The Pigeon Pie Mystery (38 page)

AFTER INSTRUCTING POOKI TO LOCK
herself in the butler’s pantry if anyone called, Mink put up her umbrella against the downpour and hurried along Moat Lane to luncheon with the Countess, hoping something would come out of it. As she splashed through the puddles, she cursed herself for still not having discovered the identity of the murderer. Was it Lady Montfort Bebb, who had taken exception to General Bagshot’s criticism of her piano playing, which was all to do with her guilt for having survived the First Afghan War? Or was it Lady Beatrice, who had purchased some arsenic before the General’s death and whose wedding gift he was supposed to have killed? Not only that, but she would lose her home if her marriage was discovered. What about her husband, Thomas Trout, whom Cornelius B. Pilgrim claimed to have heard arguing with the victim? Did he fear that if she lost her glamourous address she would leave him for someone who could offer her a lifestyle he never could? Did Silas Sparrowgrass, who had treated the General for a year, have a motive she had not yet uncovered? Was there anything in Thomas Trout’s suspicions of Cornelius B. Pilgrim, whom she was sure was hiding something else? Then there was William Sheepshanks, who blamed General Bagshot for his mother’s death. She had still to find out who had written to the Lord Chamberlain informing him that the keeper was allowing visitors into the maze after hours. And what about the Countess? Why had she never remarried, given the amount of suitors she attracted? Just as Mink was wondering how to catch her alone, she saw Inspector Guppy striding towards her. She watched him approach through the rain, her heart thumping, hoping he wasn’t on his way to Wilderness House.

“I hear you’ve been asking people questions, Princess,” the Inspector said over the drumming on their umbrellas.

Mink raised her eyebrows. “It appears the police need all the help they can get.”

“It’s not a job for a lady,” he said. “Their place is in the home.” He glanced over her shoulder at Wilderness House. “How’s that maid of yours?”

The Princess moved to obstruct his view. “I do hope you get the right person this time, Inspector. Goodness knows the effect another wrongful conviction would have on your career, what with the Queen taking such an interest in the case.”

Inspector Guppy glared at her. “Take my advice and leave it to people who know what they’re doing,” he snapped.

“If only one could, Inspector,” she called, continuing on her way. “If only one could.”

After turning in to Tennis Court Lane, Mink stood outside the school, looking for the door that led to Fish Court. Hearing her name, she glanced round and saw a tall, pewter-haired gentleman in a frock coat and silk hat running towards her without an umbrella, his shoulders hunched against the rain. On a rare visit to the palace, the Lord Chamberlain had the flushed cheeks and cemented bowels of a man who had resorted to dosing himself with laudanum to cope with the residents determined to get their own way.

Raising his voice above the downpour, he introduced himself. “I understand that an arrest in connection with the General’s death is imminent, Princess,” he said. “Inspector Guppy is adamant of a conviction, which is just as well, as the Queen is anxious that the matter be brought to a close as soon as possible.” Taking a step closer, he peered at her through rain-streaked spectacles, his pupils like pinpricks. “It would be better for you, and for the palace, if you dismissed that maid of yours. There are some scandals from which it is impossible to recover.”

Mink sheltered him with her umbrella. “You’re absolutely
right, My Lord, I never thought of it like that,” she said, a hand against her cheek. “This is Her Majesty’s palace, and its reputation has to be upheld. Neither do I wish to be the subject of any more gossip. That woman never was any good in the kitchen anyway.” She smiled. “How kind you are to think of me when you’ve got so much work. Sometimes I wonder whether the grace-and-favour residents have even read their warrants. If I come across anyone renting out their apartments, or leaving them vacant for more than six months, rest assured that I will inform you immediately.”

“I’d appreciate that very much. Some think the regulations apply to everyone else except themselves,” he said with a frown. “You’d be amazed how many of them insist they’ve seen the Prince of Wales recently and that he’s adamant they need more suitable rooms.”

The Princess shook her head, the rain driving against her skirt. “I wouldn’t believe them for a second. And it’s not just the residents who flaunt the rules. I understand the keeper used to let people into the maze after hours to earn a few extra pennies. Whatever was that man thinking of?”

The Lord Chamberlain gazed for a moment at the downpour. “Mr. Sheepshanks needs to be careful that I don’t replace him with a turnstile. It was actually one of the residents who helped put a stop to it. He caught him red-handed.”

“Did he?” asked Mink, her eyes wide. “How terribly clever. Who was it?”

“The General.”

AS MINK HEADED ALONG FISH COURT
, she found Lady Montfort Bebb waiting at the Countess’s front door under an umbrella, holding her skirts up out of the wet. “I can’t imagine Lady Bessington has invited many of us,” muttered the elderly
aristocrat. “I hope you’ve already eaten. It’s the only way of ensuring one doesn’t faint with hunger when one gets up to leave.”

Alice showed them into the drawing room, where the Countess was sitting with Lady Beatrice. Mink immediately wondered where Cornelius B. Pilgrim was. Wanting to probe him further, she had suggested he be invited to give Mrs. Bagshot some time to grieve alone. Taking a seat next to a tall fern, she looked at the fashionable William Morris wallpaper depicting a green and gold vine, and then at the wax orange blossom the Countess had worn on her wedding day, preserved underneath a glass bell.

“We’re all here, apart from Mr. Pilgrim,” announced the hostess, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece next to a bust of her husband.

“Maybe he’s been delayed in the West End, trying to find himself a lady with a title,” suggested Lady Beatrice, following her gaze.

“Mr. Pilgrim has been in the palace all morning,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. “I saw him sketching in the Privy Garden from my window before it started to rain. I do fear for his sense of perspective.”

“Is he coming to the ball this evening?” asked the Countess.

“I thought it only proper to sell him a ticket, being as though it’s for charity,” replied Lady Montfort Bebb. “I’m afraid to say that some of them have gone missing. I hope they don’t fall into the wrong hands. There’s nothing more injurious to a ball than finding oneself in the presence of one’s dustman dressed as a Zulu chief.”

“Do you all have your costumes ready?” asked the Countess. She then looked at Lady Montfort Bebb. “I understand the more competitive have been ransacking the pictorial archive at the South Kensington Museum in search of inspiration.”

Lady Montfort Bebb glanced at her white widow’s cap. “Fortunately for you it’s not an expense you have to bear.”

When the five minutes’ grace allowed for the late arrival of luncheon guests had passed, the Countess stood up and followed her guests down the narrow corridor to the dining room. Shortly after they had taken their seats, Cornelius B. Pilgrim rushed in, the shoulders of his new dark blue frock coat soaked. The women stared at the hat and cane he was clutching, which, according to the holy laws of etiquette, should have been left in the hall upon arrival. He slowly followed their gaze. Instantly realising his mistake, he thrust them at Alice, who was standing next to him, waiting for them to be surrendered.

“While you’re in England, Mr. Pilgrim, you might find it more useful to be armed with an umbrella rather than a pistol,” remarked Lady Montfort Bebb. “Fortunately for you our hostess hasn’t lit the fire, despite the gale howling around my ankles, otherwise you’d positively steam throughout luncheon.”

He sat down and joined the other guests in peering with dismay at the dishes on the table. A solid-looking dessert stood in the middle, which the Countess identified as American snow pudding. “I thought it would make Mr. Pilgrim feel at home,” she explained triumphantly. “My maid assures me that the lumps in the custard are meant to be there.”

Lady Montfort Bebb turned to him. “Well, Mr. Pilgrim? Do put us out of our misery. Should the lumps be there or not?”

He leant forward to have a closer look, then glanced at the Countess. “Absolutely,” he replied.

Next to the pudding was a selection of cheeses that wouldn’t have tempted a mouse with its ribs showing. It was surrounded by bowls of melancholy salad and plates of cold meat that were clearly the remains of the previous night’s dinner.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen beef so thinly sliced,” observed Lady Beatrice. “I could read
The Times
through it.”

“If Mr. Pilgrim would care to serve us …” suggested Mink, turning to him.

“May I offer you some meat, Countess?” he asked.

She appeared momentarily taken aback. “Thank you,” she replied graciously. “A little bit more, perhaps.”

“Mr. Pilgrim!” barked Lady Montfort Bebb.

The American froze, then turned to look at his accuser, the slice suspended in mid-air.

“It would not be polite for our hostess to point out such a vulgar error, so I must take it upon myself to inform you that in speech the title of countess is wholly incorrect,” she continued. “The only exception is when it needs to be mentioned, such as in a formal introduction. For the benefit of all our sensibilities, I would be most grateful if you would address our hostess as Lady Bessington.” She furiously shook out her napkin and placed it on her knee. “One more aberration and my appetite will have completely vanished.”

After they were all served, the Princess asked, “How are you finding our restaurants, Mr. Pilgrim? I understand visitors admire and abuse London’s cuisine in equal measure.”

“I’ve tried what I believe is termed ‘dinners from the joint.’ All that meat and potatoes … I find it … How should I put it? … Filling … Yes, that’s the word. Filling.”

“That’s more than can be said for some luncheons,” muttered Lady Montfort Bebb.

“And how is the research going?” asked the Countess.

He glanced anxiously at Mink.

“It’s going splendidly, isn’t it, Mr. Pilgrim?” said the Princess. “Tell me, have you been to see a play yet? No visit to London is complete without a trip to the theatre.”

“I’ve been to a couple of matinees,” he replied hastily. “But unfortunately I wasn’t able to see a thing on account of the enormous hats the ladies in front of me were wearing. In San Francisco there’s a by-law prohibiting women from wearing hats or bonnets at public performances.”

Lady Beatrice reached for the salt. “I understand that
The Stage
magazine is publishing a list of ladies considerate enough to remove their hats during matinees. Please shoot me, Mr. Pilgrim, if ever my name appears on it.”

Lady Montfort Bebb turned to him. “While I understand the police asking you to remain here until their investigation is concluded, I do wonder, Mr. Pilgrim, whether it is in Mrs. Bagshot’s best interests that you stay in her apartments with no husband to protect her. I would have informed her of your attempt on my life, but she is not yet receiving callers. Please remember that you are not in Chicago now. This is Her Majesty’s palace.”

“I wouldn’t dream of hurting Mrs. Bagshot,” protested the American. “As I’ve explained to both you and the police, I was not trying to kill you.” He then put down his cutlery, and admitted the real purpose of his visit.

There was silence around the table.

“But we don’t want our ghosts investigated, Mr. Pilgrim,” said Lady Beatrice eventually. “The least said about them the better. I have been without a parlour maid for longer than I care to remember. There are far too few good female servants as it is. Education has ruined them. They stipulate no washing, knife cleaning, or window cleaning in their advertisements for a position and expect to find employment. And even if one does find a maid prepared to work for her wages, it is highly unlikely she will live in the palace. My butler is too gouty to answer the door, and in the absence of a parlour maid my cook is running the ship. We are perilously off course as a result of her affection for brandy. So I for one, Mr. Pilgrim, would be grateful if you would leave our spirit world alone.”

Lady Montfort Bebb wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I do wonder what the Lord Chamberlain will have to say about this. I shall write to him as soon as we have finished luncheon.” She surveyed the table. “Which, by the looks of things, won’t be much longer.”

“But why did you come all this way to investigate our ghosts,
Mr. Pilgrim?” asked the Countess. “Surely we have enough experts of our own.”

“The colonies have a tendency for ideas above their station,” remarked Lady Montfort Bebb. “Look at the Welsh. They wish to be represented in the Royal Coat of Arms, and have even taken it as far as the House of Commons. They’ll want us to visit them next. I’d rather go to Whitechapel in the dead of night.”