The Pigeon Pie Mystery (20 page)

They glanced at their pocket watches and shook their heads.

“Just as well,” he muttered. After summing up the case while tugging on his boots, Charles Twelvetrees then headed out, and the officer escorted the jurors to an adjacent room for their deliberations. The coroner had just been served some eels when he was informed that the jury had reached its decision. “Already?” he despaired, and returned to the hearing, his napkin still tied around his neck. The jurors trooped back in again and took their places. The foreman stood up, glancing nervously around the room as all eyes fixed on him. The pressmen’s pencils were poised.

He cleared his throat and looked ahead. “The deceased met his death by arsenic poisoning. There is no evidence as to how the poison was obtained,” he announced, before sinking back down to his chair. There were loud murmurs of disappointment. Raising his voice above them, the coroner swiftly brought the proceedings
to a close, and, after wishing everyone a happy Easter, fled out of the door.

As soon as he had left, the public and the witnesses rounded on the jurors.

“The poison was in the pigeon pie, you ninnies,” said one.

“It was the American, you twits,” shouted another. “There’s something about that coat that’s just not right.”

Cornelius B. Pilgrim tucked his newspaper under his arm and stalked out.

“No, no, it was Lady Bessington,” hurled another. “She asked for the pies in the first place. And she got herself thrown out. She’s probably gone to tamper with the evidence.”

“I reckon it was Lady Beatrice,” declared one. “The General killed her doves. People get very attached to their pets. They love them more than humans.”

Lady Beatrice tittered nervously.

“It was definitely Lady Montfort Bebb,” came a voice.

“Me?” she asked, spinning round, trying to find her accuser. “What have I done?”

“My money’s on the maid with the big feet,” cried someone else. “She destroyed the evidence.”

The room fell silent and everyone turned to stare at Pooki, who immediately looked at the floor. Mink quickly grabbed her arm and marched her out of the room as all eyes followed them. But none was watching the maid as closely as the stranger with the waterfall moustache leaning against the wall, slowly tapping his notebook with his pencil.

CHAPTER VII
Things Aren’t Looking Good for the Maid

INK
woke, stirred from her dreams by the interest the coroner had taken in Pooki’s pigeon pie. As she lay on her side, she heard footsteps going downstairs. Getting up, she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was only five-thirty, an hour earlier than the maid normally started her duties. Returning to the warmth of her sheets, she wondered whether the servant was also worried. As the Princess thought over the testimonies, the maid opened the curtains, then descended to the kitchen and polished the range while the fire was drawing up. As the kettle boiled, she attacked the boots and knives, then cleaned the grate, fire irons, and fender in the breakfast room. After lighting the fire, she rubbed the furniture, washed the mantelpiece, and scattered damp tea leaves on the carpet to collect the dust before sweeping it.

Mink must have fallen back to sleep, for the next thing she knew Pooki was standing next to her with a tray bearing her morning tea. Sitting up, she realised instantly that all was not well when the maid passed it to her without a single enquiry about her dreams, in which she always saw a prophecy. The state of Pooki’s nerves became all too apparent when Mink spotted the ubiquitous
garnish while helping herself to breakfast. “It must be a good year for watercress,” said the Princess, standing at the sideboard. The maid instantly dropped the milk jug she was carrying, and they both listened to the immaculate silence that follows the shattering of porcelain.

Hoping some fresh air would clear her head of the smutty residue of a poor night’s sleep, Mink headed out for a walk in the grounds. As she started to cross the Wilderness, something made her look round, and she saw Pooki coming out the back gate and hurrying down Moat Lane. Wondering where she was going, she continued to the Great Fountain Garden, where packs of schoolchildren were chasing one another round the enormous yews. As she strolled, her eye was caught by the hat of Lady Beatrice, who was sitting with Lady Montfort Bebb on a bench in a sheltered spot against the palace wall known as Purr Corner. The nook was given the name by the Duke of Wellington, whose mother had been a resident, on account of its being a venue for female gossiping. The Princess strode over, anxious to know what people were saying about Pooki.

“Thank goodness women aren’t allowed to sit on juries after all,” she said, taking a seat next to them. “We’ve all been spared the sight of the General without his clothes on.”

“The most gruesome sight in those apartments wouldn’t have been the body, I can assure you,” replied Lady Montfort Bebb, her red setter lying at her feet. “It would have been the hideous interior decoration. Mrs. Bagshot never altered a thing after she swapped apartments with Lady Bessington, who is charm itself, but her taste is unfathomable.”

A sudden silence descended as the Countess rounded the corner and sat down. “To think that we have a murderer in our midst!” she exclaimed, tucking her grey hair into her black bonnet. “What would the Queen say? It wasn’t me, by the way, despite what someone said at the inquest.”

“Nor me,” replied Lady Montfort Bebb, adjusting her mink tippet. “It’ll be a servant, mark my words. They’ll be the death of us one way or another. If it’s not poison, then it’ll be exasperation. I’m not at all convinced that these labour-saving machines are a good thing. One of my maids has just asked for a night off a week and every other Sunday out!” She turned to Mink. “I must say, things don’t look very good for yours. Pity, I’d rather taken to her after her performance at the inquest.”

“It still hasn’t been proven that a murder has actually taken place,” said the Princess quickly.

“Well, it didn’t appear to be accidental,” replied Lady Montfort Bebb. “And the General wasn’t exactly one for taking his own life, to the rue of many, I’ve no doubt.”

“Poor Mrs. Bagshot, having a husband and a child in the same cemetery,” said Lady Beatrice. She turned to the Princess and explained that several years ago Mrs. Bagshot lost a daughter when she was only a few months old. “Her little heart gave up. I can’t tell you how gruesome the funeral was.”

“We must give her all the support we can at such a terrible time,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. “Let’s just hope the police are capable of getting to the bottom of it, though I very much doubt it, given their inability to handle the roughs outside the King’s Arms on a Saturday night.”

The Countess leant forward. “Apparently there’s already a police inspector asking questions in the palace. The butcher’s boy spotted him in Tennis Court Lane earlier.”

Mink stared at her, immediately worried for Pooki.

Lady Beatrice fiddled with her fringe. “He’s probably questioning the American as we speak. You can’t trust a man who calls overshoes ‘gums.’ ”

Suddenly there were footsteps, and the women turned to see Dr. Henderson. They nodded to him, and he raised his hat as he passed, his dark curls bobbing.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Mink asked, “What on earth is wrong with that man’s hat?”

“It’s far too big for him,” replied the Countess, still watching him.

“Maybe his head has shrunk,” suggested Lady Beatrice. The other women looked at her. Suddenly she frowned and peered into the distance. “Who the devil is that?” she asked. They all turned. Walking towards them was a tall man with a grey waterfall moustache who was wearing an open raglan overcoat, its wide shoulders giving him a slouched look.

“It’s that man who was standing next to the constable at the inquest,” said Mink. “He seems to be coming over.”

“Oh, my, what an unforgivable suit,” declared Lady Montfort Bebb. “It’s the colour of a costermonger’s donkey.”

Inspector Guppy stubbed out his cigarette and introduced himself. Glancing at his untrimmed whiskers, his bowler hat with the shiny brim, and his ready-made trousers, the women offered reluctant smiles of acknowledgement. But it was only Mink he wanted to see. Standing up, she bid the others good morning and smoothed down her dress. As she walked with him along the East Front to Wilderness House, she made little effort to engage with his small talk, and by the time they arrived, news that the policeman had come to see the Princess had fluttered all the way to the Tudor section of the palace.

Pooki was hanging out of one of the bedroom windows when she first heard the front doorbell. “You must advance for several paces, sir,” she shouted to an excursionist deep within the maze. “Then take the turning on your left or you will never see your wife and children again.”

When the bell rang again, she swiftly shut the window and ran downstairs to answer it. She stood staring at the visitor until she remembered herself and stepped back to let them in. Mink led the way to the drawing room, and gestured to the settee by the fireplace. But Inspector Guppy sat down in her father’s armchair.

“Would you care for some tea, Inspector, or would you be worried that something had been slipped into it?” asked the Princess with a smile, taking a seat on the settee.

Declining the offer, he placed his hat on the side table.

“I must say, it came as a bit of a surprise that the General died from arsenic poisoning,” she said. “What was it that the coroner said? Forty-six per cent of cases of arsenic poisoning tended to be suicides? That’s almost half. Perhaps the General took his own life, then. What do you think?” She smiled and added, “You’ve got so much experience in these matters.”

The Inspector remained straight-faced. “I wouldn’t want to comment, Princess.”

“Do you really think the General was murdered?” she continued nevertheless. “He wasn’t the most popular resident, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. Can you?”

The Inspector lightly traced the edge of his armrest with his fingers. “I can imagine all sorts of things,” he said. He looked up at the portraits of her ancestors. “It must be over a year now since the Maharaja died.”

“That’s correct.”

“Terrible business.”

“Indeed.”

He paused, then asked, “It was the girl who came in the mornings to clean the boots and the knives, wasn’t it?”

Mink studied him for a moment. “I suggest you get to the point, Inspector, or I shall have to ask you to leave.”

Sitting back, he said that it was her maid he wanted to see. The Princess got up in silence and rang the bell. Pooki appeared within minutes, and stood hesitantly by the door until Mink asked her to come in. She sat so closely to her mistress that their skirts touched.

“How did you come to be in this country?” Inspector Guppy asked the maid, opening his notebook. Clutching her hands in her lap, she explained that she had worked as a nurse, accompanying British mothers and their children back to England, but
during one trip found herself alone in London without a passage home.

“So the family abandoned you without paying your return, did they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why was that?”

The maid swallowed. “I do not know, sir.”

“Was the lady displeased with your work?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you get too close to another passenger or one of the crew, perhaps?”

“Inspector!” the Princess protested.

Pooki shook her head. “No, sir.”

“You must have been upset when you found yourself abandoned.”

“I was, sir. I did not know what to do.”

“Was that what prompted your dislike for the British? I understand you’ve worked for an Indian family ever since.”

“And where, may I ask, were you born, Inspector?” interrupted Mink.

“Calcutta, as it happens.”

“I was born and raised in England,” the Princess continued. “Some would say that makes me more English than you are.”

The Inspector turned back to Pooki. “And how did you make a living while you were abandoned in London?”