The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan (3 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING, REPORTING TO THE STEEP-
gabled and fancifully ornamented Gothic house where “Dr. Ragostin” maintained his office, I carried quite a load of “society papers” in my arms.

“Good morning, Miss Meshle!” cried my irrepressible page-boy, holding the door open for me.

“If you say so, Joddy.” Going indoors felt grim despite the May sunshine streaming through the chintz curtains. I felt still shadowed by last night’s odd encounter. But it scarcely mattered, compared to the problem of the peculiar pink fan. Just as my reading material burdened my arms, the mystery surrounding Lady Cecily burdened my mind. Why had she so cleverly slipped to me her paper “toy,” of which I could make nothing?

Sighing, I sent Joddy for newspapers, rang for tea, then settled at my desk with the Grub Street periodicals to enrich my knowledge of society some more. Lord Globe-trotter will address the Ladies of Inanity on the topic of his recent voyage down the Nile…The Honourable Miss Disapproval breaks her engagement to The Honourable Mr. Disappointment…To soften and beautify the hair, beat up the whites of four eggs into a froth, rub it into the roots, and leave it there…New for spring, the bias-cut invisible-seamed wrap morning-dress…
I truly shall go mad
…Colour-themed entertaining the latest rage; the yellow luncheon, the pink—

Wait a moment.

The Pink Tea, just now so fashionable, is an expensive way of entertaining; yet one might as well be dead as out of fashion! So here is how a true Pink Tea should be done: The table linen should be pink, the dishes also of a delicate pink shade, which you may borrow for the occasion. Arrange white cakes on high cake-stands lined with fancy pink paper, and pink frosted cakes on low cake-stands lined with fancy white paper. The table should be illuminated with a chandelier of pink candles; flowers for decoration must also be of pink, and your maids should wear pink caps and pink aprons. Serve the creams and ices in novel designs made of pink paper, such as baskets, band-boxes, seashells, or wheelbarrows. These along with party favours in many more beautiful designs may be procured at any fashionable caterer’s…

Paper party favours.

Pink.

Including, perhaps, cheap pink fans?

A connection, a thread, a very thin thread indeed, but better than nothing.

Sitting up quite straight, I rang the bell, and when, in Joddy’s absence, the kitchen-maid appeared, I asked her to convey to Mrs. Bailey and Mrs. Fitzsimmons my request that they might kindly favour me with their presence for a moment.

I should explain that in “Dr. Ragostin’s” Gothic establishment there was not merely an office to be looked after, but a house full of boarders (to stabilise my finances), for all of which Mrs. Fitzsimmons served as housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey as cook.

Those two doughty white-capped women appeared before me with the same doubtful expression on each dumpling-cheeked face. After months in “Dr. Ragostin’s” employ without ever having seen the man, surely they suspected that I was something more than a mere secretary.

After greeting them pleasantly enough—although I did not invite them to sit down—I asked, “Where might one find such a thing as a caterer?”

Mrs. Bailey puffed up like a ruffled hedgehog. “What would yer want a caterer fer? I can do anythin’—”

But before the offended cook could further defend her territorial right to her kitchen, I silenced her. “I simply asked, where are caterers to be found?”

In what area of London, I meant. Just as birds of a feather flock together, so did businesses in that city: bankers on Threadneedle Street, tailors on Savile Row, sixpenny magazines on Grub Street, physicians on Harley, dead fish principally at Billingsgate Market.

After an interval of discussion, Mrs. Fitzsimmons and Mrs. Bailey agreed that most of the caterers were to be found near Gillyglade Court, an offshoot of the fashionable shopping district around Regent Street.

An hour or so later, a cab pulled up at a corner of that commercial mecca and quite a well-bred young lady descended: yours truly. In order to transform myself, I had made use of my secret dressing-room, where I had removed rouge, cheek and nostril inserts, false eyelashes, hair additions, et cetera, but then crowned my own narrow, sallow, aristocratic face with the most gloriously coiffed wig, to which I attached a hat consisting mostly of a pouf of feathers and lace. Next, touches of perfume and powder, then a perfectly divine promenade dress of celadon-green dotted swiss with the very latest in puffed sleeves, also dove-grey kid-leather boots and gloves, a white organza parasol, and voila! Impeccably upper-class, with my dagger as always sheathed in the bust of my corset, but now concealed by a handsome opal brooch.

Regent Street and its environs can be summed up in three words:
glass, gas,
and
brass.
That is to say, oft-cleaned bow windows replete with finery illuminated by numerous lamps in the most resplendent of all possible surroundings. On this fine day, polished door-knobs and the like appeared even more shining than usual, because less sooty. With silk petticoats rustling beneath my trailing skirt I perambulated in and out of the glittering shops, twirling my parasol and smiling amiably and condescendingly upon clerks bobbing behind the counters. After a brief while, my seemingly aimless peregrinations carried me into Gillyglade Court.

At each door I entered, my posh clothing plus my aristocratic accent drew instant servility from clerks. I quickly located several caterers and learned more than I wanted to know about their services. I could have rented burnished silver Persian coffee-urns, pressed-glass plates, potted ferns, showy epergnes—sublimely useless—for the centre of each table, or golden birdcages complete with nightingales to hang from the ceiling; I was offered seven-course menus, wine-lists, a selection of “refections” including but certainly not limited to bonbons with humourous mottoes folded into them upon slips of paper.

Indeed, these caterers could do almost anything with paper.

“I have heard that a pink-themed tea is quite the thing for spring,” I said at each of five establishments, gazing vaguely around me through my lorgnette.

And at each the response was much the same. “Oh! Yes, yes indeed,” and I would be shown a plethora of pink gimcracks: pink doilies, pink daisies, pink paper sailboat candy-holders, pink paper rose-petal bowls, pink paper squirrels, top-hats, mushrooms, camels, pyramids…

All of which I would regard with slight but evident revulsion as I said doubtfully, “I don’t know…something a bit more elegant…have you any fans?”

No. No, alas, they did not.

But at the sixth caterer’s shop, they did.

“Oh! Oh, yes, we made them up special for the Viscountess of Inglethorpe, and they were a great success, so we made some more to keep on hand; just a moment and I will fetch one to show you.”

And out came the pink paper fan.

Seemingly identical in every detail to the one the girl in the bell skirt had slipped to me.

“Let me see that,” I demanded, retaining my imperial manner but quite forgetting my pose of indifference as I grabbed the pink paper fan and held it up to the light, peering at it, nay, glaring at it through my lorgnette, for something was wrong. Different. “Is this the same paper you used for, ah—”

“For the Viscountess of Inglethorpe? Yes, exactly the same.”

Good-quality heavy pink paper, but plain. No watermark of any kind.

I stood there a moment, and I am sure the hapless clerk must have wondered why I scowled so.

“May I take this with me?” I daresay I sounded angry, although my exasperation was all for myself.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Ungraciously I stormed out, muttering to myself as I strode towards the nearest cab-stand, “Blind. I have been
blind.
”

How could I have overlooked a device so simple and obvious?

Humph. I had been dense. Obtuse.
Stupid.
But knowing what I did now, with my finger upon the right clue at last, I felt sure that I would soon learn the nature of Lady Cecily’s difficulty.

M
ISS
M
ESHLE RETURNED TO HER LODGING MUCH
earlier than usual that day, attempting and failing to give a smiling greeting to the startled Mrs. Tupper and her equally startled girl-of-all-work.

Blessedly, the deafness of the former and the humble status of the latter rendered any explanation unnecessary. I simply nodded, waved, and strode upstairs. The moment I had closed and locked the door of my room behind me, I pounced upon the peculiar pink fan Lady Cecily had slipped to me. Holding it up to the window, I studied once more the faint markings upon the pink paper.

Markings I had taken for a sort of checkered decorative motif, a watermark.

And I confess that I said something quite naughty, for I should have guessed the first moment I saw them.

But vexation would get me nowhere. Mentally setting emotion aside, I struck a match, with which I lit a sconce of candles. Then, taking my pink mystery in hand once more, I opened it until it formed a nearly flat half-circle, and began gently to warm it at the flames, careful not to scorch the paper.

Gingerly moving it about to heat all portions of it equally and slowly, I watched brown lines beginning to emerge from the background of pink.

Yes.

Invisible writing.

I noted with approval that Lady Cecily, with the instinct of a true artist, must have used a tiny brush rather than a pen, to leave no impressions upon the paper itself after her “invisible ink”—most likely lemon juice—had dried.

My heartbeat hastened, for the secret message written on the fan was almost ready to be read.

Rather, deciphered.

When I felt sure the fan’s pink paper had yielded all the brown lines that it was likely to show me, I hurried to sit down with my writing desk in my lap, snatched up some foolscap paper, and began to copy the missive in pencil in case the original might fade. Even now it was difficult to see clearly. With some guesswork I transcribed it thus:

Several weeks earlier, during a period of inactivity and, I must confess, loneliness, I had obtained and read a publication upon the subject of secret writing and ciphers. Not something I would normally pick up, but this particular “trifling monograph” (his own words) had been authored by Sherlock Holmes, my brother; I had read and reread it just to “hear” his precise and coolly passionate voice.

Thanks to Sherlock, then, I knew that what I saw before me was called the “Mason” cipher, having been invented by Freemasons in the past century—but I could easily have solved it even before having read my brother’s excellent text, for this “secret code” was no secret, being commonly used among schoolchildren everywhere. Indeed, it could be decoded so simply that I wondered why Lady Cecily had bothered to use a cipher at all.

At the top of my paper I scrawled the key:

To encipher from this, one drew the shape of each letter’s container, so to speak. Absurdly simple. Deciphering was just as easy. Referring back to the secret message, I quickly translated it, thus:

HELCLOCKEDIA

EBBMFGAEIED

UNLES

That was all.

“Curses,” I grumbled, glaring at the less-than-satisfactory message before me. The only words that made any sense were
clock
and, at the end,
unless
, misspelled.

“Unless”? Unless what? The word suggested altercation. Do such-and-so unless you want a thrashing, or won’t do such-and-so unless…

Unless what? A sentence ought not to end with
unless
.

Unless the word were not misspelled, but incomplete? The message had been interrupted? Suggesting duress?

I felt in my bones that I had hit upon the truth; Lady Cecily had been unable to finish her message. Evidently she was closely watched. I wished she had simply written in plain English, for she could have managed that more quickly.

But then I realised why she had not done so. “Invisible” ink, although it dries clear, is not actually impossible to see; it leaves a sheen noticeable in certain lights. Handwriting might have been detected. But the straight-lined cipher had concealed itself nicely along the folds of the fan, looking like a sort of decoration, while being simple for a recipient to solve.

Clever.

And desperate. A cipher secretly written in invisible ink on a paper fan of all things, then slipped to someone she met by accident, someone she barely knew—certainly such a cipher ought to be a plea for assistance, for rescue, for help—

Of course.

The first four letters were not
HELC
; they were
HELP
. The cipher for
P
looked just like the cipher for
C
except that it included a dot, which evidently I had not perceived.

What of
clock
, then?

Eureka! The next word had to be
locked
!

Feverishly addressing my pencil to the cipher again, mindful of missing dots, I eventually arrived at the following:

Deciphered:

HELPLOCKEDIN

ROOMSTARVED

UNLES

Or, in plainer English, “Help! I am being locked in my room and starved—unless…”

I must admit that my first reaction upon reading this was one of immense gratification; I felt all of the thrill of the chase. And of elucidation: Eureka! I understood why Lady Cecily had worn such a silly thing as a bell skirt. She had been forced to do so, in order to hobble her so that she could not possibly run away from her dragonish chaperones. Now, with her errands completed, she was, presumably, locked away again. But where? Here was a case of a missing person indeed! I anticipated search, adventure, perhaps even a rescue—

But immediately my fervour turned to horror for Cecily’s sake. Could I find her in time? Could I find her before—

What? She was being locked up and starved unless what?

Unless she yielded to some demand, obviously. Unless she obeyed some command she had so far defied. Unless she agreed to—

“Oh, no,” I whispered as I remembered. “Oh, how awful! Could it be?”

A trousseau you will need, and a trousseau you shall have
, one of the guardian dowagers had said.

I had no very clear idea what a trousseau looked like or what might be included in one; to the best of my knowledge it consisted of expensive, lacy unmentionables. But I knew what a trousseau was
for
.

They had brought her to London to shop for a trousseau.

This meant that there was none prepared already—there had been no period of engagement during which ribbons and ruffles might lovingly be stitched—and there was no time to order a supremely fashionable one from abroad.

In my horror I leapt to my feet, spilling paper, pencil, and writing desk to the floor.

Lady Cecily was going to be married.

Soon.

And against her will.