The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets by Nancy Springer

tax-collector, constables, et cetera.
    However, hypothesising that the Kippersalts lived not far from their shop—as was most often the case with older people engaged in commerce that had been established before the Underground had begun to whisk workers from the outskirts of London into the City— if the Kippersalts lived on Holywell Street or not far away, I might visit only two or three borough offices before I obtained some information.
    As these thoughts occupied my mind, my footsteps took me back down Fleet Street towards the one newspaper office I had not yet visited: that of the Pall Mall Gazette .
    As I entered, my heart sank, for I saw that a stiff and spinsterly woman sat behind the desk.
    Just the same, I had to try. On the window ledge lay copies of the paper for the last several days. With my foolish heart pounding beneath the dagger concealed in my dress-front, I located the one I needed, opening it to find amongst the personal advertisements “422555 415144423451 334244542351545351 3532513451 35325143 23532551 55531534 313234 55441143543251331533 (IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM).”
    Pointing it out to the dry stick of a woman behind the desk, I asked—indeed, I begged—“Could you tell me who placed this?”
    “Indeed I could not,” she rapped out in answer.
    Could not, or would not? She seemed quite the virgin queen of her small realm, one who would know everything.
    I tried again. “Might you tell me, at least, whether it was a man or a woman?” If it was a woman, it had to be Mum.
    And as I thought this, my heart froze, for if it were so, I still did not know how to respond.
    But the old maid behind the desk snapped, “I can tell you nothing.”
    I offered a bribe; she reacted angrily. Still, I pleaded with her for several minutes longer. Only when she threatened to summon a constable did I leave the office.
    Very well, I had done my best.
    Although some invisible cook seemed to be mixing a very strange pudding of emotion in my chest—was I distraught that I had found out nothing, or relieved?—yet in my thoughts I pushed Mum away for the time being.
    There was a much more pressing matter to be attended to.
    A deadly one, thank Yew.

    Some hours later, I entered the humble abode of the much-bewildered Mrs. Tupper, who blinked several times when she saw me come in.
    “Miss Meshle,” she asked uncertainly, “would you like some supper?”
    “No, thank you, Mrs. Tupper.” I was in a great hurry to change into dark, inconspicuous clothing. “I have no time.” This fact did not improve my humour, for I felt as hollow as a drum, having missed luncheon as well.
    “Eh?” The deaf old soul placed her hearing-trumpet to her ear.
    “No! Thank you! Mrs. Tupper!” For once shouting was not a nuisance, but a relief to my feelings. My feet hurt abominably from slogging up and down Fleet Street plus visiting eight—no, ten—I had lost count—an inordinate number of borough offices without locating a single Kippersalt except one Augustus Kippersalt, who had been put away in Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum; he could not possibly be my man. Altogether, it had been a most trying day.
    My only hope, then, was—after all—to get back to Pertelote’s by the time that much-ruffled oversized hen of a woman put her shutters up, to see where she went.
    Limping upstairs to my room, I relieved my suffering feet of my unfortunately fashionable boots. I snatched off my wig and sloughed off my dress—peach-coloured taffeta interlaced with white “baby” ribbons, most unsuitable for concealment—then yanked a dark, commonplace woollen blouse and skirt out of my wardrobe to put on. I slipped my blistered feet into thick socks, then my blessedly comfortable old black boots. Having no time to wash the “recondite emollients” off my face, I smeared ashes from the hearth upon myself. Transformed thus to quite a commonplace Sally-down-the-alley, I sheathed my longest dagger in the front