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a few weeks after my mother had run away, although in my case it was in order to avoid unpleasantness in general and my brother Mycroft in particular.
    But—nearly thirty-five years?
    The matron said, “She prefers to be referred to as a valitudinarian. But if invalid she is, then surely she’s the most active invalid in London.” Then the woman gestured dismissal as if I were no more than a child. “Run along, dear. It’s time for me to call the probationers in from their constitutional.”
    Out I went, my mind rife with perturbing thoughts of the heroic Florence Nightingale now recumbent. Here lay yet another statue with feet of clay, I brooded. Would the erstwhile “Lady with the Lamp” shed any light at all upon the darkness surrounding the fate of Mrs. Tupper?
    Lambeth was an orderly sort of place, with not many people on the street at this mid-morning hour. Somewhat to my surprise, I noticed that one of the passersby was the same sauntering workman in an overlarge plaid hat whom I had seen in the East End earlier. Perhaps he was employed hereabouts?
    Finding a cab-stand, I got into another hansom and told the driver, “Thirty-five South Street.”
    But rather than starting off at once, he exclaimed, “In Mayfair, miss?”
    My surprise was scarcely less than his, but I hope I concealed it. “Is that where South Street is?”
    “Yes, miss.”
    “Then let us go there.”
    Small wonder he had checked to see whether he had heard me rightly, for Mayfair is London’s most exclusive neighbourhood. One would expect a woman who has martyred her life for humanitarian causes to live—I don’t know where, but not in Mayfair, with the wealthy and powerful. Was Florence Nightingale rich? I supposed, now that I thought about it, she must have had considerable means in order to do the remarkable things she had done. But why, if she was born into a wealthy family, the sort to be presented at court, had she gone instead to a bloody cesspool of a hospital in the Crimea? And why now, confining herself to bed, did she live amongst courtiers? Jouncing along in the cab, I entertained a doubtful yet lively curiosity regarding Florence Nightingale.
    No amount of thought and speculation, however, could have prepared me for what I found at 35 South Street, just off Park Lane—indeed, the house was so situated as to enjoy a view of Hyde Park! And a worthy house it was, a large, handsome four-storey brick edifice, its area enclosed in wrought-iron railings, its shutters and trimmings painted a rich and restrained green.
    After taking several deep breaths, I climbed stone steps to a stately door with fan-light. I plied a polished brass knocker, quite expecting to be met by a suitably fearsome butler who would question me, then usher me into a hushed, deep-carpeted library or parlour where I would wait alone for a considerable period of time before—
    The door opened, and a young man who was neither a butler nor a footman, but wore an exceedingly fashionable tweed suit with knickerbockers and tall tan gaiters, stood aside with hardly a glance at me and said, “Come in.”
    And from the doorstep I smelled the mingled aromas of tea, pastries, and cut flowers, while I heard the babble of many voices.
    “I beg your pardon,” I said, put rather off balance, “am I interrupting something?”
    “Not at all.” He barked a short laugh. “It’s like this every day of the week. Do come in.”
    Sensing impatience in his voice, I did as he said, stepping into a broad, well-lit hallway off of which opened parlour, library, morning-room, dining-room, and so on, several spacious rooms, and in every one of them sat men in city-suits and women in visiting-dresses either chatting, or taking tea, or poring over documents, or writing, or any combination of the above. With quite a shock to my already-fuddled mind I recognised erstwhile Prime Minister Gladstone amongst the crowd.
    I began to realise that my obtaining even a few moments of Miss