The Case Of The Cryptic Crinoline Part 7

Who is Cla.s.sic Profile?

Whose brougham took her away?

For what purpose? To speak with

whom?

Et cetera. I started out, as I am sure the gentle reader can see, rather stupid, partly because I was so perturbed of mind and partly because of the distraction of pleasant, intelligent voices conversing all around me. For instance, a tall woman in a loose, comfortable "aesthetic" dress, with her grey hair flowing down her back, was saying, ". . . poor dear Rodney, such a pleasant, well-meaning gentleman, yet so sorely lacking in backbone, while his younger brothera""

"One must wonder," put in a different woman with a laugh, "how the theory of evolution would account for all the power's being given to the older brother, yet all the potency to the younger."

"That's not evolution, dear. That's our ridiculous laws of primogeniture."

"It's a shame," said another of the elderly women, "for Rodney will do almost anything Geoffrey says, and Geoffrey's strength of character is not always the best of character, or so I have heard."

Why was I listening to gossip of people I didn't even know, when I so badly needed to think? Yet I could not seem to shut my ears. I knew I should move to another room, yet did not.

A comfortable, matronly voice was saying, "Yes, his dear mother would be sorely dismayed. But then, good character in that family has generally run on the female side."

"Well, doesn't it generally in any civilised family?"

There was a ripple of laughter, during which the grey-haired aesthetic woman remarked, "Speaking of good families and characters, has anyone heard anything of Lady Eudoria Holmes?"

My mother! Hearing her name spoken aloud in such a comfortable, offhand fas.h.i.+on, I felt such a pang to my heart that for a moment I couldn't breathe, the world spun, I might fainta"nonsense, I never faint; I must not miss a word. Making a great effort to control my speeding pulse and panting breath, I stiffened, eavesdropping intently, although I did not dare to look around at the speakers.

". . . no news of her at all since she disappeared. One does not know whether she is yet alive."

"Oh, I'm sure she's alive all right," put in a third, good-humoured voice. "She's far too strong minded to lie down and die just yet. I imagine she took off, as the youngsters would say."

A murmur of agreement sounded all around.

"I hope so," said the aesthetic woman. "I hope she's finally had a chance to live her life on her own terms."

These women had been friends of my mother. Friends of my mother! How peculiarly that simple thought, and their proximity, worked upon my sensibilities. Every fibre of my being ached with longing; how I wished I could feel as confidently as they that Mum was alive, and well, and enjoying herself.

"Perhaps she's gone overseas," said the good-humoured woman. "She always yearned to travel."

I had never known that!

"If so, let us hope she wanders far from the Balkans."

"Trouble there, as always?"

"There and here. I've heard that someone is endeavouring to stir up some sort of Crimean War scandal."

"Again? But why would anyone wish to dredge up that ruck of muck now?"

"Why, indeed."

"I'm sure I have no idea."

"Is it about Wreford again, perhaps? Any rehas.h.i.+ng of that sordid affair would be most injurious . . ."

". . . today's progressive spirit . . ."

As they spoke of politics and reform, at last I was able to turn a deaf ear to their conversation, dismiss my thoughts and feelings regarding Mum (I had become quite adept at doing this), and write: What turn of events started this dreadful

business?

Who wanted Mrs. Tupper to deliver

her message, and why?

Who stood to benefit? Enemies of

reform?

To embarra.s.s Florence Nightingale?

Who knew that Mrs. Tupper, of all

people, had a message for "the Bird"?

That brought me up short, pencil poised in air as I stared at nothing, for at last, you see, I had asked myself the right question: Who knew of the existence of the cryptic crinoline? Given that no regular "carriers" for "the Bird" were involved, and Mrs. Tupper herself evidently did not realise her fine apparel's significance . . .

Who knew? Certainly not Wreford, Cruikshanks, Hall, or Raglan! Or their heirs.

When a message is sent in secret code, who must have knowledge of it? The sender. And the carriera"usually. And the person to whom the message is being sent might perhaps know that he should be in readiness to receive it.

Florence Nightingale knew.

I wrote: Miss Nightingale did not remember

Mrs. Tupper by name.

Miss Nightingale hired Sherlock

Holmes to find Mrs. Tupper.

Personal impression: Miss

Nightingale was not lying to me.

Reasonable supposition: Miss

Nightingale is not guilty.

Very well. If Miss Nightingale had not kidnapped my landladya"and, obviously, Mrs. Tupper had not instigated her own abductiona"there remained only Lord Sidney Whimbrel.

"But he is Miss Nightingale's allya"or was, because he is now deceased!" I objected to myself aloud, albeit in a whisper. And then, trying to joke, "Unless his ghosta""

No joke. I had seen, and indeed I had been followed by, a man sufficiently identical to the late Sidney Whimbrela"or at least to his silhouettea"to be his ghost. But, as ghosts did not exist in the rational world of a scientific perditorian, then that mana"the one who had burgled a blue dress in the night, and who, according to Florrie, had carried off Mrs. Tuppera"might be Lord Sidney Whimbrel's kin, most likely hisa"

Son?

Nonsense, I argued with myself. The Whimbrels were amongst the most honoured and respected of t.i.tled British families. The idea of any scion of the Whimbrel family consorting with a common villain to abuse and kidnap my deaf and elderly landlady was preposterous.

But who else could it have been?

And hadn't Florence Nightingale said something about protecting the Whimbrel family name? And about young Whimbrel having recently been admitted to the House of Lords?

Also, hadn't the ill-matched pair of miscreants burgling Mrs. Tupper's house said something sarcastic about "His Lords.h.i.+p"?