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

until they saw evidence of a crime.
    “They said wait a bit, it’s not uncommon for a man to disappear for a day or two or three, then come home all sheep-faced, having spent the time drunk or in an opium den or with some loose woman.”
    “Did they actually say that?” I exclaimed.
    “Not in so many words, but one could tell well enough what they meant. As if John would ever do any such things.” Even in the heat of righteous indignation Mrs. Watson’s tone remained sweet. “Luckily, Mr. Sherlock Holmes came soon after, and set about finding out what had happened.”
    “And has he done so?”
    “He said I would not hear from him until he had something to report, and I have not.”
    “Has he no theory?”
    “He wonders whether some villain is attempting revenge against him, of course. John himself has no enemies.”
    “No disagreeable patients?”
    “Well, of course there is always that. Mr. Holmes took John’s medical record-books to check.”
    Good. Then she herself was unlikely to look up Viola Everseau in them.
    I leaned towards her. “Mrs. Watson, what do you think has happened?”
    For a moment her composure faltered. She had to lift her hands to her face. “I truly cannot imagine.”
    Just then the maid brought in the tea-tray. Making a visible effort, Mrs. Watson rallied and, as she poured, changed the subject. “Do you live with your family here in London, Miss, ah, Everseau?”
    I told her that no, I lived alone, had worked in an office, was without employment just now and hoped to find a position in Fleet Street. All true—not that it mattered; if I had told her I rode bareback in a circus, she would have nodded just the same, for her distress was such that she could comprehend nothing.
    We sipped tea in awkward silence.
    For something to say, I complimented the room in which we sat. “Such lovely lithographs. I quite approve of the combination of comfortable furnishings with touches of culture.”
    I quite approved of Mrs. Watson herself, actually, so bravely serving a second cup of tea while she looked around her own parlour as if she had never been there before.
    I added, “What a lovely little spinnet.” Having been a governess, of course she had spent half her life at the keyboard of a piano, but I asked anyway, “Do you play?”
    She scarcely heard the question, of course, poor thing. “Oh, um, yes. Yes, I…” Her sorely preoccupied thoughts wandered, apparently, to a posy of daisies placed upon the instrument. “So many flowers do serve to console one,” she remarked vaguely. “Somewhat, at least. And from strangers, yet. People are so kind.”
    Nodding agreement, I privately thought she was rejoicing over crumbs, for there were not many flowers at all. There was of course the bouquet I had brought—which, I was glad to see, the maid had placed in a vase exactly as I had arranged it. There was a little nosegay of lily-of-the-valley, wishing Mrs. Watson the return of happiness, there were the ubiquitous carnations, some white roses, and—
    And tucked away on a corner table, the most bizarre bouquet I had ever seen in my life.
    I am sure I sat up straighter, and my eyes widened, but I kept myself from saying anything more than a murmured “How peculiar!”
    “What?” Slowly Mrs. Watson turned to see what had caught my attention. “Oh. Yes, odd, isn’t it? The poppies should be red, but they’re white, and the may should be white, but it’s red, and I have no idea what the greens are.”
    “Asparagus!” I marveled. Not the vegetable, of course, but the cobwebby fronds that spring up afterwards, with leaves like sparse grey-green hair. “Once it’s grown, you know.” Which it should not be, at this time of year; only the spears should be sprouting from the ground.
    Mrs. Watson blinked. “My goodness, how clever you are! How did you learn that?”
    “My mother was a botanist.” True enough, and it might have been said of half the genteel ladies in England; flowers and