The Pigeon Pie Mystery (25 page)

The next clue as to the fate of Alfred Bucket was the title of his second lesson: the art of falling. “When all hope is lost of a dignified dismount at high speeds, the wheelman should avoid all obstructions,” he warned the nervous doctor. “A series of somersaults,
while ungentlemanly, will not do as much damage to the ego as coming to a dead stop against a dustcart.”

It wasn’t until the third lesson that Alfred Bucket finally broached the subject of getting the thing to move. Taking it out of the shed, he pointed at his pupil. “Never underestimate the importance of artistic ankle action,” he urged. “Very few bother to master it, resulting in their looking slovenly and not being in control of their mount.”

It wasn’t until Dr. Henderson took to the roads alone that he discovered that back-pedalling slowed down a bicycle. He soon got the hang of the manoeuvre and returned to the shop to share the revelation with his instructor. But he was too late. For upon approaching the counter, the shopkeeper looked at him mournfully and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Mr. Bucket is dead.” He went on to explain that the instructor had lost his life, not in an undignified heap at the bottom of an incline as he had always feared, but stationary at the top of a hill, where he had been mowed down by a runaway tricycle complete with rider.

Having executed numerous high-speed dashes, his saddle positioned a few inches back in the perfect position for scorching, the general practitioner headed for the sedate towpath bordering the Thames. As he pedalled alongside the punts and canoes filled with couples in splendid boating costumes, a steam launch approached, laden with happy excursionists singing to the strains of an accordion. Infected by the gaiety of the river, he decided to practise bicycling with one hand. First he lifted his right, and then his left, but found that it was not the slightest challenge. Next he attempted the no-handed method of wheeling, for it was an undeniable truth that a gentleman who relied on his hands for steering never rode as gracefully as one who steered with the feet alone. He found it so simple, he wondered whether he was suitably proficient to take up bicycle polo.

The deafening answer came minutes later, when he was suffering
the consequences of his fateful decision. When he had recovered, and the full horror of what he had done hit him, he put his woeful lack of judgement down to his excitement over his new diamond-patterned stockings. Whatever the reason, as Dr. Henderson made his way down Barge Walk, he suddenly decided to indulge in an offshoot of the sport known as “fancy riding.” Alfred Bucket had warned him of such peril in his final lesson, lowering his voice and gripping the doctor’s arm to impress upon him the dangers. “The temptation comes to every wheelman, but you must resist it at all costs,” he warned, his blue scars even more harrowing in the shed’s candlelight. “Such things never end well, even for some of the most celebrated entertainers.” But it was useless. As soon as the thought entered the doctor’s windswept head, there was no getting rid of the urge to attempt to balance on the handlebars and raise his legs while still moving. It didn’t take long for him to fully comprehend the reasoning behind Alfred Bucket’s dark warning. For, without even time to throw himself off backwards, Dr. Henderson was in the Thames.

When, eventually, he surfaced, he wiped his eyes of river-water and saw Mink staring at him from the bank, a hand over her mouth and her walking costume soaked. It was then, as the passengers of the honking steam launch stood up to gawp at the curious obstruction, that he finally mastered the New York plastered look.

Spewing out a mouthful of the Thames, the doctor, weighed down by his new bicycling attire, started inching towards the towpath in a series of movements that only the generous or inebriated would term “breaststroke.” Within seconds he suddenly found himself deposited on the bank, battered by waves from the passing steam launch, its mischievous passengers throwing pennies at him as they had done to the mudlarks. Looking up at the Princess, he wondered whether he would appear more ridiculous out of the water than in it. But he had no time to decide, for she bent
down and tugged him out. He stood on the bank, his sodden hose around his ankles, while his cap bobbed cheerfully in the wake.

Mink shook her hands to rid them of water, then looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “Good afternoon, Dr. Henderson. I shall excuse you not raising your hat, being as though it’s almost reached the other bank.”

The doctor wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve but found it to be equally wet.

“Bicycling is a preoccupation of yours, I understand,” she said.

“Exercise is extremely beneficial to the heart,” he replied, as he dripped. Lowering his mahogany eyes, he added, “That, and having someone special who it beats for.”

The Princess gestured to the towpath. “There are so many attractive ladies out enjoying the weather. You’ve certainly caught their attention now. How fortunate Lady Bessington wasn’t around to witness you capsize.”

He frowned, trying to understand what the Countess had to do with it. Before he had time to ask, Mink turned to leave.

“Don’t stand around too long in these wet knickerbockers, doctor,” she warned, as she headed towards the palace. “You’ll catch a fever and I’ll have to fetch the homeopath from East Molesey. No doubt he’ll have just the cure.”

CHAPTER IX
A Prophetic Mole

HE
invasion on Good Friday was nothing compared to the storming of the palace on Easter Monday. The siege began by those who came by road, having set out early for ’appy ’Ampton to avoid the bank-holiday congestion with a joyful wave to those left behind. They were joined by passengers rammed inside nineteen special trains put on by the London & South Western Railway, the overhead racks piled with picnic baskets, the sandwiches eaten long before they arrived. The numbers soon swelled with those advancing by river. Men in boating costumes and cheerful red stockings, and women wearing muslin skirts carrying Japanese parasols, appeared in a perpetual flotilla of gaily decorated vessels that disgorged passengers onto the banks, and into the reach of the beaming postcard hawkers and peddlers of spurious guides. By mid-morning the landmark was overrun by cheesemongers, pawnbrokers, and asylum keepers, all in a state of glee. More than sixteen thousand excursionists herded through the State Apartments, their infernal tramping causing misery to the residents of nearby apartments. Their despair was matched by that of the umbrella merchants, who sat on the grass with their
unfurled wares, looking reproachfully at the capricious sun that continued to blaze.

Determined to clear Pooki’s name, Mink sat at her desk and contemplated her list of suspects. Rather regrettably, given her fondness for the women, it included her new friends. Lady Montfort Bebb had never disguised her antipathy of the General, and clearly resented his bile about her piano playing. But was that really a reason to poison him, or was there something more behind it? Then there was Lady Beatrice, whose doves General Bagshot was said to have killed. Had she heard the rumour before the picnic? She had dropped her fork and walked off as soon as it was mentioned. But was that just a ruse to deflect suspicion away from her? Neither had Lady Bessington hidden her dislike of the man, telling her how he had hit one of his servants and been offensive about her interior decoration. Did she have a motive Mink didn’t yet know about?

But if any of them were guilty, how on earth did they manage to poison the pigeon pie, which appeared to be what had killed the General? Hadn’t Pooki been at home all day? And why on earth did she have fly papers in her bonnet box? She had already asked her twice, and both times she had clammed up, suddenly finding a chore that needed to be done in another room and closing the door firmly behind her. If she didn’t know the servant better, even she might think she were guilty. It was time for Pooki to answer some questions.

Mink rang the bell, and the servant swiftly arrived at the study door. Since the Inspector’s discovery of the contents of her bonnet box, she had transformed into the perfect maid. There had been no pointed comments about unnecessary expenditure, no encouragement to open the post, and never once did she tell one of the butterman’s jokes. Instead, she had gone about her chores in silence, keeping her head bowed while polishing what had already been polished, dusting what had already been dusted, and sweeping
what had already been swept. Whenever the Princess asked how she was, she simply replied that she was suffering from a sore throat.

“Would you close the windows for me? The noise from the maze is insufferable,” Mink said. Without a word, Pooki walked to the nearest one and reached up.

“You told the coroner that you went up to one of the bedrooms when you were in the middle of making the pies for the picnic,” the Princess said, watching her closely. “What were you doing?”

“I noticed that the Keeper of the Maze had fallen silent, and went to see what had happened,” said the servant, pulling down the sash. “I was worried that he had fallen off his chair on account of his bad legs. When I got to the bedroom I could not see him, and there were so many people clustered at the dead ends that I took pity on them and gave them directions so they could get out.”

“How long were you there for?”

The maid walked to the next window. “Quite a while, ma’am. Some of those people did not know the difference between backwards and forwards.”

“Did anyone call at the house?”

Pooki looked at the ceiling as she tried to remember. “As well as the General, Alice dropped off some flour, and Pike brought the birds and beef.”

“Pike?”

“The butcher’s delivery boy. He helped carry the luggage when we first arrived.”

“Oh, yes.” The Princess frowned. “Why would Alice bring round some flour? We’re not that poor.”

“I think she was trying to be friendly, ma’am. Not many of the other servants talk to her, since she was dismissed for stealing.”

“Did you use it?”

“No, ma’am. I told her I did not need it.”

“But she was hanging around the kitchen with you while you were cooking?”

“Just as I was starting, ma’am.”

The Princess wrote down Alice’s name. “Did you leave the house at all that day?”

The maid immediately turned and shut the window. “Yes, ma’am. I went for a walk,” she said, her back still turned.

Mink studied her, tapping her pen on the desk. “Why did you go for a walk when you were in the middle of cooking?”

There was a pause. “Sometimes a maid needs to clear her head, ma’am,” she replied, looking out of the window.

The Princess sat back and folded her arms as she continued to watch her. “It’s usual for a servant to ask permission to leave the house.”

“You were at the meeting in London, ma’am.”

“And when you went for this mysterious walk of yours, did you see anyone around?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Pooki, finally facing her. “The Keeper of the Maze was trimming the top of the hedges, and Lady Montfort Bebb was walking that dog of hers.”

Mink wrote down his name. “I presume you locked the back door when you left,” she said.

The maid shook her head. “No, ma’am. It is inauspicious to lock the back door when there is a crow in the garden.”

“A crow?” Mink repeated.

The servant nodded. “It was a big one, ma’am,” she said, her eyes wide.

Mink put a hand on her hip. “So its size makes it even more unlucky, does it?” she asked.

Pooki frowned. “Ma’am, that bird looked at me.”

The two women stared at each other in silence.

“I bet it wasn’t even a crow,” said the Princess, striding towards a window. “Look at that tree over there. See the bird on the branch with the mistletoe on it?”

The servant peered. “Yes, ma’am. It is a crow.”

“It’s a blackbird.”

“It is a crow, ma’am,” said Pooki, shaking her head.

“It’s a blackbird,” Mink exclaimed, exasperated. “Look, that’s a crow over there. See? It’s much larger. That,” she added, tapping on the glass, “is a blackbird.”