Read Online The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline by Nancy Springer - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Springer
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carriages put such accommodations on the backs of them, every street urchin and loiterer in London would have been availing himself of free transportation—but such thoughts came to me too late. Splayed like an overlarge dark spider on far too smooth a wall, I felt myself being dislodged a little more with the brougham’s every jounce.
Indeed, within less than a block I fell off, landing without dignity upon my posterior. My chagrin, as I sat in the filth of the street and watched the brougham roll away from me, can scarcely be described.
Ignoring several laughing “drunks and hussies,” in an exceedingly foul mood I got up and stalked home.
I spent what remained of the night forcing my outraged personage to accept some bread and cheese, having a wash, changing my dress for a similarly austere and scholarly costume of brown, then finally, at daylight, sitting down to struggle once again with the puzzle presented to me by the cryptic crinoline. But to no avail; dots and daisies made no sense to me.
I did, however, have one small remaining clue to pursue.
The earliest possible polite hour for social calling found me upon Florence Nightingale’s doorstep in Mayfair. This time it was the silk-gowned girl who admitted me without demur; apparently just about anyone could simply walk in here. Even at nine in the morning, I saw and heard as I entered, the drawing-room, dining-room, library, and so forth were well populated with visitors partaking of tea and scones, and already I saw “that young jackanapes” running upstairs with a note from somebody.
What a very odd household.
But I need not stay long today, I hoped. Straightaway I took myself to the front parlour—unpeopled during breakfast—where the walls were covered with portraits either painted, photographic, or scissored with exquisite precision from black paper, such being the venerable art of the silhouette.
I found the silhouette I recognised and looked up at it again. Most such cut-paper creations, like the upper-class beings they represent, tend to be a bit grotesque—all nose, or all chin, or both—but this one displayed perfectly proportioned, exceedingly pleasant features. And how often really does one see such classic symmetry? Yes, if it were at all possible to identify a person merely from his profile, I was about to do so.
Small, as were most silhouettes, the artwork hung above my reach. Gathering resolve by thinking of poor Mrs. Tupper, wherever she might be, boldly I betook myself to the dining-room, picked up a chair, and walked off with it. As I had hoped, in this peculiar house no one seemed to wonder what I was doing.
Positioning the chair, then clambering up to stand upon it, I lifted the silhouette off its hook. Climbing down again and sitting on the chair that had served as my stool, I turned my find over.
Yes. Yes, it was as I had hoped. On the brown paper backing of the frame, someone had pencilled the subject’s name.
It read, The Honourable Sidney Whimbrel, at Embley, Summer 1853.
1853?
Thirty-six years ago?
This could not be my aristocratic villain after all. How very disappointing.
Where was Classic Profile today? I had not seen him following me at all. Of course, if he was thinking of me merely as Mrs. Tupper’s interfering lodger, having now concluded that I had fled to lodge elsewhere, he might have no further interest in me.
Whatever his original interest might have been.
And whoever he was.
So much for my ideas of identifying a person by means of a silhouette.
Sighing, I arose to return it to its place upon the wall, but just at that moment a group of chatting persons entered the parlour, and I lost my nerve, slipping the silhouette into an old leather satchel I had with me today, the sort of case in which a student might carry papers. I, however—as the capacity of my bust enhancer had limits—was using it to carry things I felt it would be unwise to leave behind at Mrs. Tupper’s house. Certain ribbons,
Indeed, within less than a block I fell off, landing without dignity upon my posterior. My chagrin, as I sat in the filth of the street and watched the brougham roll away from me, can scarcely be described.
Ignoring several laughing “drunks and hussies,” in an exceedingly foul mood I got up and stalked home.
I spent what remained of the night forcing my outraged personage to accept some bread and cheese, having a wash, changing my dress for a similarly austere and scholarly costume of brown, then finally, at daylight, sitting down to struggle once again with the puzzle presented to me by the cryptic crinoline. But to no avail; dots and daisies made no sense to me.
I did, however, have one small remaining clue to pursue.
The earliest possible polite hour for social calling found me upon Florence Nightingale’s doorstep in Mayfair. This time it was the silk-gowned girl who admitted me without demur; apparently just about anyone could simply walk in here. Even at nine in the morning, I saw and heard as I entered, the drawing-room, dining-room, library, and so forth were well populated with visitors partaking of tea and scones, and already I saw “that young jackanapes” running upstairs with a note from somebody.
What a very odd household.
But I need not stay long today, I hoped. Straightaway I took myself to the front parlour—unpeopled during breakfast—where the walls were covered with portraits either painted, photographic, or scissored with exquisite precision from black paper, such being the venerable art of the silhouette.
I found the silhouette I recognised and looked up at it again. Most such cut-paper creations, like the upper-class beings they represent, tend to be a bit grotesque—all nose, or all chin, or both—but this one displayed perfectly proportioned, exceedingly pleasant features. And how often really does one see such classic symmetry? Yes, if it were at all possible to identify a person merely from his profile, I was about to do so.
Small, as were most silhouettes, the artwork hung above my reach. Gathering resolve by thinking of poor Mrs. Tupper, wherever she might be, boldly I betook myself to the dining-room, picked up a chair, and walked off with it. As I had hoped, in this peculiar house no one seemed to wonder what I was doing.
Positioning the chair, then clambering up to stand upon it, I lifted the silhouette off its hook. Climbing down again and sitting on the chair that had served as my stool, I turned my find over.
Yes. Yes, it was as I had hoped. On the brown paper backing of the frame, someone had pencilled the subject’s name.
It read, The Honourable Sidney Whimbrel, at Embley, Summer 1853.
1853?
Thirty-six years ago?
This could not be my aristocratic villain after all. How very disappointing.
Where was Classic Profile today? I had not seen him following me at all. Of course, if he was thinking of me merely as Mrs. Tupper’s interfering lodger, having now concluded that I had fled to lodge elsewhere, he might have no further interest in me.
Whatever his original interest might have been.
And whoever he was.
So much for my ideas of identifying a person by means of a silhouette.
Sighing, I arose to return it to its place upon the wall, but just at that moment a group of chatting persons entered the parlour, and I lost my nerve, slipping the silhouette into an old leather satchel I had with me today, the sort of case in which a student might carry papers. I, however—as the capacity of my bust enhancer had limits—was using it to carry things I felt it would be unwise to leave behind at Mrs. Tupper’s house. Certain ribbons,
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