I thought a flower shop hardly measured up to ‘the places’ she referred to. I patted the bag I always carried.
Moyses Stevens’s shop on Victoria Street in Belgravia might have looked like any other shop front on the street, with those narrow, bowfront windows, dwarfed on either side by establishments with far more imposing entrances. Except for the royal warrant displayed in one of those windows.
The shop and the creative, extravagant displays they provided were well known across London. My great-aunt always called on them for her special occasions, holidays, and my sister’s upcoming wedding.
The shop bell rang overhead as I entered. I was always fascinated by the fact that the narrow entrance led to a narrow hall with a reception desk, the rest of the shop opening up beyond. And always a fresh, extraordinary arrangement ondisplay at the desk, no matter if it was raining or snowing outside.
I was greeted by the woman at the desk and asked to speak with the owner. I assured her that it was not over some disappointment with their service. She proceeded to make Mrs. Stevens aware that I wanted to see her.
“Lady Forsythe,” she greeted me when she arrived. “It is a pleasure to have you in our shop again.”
We exchanged the usual greetings.
“Is there something I can assist with for yourself or possibly Lady Montgomery?”
“There is a matter of grave importance that I hope you can help with.”
“In whatever way I can,” she assured me.
We sat at the client desk.
“You have an account for Harris Trust, or possibly Simon Harris?”
She nodded. “Yes. It’s an old account, paid regularly each month by the trust.”
“Can you tell me what it is for?”
She sat back, somewhat surprised. “I am not in the habit of divulging client information. You do understand that I have a responsibility to maintain discretion for my clients.”
I assured her that I did.
“I suppose there is no harm. The account is for flowers to be prepared on the eighth day of each month, and specifically made of white and pink lilies. Those were the instructions put in place after the deaths of Mr. Harris’s wife and his daughter.”
I assumed that meant delivered to a cemetery. I was not a regular visitor to them. It was something I hoped to put off for some time. And my send-off most certainly was not going to be in a gloomy, overcrowded piece of land with others moldering in their graves beside me.
I was quite certain that some London property developer would come along and seize the land for a new rail station or a cluster of residences. Someone would be given the responsibility of moving the graves, and I had visions of attendants losing their hold on my casket, dropping it, and my bones rolling out onto the ground. Not for me.
I was determined that my send-off would be very much like what my great-aunt had planned, in a Viking long boat, set afire, then put adrift out to sea where no one could drop me.
Of course, I did need to convince Brodie of my plan in the event that I went first.
“Where are they delivered?”
“The bouquets are not delivered; a man picks them up promptly at ten o’clock in the morning.”
Carney, perhaps?
“He’s never given his name. He simply provides the same note, signed by Mr. Harris when he first requested the bouquets.”
I described Carney.
“That is the gentleman.”
I would hardly have called him a gentleman.
“Has there ever been a request for other flowers? Perhaps red roses?” I inquired.
“Yes, quite recently. When he arrived to pick up the bouquets, he requested two red roses to be added to the order.”
