The Pigeon Pie Mystery (22 page)

“It’s the baby,” she said, her blond hair in need of a wash.

“Yes?”

She clutched her shawl around her with fingers that bore traces of blacking. “I was wondering whether there was anything you could do about it?”

The doctor looked at her in silence as he took in what the teenager was asking him. She would lose her position, she continued, and the rest of her family depended on her wages, since her father had died in a railway accident the year before. “Davey’s not turned two yet.”

“You’re considerably far gone, Alice. What about the child’s father? Does he know you’re in the family way?”

The maid shook her head.

Dr. Henderson looked down at his desk knowing the terrible
risks servants took to rid themselves of unwanted pregnancies, and the threat such efforts posed to their own lives. He thought of the law that forbade him from carrying out her wishes, then glanced up at her pale face, and saw that she was not much older than his sister. He then looked at her hands gripping her shawl so tightly her knuckles were white. Slowly he reached for his pen, wrote out a prescription, and handed it to her. The girl took it, deposited some coins, and was out of the consulting room before he could say there was no charge. He watched the door close, trusting that the girl’s Latin, if she had any, would not stretch to translating the words “dandelion tea.”

As he tidied his desk, his thoughts found their way back to Mink, who seemed so different from the other women he had met, whose conversation never progressed much beyond their last visit to the zoo. Deciding that it was time to smarten himself up, he quickly rubbed the shoulders of his frock coat with sandpaper to remove the shine from too much wear, grabbed his cane and the stranger’s hat, and pulled the front door behind him. As he headed for the West End, his conscience whispered increasingly loud reminders of his straitened finances. By the time he walked to Hampton Court Station he had managed to silence them, for, according to his copy of
The Gentleman’s Guide to Politeness and Courtship
, in order to attract the attention of the fairer sex a gentleman should put as much thought into his attire as he did into his choice of club. While enduring the black smoke and stifling gas of the Underground, he admired the elegance of other men’s suits. As he approached his old tailor’s, comforted by the thought that he wouldn’t have to endure the indignity of being measured, he remembered the manual’s warning of the dire consequences of a coat fitting too well: the resemblance to a tailor’s assistant.

At the sound of the bell Mr. Wildgoose appeared at his highly polished mahogany counter. Mounted on the wall behind him was
a glass case containing a plover, one of numerous stuffed birds displayed around the shop. The clean-shaven tailor, whose short legs failed to show off the precision of his cutting, stared at the doctor, his eyes magnified to staggering proportions by the strength of his spectacles. He greeted his customer with a smile intended to hide the full extent of his dismay.

“Given up running with beagles, have we, sir?” he asked, his eyes travelling down to his customer’s waistcoat.

Dr. Henderson thought of the miserable sport, indulged by health zealots, which involved sprinting through soggy fields along with a pack of dogs in pursuit of a hare, while the hunt followers simply walked along behind. “Yes, I went off it. How did you know?” he asked.

Mr. Wildgoose tapped the tips of his delicate fingers together. “Just a guess, sir.”

Resting a hand on the counter, the doctor explained that he needed a new coat and trousers.

“I can see that, sir. While you’ve left it a little long since your last visit, if I may say, at least you’ve come to the right place. So many gentlemen who have failed to make their mark on the world go to one of the more humble establishments in order to save a few pennies. But no man has ever made a name for himself in a coat that wasn’t cut within half a mile of Piccadilly.”

Fixing his customer in the eye, he then came out from behind the counter, slowly pulling his tape measure from around his neck.

“But you already have my measurements,” Dr. Henderson protested, taking a step backwards.

“Just need to make sure, sir,” said Mr. Wildgoose, continuing his advance.

“I assure you that I’m exactly the same height I was the last time I came,” insisted the doctor, walking round a tailor’s dummy.

But there was no escaping the diminutive man, who came round the other way. Suddenly he disappeared, and the general
practitioner looked around him in alarm. He glanced down and saw him kneeling at his feet, brandishing his weapon.

“Few men have the moral fortitude to transcend the effect of an ill-cut trouser, sir,” warned Mr. Wildgoose, measuring the inside of his leg.

The doctor fixed his eyes on the plover as the tailor did his worst. “I’m after something a little more in keeping with fashion,” he said, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “Something more … alluring. I understand that trousers worn with a frock coat are in good style when cut rather close. I’d like them tapered evenly to the boot and set well over the instep so as to avoid flopping. I can’t bear flopping. I quite fancy a dark cashmere cloth with a relief stripe of a lighter shade. It’s much more dressy.”

“To be too much in fashion is as vulgar as to be too far behind it,” replied the tailor, slipping his tape round the doctor’s waist. “I would stick with a pure black background and a white stripe with your figure, sir.”

The doctor frowned down at him.

“Up by three inches, sir, just as I feared. I spotted it the minute you walked in.”

“Three?” the doctor exclaimed. “That’s my housekeeper’s doing. She will insist on baking cakes.”

The tailor tapped his fingers together. “If I may, sir, I would suggest that you resist them at all costs.”

“I do bicycle, you know,” said the doctor indignantly.

“Perhaps you should pedal a little harder, sir. Avoirdupois is ruinous for a man who has not yet made it to the altar.”

The doctor looked at him aghast. “How do you know that I’m still not married?” he asked.

“A tailor can always tell, sir,” said Mr. Wildgoose, passing his instrument of torture around the doctor’s back.

Dr. Henderson looked into the distance. “Well, maybe an improvement in matters sartorial will help in that regard. They do
say the tailor makes the man.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve read that the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York both have braid-edge coats. Braiding rather takes my fancy.”

Mr. Wildgoose tutted. “That’s not for the likes of you, sir. We wouldn’t want to draw too much attention, as the correct style in frock coats is rather shapely at the moment.” He peered at his measuring tape and announced, “Two inches off the chest. Most apparent to the trained eye.”

“
Off
the chest?” the doctor asked, his hands on his hips. “Are you sure?”

The tailor looked back at him with his huge unblinking eyes. “The tape measure never lies, sir. We leave that to the customers. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. By the time I’ve finished, you’ll look just like my young assistant over there.”

When, eventually, it was over, Dr. Henderson pulled the door swiftly behind him and was just about to cross the road when he suddenly remembered something. As he opened it again, Mr. Wildgoose was running a feather duster over a case above the fireplace bearing a white pheasant. The tailor turned and held him with his enormous pupils.

“Perhaps you’ve realised that you also need a new waistcoat, sir, since the correct vest these days is double-breasted and buttoned rather high,” he said, holding his duster aloft. “But with you, sir, there’s a much more pressing concern.”

“What?”

“There’s only so much strain a buttonhole will take, sir.”

The doctor pulled in his stomach. “If you don’t mind, I was actually after a recommendation.”

“And what might that be, sir?” Mr. Wildgoose asked, tilting his head to one side.

“I need an unimpeachable hat.”

The tailor put down his duster, gazed heavenwards, then gave his pronouncement: “Try Lincoln and Bennett of Piccadilly, sir.
I would recommend a straight topper rather than the bell shape, even if it has been popular for the last three years. Even such dressy men about town as the Duke of Newcastle and Lord Francis Hope have stuck with level lines for many years. A chimney-pot hat has a morally superior look about it. It might help you get a wife, sir.”

The doctor swiftly closed the door behind him, then immediately poked his head back in. “As a matter of interest, how mad should one’s hatter be?”

Tapping the tips of his fingers together, Mr. Wildgoose considered the question. “You would expect some degree of madness, of course, sir. But we advise our customers to stay clear of the certifiable. They have a tendency to overcharge, and many struggle with the brims. Just nicely mad, sir. That’s what you want. Just nicely mad.”

CHAPTER VIII
The Pleasure and Peril of a New Pair of Gentleman’s Stockings

O
one had waited for Good Friday with more longing than the inhabitants of London. They greeted the arrival of the sober Christian festival of fasting and penance warmed not only by a hot cross bun in their stomachs but, for the fortunate, a four-day holiday stretching out in front of them. But that wasn’t the only blessing. For the sun, notoriously coy on a bank holiday weekend, threw off its clouds and flagrantly exposed itself. It was only then that they got down on their knees and offered up a gleeful prayer of thanks. Debts were forgotten and husbands forgiven as the working classes armed themselves with sandwiches and beer bottles and herded to stations for cheap excursion tickets. Meanwhile, the rich, stuffed into four-wheelers weighed down by portmanteaux, trunks, fishing rods, and hatboxes, headed to estates in the country. The city was as silent as a Sunday, and even the muffin man’s bell failed to ring.

Only the grace-and-favour residents of Hampton Court Palace cursed when they peered out of their windows and saw the exceptional weather. Lamenting their failure to have secured themselves an invitation elsewhere, they braced themselves for the start of
the Easter stampede, their dread inflamed by announcements in the papers that the
Queen Elizabeth
, the luxurious saloon steamer, would be running trips from London Bridge on both Good Friday and Easter Monday, swelling the armada arriving at their banks.

Children were already blowing penny whistles in the Privy Garden as Mink walked through its normally tranquil alleys formed by overgrown yews. The first of the south gardens created by Henry VIII, it had been opened to the public five years ago, much to the irritation of the residents. The Princess took little notice of the jolly visitors with their over-trimmed hats and thumbs in their waistcoat sleeves, her mind still on Inspector Guppy. She had not heard from the police since they searched the house, and was anxious for the matter to be closed so both she and Pooki could get a decent night’s sleep.

Hoping to escape the latest scandal to engulf her, she opened the gate of a small garden next to the river, one of the few private retreats that remained to the residents. But as she walked in, she found that she was not the only one to have sought refuge there. Many of the seats were already taken, and several bath chairs were parked in the sun. She was about to turn back when she heard her name, and turned to see the Countess beckoning her over. As she approached, Lady Beatrice and Lady Montfort Bebb moved aside to make room for her on the bench.