Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 24

  Granny tittered at his jest as she allowed him to help her into the carriage. Moon assisted Florence and then me as we settled back for the short ride to the shop of the Queen’s dressmaker. The footman squeezed my hand and for an instant held it more tightly than fitting. I dared not glance his way but focused on Florence. Soon we were off to investigate Mrs. Dupree and her seamstresses.

  A warm feeling settled in my bosom to think that Moon rode above us and would be our protector throughout this caper. The shop might hold no clues at all; then again it might be a nest of needle wielding vipers.

  Queen Victoria trusted Mrs. Dupree, which should be enough to satisfy Florence’s curious nature, but then I recalled what Marianne had said. Lady Julia overheard something in the shop that so upset her she had rushed to tell her beloved queen. I couldn’t put aside the niggling thought—where were the ribbons Julia had gone to the shop to purchase? No one thought to ask if she did buy a gift for the Queen or if she had run from the shop before she made the purchase. It might be an important clue.

  Florence remained certain Lady Beryl was part of a plot to kill the Queen. “She could be a Chartist.” The term used by Lord M and now my mentor meant nothing to me.

  “What is a Chartist?” I asked.

  Florence drew in a deep breath, for short of healing the sick there was nothing she enjoyed more than teaching. She began her explanation. “Recently, the working-class people have organized a movement for reform in Britain and notwithstanding that their cause is just they have become unruly of late. The conditions under which they labor are horrid and they suffer greatly, carrying pent-up anger which is a danger to the monarchy.”

  “Can’t the Queen help them?”

  She shook her head sadly. “It is not completely up to our Queen. There are those in Parliament who argue that the poor are entitled to nothing except the right to work from childhood to an early death, merely because they dwell in poverty. Chartist mobs have begun to hold demonstrations against the Queen and at times they even riot.” She drew her face up in an expression I had never seen before—almost tearful. “We lead a sheltered life in the country and often are innocent as to the awful conditions of our countrymen and women in the city.”

  Florence explained to Granny and me about the existence of secret cells of agitators set up in London, and although she did not directly accuse these seekers of basic human rights, she held suspicions they might intend to overthrow the monarchy.

  With the thought that the Queen’s dressmaker might be aiding armed Chartists we set off to help Granny commission a new gown, and do a bit of amateur detecting. Between us we determined Florence and I would remain in the background as much as possible. We decided to let Granny do most of the talking while we discreetly detected. Oh, what a mistake that was.

  Mrs. Dupree’s street seemed to be free of anyone who looked like a Chartist—not that I would know one by sight. The neighborhood was clean and quiet. The four horses pulling our coach came to a clattering stop at the curb.

  Moon’s handsome face appeared at the window of the coach, catching my eye for an instant. He helped Granny from the coach, followed by Florence, and then me. Again he held my hand a teeny bit longer than proper. Cheeky fellow. I loved it.

  The shop was an understated establishment appearing more like a residence than a tradesman’s place of business. There were no display windows and only a small brass plaque on the door that read Mrs. Dupree.

  Florence led the way up the six steps to the red door and lifted the knocker.

  A butler in an elegantly tailored wool coat and breeches responded so quickly it startled us. “We have come to see Mrs. Dupree. The Mrs. Throckmorten wishes to have a gown made for a special occasion,” Florence said, sweeping her hand toward Granny as if to indicate a member of the peerage.

  The almost silent butler, who gave his name as Bailey, led us through a parlor and into a workroom in the back of the townhouse. It was peculiar that he did not have us wait in the front salon which seemed more suitable for guests. As we walked past the room I noticed a full-length mirror with fabrics draped over a spoon backed chair, and resting on a table near the doorway was a short stack of Mrs. Dupree’s signature red boxes.

  There in the furthest area we found a bevy of women of varying ages sitting around a long wooden trestle table. I did a quick count and tallied nine ladies carefully hand-needling fabrics in glorious rainbow shades. The voluminous skirts they were working on rested on the table or lay at their feet.

  There was a quiet tension in the air. The women did not look up from their work although one would think they’d be curious. Someone said something inaudible, and the others whispered in response as they continued their work.

  It was common knowledge that the life of a seamstress entailed long hard hours bent over, hand sewing, but it was a trade held above working as a domestic. The choice of occupations for a working-class girl is limited because if not a seamstress, or employed as a servant there remained shop work, the stage, or prostitution. The occupation of dressmaking was honest employment.

  The butler presented us to a man who hardly seemed a fashion plate, burly and in need of a shave and haircut, he looked peevishly at the butler. He was clearly not happy to have his workroom invaded by clients. I was pretty certain he was not Mrs. Dupree.

  “Is the designer here?” Florence asked.” We have come to see Mrs. Dupree. Mrs. Throckmorten wishes to have a gown made. We are in a bit of a rush as we must return north within a few days.”

  “My aunt has gone to Paris to visit relatives. You may conduct your business with me, but I don’t have much time so you must be quick about it!” He hardly seemed the type of person to know about silks, satins, or lace trimmings.

  “Mrs. Throckmorten desires to see Mrs. Dupree,” Florence persisted. “When will she return from Paris?”

  He shrugged. “A month, perhaps two,” he said dismissively.

  Florence and I exchanged looks. Something smelled fishy and it wasn’t the stink of the sizing on the cloth.

  Chapter 14

  I looked about the room as stitching needles flew like flies on a summer day, assaulting the cloth and pricking the lace, however the women all kept their heads down. Curious as to why they weren’t inquisitive about us, I had to remind myself that they were most likely paid for the work they accomplished and did not have time to gawk at clients.

  According to the Queen, Mrs. Dupree provided safe working conditions and living quarters for her staff, as well as a place where they could hone their skills. They were secure, off the streets, and received a small but adequate allowance. I was certain they were concerned that they might lose their jobs and their housing if they dallied. When one of the ladies cut me a shy look, I smiled warmly. She returned the smile and went back to her stitching.

  Queen Victoria identified with the middle class. The dear lady surrounded herself with those tradespeople she felt could keep her connected to her laboring subjects. Mrs. Dupree had evidently proven herself as such a lady. But to leave her beloved fashion house in the care of her lump of a nephew and take off on a holiday did not fit what we expected based on the Queen’s words of praise for the lady’s diligence. By the expression on my friend’s face, I could tell she was uneasy about Mrs. Dupree’s absence.

  Florence poked my upper arm sharply with her finger. I followed the direction of her gaze. She was paying particular attention to one woman who looked like she didn’t know what she was doing. The woman handled the fabric in a ham-handed fashion and appeared to be stitching, but if she was a seamstress then I was a baker for there was no thread in her needle.

  Dear sweet Granny sensed it was time to dip into her bag of tricks and cause a distraction. When she opened her mouth a voice came out that I hardly recognized. “Mr. Harley, I have come here to have a gown created within two days. Money is not a problem. But I will have my gown and corset.” She took the shrill from her voice, and batted her gray lashes at the man. I adored her when she
performed thusly, forgetting she was no longer a lass of eighteen but a matron of eighty and more.

  The mention of money ignited a light in the lug’s eyes. “We would require a sizable amount of currency in advance to begin the work.”

  “Are you deaf, lad?” Granny’s tone turned strident. “Escort me to that room we passed upon entering. I saw fabrics there. Let us have at it! Stop your shilly-shallying. Bring one of your women to measure me for the gown and one to commit my corset requirements to paper.” My grandmother stood sideways to the man, and with one hand on her middle and the other under her bosom, she said, “I wish to do as much as possible with these. Bring me your best corsetiere.”

  Mr. Harley appeared flustered. Florence turned away from us. I knew she was smothering laughter.

  Granny continued on her rant, “If you were Mrs. Dupree, I would gladly arrange for the funds; but you sir I do not know, so you must show me what your ladies can do before I part with a shilling!”

  I had to remember to close my mouth as it hung open in surprise. Granny carried an assortment of personalities in her reticule. I never knew whom she might summon to speak for her—at the moment she appeared to be Lady Got-Rocks.

  Mr. Harley nodded, shrinking away from the formidable octogenarian.

  “I must have a boned corset which will be used as the bodice of the dress itself. I wish a tight whalebone form trimmed with real Swiss lace. It should be designed to make me look five years younger—no more, no less.”

  Once I saw a magician pull dozens of colored silk scarves from a single hat, Granny reminded me of just such a fellow. One demand after another flew from her lips, each one designed to drive Mr. Harley up a tree. She must have been reading fashion magazines to have so many stylish ideas, although I do not recall seeing any such books at Evensong.

  Seizing the opportunity to clear the suspicious woman from the sewing room, the better to question the others, Florence indicated the thread-less seamstress. “Mrs. Throckmorten, this woman looks to be someone who can take a good measure,” she said.

  Florence’s pronouncement didn’t make a smidge of sense but then the client was always right, right? How did a person appear to be able to use a tape measure? But the casual remark would remove the suspicious looking woman from the workroom and allow us to employ our detective skills with the remaining seamstresses.

  “Miss Nancy?” the man said. “Join us in the front salon. Summon Mrs. Medici for a corset measuring.”

  Mr. Harley escorted Granny, accompanied by the questionable seamstress. We followed at a distance. Florence bent down and whispered in my ear, “As soon as your grandmother has them in a tizzy, we shall return to the workroom.”

  A folding screen painted with an Oriental design of egrets in flight was erected to provide privacy. Miss Nancy led Granny behind it but the dear thing did not remain in place. I held my breath and counted to ten as she stomped out from behind the shelter.

  When Granny commenced, I silently congratulated her on a wonderful performance which fell just short of a tantrum. Lifting and tossing the fabrics that were draped over the chairs, she turned up her nose at each cloth. “I want something special, something exotic. These cloths are common—much too ordinary. If you are holding silks or satins from China for special clients, bring them out now!” She stomped about the salon flipping samples over her shoulders. “I am wealthy enough to justify being shown only your best.”

  “Did you wish to see ribbons while we are here, Mrs. Throckmorten?” Florence suggested. Lady Julia had come to purchase ribbons. Wherever they were, it was important we inspect the place where she had stood and perhaps learn more.

  Granny nodded, her pearlescent curls bouncing. “As a matter of fact, I do wish for some ribbons. Where are they kept?”

  Mr. Harley looked confused. He glanced around the room.

  “Ribbons! Lad! Ribbons!” Granny stepped under his nose looking directly up at the tall man. “Thin pieces of fabric like this!” she flipped the pastel streamers attached to her reticule. “Mrs. Dupree will hear my opinion of leaving a lug like you in charge of her fashion house. Your retainer has just been lowered. If you continue in your doltish manner I will take my trade elsewhere.”

  Mrs. Medici, the corset maker arrived in a huff. She had a strange odor about her which I attributed to her involvement in the process of bending whalebones into corset stays. It sometimes left a lingering odor on the thin pieces of baleen whale jawbones that were shaved to resemble knitting needles and then bent into shape by steam and chemicals. A new corset could take weeks to lose that peculiar aroma. And yet the smell that followed Mrs. Medici was that and more. She smelt like a chemist’s shop on a rainy day—damp, stinky, and lethal.

  After being introduced to Granny the corset maker attempted to coax her out of her dress in order to take her measurements. “I think not!” Granny barked. “You can size me in my dress or not at all.” Her insistence to remain fully clothed made no sense to the professional, but told me that my grandmother sensed something was wrong and wished to remain fully clothed on the chance we needed to make a hasty exit. Casually casting my eyes about I tried to see what Granny might have noticed but came up puzzled.

  I pulled Mrs. Medici aside, holding my breath against her fragrance. “Mrs. Throckmorten is eccentric. I apologize for her behavior but being extremely wealthy, she is used to getting her way.”

  The corset maker nodded but it was clear by the pinched expression on her face that her new client’s behavior made no sense to her.

  While Granny created an even greater scene, Florence and I slipped from the salon, into the hall. There was a staircase to our left and the workroom was straight ahead. My mentor pointed to where the ladies continued laboring in the back. I nodded in understanding.

  We tiptoed closer to the open door and stood in the shadow of the warren. I heard a woman whispering. “Mr. Harley will be back shortly for he will be unable to fool those ladies for long.” I glanced up at Florence who put her finger to her lips.

  There was a response from among the women, but it was inaudible.

  The first woman spoke again, “While Nancy is out of the room, let us review our plans; tonight will be our only chance to escape. At midnight after the ox goes to sleep I will unlock the window in the water closet. Take only what you can carry in your pockets. Allow no more—no less than three minutes between escapes through the opening.”

  “But what of Mrs. Dupree?” a tiny voice whimpered. “What if they harm her when she returns from Paris—because we have run off?”

  “We must think of ourselves,” the woman in charge said. “Once we are free and have met in the sanctuary in St. Peter’s church, we will decide whether to report Harley to the magistrate. If the law officer favors Chartists we may find ourselves in damp dungeons or worse. Take care for we do not know who we can trust.” There was a pause as the women turned quiet, perhaps listening for the sound of Mr. Harley’s return.

  “Do you have the lots you drew?” the lady in charge whispered. “Do not change a tit from that order for all depends on escaping one by one, single file—allowing time between our exits. You must not all rush to the window, but stage your escapes with precision—just like you stitch. Tonight you must all be as quiet as mice for the lives of the women who follow you out that window will depend upon it.”

  A floorboard creaked and the ladies immediately hushed.

  The sound didn’t come from me. I turned to see Bailey the butler standing behind Florence. The jig was up!

  Chapter 15

  Expecting the butler to call for Mr. Harley and report our eavesdropping, it was a great relief when he guided us away from the doorway and back into the passage. Should the bully of the house come we would appear somewhat innocent standing away from the open door rather than lurking in the shadows outside the women’s workroom.

  Bailey addressed himself to Florence, as her height alone seemed to dictate her position as our leader. “You did not come here jus
t for a gown. Why are you here? No one simply arrives at Mrs. Dupree’s without first writing for an appointment. I won’t ask who you are for the less I know the safer you will be.” Bailey turned, and paused as if listening. The sound of Granny ranting and Mr. Harley placating was permission enough for him to continue speaking to us.

  “Whoever you are, if you know anyone in a position of authority, I would ask you to seek his discreet assistance for I am sorely worried about Mrs. Dupree,” he spoke in an undertone; sweat beading on his upper lip. “I have been in the good lady’s employ for over a dozen years and not once has she mentioned relatives in Paris. I am concerned for her wellbeing. It is not like her to disappear spit-spot, let alone without leaving instructions for me.”

  “Are these women being held here against their will?” Florence asked. I noticed her fists were clenched—she was preparing to do battle.

  The butler inserted his fingers in his collar and stretched it to free his neck, as he had flushed red. “They were not when Mrs. Dupree was here, but now they are. Miss Nancy, who is measuring your mistress, is one of Harley’s gang of Chartists. The intimidation being used to bind them to the shop is that if they were to run off, Harley has threatened to harm Mrs. Dupree.” Since Florence chose not to tell him of the women’s plans I once again bit my tongue.

  Bailey ran a hand through his hair unaware he had mussed it most tellingly. He appeared to be a man under great stress.

  Despite the germs I knew Florence presumed to dwell in his follicles, she reached over and patted his hair in place. “We do not wish for any sign of anxiety to show; you must appear calm,” she said. “You are correct, Bailey, we are not here for a gown but are seeking information about a young lady who came here on Tuesday. She was looking to purchase some fine ribbon. Did you see her?”

  Bailey’s eyes shifted up and to the right. Florence once explained to me that when a person looks to the upper right they are remembering and seeking the truth. “There was a young lady; she arrived unexpectedly just as you did. A pretty thing; I left her in the trimming alcove in the salon looking at ribbons.”