The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets by Nancy Springer Page A

of my corset, grabbed for a rusty black shawl to throw over my head, and ran back downstairs, feeling rather than facing Mrs. Tupper’s puzzled gaze as I bolted out the door.

C HAPTER THE T WELFTH
    “C AB !” I YELLED IMPERIOUSLY AT THE FIRST opportunity.
    The driver, although no society prize himself, turned incredulously upon being hailed by an apparent woman of the slums. “Yer addressin’ me?”
    I tossed him a golden coin, which instantly silenced his doubts and objections. “The Strand at St. Mary’s,” I told him as I climbed in, that corner being close enough to Holywell Street; he must not know where I was actually going. “And another sovereign if you get me there in ten minutes.”
    “Yes, ma’am !” Plentiful cash-at-hand worked better than ravishing beauty to transform one’s status, under certain circumstances. “I’m your man. Me and old Conductor ’ere, we’ll see you there.” As he whipped his wretched ewe-necked nag into a rapid trot, I tried not to think of anything I had ever read in Black Beauty , sitting back, bracing myself against the swaying of the conveyance and disciplining myself to consider instead what lay ahead.
    I disliked rushing in such a headlong fashion into I knew not quite what, but I felt I must seize the moment, for in Pertelote’s—that is to say, in Mrs. Kippersalt’s anger I sensed an opportunity that might not occur again.
    I was going to have to try to “shadow” her home after all, because she would take her anger along with her when she went there. She would direct her ire at her husband—“What ’ave ye done now?” And I quite wanted somehow, I did not yet know how, to hear the answer.
    Moreover, I needed to look at Mr. Kippersalt. I had spent a great deal of imagination upon Mr. Kippersalt, and seeing him would either support or disprove my hypotheses, which were:
    Suppose that a man, in war or in some unfortunate accident, had his face maimed, including but not limited to his nose.
    Suppose that, in attempting to find ways to conceal the defects in his appearance, he became an expert in face putty, rubber features and the like; might he not open a shop specialising in these things, if only to obtain them readily for himself?
    Being quite an unprepossessing man, might he not, for the sake of housekeeping and so on, marry an exceedingly plain woman who had no other prospects?
    Perhaps an ambitious Cockney woman?
    Having wed him not for love but for self-advancement, might this unusual woman improve herself to the extent that eventually she took over the running of the shop?
    Might he not resent being pushed aside? Resent it to such an extent that he—
    That he did what? Avenged himself upon Dr. Watson?
    Whatever grudge could he possibly hold against Dr. Watson?
    But wait a moment. Perhaps he blamed Watson for the loss of his nose? Suppose it had happened during the second Afghan War, in which Watson had served as an army surgeon? Perhaps Watson had amputated his wounded proboscis?
    Brilliant , I congratulated myself mentally, pleased and excited to have hit upon such a plausible connection.
    The speeding, swaying, veering cab in which I sat pulled to a jouncing halt at my destination.
    I burst out before the wheels had quite come to rest, leaping into a full-tilt run as I threw the cabbie a sovereign even though I had no clock to tell me—had he got me here quickly enough?

    He had.
    Panting, I poked my head around the corner of Holywell Street just in time to see Mrs. Kippersalt closing the last shutters to secure her shop for the night. Then she went back inside to fasten them.
    The last rays of daylight—blessed, sunny light most uncommon in London—lingered on the peaked roofs of the crowded old buildings as I waited, watching the door, expecting it to open and her to emerge with coat and hat, gloves and umbrella, to lock up and start homeward.
    Daylight turned to dusk, and I still waited.
    Mrs. Kippersalt had not come back out.
    What ever in