposed that any man who had ever courted and/or married necessarily learned something of the language of flowers. How fortunate for me that both my brothers were confirmed bachelors, thereby remaining ignorant. Undoubtedly Sherlock, keeping an eye on the personal advertisements for any demand regarding Watson, would notice “hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies” and be intrigued, possibly even thinking, quite mistakenly, that it had something to do with Mum and me; I doubted he would guess nearer to the truth. In any event, I hoped for a response of some sort from the hawthorn man in the morning.
Meanwhile, I scanned the newspapers I had been too busy to read this morning and yesterday.
There were quite a lot to go through, and no particular reasons to do so except for the discipline of keeping up with the news. But after a while I found myself reading without comprehension, and occasionally one must make allowances. Yawning, I decided that after I finished looking at the “agony columns” of the Pall Mall Gazette , which I was reading at the moment, I would go ahead and throw the whole lot into the fire—
Just then I saw it.
422555 415144423451 334244542351545351 3532513451 35325143 23532551 55531534 313234554411435432513 31533
Oh.
Oh, my goodness. Suddenly wide awake, with my heart thumping I reached for paper and pencil.
First I jotted down the alphabet, thus:
ABCDE
FGHIJ
KLMNO
PQRST
UVWXYZ
Then I started on the first word. Fourth line, second letter, Q. Second line, fifth letter, J.
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
Meanwhile I sent the girl out for the evening papers, and when I returned to my room after an excellent dinner of roast lamb with mint sauce, I turned up the gas—what luxury to have such ease and effectiveness of lighting, even though the pipes hissed and muttered like a mumbling lunatic. Seated in the least uncomfortable chair, I read all the papers, checking first to see whether there had been any further developments in the Watson case—none were reported—and second to make sure my personal was included: “Hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies: what do you want? Reply this column. M.M.W.”
It was.
Interesting, I thought, that the sender of the bizarre bouquets, letting alone the matter of his nose for the moment, should be a man . Flowers were generally considered to be in the female domain, although of course there were always a few eccentric amateur scientists, followers of Malthus and Darwin, trying to cross-pollinate orchids in hothouses. Also, upon further reflection, I supposed that any man who had ever courted and/or married necessarily learned something of the language of flowers. How fortunate for me that both my brothers were confirmed bachelors, thereby remaining ignorant. Undoubtedly Sherlock, keeping an eye on the personal advertisements for any demand regarding Watson, would notice “hawthorn, convolvulus, asparagus and poppies” and be intrigued, possibly even thinking, quite mistakenly, that it had something to do with Mum and me; I doubted he would guess nearer to the truth. In any event, I hoped for a response of some sort from the hawthorn man in the morning.
Meanwhile, I scanned the newspapers I had been too busy to read this morning and yesterday.
There were quite a lot to go through, and no particular reasons to do so except for the discipline of keeping up with the news. But after a while I found myself reading without comprehension, and occasionally one must make allowances. Yawning, I decided that after I finished looking at the “agony columns” of the Pall Mall Gazette , which I was reading at the moment, I would go ahead and throw the whole lot into the fire—
Just then I saw it.
422555 415144423451 334244542351545351 3532513451 35325143 23532551 55531534 313234554411435432513 31533
Oh.
Oh, my goodness. Suddenly wide awake, with my heart thumping I reached for paper and pencil.
First I jotted down the alphabet, thus:
ABCDE
FGHIJ
KLMNO
PQRST
UVWXYZ
Then I started on the first word. Fourth line, second letter, Q. Second line, fifth letter, J.
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
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