The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline Read Online Free Page B

I still look for things of value in unlikely places; this has become my life’s calling.
    Undertaking to search Mrs. Tupper’s house, then, I set about the task not only with energy born of desperation but with the keen interest of a lifelong Nosey-Nellie and with a practised eye to note anything unusual, anything at all.
    As the mysterious intruders had most rudely strewn Mrs. Tupper’s poor belongings, I took the opposite approach: I put things away. Lighting every candle, every lantern and oil-lamp (in outrageous defiance of the usual parsimony of the place), inch by inch I inspected the dwelling and every item therein by replacing each thing where it belonged.
    Or, in the case of broken dishes, sweeping up the shards and depositing them in the dust-bin.
    Also shattered were the two crockery spaniels who had guarded the ends of the mantel. I inspected their interior surfaces carefully, but saw no sign that anything had been concealed in them.
    The contents of Mrs. Tupper’s carved memorabilia box lay torn and strewn on the floor. I inspected them as I collected them: my landlady’s babyhood record of baptism so old and brittle it had broken into pieces along the folds, equally ancient sepia-toned photographic portraits most likely of family members, a similar one of stiffly-ranked children being promoted from the Sisters of Mercy Ragged School of Hoisington—Mrs. Tupper had done well for one who had made her start in a ragged school!—the wedding photograph I had seen before, her yellowing marriage certificate, the deed to the house, et cetera. From all of this I discovered that Mrs. Tupper’s first name was Dinah, but nothing more.
    The hour was late, but I could not possibly sleep; I continued working. When I had inspected and tidied the kitchen and parlour to my dissatisfaction, I tore myself a hunk of bread and forced myself to eat it, knowing I needed to safeguard my strength. Then, gnawing the crust, I trudged upstairs to assail Mrs. Tupper’s bedroom.
    First, and in haste, begrudging the time, I stopped in my own chamber to rid myself of the increasingly annoying corset, bust enhancer, hip regulators, and other paraphernalia of Miss Meshle. With muted relief I shed my buxom fair-haired disguise to be my scrawny self. In my stocking feet, a dressing gown, and my own lank hair and wedge-of-cheese face, I proceeded to my task.
    Every drawer of Mrs. Tupper’s dresser had been dumped. With lighted candle in hand I inspected that humble item of furniture for any false bottoms where writings or papers might be concealed; I even pulled it away from the wall to look at its back, and I scrutinised each drawer, inside and out, as I replaced it. Nothing.
    With a sigh, I then set about picking up clothing from bed and floor. As I folded Mrs. Tupper’s poor, dear old-fashioned pantaloons to return them to the dresser, tears ran down my face; imagine, having strange men in one’s bedroom laying callous hands upon one’s underpinnings! How perfectly dreadful.
    My feelings of lachrymose outrage continued as I examined the empty wardrobe, then began to return strewn and rumpled clothing to its hangers therein. Mrs. Tupper was a good, decent woman, I thought as I handled the muslin blouses and woollen skirts, some of them neatly patched, that she wore on weekdays. No doubt she had been wearing blouse, skirt, apron, and ruffled house-cap when she had been snatched away. How distressed she must be, for Mrs. Tupper never let herself be seen upon the street without first exchanging her apron for a starched white “pinner” and her house-cap for a bonnet!
    Skirts were for everyday wear; special occasions required dresses, and Mrs. Tupper managed dresses just as she did everything else: with thrift, moderation, and regularity. She owned no more than four. Each spring she put great thought into the purchase of a new, sensible one appropriate to a woman of her age and humble station yet reasonably current in fashion. And each