The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline Read Online Free PDF Page A

winter she “made over” one of the older dresses, taking it apart, turning its fabric to the unstained side, and altering its cut and trimming to reflect current trends. What was beyond saving she discarded. She did not keep anything out-of-date; she had got rid of her bustle, for instance, within a year after that ridiculous shelf-like dorsal protrusion had gone out of style.
    I was a bit surprised, therefore, to find, amongst the other clothing I rescued from the floor, quite an old-fashioned crinoline frock that must have dated back to the times when it was difficult for a fashionable woman to fit the breadth of her skirt through a doorway. Very well made this dress was, with a ruffled peplum, ruffles at the shoulders also, and yards and yards of Prussian blue silk in its vast skirt, which spread full circle in the style of thirty years ago.
    Perhaps the thrifty Mrs. Tupper had kept this relic for the sake of the fabric?
    But would she not have cut it up and made use of it long before now?
    A sentimental memento, then? Her wedding-dress? It was quite fine enough for one.
    But no, I had seen Mrs. Tupper’s wedding photo, and I did not recognise this dress from it.
    So why in Heaven’s name, given her stingy habits and her limited wardrobe space, had she preserved this voluminous gown?
    And also, I saw to my renewed surprise as I glanced towards the next garment awaiting me on the floor—she had also kept its crinoline!

CHAPTER THE FOURTH
    THE GENTLE READER WILL KINDLY UNDERSTAND that I am not attempting to excuse myself, but merely reporting the truth of the matter, when I say that, at that moment, daylight was dawning literally although not, alas, metaphorically. I had been up all night, had grown stupid in consequence, and I looked upon the crinoline without analytical insight, merely girlish bewilderment: no one had worn the abominable things since 1860 or thereabouts, so why did Mrs. Tupper still have one?
    Picking up the crinoline, feeling its heft and the scratchy rigour of its linen-and-horsehair fabric, I could quite see that, although now unstarched and much flattened, nevertheless it had been at one time quite formidable, fit to support and flare even the heaviest nine-yards-of-fabric flounced-and-ruffled skirt. Constructed in the form of a tiered petticoat, the crinoline widened enormously from top to bottom, each panel much larger than the last and gathered into it, the seams being covered by sturdy grosgrain ribbon embroidered with flowers.
    I found myself gazing at those blossomy embellishments.
    Unlike most well-bred young ladies, I had never been taught to embroider. My mother, a Suffragist, had scorned the drawing-room graces, encouraging me to read books, ride my bicycle, wander the woods, and climb trees, not to mould wax roses, string seashells, hem hankies, or bead eyeglass-cases. I knew how to do sensible everyday sewing, of course, such as darning stockings or mending a seam, but not decorative stitchery of any sort.
    Perversely, then, I quite admired the crinoline’s adornment of blue ribbon embroidered with flowers of pink, peach, yellow, lavender, and other lovely pastel hues, for I thought embroidered posies very pretty indeed and wished I knew how to make them. I had even gone so far as to learn a few basic stitches from the Girl’s Own Paper —well, only two, actually, French Knot and Lazy Daisy, which I recognised on the crinoline’s ribbons. I had never seen embroidered ribbon before, but I would have expected a repeating pattern of some sort; the blue grosgrain, however, was decorated with a sweet and artless sequence, random as to both colour and arrangement, of wild roses and starflowers—quite winsome while simple to achieve, I realised, peering more closely. The starflowers were five Lazy Daisy stitches around a French Knot, and the little roses were nothing more than thread wrapped under and over three crossed stitches—
    What ever was I thinking? My poor deaf landlady