Read The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline for Free Online Page B

Nightingale’s undivided attention might present considerable difficulty.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH
    LIKE A SHIP BECALMED, I DRIFTED UPON THE SISAL carpet just inside the door, for the young man who had admitted me was now nowhere to be seen, and I did not know how to proceed. Baffled, I studied the furnishings of the passageway: ingenious yet attractive settees that incorporated hat-racks, mirrors, and umbrella-stands into their construction, a towering casement-clock, cabinets displaying memorabilia presumably from the Crimea, embroidered mottoes framed to hang on the walls: Patience and Persistence Prevail, Good Intentions Cannot Mend Bad Sense, Without Progress We Regress, that sort of thing, daintily stitched with borders of flowers.
    As I studied Without Progress We Regress thoughtfully, a silk-gowned young woman, certainly not a servant, sailed past me with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses on a tray. Although there certainly were no wasps to be fended off so early in the year, still, the pitcher was draped with a delicately daisybroidered jug cover. So taken was I with this lovely object that I rather startled when the young lady paused to ask me in the friendly manner of an equal, “Are you here in regard to hospital reform, miss?”
    Despite my pose of womanhood, I found myself replying like the callow fourteen-year-old girl I was. “Um, no . . .”
    “Or concerning the deplorable conditions in our workhouses?”
    I shook my head.
    “You are not on the Army Medical Commission, surely.” Cheerfully the young lady continued her attempt to place me. “The Committee for the Licensing of Trained Nurses?”
    Like a stupid child I shook my head, but then managed to say, “I need to ask Miss Florence Nightingale a question.”
    “That’s easily arranged. See Mrs. Crowley at the desk in the library,” she told me with a nod and a smile.
    Mrs. Crowley, a somewhat older version of the richly gowned young lady who had directed me to her, also smiled and nodded as I said I wanted to speak to Florence Nightingale. She did not ask my name, luckily for me, as I had no idea what it might be today. Nor did she request a card to be sent up to the invalid, or a letter of introduction. Quite without questioning my intrusion in any way, she merely waved me to a nearby seat and handed me a laptop writing-desk complete with pen, ink, and a sheaf of cream-coloured rag paper of the very best quality.
    I regarded this array with such evident bewilderment that Mrs. Crowley told me gently, “Write down what it is you wish to ask Miss Nightingale, and that young jackanapes in the knickerbockers will take it up to her, and as soon as she has time, she will write you a reply.”
    Baffled, I stammered, “But—but I really need to speak directly with Miss Nightingale!”
    Mrs. Crowley’s smile widened slightly. “Oh, no, I see you do not understand that is quite impossible,” she told me with only the kindliest hint of reproach in her voice. “No one speaks directly with Miss Nightingale.” Benignly Mrs. Crowley nodded towards a doorway across the hall, through which was visible the imposing form of Mr. Gladstone. “If His Excellency wishes to ask her something, he sends up a note. They all do.”
    “But—but if she is such an invalid, how can she—”
    “It is astonishing how much she accomplishes from her bed, dear. She takes her meals alone, and works constantly. In addition to household notes, she writes sometimes as many as one hundred letters a day, being instrumental in a great many reforms, although she never allows her name to be mentioned in the press. Amongst those in the know, however, the saying is that there are really three, not merely two, Houses of Parliament, and they are the House of Lords, the House of Commons, and the House of Florence Nightingale.”
    I believe I said rather weakly, “Good heavens. I had no idea. Nevertheless, I really do need to see Miss Nightingale in person—”
    “It is simply not