The Pigeon Pie Mystery (34 page)

CHAPTER XII
Pooki’s Dying Wish and Trixie Predicts Rain

OLLOWING
a night of fitful sleep, Mink watched from her bed as Pooki poured hot water into the bath. The servant seemed even thinner than usual in the grey dress she wore in the mornings to hide the dirt of her heavier work. When she had emptied the final can and retreated downstairs to get on with her other chores, Mink took off her white nightdress and stepped in. Leaning back in the water, she cast her plait over the side, where it hung several inches from the floor. Hoping for some escape, she closed her eyes. But all she could think about was how utterly desolate she would feel without Pooki, and she took not the slightest pleasure from the warmth of the water or the smell of the soap.

It was while the maid was preparing breakfast that the Princess decided to bring up the contents of her bonnet box again, having previously been given a variety of explanations, none of which she found convincing. She came into the kitchen, instantly catching the maid off guard as she battled to make kedgeree. After asking numerous questions about the recipe, which further unsettled her, Mink started pacing up and down perilously close to Victoria,
producing nervous glances and warnings to watch her feet. When it seemed that the maid was at the most crucial point in the proceedings, Mink suddenly asked, “So why did you have fly papers in your room?”

Distracted by the boiling eggs, the simmering rice, the poaching haddock, and a hedgehog in jeopardy, Pooki immediately blurted out with the truth. “To make me prettier, ma’am,” she replied, without turning round.

“Prettier?” the Princess repeated, incredulous.

“It is a beauty treatment some German maids once told me about,” the maid said, lifting the lid of the copper fish kettle and peering inside. “They soak fly papers in elderflower water and put the solution on their faces with handkerchiefs to improve the complexion.”

“Have you done it before?” the Princess asked.

Pooki continued to stir the rice. “No, ma’am. This was my first time.”

Mink sat down at the kitchen table, relieved at such a reasonable explanation. “So why didn’t you tell the Inspector that? It seems perfectly understandable to me.”

There was a pause, “Because of you, ma’am,” Pooki replied.

“Me?” asked the Princess, staring at her.

“You would have wondered why I wanted to be prettier, ma’am.”

After a moment it came to her. “Have you got a follower?” Mink asked, suddenly standing up.

The only sound was the rattling of the eggs. “Mistresses are not the only people who fall in love, ma’am,” the servant replied over her shoulder.

The Princess put her hands on her hips, immediately wondering whether he had something to do with the poisoned pie. “Has this friend of yours been in the kitchen?” she asked crossly.

The servant nodded. “I once invited him round to try a pound
cake I made because it tasted as it should do and it might have been the first and last time.”

Mink paced the room. “You know very well that having a male friend in the house is not permitted. My father never allowed it either. Was his visit before or after you made the pigeon pies?” she asked, her voice raised.

Pooki continued battling at the range. “It was after the inquest, ma’am, so it could not have been him.”

The Princess folded her arms and looked at the maid, who still had her back to her. “I suppose this man was the reason for your mystery walk while you were making them. Would you care to tell me who it is?”

Pooki turned round, clutching the wooden spoon. “It is the watercress seller, ma’am,” she muttered.

The Princess walked to the window and looked out. “At least that explains why the larder is full of cresses. I suppose I should be thankful you haven’t fallen in love with the cats’ meat seller, or we would be up to the rafters in horseflesh.” She turned back to the maid. “So what is it about this man that you find so endearing?”

Pooki’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He has nice eyes, ma’am.” She paused before adding: “And he says my feet are just the right size.”

The Princess sighed. “And how serious is this love affair?” she demanded.

The servant looked at her. “I am not keeping company with him, ma’am, only walking out,” she insisted.

“Well, thank goodness there isn’t a marriage on the horizon.” The Princess folded her arms. “Is there anything else you’d like to get off your chest while we’re at it? We may as well get everything out in the open.”

The maid nodded.

“Well?” asked Mink.

“I have burnt the fish, ma’am.”

THE PRINCESS CLOSED THE GARDEN DOOR
behind her and walked swiftly through the Wilderness, ignoring the admiring glances from the gentlemen excursionists. They weren’t the only ones who noticed her. Heads turned as she passed Purr Corner, where several residents were gathered, and even the gardeners in the Privy Garden raised their eyes from their beds. As she crossed through the Pond Gardens, she remembered the picnic and wished she had never gone, her stomach turning at the implications for Pooki. Headed towards the Great Vine, she thought again of the arguments Cornelius B. Pilgrim had overheard between the General and the keeper. She had no idea whether they bore any relation to his death, or indeed if they even took place. But it was certainly curious that Mr. Trout had attended the inquest. And, she suspected, he had a rather intriguing secret.

She stopped to read the notice nailed to the door of the Vine House: “The person showing the vine is permitted to take a small fee.” Slipping inside, she stood alone behind the barrier, staring up at the celebrated plant. As she glanced around, she noticed the short, stocky legs of Thomas Trout, who was up a ladder, snipping off a tendril from one of the branches clinging to a wooden frame against the roof. He bent down, looked at her, and scratched his neat moustache with the tip of a gloved finger. Immediately she got out her purse. “There’s no need, Your Highness. That sign’s for the visitors.”

As he resumed his work, he apologised for not stopping and explained that the vine was currently growing at almost an inch a day and he had to control it, as it produced more shoots than could fit into the hothouse. Of the Black Hamburg variety, it was planted in the 1760s by Capability Brown to produce grapes for the table of George III, he explained. It had been grown from a cutting of a vine at the Valentines Mansion in Essex, its branches
now covering more than two thousand square feet. “Some say it’s become so big because the roots have got into the cesspool, and it’s been nourished by sewage. But it’s nonsense. It’s all down to the variety,” he said.

Each September he had a mature crop of more than one thousand bunches, which were presented to the Queen, who usually sent a share to hospitals. “The residents are always after them. I have to keep the door locked after hours, or there’ll be none left.”

Mink looked around her. “What a responsibility you have keeping such an historic plant alive, Mr. Trout,” she said. “Why, you’ve got one of the most important jobs in the palace. I don’t know how you do it. It would give me sleepless nights. I do hope you’re appreciated.”

Thomas Trout suddenly lowered his arms and looked down at her. “They have no idea of the enormity of it, ma’am,” he replied. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of dust the visitors give off. They should be kept behind a glass panel, but no one listens to me. About ten thousand of them turn up on bank holidays, all pushing and shoving in and out of that door.” There were pests to control, which he did by painting the vine in the winter with soft soap impregnated with nicotine. Mildew was another huge problem, which he kept away by spraying the plant with sulphur. Then he had to keep an eye on the temperamental boiler, which supplied hot water to the pipes heating the glasshouse and threatened to blow any minute.

“But do you know what keeps me awake at night?” he asked, coming down his ladder and standing with his hands on his hips. “Rats,” he said, without waiting for an answer. “Nothing tempts them faster out of their holes than hunger. If one gets in here after those grapes, it’s all over. I’ve even seen them nibbling the toes of the statues of Mars and Hercules in the Privy Garden, as lead tastes sweet.” He then pointed to the corner of the glasshouse. “See the vine’s stem? It’s thirty-eight inches in circumference.
A rat could get through that before you could say ‘the Pied Piper of Hamelin.’ And will the palace get the rat-catcher in? No, they won’t go to the expense. So what did they give me instead? Lord Sluggard, the laziest mouser I’ve ever had the misfortune of having to feed. That cat would rather let a rat tie its whiskers than get up and chase it.”

Thomas Trout glanced at his pocket watch. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’m going to have to lock up so I can nip home for a quick cup of tea before the palace opens.” He looked up at the sky through the leaves. “It’s going to rain today, according to my leech barometer, so hopefully that will keep some of them away.”

“Leech barometer?” repeated the Princess.

“It was inspired by Dr. Merryweather’s tempest prognosticator, which he showed at the Great Exhibition,” he explained. Fashioned in the style of an Indian temple, it featured twelve bottles of water, each containing a leech that rang a bell when a tempest was expected. “That man was kind enough to place the bottles in a circle so that the leeches didn’t have to endure the anguish of solitary confinement. He advised the Government to establish leech-warning stations around the coast, but unfortunately they ignored him. My version’s a lot more humble than Dr. Merryweather’s, but it works.”

“Oh, Mr. Trout, it does sound fascinating. I should love to see it,” enthused Mink. “May I?”

The keeper hesitated. “You’ll have to excuse the state of the place. The charwoman didn’t come this morning,” he said.

“Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure your home is as well cared for as that vine of yours.”

The keeper led the way to an adjacent cottage, covered by the Great Wisteria, which eclipsed the vine during its brief annual flowering. “Dreadful business about your maid,” said Thomas Trout, unlocking the door. “My money’s on one of the residents. Or their houseguest.”

“Mr. Pilgrim, you mean?” she asked, watching him carefully as she stepped inside.

He nodded. “I went to see the General a couple of times before he died, as he wanted some information about the vine for the book he was writing,” he said, closing the door behind them. “That American was always creeping around the place. There’s something not right about him. Maybe it’s just the monkey-fur coat.”

He took off his cap, revealing the utter ineffectiveness of Dr. Henderson’s scalp lotion, and offered Mink a seat in the parlour while he busied himself in the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, she stood up and looked around her at the unlovely furniture and age-dappled mirror. She peered inside a work-basket on the rocking chair but found nothing of interest amongst the needles and threads. Checking that he wasn’t coming back, she opened a cupboard next to the chimneybreast and poked through the candles, tobacco, and tiny fold-down ships that hadn’t yet made their way into bottles. Quietly closing the doors again, she crept to the other side of the fire and, with a backwards glance, opened the other cupboard. Moving aside a ball of string and an old pair of men’s leather gloves, she drew out a book entitled
Full Revelations of a Professional Rat-catcher After Twenty-Five Years’ Experience
. She had just turned to the section on drugs and chemicals when she heard a sound. Her heart thudding, she quickly put it back again and closed the door.