“It’s quite exhausting. Why couldn’t we leave the dagger with the constable at the desk?” Mary said.
“This is the sort of evidence best given to the head inspector.” He gave three raps with the large brass door knocker.
Dr. Turpin’s wife opened the door. “Oh, good evening. Myhusband didn’t mention we were expecting company.”
“He doesn’t know,” Byron said. “You see, we’re here for, erm...” He paused and it occurred to Mira that they hadn’t discussed whether or not to tell Dr. Turpin the truth about their investigative purposes.
“It’s my head,” she said. “I’ve had a pounding ache in it since this morning and, as we were passing your house, I wondered if Dr. Turpin might suggest a treatment for it.”
Mrs. Turpin gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure he’ll be able to do something. He’s just finishing up dinner now, but if you’ll wait in the surgery, I’ll fetch him.”
She directed them into a set of rooms off to the right and left to find her husband. There were enough seats for the women, and Byron stood near the door.
“I’m quite surprised that you are able to lie so easily,” Mary sniffed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be.”
Mira steadied her breathing. “I thought you would prefer to keep your brother’s profession secret from your acquaintances, seeing as you find it so distasteful. But if you’d rather I confess my deception to Dr. Turpin, I can certainly oblige you.”
Mary shook her head. “No. At this point it would be far more disgraceful to reveal the truth. And it certainly isn’t the worst breach of decorum you’ve committed today.”
“Mary—” Byron started.
Mira interrupted him. “You may think what you will about what Byron and I were up to in the garden, but I can assure you it was nothing untoward.”
“Knowing my brother I can believe that. I’m sure he’s much more focused on solving this crime, if there is one, than on your attractions. But the Risewells certainly don’t know that. And on top of that, you had the gall to give Miss Risewell that frightful bouquet.”
Mira bit back a retort, curiosity and embarrassmentovertaking her ire. She hadn’t made a mistake, had she? The florist had been incredibly specific in the meaning. She looked over at Byron, her voice uncertain. “Was there something wrong with the bouquet?”
“Well—” Byron was once again interrupted by his sister.
“You didn’t mean it?” Mary laughed. “Of course not. You don’t even know what you said, do you?”
Mira’s stomach dropped. “The florist said that—”
“You ought never to trust a florist. Half the time they are only trying to sell you the more expensive flowers. No, dear, you just gave Theresia Risewell a bouquet that says she should be warned because a dangerous scandal is in her future. And that someone close to her will never see her again.”
A real headache began at the base of Mira’s neck. “I didn’t know.”
“I might be able to respect the choice if it was intentional, but to send such an awful message on accident?”
“That’s enough, Mary,” Byron said. “There is more than one way to interpret flowers.”
“And Theresia didn’t know,” Mira said. “I had to translate it for her.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Mrs. Sherard said. “We can only hope that her mother is also ignorant of the unintended meaning.”
“I doubt that she is,” Mary said. “She’s far too cultured to miss such an obvious insult.”
Mira’s chest tightened. She hadn’t meant it as an insult at all. She turned away from the others, the corners of her eyes burning.
Footsteps sounded down the hall and Dr. Turpin stepped in, his spectacles slightly askew. “Good evening. I usually close up shop by now, but when I heard the Sherards were on my doorstep, I knew I had to make an exception.”
“I am sorry that we have come so late,” Mrs. Sherard said. “Usually I wouldn’t dare to impose, but Miss Blayse has quite the headache.”
Mira swallowed, nodding.
“Any other symptoms? Nausea? Spots in the vision?”
“No. Just a pounding at the back of my neck.”
