The Pigeon Pie Mystery (14 page)

FOLLOWING A MEETING WITH HIS
fellow medical men about the tyranny of homeopaths, Dr. Henderson arrived at Waterloo and headed straight for the train. Ignoring the shoeblack and his admonishing stare at his boots, he walked down the platform hoping that he wouldn’t bump into the Princess. What had started out as an innocent desire for some fresh air had finished with his breaking the window strap. He had spent the journey chilled to the bone, mortified by what he had done, and fearing for the health
of both her and her maid. Peering into the carriages, he selected one that was empty, sat down in the far corner, and unfolded his newspaper. He glanced at each passenger as they came in, and was relieved when the porter slammed the door and the whistle finally blew. Suddenly the door opened again, and in leapt the homeopath from East Molesey, wearing a top hat with an overworked brim. Silas Sparrowgrass was instantly recognisable not only by his lack of height but by his Newgate fringe, a style of beard named after the notorious prison, as it followed the chin line of the hangman’s rope. Sitting down opposite the doctor, he fixed him with his squint and hailed him as if he were a colleague. He then proceeded to perform a magic trick with a sixpence that eventually found its way inside an orange, much to the amusement of the other passengers. Dr. Henderson raised his paper, wondering how anyone could believe the theory that like cured like, or that infinitesimal doses could have any effect on a body ravaged with disease. And yet there were plenty who did, and he had lost countless patients to the charlatan, who not only charged less than him but had not the slightest interest in the contents of their piss pots.

He arrived home, further riled by the homeopath having handed out his cards to the passengers on arrival at Hampton Court Station, and immediately noticed a delicate aroma of orange and spice. Looking into the waiting room, he saw the remains of several slices of bachelor’s cake, and immediately asked his housekeeper into the consulting room.

“Mrs. Nettleship,” he began. “I believe I have mentioned this several times before, but I fear I must repeat myself. You must refrain from feeding the patients. A number of them are already far too stout as it is. The butterman got stuck in his parlour window last week when he lost his key and attempted to climb in. They had to tie a rope to his ankles and use a corn chandler’s mare to pull him out. The grocer’s donkey wasn’t up to it.”

The housekeeper scratched at her rust hair. “I couldn’t ’elp myself, doctor. They looked so ’ungry sitting there waiting for you
to come back. I put in hextra raisins, I was so pleased I’d found ’em. Care for a slice?”

Dr. Henderson took off his hat and coat, and took his place behind the desk. “What I would like, Mrs. Nettleship, is for you not to feed them. They are not animals in a zoological garden, though judging from some of their behaviour it may seem so. And while we’re on the subject of baking, you seem to have been making nothing but bachelor’s cakes for the last month. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

The housekeeper clutched her butcher’s hands in front of her. “A nice young man like you rattling haround in a big ’ouse like this. It breaks me ’eart to see you hall halone.”

“I’m very much aware of the fact that I’m unmarried. I wish I weren’t, if truth be told, but that’s my concern.”

Mrs. Nettleship approached. “Is there hanything I can ’elp you with? The name of a new barber, per’aps?”

The doctor instinctively raised a hand to his hair, swallowed his indignation, and asked for the first patient. In hobbled a man in a navy uniform with tarnished silver buttons, clutching a cap. Sprouting from his cheeks, discoloured by years of rain, was a pair of Piccadilly weepers. Caught in the unfashionably long side-whiskers was a constellation of cake crumbs. The man introduced himself as William Sheepshanks, the Keeper of the Maze, and explained that he needed a doctor’s certificate confirming that he was unfit for work.

“There’s something awful wrong with my legs, doctor,” he said sitting down. “Makes it hard for me to climb up onto my platform. Some people can’t find their way out of the maze unless I’m up there giving them directions.”

The doctor picked up his pen and noted down his name. “You must otherwise be in rude health, Mr. Sheepshanks. I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

The keeper clutched his cap. “That’s because I usually go to the homeopath from East Molesey,” he admitted.

The doctor put down his pen and sat back. “And why, if you don’t mind my asking, would you put your health in that man’s hands?”

There was a pause. “Because his medicine doesn’t taste like sewer men’s boots.”

“His potions taste of nothing, Mr. Sheepshanks, because there is virtually nothing in them. Now, let’s have a look at you.”

The patient took off his boots and holey stockings, rolled up his trouser legs, and clambered onto the examining table.

“Do you enjoy your job?” the doctor asked, walking round the desk. “There can’t be many maze keepers in the country. I expect you’re the only one.”

William Sheepshanks lay back and turned his head to the doctor. “Sometimes I sit there wondering what would happen if I just walked away and left them all in there. I’ve been out in all weathers for sixteen years, and struck by lightning more times than I care to remember. Last time all my hair fell out. It grew back curly.”

The doctor peered at the ulcers on his legs. “When did these first appear?” he asked.

The keeper looked at the ceiling. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t know their left from their right.”

After feeling the man’s pulse, Dr. Henderson took out his depressor and examined his tongue.

“The women are quite happy to ask for help if they need it,” continued William Sheepshanks, as soon as the instrument was out of his mouth. “It’s the men who are the troublemakers.”

“How’s your appetite?” asked the doctor.

The keeper continued to stare at the ceiling. “They go in there determined to conquer it. Usually it’s when they’re with a lady.”

“Do you sleep well, Mr. Sheepshanks?” the general practitioner asked a little louder.

The patient scratched at his whiskers. “Some of them get into a rage. I see the ladies tugging at their sleeves, suggesting that they ask me for directions. They’d rather cut their own arms off.”

Wondering whether the man was deaf in one ear, the doctor walked round to the other side of the examining table. “How would you describe the state of your bowels?” he asked.

“I give them directions anyway,” continued the keeper. “There’s only so long you can watch a man struggle. But when you tell them to go right, some of them turn left on purpose, as they don’t like to be told.”

Dr. Henderson leant over him, trying to get his attention. “Do you take much exercise, Mr. Sheepshanks?” he asked, his voice raised.

“Then I go in after them, as they’ve got to be out before it closes. That makes them incandescent.”

The doctor stood for a moment, looking at him. “Are you fond of walking? In meadows, perhaps?” he asked.

William Sheepshanks suddenly turned to the doctor. “I love a meadow, me. Could walk through them all day. Everything’s starting to come up at this time of year. Solitude. That’s what I like. Not a soul in sight … Did you ever read Jerome K. Jerome’s
Three Men in a Boat
?”

“I did indeed,” the doctor replied, smiling. “I particularly liked the part when Harris gets stuck in the palace maze.”

“So did everyone else, and they haven’t stopped coming since,” replied the keeper through gritted teeth. “That book will be the death of me.”

Dr. Henderson strode back to his desk. “Not yet it won’t, Mr. Sheepshanks,” he said dismissively. “But you might very well find yourself in a much more perilous state if you continue rubbing buttercup juice on your legs, like every other malingerer I know. I’ll make no mention of this to the palace. For while you may dislike your position, I imagine you wish to keep it.”

The keeper slowly sat up and looked at the general practitioner, the droop of his Piccadilly weepers adding to his air of defeat. “No chance of a certificate, then, doctor?” he asked.

“None,” Dr. Henderson replied from behind his desk, his head bent as he wrote in his ledger.

William Sheepshanks attempted a smile. “Not even if I let you into the maze free of charge? You could get yourself a nice bun with that penny saved. Everyone likes a nice bun.” The keeper closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. “Imagine the currants, doctor!”

“Absolutely not,” Dr. Henderson snapped, writing out a prescription. “This will help clear up the ulcers. I suggest you go and contemplate how fortunate you are to have a position, and one that doesn’t involve dealing with time-wasters.”

The keeper pulled on his stockings and boots with a sigh, and slowly rolled down his trouser legs. He took the prescription without a word, deposited some coins on the desk, and shuffled to the door. The general practitioner softened as he watched him. “Please try to avoid sitting in the rain, Mr. Sheepshanks,” he urged. “And if you speak nicely to Mrs. Nettleship on your way out, she may well darn your stockings. She can’t resist the challenge of a hole.”

On the day of the picnic, Pooki carefully rubbed her hands with parsley to rid them of the reek of onions, then slipped out the back door. Hoping that the Princess hadn’t spotted her, she fled up Moat Lane smelling of violets, still tying the ribbons of her bonnet. When she returned, she crept back into the kitchen and immediately set about reviving her mistress’s new hat, trimmed in fashionable turquoise, which Mink had decided to wear that afternoon. It was already suffering from the damp, and she held it next to the range for a few minutes, then dipped a blunt knife into hot water and carefully recurled the feathers. Satisfied with the results, she then put a bone on to boil in order to make some hair pomade.

She was adding oil and citronella to the beaten marrow when
the Princess came down to inspect the pigeon pies, carrying a newspaper. Mink stopped in her tracks, noticing something strange on the floor. Unable to believe what she was seeing, she took a step closer. As she stared, wondering how on earth a hedgehog had got into the kitchen, Pooki stood in front of it, but not even her enormous feet could hide its prickles.

“One of the gardeners found her for me yesterday, ma’am,” Pooki hastily explained. “She has come to eat the beetles. I have named her Victoria.”

The Princess continued to gaze at the creature, her hands on her hips. “I don’t know why you’ve called her after Mrs. Fagin. That woman still hasn’t returned the family jewels.”

“Ma’am, you must not let anyone hear you calling the Queen ‘Mrs. Fagin,’ ” said Pooki, wagging her finger. “She gave you a home. There were more than a hundred people on the waiting list.”

The Princess surveyed the floor. “Can’t you just put down some arsenic or something?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” the maid said, shaking her head. “It is too dangerous. The Maharaja always thought that the British Government was going to poison him, and it was never allowed in the house.”

“Well, let’s hope Victoria’s appetite is as big as yours. And don’t let Mrs. Boots see her. That woman’s convinced I’ve smuggled in a pet as it is.”

The maid’s eyes fell to the floor. “Why would that be, ma’am?” she asked, slowly looking up.

“Goodness knows,” the Princess replied. She then handed her the newspaper, and tapped at an advertisement for a fancy dress ball at the Greyhound Hotel, next to the entrance to Bushy Park. “I’ve decided to go,” she said. “I haven’t been to one for ages.”

Pooki read it and beamed. “That is an exceedingly good idea, ma’am. You might find a husband.”

Mink frowned. “I don’t want a husband.”

“You wanted to marry Mr. Cavendish, ma’am,” the maid reminded her. “Everyone needs love. Even Victoria the hedgehog.”

“Well, my views have changed,” Mink replied curtly, sitting down at the table. “Wives just end up being female valets.” She nodded at the paper. “I’m going to go as Boadicea.”

Pooki shook her head. “You cannot go as Boadicea, ma’am. Gentlemen do not like such ladies. They are too ferocious for them. You should go as Cinderella.”

Mink stared at her. “I’m not going as Cinderella!” she exclaimed.

“You are twenty-seven and still not married, ma’am. You will have to go as Sleeping Beauty or you will die a spinster.”

The Princess frowned. “I’m not going as Sleeping Beauty either,” she declared. “And I don’t need a husband.”

Pooki crossed her arms. “Then you shall be Snow White.”

The Princess stood up. “I’d rather go as one of the Seven Dwarves. Now, let’s see those pigeon pies.”

The maid froze. “Ma’am, you do not need to see those pigeon pies.”

“I just want to check them before we go to the picnic,” said the Princess, looking towards the larder.

Pooki put her hands on her hips. “There is no need, ma’am, as I have already said. You would be better off deciding which earrings to wear.”

“I’ve already decided,” Mink replied, studying the maid. “So what’s wrong with the pigeon pies, Pooki?”

The maid closed her eyes. “Nothing, ma’am,” she said, shaking her head. “They are very, very beautiful.” Suddenly she opened them again and looked straight at her mistress. “And even if they happened to be as ugly as Mrs. Boots, there would be nothing you could do about it, as we have to leave in less than an hour and I still need to help you dress and do your hair.”

Mink moved towards the larder, but the servant stood in her
way. The Princess darted to the right, but the maid blocked her. She then dodged left, but Pooki was too fast.

“I’m not interested in seeing them anyway,” said Mink sulkily, heading slowly for the stairs. Suddenly she turned, and hared round the kitchen table, the duped maid sprinting after her. The Princess reached the larder first, then stood in contemplation, her head to one side in line with the pitch of the pastry, which undulated like the swell of the sea.

Pooki had made them the previous day from a recipe given to her by Alice Cockle, who dropped in with a bag of flour in case she ran out. Pike, the butcher’s boy, then arrived at the back door with the delivery of birds, which she lined up in a row on the kitchen table, their clutched pink feet pointing heavenwards. After plucking and singeing them, she relieved them of their pitifully small guts, cut off their wings, necks, and feet, and trussed them up for stewing. Arranging the giblets and a slice of beef in the bottom of each pie dish, she then added the pigeons, stock, ketchup, a glass of port, and, to all except one, boiled eggs. Covering them with a pastry lid, she crimped the edging and placed in the middle a rose made of butter and flour into which she stuck pigeon legs, their feet sticking up into the air.