The Pigeon Pie Mystery (39 page)

“As Mr. Pilgrim said, it was the General who asked him to investigate them,” said Mink. Turning to him, she asked, “Tell me, how did you two meet?”

The visitor shifted on his seat. “It was through Mrs. Bagshot, actually. We were introduced in America years ago, when she was visiting with her father.”

“So you knew Mrs. Bagshot before she was married?” the Princess asked breezily.

His subsequent query about why the English didn’t use napkins at breakfast provoked such a debate that only the Princess noticed that he had failed to answer her question.

MINK OPENED THE DELIVERY FROM
the costumier, which had just arrived at the palace with a batch of others wrapped up in brown paper, and stared at the contents in disbelief. Instead of the Boadicea costume that she had had fitted, inside was a flowing blue silk gown with pointed elbow sleeves, a gold girdle, and a low-cut bodice.

“This isn’t mine,” she exclaimed, laying it out on her bed. “Who on earth is it meant to be anyway?”

Pooki picked up the pearl-and-velvet headdress. “It is Juliet, ma’am,” she replied with delight.

“Juliet?” repeated Mink, aghast. “I can’t go as Juliet. You’ll have to get in touch with the costumier’s immediately and tell them they’ve made a mistake.”

But the maid was having none of it. By the time her correct
costume had been found and dispatched, the ball would be well and truly over. “You will have to wear it, ma’am,” said Pooki, starting to undo the back of her dress. “I will make it fit. If you do not discover who the murderer is at the ball, at least you might find yourself a husband.”

THAT NIGHT, AT AROUND ELEVEN O’CLOCK
, a curious procession started to make its way through the palace to the Greyhound Hotel. The drunk woman selling pig’s trotters outside the King’s Arms was the first to spot Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII, and William III coming out of the Lion Gates. She immediately ran to tell the landlord, believing they were ghosts, and such was her shock that she endured a whole week of sobriety. A boisterous crowd immediately gathered, swaying out of the public house to witness the spectacle of costumes, the result of weeks of clandestine endeavours during which servants were sworn to secrecy and false rumours were spun.

Several carriages disgorged their contents, provoking murmurs of disappointment at the predictable Esmeraldas, Carmens, and rouge-et-noirs. But it was when the rest of the palace residents started to arrive that their wait in the damp night air away from their pint pots proved worthwhile. Soon after the kings and cardinal came a Klondike prospector, wearing a sieve fashioned into an elaborate hat from which hung nuggets of gold. He was accompanied by Electricity, wearing a dark blue velvet dress covered in silver lightning flashes, with battery-fuelled lights in her hair. Admiring eyes followed Queen Elizabeth, whose spectacular ruff had taken a team of women six weeks to copy from the Armada Portrait. After a surfeit of peasants from Bulgaria, Moldavia, and Burma came a herd of fish-themed revellers, including a Dutch fishwife, a Newhaven fishwoman, and a pecheuse de Calvados. Amongst them were a number inspired by the view from their window, who
came dressed as a drizzle, a shower, and a catastrophic downpour. The women in the crowd stood on their toes when the officers of the 1st Royal Dragoons barracked at the palace arrived in uniforms of the previous century. But it was the lobster, its pink claws lit up by the moon, which produced the loudest cheer, and the drinkers returned to the pub satisfied it couldn’t be beaten.

Just as Mink reached the Lion Gates, planning to catch the Countess on her own at some stage in the evening, she heard a commotion behind her. Turning round, she saw Wilfred Noseworthy hauling the push, swearing like a Billingsgate eel merchant. There was a sudden sound of knocking, and the liveried turncock brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt and approached the window. The occupant, unwilling to pay the additional sixpence to cross the palace boundary, informed him that she wanted to walk. Adjusting his sweaty wig with irritation, he opened the door, and out swept Britannia in a blue-and-white satin gown and gold helmet, clutching a trident and shield. After passing the man a shilling, Lady Montfort Bebb turned to Mink and said, “You’ve come as Juliet, I see. I would avoid any balconies if I were you, Princess. You might attract the wrong sort.”

The two women deposited their shawls in the hotel’s cloakroom and, squeezing past one of three Henry VIIIs, headed to the refreshment room. “No doubt we’ll find Lady Bessington in here somewhere,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, looking around. Sure enough, the Countess was sitting at a table with a glass of claret cup and a large slice of cake. Next to her was Lady Beatrice, who was attracting a number of glances due to her grey tunic fashioned into wings and covered in feathers. Tied round her waist was a red ribbon bearing a letter.

Lady Montfort Bebb studied her. “Given the circumstances of the General’s death, I do wonder whether it’s in good taste to have come as a carrier pigeon,” she remarked.

There was a sudden flutter as Lady Beatrice reached for her
glass of champagne. “I’ve been collecting feathers for this costume since last year. At least it’s topical, which is more than can be said for yours,” she said, looking Lady Montfort Bebb up and down. She glanced round at the crowd. “Goodness knows why I brought my daughter, wherever she’s got to. Men no longer attend balls as they used to. I suppose if they work all day in the city they can’t dance all night, but it doesn’t help young ladies with an eye on matrimony. Unless the prettiest girls are around, the men who do come just hang about the refreshment room, and leave immediately after supper. I hope the young widows don’t hog the few who bother turning up. Dr. Henderson is here, I see.”

The Countess immediately knocked back the rest of her claret cup, and asked the waiter for another. “Let’s watch the dancing,” she suggested.

As they entered the ballroom, hung with red drapery and Chinese lanterns, Portia and Friar Tuck, closely followed by the Queen of Sheba and Oliver Cromwell, galloped past. As soon as the dance was over, the floor was stormed by a glut of Pierrots and harlequins, the lack of imagination in their choice of costumes made up for by their enthusiasm.

“Dancing isn’t what it used to be,” muttered Lady Montfort Bebb. “People just seem to charge round the room nowadays.”

“Thank goodness they haven’t waxed the floor,” said Lady Beatrice. “We were all rooted to the spot last year, and our gowns ruined.”

As Mink took a seat next to the Countess, she noticed Charles Twelvetrees stride past dressed as Julius Caesar, tufts of white hair billowing up around his laurel wreath. He was scrutinising the dancers for any sign of the telltale beard of Silas Sparrowgrass, who had refused to answer his door each time he called for the return of his gold pocket watch. It wasn’t long before Lady Beatrice swirled past, the feathers on her tunic flying, clutching onto Charles I wearing a black satin coat and breeches, cavalier boots,
Vandyke lace collar and cuffs, and a large plumed hat. Clearly not all the tickets had fallen into the right hands after all, Mink noticed. For, as she watched, she realised that under the long curled wig was the irrefutable bald head of Thomas Trout.

A South Sea Islander with a grass skirt and Scottish accent asked her to dance, but she declined, biding her time with the Countess, who made several trips to the refreshment room to replenish her glass. Sitting down next to the Princess even more heavily than before, she unfurled a black fan and fluttered it at her flushed cheeks.

“I always prefer a candle-lit ballroom. Gas is always too hot,” she complained.

The Princess, who didn’t feel in the least over-heated, suggested that they go outside for some fresh air.

“I couldn’t do that!” exclaimed the Countess. “There’s a full moon, and I might meet Dr. Henderson. I’ve been dreading it all day.”

“Lady Bessington, as strange as Dr. Henderson is, I very much doubt that he will turn into a werewolf.”

Leaning towards Mink, the Countess whispered, “The man sent me some flowers!”

“But wouldn’t that please you?” the Princess asked.

The Countess recoiled. “Absolutely not! He’s considerably younger than me, and goodness knows who his tailor is. I assure you any feelings he has for me are completely unrequited.”

The Princess frowned. “But he gave you a handkerchief and you returned it, fragranced.”

“He gave it to my maid when she went to see him for some ailment or another. Hopefully she was after a cure for her rampant appetite. She’s eating me out of house and home. I do fear for the tread on my stair carpets. Anyway, I saw her using it and insisted she return it, lest he charge me for it. Any scent was the laundress’s doing.”

Suddenly the Countess hid behind her fan. “That’s him now, and he’s come as Romeo!” she whispered. “I have a horrible feeling he’s going to ask me to dance. Neither my nerves nor my corns will stand it. You must do something.”

Dressed in a green velvet doublet and breeches with white silk hose, the general practitioner stood hesitantly in front of them, trying to muster the courage to ask the Princess to dance. He had long debated his choice of costume, as the chapter on fancy dress balls in
The Gentleman’s Guide to Politeness and Courtship
stated that it was imperative to choose a character and style of dress suitable to the wearer’s face, figure, and personality. “Without considerable forethought, the chances of looking absolutely ridiculous in an inappropriate guise are extremely high,” it warned. There was a long discourse on the recklessness of not being correct in historical detail, particularly when it came to beards. “Do not make the grave error of wearing hair upon the face with a powdered wig,” it urged. “You will remain without a wife forever.”

To help the hopeless, a handy guide explained the styles of facial hair from the Ancient Britons to the Georgians. It included a long tangent on the Elizabethan period, when it was possible to determine a man’s occupation by his beard. Churchmen wore the cathedral beard, soldiers the stiletto, bakers the loaf, and tailors the thimble.

Fearful of falling into the trap of inappropriate whiskers, Dr. Henderson flicked through the suggested list of characters until he chanced upon clean-shaven Romeo. However, the costume came with a dark warning: “Any gentleman who chooses the most famous star-crossed lover in English history should do so at his own risk. Utmost care must be taken over the codpiece. One that is under-stuffed and wont to flap suggests a distinct lack of mettle, whereas one that is over-stuffed is the mark of a braggart.” Just as the doctor wavered, he read the next sentence and immediately headed to a West End costumier for an outfit that best evoked the
House of Montague. “When successfully adopted, the guise of Romeo will stir the amorous inclinations of a fair one more than any other. There is no more irresistible sight on the dance floor.”

That afternoon he had given Mrs. Nettleship the rest of the day off so as to avoid having to defend himself from her butcher’s hands when it was time to get ready. But when he went upstairs to change, he found a pile of oily rags outside his door with a note saying that she had asked a friendly taxidermist to come round, as there was no more expert a profession for stuffing. When the doorbell rang, he opened the bedroom window and looked down to see a short man with spectacles and squirrel-coloured hair carrying a leather bag in his gloved hand. The doctor shouted down that his services were not required, but the man took it badly and said that he understood that a lady was at stake. “Apparently you still haven’t found yourself a wife, sir,” he called back. Several passers-by stared at the doctor, and an old woman burst into tears. He slammed down the window and sat on the bed, head in his hands, wondering how life had turned out the way it had. He then thought once more of the Princess and told himself to pull himself together. Opening a drawer, he pulled out one of the new diamond-patterned stockings he had been wearing when his foray into fancy riding went so hideously wrong. Since reduced to a fifth of its size by his housekeeper, who boiled it for two days to get rid of the smell of the Thames, he put the finishing touch to his costume.