Nancy Springer - The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets

T HE C ASE OF THE B IZARRE B OUQUETS

T HE C ASE OF THE B IZARRE B OUQUETS

AN ENOLA HOLMES MYSTERY

N ANCY S PRINGER

PHILOMEL BOOKS

To my mother

PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

Copyright 2008 by Nancy Springer. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Springer, Nancy.
The case of the bizarre bouquets: an Enola Holmes mystery/Nancy Springer.
p. cm.
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Enola Holmes, disguised as a beautiful woman, finds clues in floral bouquets as she searches for the missing Doctor Watson, a companion of her famous older brother, Sherlock.
[1. Missing personsFiction. 2. Flower languageFiction. 3. Characters in literatureFiction. 4. London (England)History19th centuryFiction. 5. Great BritainHistory19th centuryFiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.S76846Carb 2008 [Fic]dc22 2007020435

ISBN: 1-4362-2027-0

A LSO BY N ANCY S PRINGER

T HE E NOLA H OLMES M YSTERIES

The Case of the Missing Marquess

The Case of the Left-Handed Lady

T HE T ALES OF R OWAN H OOD

Rowan Hood, Outlaw Girl of Sherwood Forest

Lionclaw

Outlaw Princess of Sherwood

Wild Boy

Rowan Hood Returns, the Final Chapter

T HE T ALES FROM C AMELOT

I am Mordred

I am Morgan Le Fay

Ribbiting Tales

CONTENTS

M ARCH , 1889

L UNATICS HAVE NO COMMON SENSE, THINKS THE matron, but then, thats what deranges the faculties, isnt it, lack of common sense? Take this new inmate now: If he had any sense, he would be exercising with the others in the airing yard on this beautiful sunny day, the first fine day of spring; hed be following directions (Stand up straight! Breathe deeply! Lift your eyes and contemplate the glories of the firmament! Now, march! Left foot first, ONE-two-three-four!) and hed be doing himself some good, but instead

Let me out, he demands for perhaps the hundredth time. I am an Englishman ! Such treatment of a British citizen simply cannot be tolerated. While his tone is angry, he doesnt curse, shell give him that; even at his worst, when he fought with the keepers, when he blackened the directors eye, even then he hadnt cursed. Nor does he now, only complaining vehemently, Let me out. I demand my rights as a loyal subject of the queen. Let me out of this confounded coffin, I say!

Its not a coffin, Mr. Kippersalt. Sitting in a comfortless wooden chair, cushioned only by her own amplitude while in her lap she knits a sock, the matron speaks in a bored but soothing tone. The top and bottom resemble those of a coffin, perhaps, but you know quite well that a coffin would not have spindlework all up and down the sides so you can breathe and I can see that you are not in any difficulties

Not in any difficulties? Unexpectedly the man lying in the confines of the restraining box starts to laugh. At the sound of his laughter the matron drops a stitch, frowns, and lays her knitting aside, reaching for paper and pencil instead.

Not in any difficulties in this fiendish device? the man cries amidst unnaturally high-pitched yowls of laughter.

You do not appear to be physically indisposed, answers the matron with gentle dignity, and you are lying on a clean pallet, and you can change your position, move your hands. Certainly the crib is preferable to a strait-jacket.

A crib! Is that what its called! The man is still laughing for no good reason. The matron watches him narrowly, knowing she must take care with him; he was quite unexpectedly quick for such a stocky fellow, and resourceful, too. He very nearly made it to the fence.

In Mr. Kippersalts barely started casebook she writes the date and time, then, Patient laughing in apparent hysteria . Earlier notations state that Mr. Kippersalt most strenuously resisted putting on his grey woollen uniform while his own things were taken away for safekeeping; that he has refused food; that his urine is light and clear, he moves his bowels appropriately, and he seems to be of a cleanly nature; that he shows no deformity of the head, trunk, or limbs; that he exhibits intelligence of a sort, and that he uses a handkerchief.

A crib, as in, cheating me of my freedom? The mans unnerving laughter is quietening. Not a bad-looking man of middle age, a soldierly type, he strokes his moustache with his fingers as if to calm himself, or to think. When are you going to let me out?

After the doctor has looked you over. After first administering chloral hydrate, the matron feels sure. Himself an addict to laudanum and the like, the asylums doctor troubles himself little with the inmates other than to medicate them.

Doctor? I am a doctor! The newly committed lunatic starts once again to howl with laughter.

The matron writes, Persists in his grandiose delusions . Setting the casebook aside, she takes up her knitting again. Trying to turn the heel of a sock can be most vexing, but thats the way things are when one is married to the director of a lunatic asylum: always seven things to do at once, never a quiet moment to simply rest ones soul, go for a walk or look at a newspaper. The nurses require as much supervision as the patients do; Florence Nightingales influence has not extended here, and the help is illiterate at best, if not in the grip of some vice, usually drink.

The matron sighs. Trying to pick up the stitch she dropped, she cannot keep a slight edge from creeping into her voice as she replies, A doctor? Thats not true, Mr. Kippersalt. Your documents of admission clearly state that you are a shopkeeper.

My name is not Kippersalt! I am not the person you say I am! Why can I not make anyone at this hellish place understand that I am here because of some absurd misapprehension?

Feeling the man watching her from the coffin-like box in which he lies, the matron smiles, albeit wearily. In my experience of the past thirty years, Mr. Kippersalt, patients very often believe a mistake has been made, but it has never been so. How could it be, when such considerable sums of money have changed hands? Take gentlemen like you, now. A number have come here declaring themselves to be Napoleonthats the most frequent, but weve had a Prince Albert, a Sir Walter Drake and a William Shakespeare