The Pigeon Pie Mystery (12 page)

THE PRINCESS WAS STILL HOLDING
the etiquette book when Pooki appeared at the library door looking flustered. “The Countess of Bessington, Lady Beatrice Fisher, and Lady Montfort Bebb are here to see you, ma’am,” she said.

Mink stared at her, taken aback. “Have you shown them in?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. They must like the portraits of the ancestors very much, because they keep staring at them.”

The Princess wondered whether she had time to change, but dismissed the idea, as there was nothing more irritating than having to wait while the lady of the house fussed over her dress. Entering the drawing room, she found the three visitors sitting next to one another on the sofa by the fireplace, gazing around at their surroundings. Immediately they rose to their feet.

Standing in the middle with the help of a cane was Lady Montfort Bebb, her smoke-grey hair and loose skin under her powdered chin betraying her almost eighty years. There was an unmistakable air of defiance about her that had kept her from her grave. Her jacket sleeves were puffed at the shoulder and tightly fitting, as fashion dictated, and her matching hat had the restrained air of a dependable milliner. The lowest in social ranking of the three visitors, she introduced herself in a voice more indomitable than a schoolmistress’s, before turning to the others.

“Princess, may I introduce the Countess of Bessington,” she
said, indicating the woman in mourning half her age. Mink immediately recognised her from the tour of the palace with General Bagshot. The Countess, who outranked the two other visitors, raised her blue eyes and smiled, its warmth momentarily lifting the pallor of her skin drained of life by the black trappings of loss. Framing the inside of her bonnet were dark curls marbled with premature grey.

“And Lady Beatrice Fisher,” Lady Montfort Bebb added. Mink remembered her as the woman wearing the hummingbird hat who arrived late for divine service. It had been replaced by one of equal size bearing several butterflies. Three years short of her sixtieth birthday, across her nose was a shower of freckles that no patent remedy had come close to shifting in decades. Lady Beatrice smiled, her fingers fussing with her golden blond false fringe that failed to match the rest of her hair, dyed an unfortunate shade of mustard.

As Mink took her father’s armchair opposite, the women settled back down on the settee like a flock of birds. Resting a hand on the quartz knob of her cane, Lady Montfort Bebb said that she hoped the Princess didn’t think their visit improper, but they had been somewhat confused over the regulations of calling, given the circumstances. “One would assume that we should call on you, being as though you’re a newcomer to the palace. However, as a princess, it is, of course, for you to call on whomever you deem fit.”

Lady Beatrice leant forward, her eyes wide. “But we weren’t sure whether that was correct, as none of us was certain which of the foreign titles conferred precedency in England. So we wrote to the Lord Chamberlain, and asked his opinion.”

“And he said that in the majority of cases, when the foreign rank is assured, courtesy dictates that it be taken into account,” explained the Countess, holding her black-gloved hands in her lap. “But he went on to add that the etiquette of calling was as labyrinthine
as the palace maze, and he wouldn’t attempt to understand it. As it was a habit most indulged by ladies, he suggested that we sort it out amongst ourselves. After considerable discussion we were still unsure, so decided to come anyway,” she added with a triumphant smile.

The Princess watched as Lady Montfort Bebb raised her lorgnettes to a pile of books on the side table. “I see you admire Mr. Dickens,” she noted, her nostrils flared.

Lady Beatrice leant forward again and lowered her voice. “None of we residents read Mr. Dickens.”

“You don’t?” asked Mink, taken aback.

The three visitors shook their heads.

“Not after what he wrote about us,” explained the Countess, holding a hand to her throat.

“And what was that?” asked Mink.

“He called us gypsies!” hurled Lady Montfort Bebb, her chin wobbling.

“And suggested that we were all waiting for a better offer,” continued the Countess, blinking with indignation.

“In
Little Dorrit
,” explained Lady Beatrice, her eyes wide. “We much prefer Mr. Wells and his
War of the Worlds
. When the Martians come to Surrey they wreck Woking Station, and burn Richmond town, but leave Hampton Court completely untouched, as any right-thinking monsters would.”

The other two looked at her uneasily.

Lady Montfort Bebb then surveyed the room, noting the French mirror over the fireplace, which was taller than it was wide, as taste dictated, and the Indian clock on the mantel, covered with a glass jar to protect it from soot. “I must say, you’ve made it perfectly charming. What a pity Wilderness House used to be inhabited by gardeners. I’m not sure that Mrs. Campbell ever lived it down.”

The Countess and Lady Beatrice shook their heads.

“Mrs. Boots mentioned that poor Mrs. Campbell had some kind of accident,” said Mink.

The women glanced at one another. It was such an unfortunate business, they explained. She was standing on the top of an omnibus when the driver suddenly moved on, and she tumbled over the back rail.

“But that wasn’t the end of it. She was then struck by a costermonger’s barrow,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, closing her eyes. “If that wasn’t bad enough, it was piled high with brussels sprouts.”

“At least the costermonger was a former solicitor,” said the Countess. “Albeit one who had been struck off the rolls.”

Lady Beatrice gazed into the distance. “If one were to be run over, one would hope it would be by a carriage and four, with a nice pair of tall footmen with elegant calves,” she said with a wistful smile.

The other two visitors glared at her.

Despite the circumstances, said Lady Montfort Bebb, turning back to Mink, Mrs. Campbell’s funeral in the Chapel Royal had been very well attended. “It’s hard to believe that the Authorised Version of the Bible was conceived at Hampton Court Palace, given the unholy behaviour in the chapel this morning,” she added. But the feud between the chaplain and the organist was not the only impropriety, she told the Princess. The seating used to be strictly by rank and precedence, and supervised by the housekeeper, but there were so many arguments about who was superior to whom that the Lord Chamberlain decided to make it a free-for-all. Unless one arrived early, there was no guarantee of avoiding sitting next to the palace’s foreman bricklayer. She turned to Lady Beatrice. “You ended up next to the vine keeper again this morning. You must get there at least forty minutes before it starts. Bring your embroidery or a novel.
War and Peace
springs to mind, given this morning’s events.”

Lady Beatrice smoothed down her dress. “My cook failed to
wake me in time. She overslept,” she muttered. “I still haven’t been able to find a replacement for my parlour maid. Why she would take fright over two new ghosts is beyond me. She was quite used to Jane Seymour.”

“Well, don’t get another Parisian,” suggested Lady Montfort Bebb. “They’re always flighty. Try a Swiss maid next time. They’re much more dependable and don’t suffer from grand ideas. As for your cook, if she continues to oversleep, you must get her the bed I remember seeing at the Great Exhibition that was especially designed for servants. It had a clockwork device which, at the appointed hour, withdrew a support from the foot of the bed and threw the occupant onto the floor.”

Lady Beatrice fiddled with her fringe. “I could use one for my daughter,” she replied. “I can’t prise her from her sheets. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with her, but fortunately each time she faints in the chapel Dr. Henderson always comes to the rescue. It’s high time she were married, but it isn’t easy finding a husband these days, with so many men having emigrated to Australia, South Africa, India, and Canada. Of course, the situation isn’t helped by American women elbowing their way into London society, some pretending to be millionairesses, and walking off with the best catches. And it’s not just we English who have to suffer them. They have already married half the nobility in Europe. Princess di San Faustino, Princess Colonna, and Countess von Waldersee, a grocer’s daughter no less, are all Americans.”

Lady Montfort Bebb closed her eyes. “Thank God the Prince of Wales is already taken,” she said with a shudder.

Lady Beatrice turned to her, still burning with indignation. “Remember when we were at Euston Station last year and all those American women arrived for the Diamond Jubilee overloaded with trunks and hatboxes? They were wearing diamonds in the morning!”

“Don’t,” begged Lady Montfort Bebb, lifting a hand to the
side of her head. “Just the memory of the noise they were making makes my ears ring.”

“There’s a lot to be said for Americans,” Mink interrupted. “Their literary men aren’t actively hostile to their female rivals, sons and daughters usually inherit equally, women have full suffrage in four States, and many of them are ahead of us in their professions. Only this morning I read about an American mother and her three daughters, all of whom are lawyers.”

“That’ll be their English heritage,” said Lady Montfort Bebb.

The Countess leant forward with a smile. “Ladies!” she said. “I’ve just heard the news from my maid this morning. We have an American in our midst!”

Lady Beatrice reeled back, a hand on her chest. “It’s not a lady, is it?” she asked.

“I do hope so,” said Mink. “American hostesses are the best entertainers. I knew one who went as far as having the correct tropical birds specially stuffed to order for her ballroom, which resembled an outdoor bower.”

“Not only is he a gentleman, but he’s a bachelor,” the Countess replied, pausing for dramatic effect. “He’s the Bagshots’ houseguest. Apparently he calls trousers ‘pants,’ overshoes ‘gums,’ and domestic servants ‘girls.’ The maids are quite taken by him.”

Lady Montfort Bebb looked at her open-mouthed. “Pants?” she repeated, aghast. “How extraordinary! Has anyone corrected him? I shouldn’t leave it to the General. He has no idea how to behave. He invited me to dinner when he first moved into the apartments next to mine, and I regret to say that I accepted. He stood in front of the drawing room fire during the whole time we were waiting to go into dinner. Even a dustman knows that a gentleman should never hog the fire. I’m convinced he was responsible for the stream of hawkers and peddlers who plagued me all day yesterday. The undertaker insisted on measuring me up! He wouldn’t believe my footman that I was still very much alive,
and thought something fishy was going on. He was about to call the constable, so I was obliged to show myself at the door. I’ve never been so humiliated. I had to ask my maid to telegraph for some real turtle soup to help me recover. The grocer had quite run out.”

The Countess tucked the hair back underneath her bonnet. “Do you think he will bring the American to the Easter picnic?” she asked. “He would have to contribute something, of course. What is it they eat?”

“They’re always chewing tobacco,” said Lady Beatrice brightly.

The two other visitors shot her a look.

“I very much hope the General brings him. It is our duty to put that man’s English straight before he returns to the colonies,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. She turned to the Princess and invited her to join them, explaining that the grace-and-favour residents held a picnic every year just before Easter to avoid the hordes that descended on the palace. “We’re having it a little early this year, as I still live in hope of an invitation to spend Easter elsewhere. Life would be so much more pleasant if the costermongers kept to Hampstead Heath on a bank holiday. I still remember the riot that broke out when five hundred of them from Peckham brawled outside the Cardinal Wolsey public house before moving on to the Mitre. They had to call in the Hussars to help the police. As if their whistling wasn’t offensive enough.”

The Countess turned to her. “That was twenty years ago,” she pointed out.

“A costermonger is always a costermonger. Some traits cannot be bred out,” replied Lady Montfort Bebb, gripping the knob of her cane with both hands. She glanced out of the window. “I do hope the weather doesn’t let us down, otherwise we shall have to decamp to the Oak Room. We had a lovely day last year, with only one disaster, as I recall. Someone forgot the gong.”

Lady Beatrice fiddled with a ringlet. “I was distracted by my
butler carrying the blancmange,” she said, with a nervous titter. “He’s a little gouty.”

Lady Montfort Bebb surveyed her for a moment with a look of disapproval, then explained to Mink that it was a subscription picnic so as to bring a little order to the proceedings, otherwise they would end up with five sets of knives, no plates, too many rolls, and no butter to speak of.

“In fact there is never any butter to speak of,” she added, looking at the Countess, whose eyes slowly travelled to the other side of the room. “Each year one of the residents, who shall remain nameless, always offers to bring some. However, it never materialises on account of her habit of not settling her bills with the butterman.”

Lady Beatrice leant forward. “One would think the lady destitute, given that she asked her maid-of-all-work to carry home all the food that was left over.”

“But it’s absolutely not the case,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, still staring at the Countess, who was examining the toes of her shoes. “She just won’t open her purse. And I’ll make no mention about the amount she drank. That’s another matter entirely,” she added, her nostrils flaring. “Now,” she said, her voice softening as she turned to the Princess. “Is there anything you would like to bring?”

Mink hesitated, looking at each of the visitors as she wondered what on earth Pooki would be able to make.

“What about some pigeon pies?” suggested the Countess with a smile. “They’re always so delicious at a picnic, and I’m aware that you only have a maid-of-all-work, as I do. I’m sure she will manage them perfectly well. There are so many things one has to avoid without a real cook. I’ve had to forget that soufflés even exist. Still, at least my cooking brandy is safe.”