The Pigeon Pie Mystery (19 page)

“Use mine! Use mine!” begged Charles Twelvetrees, fiddling with his chain and handing it to him.

The homeopath then drew back his sleeves, plucked a red handkerchief from his top pocket, and fluttered it in front of his audience. He placed it over the watch and gave both objects to the mesmerised coroner. Grasping a corner of the handkerchief, Silas Sparrowgrass then held it in the air, turning round so that all could see. The bewildered coroner stared at his empty hands, then clapped wildly. “Thank you, Mr. Sparrowgrass, most entertaining,” he said, beaming. “I suppose you’d better take a seat.”

The homeopath pocketed his florins, executed a deep bow, then turned his good eye towards the public. “You can find Silas Sparrowgrass, a man of infinite subtlety, at number five Vine Road, no appointment necessary. Magic tricks extra.”

The coroner repeated the address in case anyone missed it, then
looked down at his list and called Dora Cummings, the Bagshots’ parlour maid. The teenager, wearing her uniform and her dark hair drawn back into a bun, was still pale, having vomited twice that morning on account of her nerves. Her hands clenched into fists by her sides, she told the court in a Cornish accent that the poisoning could not have been accidental, as the deceased never allowed arsenic in the house. Nor could it have been in anything served at breakfast, she stated, as both General Bagshot and his houseguest had eaten and drunk the same things. “The American has tea like everyone else. He says English coffee tastes like liquorice and has a purple tint to it.”

Everyone frowned at the foreigner following the affront to the nation’s coffee.

“Did they drink from the same pot?” enquired Charles Twelvetrees.

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir, and he’s still alive,” she added, pointing to the American.

The coroner narrowed his eyes as he studied the man in question. “Let’s see for ourselves. Cornelius B. Pilgrim, please take the stand.”

As soon as the American was sworn in, Barnabas Popejoy put up his hand and said he had a question.

“Already?” asked the coroner. “The man hasn’t given his evidence yet. Well, let’s hear it.”

The butterman got to his feet, clutching his rhubarb. “What does the witness’s middle initial stand for?” he asked. The resulting laughter was such that Charles Twelvetrees had to wait to be heard. Convulsed men clutched their stomachs, while heaving women reached for their handkerchiefs, their cheeks wet with merriment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed. “Please show the witness some courtesy. He is a guest in our country. While the American habit of flaunting the middle initial may very well be a cause of
mirth in England, I will not tolerate such behaviour in my courtroom. Please accept my apologies, Mr. Pilgrim.”

“Sure, no problem,” the witness replied, smoothing down his moustache.

The coroner then gazed into the distance, and not a single question emerged from his lips. “Dash it all,” he said eventually. “Mr. Pilgrim, would you please inform the court of your middle name so we can all stop wondering what it is and move on?”

The room held its breath, and those on the back rows stood up to witness the disclosure.

“Benjamin,” came the reply.

“Cornelius Benjamin Pilgrim,” said the coroner, trying it on his tongue. “Most agreeable.” He then leant forward with a frown and laced his fingers. “Now, what have you got to say for yourself?”

The witness cleared his throat. “I’ve known the deceased a number of years, and he invited me to stay as his houseguest,” he said, his voice raised. “We went to the residents’ picnic together and shared a couple of bottles of beer. Around half an hour after eating several slices of a pigeon pie that had been made especially for him, he started to vomit.”

The coroner interrupted and asked Dr. Henderson whether the timing of the deceased’s vomiting was in keeping with the pie having been poisoned.

The doctor stood up. “It was, sir,” he replied, and sat down again.

Mink glanced at Pooki, who suddenly looked at her hands.

“Mr. Pilgrim, are you quite sure that the only food consumed by the deceased, and by the deceased alone, was the bespoke pigeon pie?” the coroner asked.

“Yes, sir. He told the servants not to let anyone have any of it.”

“And you had no ill effects from the beer you shared?”

He shook his head. “None, sir.”

“Very well. Continue, if you will.”

“I took the General home, and when his symptoms didn’t improve following the visit from the homeopath I went to ask his neighbour, Lady Angela, if she knew of a doctor.” He paused, looked around the room, and added: “I think I know who killed the General.”

There was stunned silence. Several women covered their mouths with their hands, while others exchanged looks with their friends.

Charles Twelvetrees stared at him over his glasses. “I beg your pardon.”

The American looked round the room again and raised his voice. “I think I know who did it.”

“No, no, you said something before that.”

“I asked Lady Angela to suggest the name of a doctor.”

Charles Twelvetrees scowled. “You asked whom?” he demanded.

“Lady Angela,” Cornelius B. Pilgrim repeated, nodding to her.

The coroner paused. “Do you happen to mean Lady Montfort Bebb?” he asked incredulously.

“Sure do.”

The coroner leant forward. “The woman to whom you refer is the widow of a baronet, Mr. Pilgrim, and should therefore be addressed as Lady Montfort Bebb,” he snapped. “If she were the daughter of an earl, marquess, or duke, then you would be correct in addressing her as Lady Angela. But as it is, I’m afraid you’ve committed a vulgar error, which I hope the lady in question will have the fortitude to forgive in this instance. I shall excuse her from giving evidence, as such a breach of etiquette is quite enough to contend with for one day. I would like to instruct the gentlemen of the jury to overlook the foreigner’s transgression, and not to view his testimony as in any way unreliable. That will be all, Mr. Pilgrim.”

The American raised a hand. “But I know who …”

“Thank you, Mr. Pilgrim. Please take your seat.”

“But …”

The coroner pointed to his chair with a jab of his pen. “It’s over
there
, Mr. Pilgrim. We’ll hear no more from you.”

He looked down at his papers and called Mink to the stand. “Whom I very much suggest that you address as Your Highness in the first instance, and ma’am thereafter,” he added, glaring at the American. “Not that we more senior members of English society need to go to such an extreme.”

The Princess stood up, having listened with increasing anxiety to the coroner’s interest in Pooki’s pie. As she crossed the room, several women raised up from their seats in order to see her dress. After being sworn in, she answered the coroner’s questions in a clear voice, explaining that she had recently arrived at the palace and had been invited to the picnic by three of the residents. “I was sitting next to the General when he was taken ill,” she added.

“And what was your opinion of the deceased, Princess?”

Mink raised her chin. “I thought him an utter boor and was amazed that a man of his standing had got through life with such poor manners,” she replied.

Charles Twelvetrees tapped his pencil as a shocked murmur ran through the room. “I see,” he said. “And was it your idea to provide the pigeon pies for the picnic?”

The Princess hesitated. “Actually, they were Lady Bessington’s suggestion.”

All heads turned towards the Countess, her smile at Mink’s verdict of the General suddenly vanishing.

“And it was your servant who made them?” continued the coroner.

“It was.”

“And where were you when she was preparing them?”

“In London, attending a meeting of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies.”

“I see.” The coroner’s eyes suddenly dropped to the floor. “What the hell is that?” he asked. He stood up, padded round to the front of the table in his stocking feet, and stared. “Would the person who has lost a rabbit come and collect it at once?” he cried, his hands on his hips. “It’s nibbling my toes!”

Silas Sparrowgrass stood up with an apologetic hunch of his shoulders. Cooing the name Gertrude, he crept with the light-footedness of a burglar towards the white creature twitching her nose. As he approached, she suddenly took off and tore round the dining room, her colossal ears flat against her head. The homeopath leapt after her, his arms outstretched in vain, until she disappeared underneath a skirt.

“Mr. Sparrowgrass! I suggest you take possession of your rabbit at once or I shall deliver it in person to the pie shop,” shouted the coroner.

The homeopath yelped in horror. Holding his hands together underneath his chin, he turned to Charles Twelvetrees with the most angelic of smiles. “Would it be possible for everyone to stand on their chairs?” he asked, with a flutter of his eyelashes. The coroner sighed loudly, then nodded. Complaining bitterly, they got to their feet, and each rested a hand on the back of their seat and hauled themselves up. As the ladies clutched their skirts, Gertrude, who was under Lady Montfort Bebb’s chair, started washing her ears. Suddenly the aristocrat jabbed at the creature with her cane, nostrils flared, and she shot off again round the room. The homeopath made two further revolutions in pursuit, then pounced. By the time he struggled back to his feet, he was holding the creature by her ears. Raising her aloft in victory, he kissed her twice, then plunged her back into his inside pocket, and scuttled to his seat.

Charles Twelvetrees turned to the Princess, then scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve no idea where we were,” he admitted. “You’d better sit down.”

It was too much for the Countess, who stood up smelling
fiercely of sherry and shouted to the coroner, “Come on, I want to find out who the murderer was!”

“So do I!” cried Lady Beatrice, standing up beside her.

“And me!” came another voice from the public seats.

“Get on with it!” jeered someone else. “We’ve been here for ages!”

Charles Twelvetrees stood up, his face crimson with fury. “Members of the public, if you do not keep quiet I shall instruct my officer to remove you from my courtroom. Now, let’s hear from the servant who made the pies and get this over with. It’s almost lunchtime, for God’s sake.”

Pooki approached, clutching the sides of her dress, and stood with her eyes on the floor while she confirmed that she was indeed a Christian. After the officer read the oath, she kissed the Bible, then explained that the General’s butler had asked her to make a pie without eggs, as his master didn’t eat them, and she had inserted only three legs into the pastry in order to distinguish it from the others.

“Did anyone else consume any of this bespoke pie?”

The maid shook her head. “No, sir. In fact, nobody had any of the pigeon pies apart from the General. One of the butlers said it was because they did not look fit to eat,” she added with a frown.

“I see. And what was
your
opinion of the deceased?” he asked.

The servant stuck out her chin. “I did not like him, sir. There was a rumour that he had killed Lady Beatrice’s doves and sold them to the butcher.”

Several ladies gasped and covered their mouths with their hands.

Charles Twelvetrees fixed her with his gaze. “And did your pies contain doves rather than pigeons?” he demanded.

“I am not sure of the difference, sir.”

The crowd looked uncertain.

Sucking on his teeth for a moment, the coroner then turned to the witnesses and informed them that he would still regard them
as being under oath. “You all saw the legs sticking out of the pies. In your opinion, did they appear to be those of doves or pigeons?” he asked.

One of the butlers stood. “I would say they were pigeons, sir. They were rather on the ugly side. Like the pies.”

Pooki scowled.

Dr. Henderson sprang up. “I didn’t see the feet for long, but they struck me as most elegant. A charming pink colour.”

Holding his coat shut with both hands, Silas Sparrowgrass immediately joined him. “I’ve never seen a pigeon or a dove with elegant feet. They’re all gnarled and sharp-nailed like my mother’s.”

Cornelius B. Pilgrim started to get up, but Charles Twelvetrees gestured to him to remain where he was. “We’ll not hear from you, thank you, Mr. Pilgrim,” he barked. “Once was quite sufficient.”

The members of the public were unable to resist the debate, and it all came to a head when Lady Beatrice raised her hand and said, “The feet sticking out of the pies looked just like those of the flying squirrels I saw in the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park last week.” Once the laughter eventually subsided, and Charles Twelvetrees could finally be heard, he turned back to Pooki.

“Were you alone in making the pies?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Was there any period when the General’s pie was unattended by yourself?”

Pooki glanced at Mink. “Yes, sir. For a while I was up in one of the bedrooms.”

“I see,” said the coroner, tapping his pen. “And what happened to the General’s pie after the picnic?”

“I threw it out as soon as we got back home, sir.”

The coroner banged his fist on the table. “Why on earth did you do that?” he demanded. “It could have been analysed!”

The maid blinked. “I did not know that the General had been
poisoned and was going to be dug up again, sir. Usually bodies remain where they are once they have been buried. It is their spirits that get up again.”

“But why did you throw the pie out immediately?” the coroner continued to press her. “That’s a bit fishy, isn’t it?”

There were several nods.

The servant’s eyes drifted momentarily to the Princess. “It is inauspicious to eat things with only three legs,” she replied.

The Countess roared with laughter and immediately covered her hand with her mouth. But it was one distraction too many for the coroner, who clicked his fingers at his officer, then jabbed his thumb towards her. The officer marched up to the aristocrat, hauled her to her feet, and escorted her out of the hearing, which only increased her mirth as she headed back to the bar. Charles Twelvetrees looked at Pooki, and with no idea where he had got up to, dismissed her. He then surveyed the remaining witnesses. “Have any of you got anything of any relevance to say? I’m very much hoping you don’t.”