The Pigeon Pie Mystery (16 page)

“What a pity Dr. Henderson’s gone,” said Lady Beatrice, looking at her daughter, who was talking to another group of residents. “How she’ll find a husband I’ll never know.” She leant towards the Countess and lowered her voice. “I’m still looking for one for you, of course.”

“But I don’t wish to remarry,” the Countess hissed, glancing around to see if anyone heard. “I’ve told you countless times. You’re a widow yourself, and know perfectly well that it’s most agreeable not to have a husband. There’s no one spilling tobacco over the carpet, leaving collars in every corner of the bedroom, or
forgetting to put their boots out to be cleaned. Why do you insist on trying to push me back up the aisle?”

Lady Beatrice leant towards her. “I’m considerably older than you, not that one could tell with all that grey hair you refuse to dye, and have my daughter for company. You are all alone in those freezing apartments in Fish Court with only your ferns for company. One can only get away with such eccentricity at an advanced age.” She then glanced around, opened her handbag, and tilted it towards the Countess. “I have something for you,” she whispered. “We ladies have to make the most of ourselves. You’re fortunate in that you’re a natural beauty, but even nature needs a helping hand.”

The Countess peered into the bag with a frown. “It looks like some sort of taxidermy,” she muttered.

Lady Beatrice put her hand inside and thrust the contents into the Countess’s lap. “It’s a false fringe,” she hissed. “Put it into your bag. There’s no need to pay me back, not that you would. Just keep me abreast of all the gentlemen suitors.”

The Countess immediately covered it with her hands. As soon as Lady Beatrice turned away, she dropped it on the floor with the tips of her fingers and went to fetch some more claret. Wanting to escape General Bagshot, Mink joined her. But when she returned, there was no other seat available, and she reluctantly sunk back down next to him.

“I was wondering whether you had reconsidered my offer,” he murmured, leaning so close to her she could feel his blood-shot nose against her hair. “I’ve always found that you natives have such appetites for pleasure. Your father certainly did, as everyone knows. I’m hoping you’re just like him.”

Suddenly Mink stood up, the contents of her glass spilling onto the General’s crotch. He let out a wail, staring in disbelief at the deep red stain on his trousers. The Princess gasped, holding her hands to her cheeks. “Forgive me, General,” she begged. “I’m such an oaf.”

A butler ran over with a napkin, and General Bagshot snatched it out of his hands and started dabbing at himself while those around them stared. “They’re ruined,” he seethed, and glared at the Princess. Mink sat down, apologising loudly. She then leant towards him and purred into his ear: “You’re absolutely right, General. I am just like my father. I’ve an excellent aim.”

The Countess, who had watched the General’s soaking with delight, looked over towards the trestle tables and said loudly: “I wonder whether it’s time for luncheon. So much amusement has given me an appetite.”

“What a good idea,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. “Did you bring the butter this year? Though I don’t know why I bother to ask.”

The Countess flicked an imaginary speck off her skirt. “Apparently there’s a problem with my account,” she said, breezily.

Lady Beatrice turned to her. “You should marry the butterman,” she said, looking her up and down. “Then we’d all be spared the humiliation of dry bread rolls.”

Lady Montfort Bebb headed towards the tables and returned several minutes later, frowning. “No one seems to know where the gong is,” she said. She looked at Lady Beatrice. “I can only assume that for the second year running it has been left behind.”

Lady Beatrice put a hand over her mouth. “I’ve had so much on my mind,” she said, tittering nervously. “You’ve no idea the anxiety my cook causes me. She deserted me last week just before a dinner party, claiming she had to see her mother on her deathbed. That woman has been dying for eight years.”

As they were eating, the General shouted over to Pooki, demanding to be brought another slice of pigeon pie. As she served him, he turned to her and asked, “So what’s the gossip amongst the servants?”

“I do not know, General,” she replied, not looking him in the eye.

He frowned. “Come, come. There must be some tittle-tattle with which you can enliven the picnic,” he said.

“I do not know of any, General,” she replied, shaking her head. “I have already told you.”

He surveyed her. “You do disappoint me,” he said. “I’ve always found Indian servants delighted to pass on the slightest hint of a scandal. And what they don’t know they make up.”

Pooki’s jaw set. “There is one thing I heard from one of the delivery boys,” she said after a pause.

“Oh, good,” said General Bagshot, smiling. “Let’s hear it.”

The maid looked at him and raised her voice. “He said that you killed some of Lady Beatrice’s doves and sold them to the butcher as pigeons.”

Lady Beatrice dropped her fork, while Mink stared at Pooki, open-mouthed.

The Countess eventually broke the silence. “Has anyone read the new edition of
The Fern World
by Francis George Heath?” she enquired, looking around. “I do recommend it.”

Suddenly the General roared with laughter. Turning back to Pooki, he said, “You’d better bring me another slice, as I might be eating a nice plump dove. I’ve always wondered what they taste like.” He looked over at Lady Beatrice, who immediately got to her feet and walked away. Mink turned to Cornelius B. Pilgrim and asked the first thing that came into her head: “Do American women really wear their diamonds in the morning?”

Not long after Pooki had returned with General Bagshot’s third slice, he put his hand against his stomach and declared he was feeling off colour.

Ignoring him, the Countess asked, “Is anyone going to the fancy dress ball at the Greyhound Hotel this year? They always put on such a good spread.”

“So it would seem,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. “I can’t recall a year when you weren’t the last person to leave the supper room.”

“An English fancy dress ball?” asked Cornelius B. Pilgrim. “What fun! Sure, I’ll go.”

Lady Montfort Bebb smiled at him and cocked her head. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Pilgrim. I’m in charge of selling the tickets in order to keep out the riff-raff.”

When General Bagshot complained again that he was feeling unwell, Mink declared, “Isn’t it funny how one always fancies some blancmange when there isn’t any.”

Several minutes later he wrapped his arms around his abdomen and leant forwards with a loud moan.

“Oh, look, there’s a kitty cat,” said Cornelius B. Pilgrim with a smile, looking at the plump black-and-white creature on top of the garden wall. “How cute.”

Lady Montfort Bebb raised her lorgnettes. “That’s Lord Sluggard, the palace mouser.”

“It looks like he’s caught something for once,” said the Countess, leaning forward. “I can’t quite make out whether it’s a rat or a mouse.”

The General emitted a much louder groan and doubled over. Everyone sat up in their seats to peer at the animal.

“It’s neither,” declared Mink. “That’s a false fringe.”

At that moment came a hideous retching sound, and the ladies quickly withdrew their feet as General Bagshot vomited on the grass. Just as Cornelius B. Pilgrim passed him his handkerchief, the man vomited again, causing the rest of the party to disperse. The American then took his arm and led him back to the palace, watched by the residents and servants, their eyes flicking between the vomit on his boots and his stained trousers. It was considerably later, when one of the butlers was drinking his winnings in the Mitre, that the Astronomical Clock stopped.

CHAPTER VI
A Body in the Palace

HE
residents first suspected that someone had died when the myopic undertaker strode through Base Court the next morning, his measuring rule tucked under his arm. The sound of Mr. Blood’s determined heels enticed them to their windows, and, glancing down, they found their curiosity rewarded beyond their imagination.

“The undertaker’s just arrived! Any idea who’s died?” a lady’s-maid asked a butler, having been sent next door for information. “My mistress is praying it’s not Lady Grenville, as she promised to take her to luncheon at the Savoy.”

“Mr. Blood’s here. Who’s snuffed it?” demanded a housemaid on another doorstep. “Her Ladyship is hoping he’s come for Mrs. Applegate, as her apartments overlook the Thames.”

A footman leant out of a window. “Apparently Mrs. Boots was diced up at the stroke of midnight and the murderer tried to get rid of her body down the drains,” he called to the housekeeper below, who ran back home with the intelligence.

The news of the undertaker’s arrival reached Clock Court before he did, and Lady Beatrice’s cook burst into the breakfast room with the revelation. The aristocrat looked up from her kippers
and dismissed the notion of murder. “It’ll be the American. He’ll have gone outside to chew some tobacco, fallen into the Thames, and been dragged under by the weight of his monkey-fur coat.”

By the time the bier left the palace, numerous letters had been despatched to the Lord Chamberlain asking for the apartments of the deceased, identified as eleven different people. But eventually the truth reached them all: the body in the coffin was that of General Bagshot. The residents retreated from their windows, nursing their disappointment that his home with its spectacular view of the river wouldn’t be available on account of his irrefutably alive spouse. If that wasn’t deflating enough, his death certificate had stated the relatively pedestrian affliction of English cholera.

The brutal news of her husband’s demise was relayed to Mrs. Bagshot in the staccato language of a telegram. Replying that she would return from Egypt as soon as possible, she gave her permission for the funeral to go ahead in two days’ time, given the length of her journey, stipulating that it be held in the Chapel Royal, where her husband had worshipped. Out of regard for the widow, the Countess arranged for a different organist to play. Such was the mourners’ relief that the hymns matched the music, they forgave the Reverend Grayling for twice referring to the deceased as General Bagpipes during the service. The wind was up when the party reached Hampton Cemetery, and by the time the oak coffin was lowered into the ground only Lady Montfort Bebb had muttered how fitting it was that the deceased was being buried on All Fools’ Day. Even Lady Beatrice looked moved, a moment of sentimentality she later dismissed. “It’s so much easier to forgive someone once they’re dead.”

Three days after the burial, an anonymous letter arrived on the desk of Charles Twelvetrees, the West Middlesex coroner. A solicitor
looking forward to grazing in the pasture of retirement, he glanced at it with disinterest, and continued reading the advertisements in the newspaper for Easter excursions. He then looked at his watch in the hope that it was time to visit the pie shop, and tapped it with disappointment on seeing that there was still an hour to go before lunchtime. Casting his eyes around his office in search of a distraction, he seized the letter, suddenly gripped by the fantasy that it might be from an old flame. But as he read it, he ran an anxious hand through the tufts of white hair that rose from his head like plumes of billowing smoke, and immediately got to his feet.

The two gravediggers complained bitterly when they eventually left the King’s Arms and trudged to the cemetery to dig up the General. Labouring in the light of a solitary lantern, their whiskers damp with gin, they swore they recognised each spadeful of soil they tossed to one side with increasing irritation. “I think it’s time for a rest,” one of them soon declared, and they promptly sat down. Legs dangling inside the grave, they lit their pipes and leant back against the mound of fresh earth. As the puffs rose up into the evening sky, they exchanged tales of bodies they had buried and dug up again, and the perilous state of the coffins. It was when they got onto the subject of their even more rotten love lives that the older one slid the gin bottle out of his pocket. “I once told a woman I was a clerk, but she found me out. I offered to help her with the gardening but got carried away and dug a six-foot grave,” he said, taking a swig. He then offered the bottle to his friend, recognising a man not yet resolved to the fact that a gravedigger had more chance of capturing the heart of one of his corpses than a woman’s. But with the alcohol came enlightenment, and the younger man started to sob. “I told my ex-fiancée that I was a gardener. But someone ratted me out, and she called off the wedding. She said she’d assumed the smell was my cheese sandwiches rather than the dead.”