The Pigeon Pie Mystery (23 page)

“I see you have come to hide, like the rest of us,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. “On Easter Monday we will be completely overrun by ’Arrys and ’Arriets. We’re all praying for rain.”

“The palace at Kew will be open to the public soon. Hopefully it’ll lure away some of the visitors,” said Lady Beatrice, holding up a parasol to protect herself from acquiring more freckles. “I think they should reinstate the toll on Hampton Court Bridge. It used to put off so many of the destitute. I shall write to the Lord Chamberlain and suggest it.”

The Countess leant forward, placing a hand on her arm. “Point
out that it should be free for residents,” she insisted. She turned to the Princess and asked her how things had gone with the Inspector.

“Such an odious man,” Mink replied. “He smells of cheap tobacco. I had to open all the windows after he left.”

“He was rather preoccupied by your maid when he questioned me, I must say,” continued the Countess, fiddling with the ribbons tying her black bonnet. “I hope for your sake you don’t lose her. We struggle so much retaining domestic servants here, what with the ghosts. Thankfully my maid-of-all-work is made of stronger stuff. She’s turned out very well, considering how she came to me.”

“Was she from the workhouse?” asked Mink.

The Countess shook her head. “Alice used to be the Bagshots’ parlour maid but was dismissed for stealing. I haven’t had the slightest trouble with her. I put a sovereign under the carpet when she first arrived and she never took it.”

“She’d need it, all right, being as though she’s only paid the wages of a German maid,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, looking ahead of her, both hands on the top of her cane. She turned back to the ladies. “I’m not sure that one can ever fully trust domestic servants. When I was married I always made a point of choosing plain ones.”

Mink sat up. “The point is not whether one can trust one’s parlour maid but whether one can trust one’s husband or the male houseguests,” she pointed out. “I’ve never met a young girl yet who has found the sight of a gentleman leering at her from his morning bath in the least bit alluring. Yet plenty find themselves hauled in with them.”

“Oh! What fun!” exclaimed Lady Beatrice, covering her mouth as she tittered.

All three women looked at her.

A plump elderly woman, clutching a tiny trembling dog on her lap, entered the garden in a bath chair, pushed by a sweating maid. The Countess excused herself and went to talk to her. As soon as
she was out of earshot, Lady Montfort Bebb lowered her voice. “I don’t wish to suggest that Lady Bessington is mean, but apparently she refuses to pay for her skirts to be lined in silk. Instead she uses glove lining from William Whitely in Westbourne Grove, and has a strip of silk sewn onto the bottom in case it shows.” She sat back, eyebrows raised, to let the revelation sink in.

Lady Beatrice glanced at the Countess, then leant forwards. “It’s quite understandable,” she whispered.

Lady Montfort Bebb looked at her in surprise. “It is?” she asked. “We’ve never understood her miserly ways before.”

“She has her trousseau to save for!” Lady Beatrice hissed. “I just heard this morning.”

“Her trousseau?” repeated Mink.

“I have it on the best authority that she has stolen Dr. Henderson’s heart!” gushed Lady Beatrice. “His housekeeper is most assured of the fact. She told my cook this morning. He gave Lady Bessington one of his handkerchiefs as a love token, and she sent it back, fragranced. While I’m naturally delighted that she’s found love again, I must admit I’m a little hurt she never told us, particularly as I’ve done my best to find her a suitor and she has rejected them all. I even suggested that charming homeopath from East Molesey after he produced a florin from her bonnet at the inquest, but even he was of no interest, despite the fortunes he finds.”

Lady Montfort Bebb gripped the top of her cane. “I suggest you inform your daughter that Dr. Henderson is taken to prevent any further fainting in the Chapel Royal. It’s happened so often I could set my watch by it.” She glanced at the Countess and lowered her voice. “But Lady Bessington shouldn’t be wasting her time on a mere doctor. She needs to find someone of equal standing, or marry up, if possible, to improve her financial position. That being said, I do like a wedding. If nothing else, it’s the best way of terminating undesirable acquaintances. I sent out numerous cards without a new address on them notifying people of my
marriage. I can’t tell you what bliss it was never to hear from them again.”

As Mink turned to look at the Countess, trying to imagine her and Dr. Henderson as man and wife, Cornelius B. Pilgrim wandered into the garden with the defeated air of a man in need of sleep. Having gone to bed in the early hours of the morning, he was woken by a hideous scraping sound that left him clutching the top of his bedsheet. As his heart pounded, he looked around him, wondering whether it was the ghost of General Bagshot unsettled by having been hauled out of the ground and diced by an inquisitive doctor. Unable to find his dressing gown due to the uprising amongst the servants, he put on his monkey-fur coat and grabbed his gun. He started to search the apartments, peering round doors for the white traces of a spirit before daring to enter. Eventually he tracked down the sound to a sooty urchin holding a mystifying apparatus that disappeared up the library chimney. Standing in his bare feet, Cornelius B. Pilgrim brandished his weapon and asked the teenager to identify himself and state his purpose. The terrified youngster explained that he was a chimney sweep and had been let in by the butler. Unconvinced, the American scanned the room, then proceeded to ask him what a chimney sweep was. He listened, transfixed by the lad’s tale of serpentine flues, smoking chimneys, and the time when children were forced to climb up inside.

The sweep blinked his red eyes as he stood listening in wonder to the American’s account of chimneys in his homeland with straight flues that neither smoked nor needed to be brushed to reduce the risk of fire. He immediately went home and told his family, who assumed he was making it up, and enquired what he was wearing. He replied that it was a monkey-fur coat, which the American had given him out of pity for his profession. But the family, who had only ever seen the tiny flea-ridden creatures owned by organ grinders, refused to believe that such a luxuriant
monkey existed. Unsettled by the pelt of the mysterious beast, they made him return it, certain it was cursed. Before he left they warned him never to repeat his fanciful tales of straight flues, lest the nation’s builders saw their folly and put every sweep out of business.

Cornelius B. Pilgrim stood hesitantly in the garden, a copy of the
Anglo-American Times
tucked underneath his arm, looking wearily at the taken seats.

“Oh, look, it’s that American without his coat. I suppose that’s one reason to be grateful for such lovely weather,” said Lady Montfort Bebb.

“I’m going to call him over,” said Mink, sitting up and peering at him. “According to his testimony at the inquest, he knows who the murderer is.”

Lady Montfort Bebb looked him up and down uneasily. “If you must. Though goodness knows what he’ll call me this time.”

Turning his head at the sound of his name, Cornelius B. Pilgrim approached and slowly lowered himself onto the chair next to the Princess. She leant towards him, cocked her head to one side, and said, “How shabbily you were treated at the inquest, Mr. Pilgrim. Fancy your knowing who did it and not being allowed to enlighten us all. Do tell. We’re all desperate to know.”

Cornelius B. Pilgrim looked down. “Oh, I’ve no idea.”

“Come, come, Mr. Pilgrim,” Mink urged, leaning even closer towards him. “Don’t disappoint me, I’ve never met a shy American yet. Fill us in, if you don’t mind, otherwise we’ll all keep suspecting one another.”

The American looked from one lady to another.

“Don’t look at me, Mr. Pilgrim. I’m innocent,” snapped Lady Montfort Bebb.

“So am I,” piped up Lady Beatrice. “At least of this.”

But he refused to be drawn. “I really don’t know what came over me. I guess I got carried away with the magic tricks. We don’t have them at inquests in America,” he said. “Everyone else
seems to know how the General met his death, though.” There were dozens of rumours circulating the public houses, he added, all of which the butler relayed to him in great detail while waiting on him at dinner. As a result, he had chronic dyspepsia. “I’m looking forward to Mrs. Bagshot’s return so that I can pass on my condolences and get the hell out of here.”

Lady Beatrice held up a hand and closed her eyes. “Do not count your chickens, Mr. Pilgrim,” she warned. “The British police are very thorough. You may very well be in custody by then.”

Cornelius B. Pilgrim stared at her, a hand on his chest.

“Of course Mr. Pilgrim has nothing to do with it,” said Mink, turning her eyes on him again. “Tell me, what of your research? I expect you’ve been to see the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum. I haven’t been there for months.”

“They’re wonderful,” he replied.

Lady Beatrice leant towards him underneath her parasol. “If you ever go to the British Museum, you may be interested to know that there’s an American section. Though I expect you’d prefer the Reading Room. It’s always cluttered with Americans hunting through the records in the hope of finding a titled ancestor.”

Insisting that he had an appointment, Cornelius B. Pilgrim suddenly stood up, tucked his newspaper back under his arm, and bid them farewell. Mink turned to watch him striding out of the gate, and wondered why her question about the Natural History Museum had made him blush.

WHEN THE PRINCESS RETURNED TO
Wilderness House, Pooki opened the door with a look that instantly worried her.

“That policeman is here, ma’am,” she said. “I told him I did not know when you would be back, but he insisted on waiting.”

On entering the drawing room Mink found Inspector Guppy sitting in her father’s armchair, flicking through his notebook.

“There you are, Inspector. Did you find my Sherlock Holmes
book?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa opposite him, irritated that he was in her seat.

“I didn’t, as it happens, Princess,” he said, stroking the armrest with the tips of his fingers as he looked at her.

“Don’t worry, I can guess the ending,” she said, eyebrows raised. “He solves the crime before the policeman has even worked out who’s been killed.”

The Inspector gazed at her in silence for a moment. “What I did find, however, was a bonnet box on top of your maid’s wardrobe.” He nodded towards the door. “I think you’d better ask her in.”

“Show me a woman who doesn’t have a bonnet box in her bedroom, Inspector, but if you insist,” she replied, getting up to ring the bell.

Pooki came in, clutching her hands in front of her, and sat down next to Mink, their dresses touching.

Inspector Guppy turned to the servant. “Do you know anything about a bonnet box on top of your wardrobe?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, sliding her palms down her apron to dry them.

“Did it contain fly papers?”

The maid nodded.

“Are you aware that fly papers contain arsenic?”

“Yes, sir. And sugar. You soak the papers in water, the flies are attracted to the sugar, and then the poison kills them. It is very clever.”

The Inspector made a note and then looked up. “A servant’s room is a rather strange place to keep them, don’t you think?”

Pooki’s gaze fell to the floor.

He continued to press her. “Can you explain why you had fly papers hidden in your room?”

“They can’t have been hidden or you wouldn’t have found them,” Mink interrupted crossly.

“Does it not strike you as odd that your maid should have such items in her room?”

She frowned. “Not at all,” she replied. “They were probably something to do with warding off moths. What I do find odd is your making such a fuss over it.”

“It’s April, ma’am,” said Inspector Guppy, with a glance towards the window. “There aren’t that many flies around.”

“I saw one this morning.”

He tapped his notebook with his pencil. “A gentleman dies of arsenic poisoning after eating a pigeon pie made by your maid. I find a large quantity of arsenic in her bedroom, despite your insisting there was none in the house. Added to that is the fact that she clearly has a dislike of the British. There’s only one servant she talks to, so I’m told.”

“The others don’t talk to her,” the Princess snapped.

The Inspector looked at Pooki. “And why is that?”

“Most people prefer the glamorous Indians with diamonds,” she said meekly. “I am poor and my skin is dark.”

“Can you account for having a quantity of fly papers in your room?” he continued.

Her gaze fell to the floor.

“Did you soak any of the ingredients in the General’s pigeon pie in a solution obtained from fly papers?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you poison the General?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re quite certain?”

Finally she looked up. “Yes, sir.”

The Inspector studied her for a moment in silence. Smoothing down his moustache with his palm, he picked up his hat from the side table and got to his feet. “I see you like Dickens,” he said, looking at the pile of books.