The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets Read Online Free PDF Page A

What a difference. I simply set it upon a candlestick in front of me, then arranged its shining rosewood-hued tresses until I got them exactly the way I wanted them, ringlets in a careless chignon at the crown, leaving a generous fringe around the forward edges.
    Without the wig—and without the inserts I used to round out my cheeks and nostrils—I was a sharp-faced, hawk-nosed, sallow-skinned female version of my brother Sherlock.
    But lovely and convincingly natural-looking hair so amended the proportions of my head that my pronounced nose and chin miraculously transformed into a classical Grecian profile. Framed by russet fringe and tresses, my skin looked not pallid, but delicately porcelain. Even I could scarcely believe the transformation.
    There was more, much more, to be done, of course. Natural beauty requires a flaw, a certain wanton violation of symmetry, so I glued a small, raised port-wine birthmark (courtesy of Pertelote’s) at my right temple, where it served to draw attention away from the center of my face—that is to say, my proboscis. I then dusted my face with rice powder as if attempting to hide the slight blemish. The rice powder was permissible for a lady to use, but the next item I took in hand, rouge, was not; I had to apply the disreputable substance very subtly to my cheekbones and lips. Then I had “Spanish papers” with which to rub my eyelids, making my eyes appear large and lustrous, but not so much that the artifice could be detected—it took me many attempts to get them right. As I have said, becoming beautiful required hours and hours of labour.
    With, might I add, no guarantee at all that Mrs. Watson would receive me! It was quite possible that, under the circumstances, she had taken to her bed in nervous prostration, unable to entertain visitors even if she were willing.
    Stars and garters! What if I were turned away from her door after all this work?
    But one could but try. And at last, I was ready.
    Taking a final look in the mirror, I must say I felt an unexpectedly fierce sensation of triumph.
    Mrs. Tupper, unfortunately happening to see me going out, dropped the china pitcher she was carrying; it smashed to bits.
    On that percussive note I took my cab to the Watson address, and if I wafted up the steps like a woodland breeze, it was because of my “Sylvan Paradise” eau de toilette, also purchased the day before. I had never in my life bothered with fragrance—let the gutters stink all they liked, I was never one to hold a scented handkerchief to my nose—but beauty, as I have said, lies not only in the eyes of the beholder, but in a carefully orchestrated conspiracy of all the senses. Hence, perfume. And I had swallowed honey to sweeten my voice. Corseting myself, I had made doubly sure that my bust enhancer remained free of lumps from any of the various objects I stored therein. Also, I had chosen my dress, as you might imagine, with great care, to appear neither humble nor aristocratic. Every “artless” thing about me, from my Gypsy bonnet—a small, flat hat with a few flowers—to my polished button-top boots, was the result of hours of trial and deliberation. Indeed, I had been up half the night preparing for this encounter. I could only hope that my sleeplessness gave soulful depth to the expression of my eyes.
    And at the moment I reached my destination, of course, doubt swept in. What if I were a fool? What if the whole world could see that I was merely a crow masquerading as a peacock?
    Just at that wretched moment, naturally, the door opened. But the bouquet I carried, snowdrops and jasmine (hope and sympathy) carefully arranged and bound by a yellow ribbon, explained my presence; there was no need for me to speak. I hoped that the parlour-maid did not notice how my gloved hand trembled as I laid my calling-card, Miss Viola Everseau, on her silver tray.

C HAPTER THE F IFTH
    T HE MAID SHOWED ME INTO A VERY MODEST parlour, then whisked away towards the back of