The Pigeon Pie Mystery (45 page)

As he sat down in the dining room for breakfast, she placed in front of him a pair of mismatching cutlets. No longer able to contain herself, she said, “You never used those hoily rags I left hout for you to stuff your codpiece with, Dr. ’enderson. I was wondering whether your ’eart his still beating.”

The general practitioner picked up his cutlery. “I very much hope it is still beating, Mrs. Nettleship, otherwise I will be lying facedown in my cutlets any moment now. If indeed these are cutlets,” he added doubtfully, peering at his plate.

“Beating faster than husual, his what I meant,” she said.

He started to saw. “I am a little worked up that two of my
patients have just defected to the homeopath from East Molesey following the ball, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure that man has my hat.”

But the housekeeper persisted. “His there hanything you want to tell me habout matters relating to the ’eart, doctor?” she asked.

“I would advise plenty of fresh air, the avoidance of tea, and regular sea bathing,” he replied.

The housekeeper clutched her hands together. “And what hof marriage, doctor?”

“I couldn’t recommend it enough, Mrs. Nettleship,” he said. “At the age of twenty-five, married women can expect to live another thirty-six years, which is six more than unmarried women. And mortality in unmarried men aged between thirty and forty-five stands at twenty-seven per cent, yet drops to around eighteen if they’re married. I, for one, do not intend to put it off.”

“Oh, doctor,” she said, embracing him. “I can feel a proposal hon hits way!”

Gasping for air, Dr. Henderson struggled free. “Mrs. Nettleship!” he said, slamming down his knife and fork. “I fear your imagination has run away with itself. While I very much appreciate everything you do for me, my feelings towards you are those one would feel for an aunt. And not even a maiden one at that. I must inform you that I am not about to ask you to marry me.”

The housekeeper recoiled. “I wasn’t meaning me, Dr. ’enderson,” she replied, a hand on chest. “I’d no more want your ’eart hif you hoffered hit. There was honly one love for me, and Mr. Nettleship his hon the bottom of the hocean with the mermaids. I was thinking hof Lady Bessington.”

Dr. Henderson returned her stare. “Lady Bessington?” he repeated. “She’s considerably older than me. Not only that, but she has an unnatural affection for ferns, and, I’m afraid to say, she still hasn’t paid me for treating her corns.”

The housekeeper frowned. “It’s not ’er, then?”

“No!”

“Then oo his hit?” demanded the housekeeper, her hands on her hips.

“It’s no concern of yours, Mrs. Nettleship.”

She headed for the door. “Well, hit’s a good job hit’s not that princess oo went to the ball dressed as Juliet. Happarently she was standing hon the dance floor looking like ’er homnibus ’ad just left without ’er …”

DR. HENDERSON HAD JUST RETURNED
from divine service when Mrs. Nettleship flung open the drawing room door.

“Doctor, come quick,” she cried. “There’s a maid come for you. She says Halice Cockle his ’aving a baby and Lady Bessington wants you there himmediately.”

Grabbing his pocket case, as well as some linen thread for tying the cord, he reached for his hat and coat and rushed out. There was no doubt that the baby had come much sooner than he was expecting, he thought as he started to run, and he wondered whether she had done anything to precipitate it.

A huddle of servants stood in Fish Court whispering nervously, and he let himself into the Countess’s apartments. As he tried to find the way to the attic, he heard a voice from one of the first-floor bedrooms.

“She’s in here, Dr. Henderson,” called the Countess. He walked in and found the maid in bed, her damp hair stuck to her white face, and her mistress sitting next to her, holding her hand. “I put her in my room,” she continued. “I couldn’t have her climbing all those stairs. I wish someone had told me she was in the family way. I just assumed she was getting stout.”

The doctor asked the Countess to prepare a bath of hot water in front of the fire. Pulling off his coat, he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands and arms in the bowl on the washstand. As he
examined Alice, tears streamed down the sides of her face onto the pillow.

“You’ve got to save the baby, doctor. I didn’t do anything to it, I swear,” she said, looking up at him.

He asked the Countess to tie a towel to the bedpost so Alice would have something to hold on to, then told the teenager to turn onto her left side and draw up her knees. But still it wouldn’t come.

“Alice, the baby isn’t making the progress I would like it to; I’m going to have to use forceps,” he said. But the girl became even more distressed. She was a Catholic, she wailed, and he would have to administer conditional baptism before going anywhere near the baby with such things.

“There isn’t time, Alice,” he urged.

“But it might be born dead!”

Announcing she would be back, the Countess left the room and returned with a cup of water. The doctor wet his fingers. “If thou canst be baptised, I baptise thee in the name of the Father,” he said, feeling the baby’s head. “And of the Son. And of the Holy Ghost.”

He stood back, then turned to the Countess. “Pass me the forceps. Quickly.”

With trembling fingers, she took the instrument out of the case and handed it to him. By now the maid’s wails had developed into screams, and the Countess watched, both hands covering her mouth. Suddenly the baby appeared, and the doctor held the tiny girl to him, wiping her mouth and nose with a napkin. But there was no sound. He blew on her face, and patted her briskly. But it was no use.

“She’s dead!” wailed Alice.

“Pass me that jug,” he said to the Countess. She handed it to him, and he sprinkled some water on the baby’s chest.

“She’s still not making any noise,” sobbed the maid.

The doctor tied and cut the umbilical cord, plunged the baby
up to her neck in the bath by the fire, then sprinkled more cold water onto her chest. But there was no response.

“God have mercy,” said the Countess, kneeling by the side of the bed and holding the hand of the maid, who had started to pray.

Laying the baby on the covers, Dr. Henderson pinched her nose, covered her lips with his, and gently blew until her chest inflated. He opened his fingers and watched as it fell again. He continued blowing and releasing until eventually there was a splutter followed by the indignant wail of a perfect newborn.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, MINK FOUND
the door to Chocolate Court near a former kitchen where Mr. Nice used to make hot chocolate for William III’s breakfast. Her three friends were already sitting on the tiny patio, the tea paraphernalia on a nearby table covered with a white cloth.

“There you are, Princess,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, her red setter lying at her feet. “I must say it’s a little disappointing that no murder was committed after all. Things were just starting to liven up around here.”

Lady Beatrice offered Mink a teacup. “I was rather looking forward to the trial. I haven’t used my brandy flask in ages. What a pity it wasn’t that American. Do you think there’s any chance that he might kill someone before he leaves?”

The three women looked at her.

“How clever of you to have got to the bottom of it,” said the Countess, turning to Mink.

“Quite so,” said Lady Beatrice.

“We’re extremely proud of you,” said Lady Montfort Bebb. “At the very least it means we no longer have to endure Inspector Guppy and that unfortunate suit of his. Only the upper classes can afford to dress so badly.”

The Countess lifted her cup. “Thank goodness I never used that room as a bedroom. It turns me quite queer just thinking
about it. I understand that poor Mrs. Bagshot will be leaving us shortly to live near the school for the blind, where she’s a patron. I shall miss her, of course, but I quite understand her not wanting to live here with all those ghastly memories.” She leant forward and reached for a macaroon from the table. “Apparently several residents have already written to the Lord Chamberlain asking to swap apartments, and insisting that the palace covers the redecoration costs.”

Lady Montfort Bebb turned to Lady Beatrice. “Perhaps you should put in a request. It would get you away from Jane Seymour, and give your nerves a rest.”

She shook her head, stirring up the red feathers on her hat. “I wouldn’t dream of it. It would confuse my doves. I still fail to understand how some of them went missing. I asked the butcher whether the General had sold him any birds, and he said it was a rumour started by the Keeper of the Maze.”

Lady Montfort Bebb put down her cup and cleared her throat. “I think I can shed some light on what happened to them. I’m afraid to say that Wellington caught a number for his luncheon. I’d never seen such a guilty expression on a dog, and the game was up when I spotted some grey feathers around his mouth. I assure you I reprimanded him quite severely. I hope you will find a place in your heart to forgive us. Have you ever seen a more remorseful dog?”

Wellington wagged his tail.

Lady Beatrice fumbled with the clasp on her handbag and drew out a silk handkerchief. “Oh, I do,” she muttered, dabbing an eye. “That is, if you’ll forgive me.”

“What on earth for?” asked Lady Montfort Bebb.

Lady Beatrice returned the handkerchief to her bag and closed it with a loud snap. “All those tradesmen and the milliner’s assistant who came to your apartments. I’m afraid that was my doing.”

“You?” demanded Lady Montfort Bebb, the skin under her chin wobbling.

“It was meant to be an All Fools’ Day joke. I thought you might find it amusing. Things had been so quiet around here. Unfortunately I got my dates rather muddled,” she added with a frown. “Perhaps Mr. Blood was a little too much. But you did say your psoriasis made you feel at death’s door.”

Lady Montfort Bebb looked at her for a moment in silence. “My dear, your heart is bigger than most, but unfortunately your brain is the size of a plover’s egg,” she said.

Lady Beatrice fussed with her false fringe, then turned to the Countess. “I expect you’ll be looking for a new maid-of-all-work, what with that baby. I’m afraid to say you’ll have a devil of a job finding one prepared to live here.”

“Alice isn’t going anywhere,” she replied. “Her mother will look after the child, and she’ll start work again as soon as she’s recovered. I’ve even given her a little raise to cover the baby’s keep. You’ve never seen such a pretty little thing.”

Lady Beatrice and Lady Montfort Bebb looked at her in astonishment.

“At least you’ll get a housekeeper if you marry Dr. Henderson, though I’d worry she’d frighten away all the callers,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Marry Dr. Henderson?” asked the Countess, her mouth full. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Didn’t he propose to you at the ball while dressed as Romeo?”

The Countess straightened up. “Thankfully not. That man should never have attempted the Lancers. No one knows how to dance it. I quite upbraided him this morning for sending me roses. He looked quite taken aback. He said he knew nothing about them, and wondered whether his housekeeper was responsible. He apologised profusely and said he would have strong words with her. I assured him I would think nothing more of it if he waived his bill for my corns.”

The door opened and the women turned to see Cornelius B. Pilgrim walk into the courtyard.

“Do have a seat, Mr. Pilgrim,” said the Princess. “May I offer you some tea?”

The American declined and sat down next to a potted palm, smiling broadly.

“You look rather pleased with yourself,” said Lady Beatrice. “I expect you’re relieved that you weren’t arrested on this occasion.”

“Ladies,” he said. “I have some exciting news. You’re gonna love it.”

Lady Montfort Bebb looked him up and down. “We’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Pilgrim,” she said.

He had spent the previous night hiding in a corner of Master Carpenter’s Court, with all but his netting, string, revolver, phonograph, and eight-pound Cheddar cheese for company, he said. It had drizzled steadily, and he sat engulfed by the smell of wet cobbles, trying to avoid being spotted by the watchman on his rounds and the servants hiding in corners with their sweethearts. Eventually he drifted off, and when he woke he witnessed a terrifying vision: the Cheddar was gliding several inches off the ground towards Seymour Gate. Immediately his fingers reached for his gun, and when he finally gathered his courage, he set the phonograph, stood up, and began to follow it. He had almost reached the far end of the courtyard, and was just about to cast his net, when he realised that the cheese was not being carried away by a spirit with a penchant for Somerset curds, but by a pack of nefarious rats. He started chasing after it, and it was then that he heard a horrible noise behind him. Turning, he saw two small ghostly figures, one carrying a chain and the other a lantern. He stood transfixed, watching them as they murmured together in the swaying lamplight. Suddenly they let out a peal of hideous laughter that chilled him to the bone. Realising it was now or never, he took several steps towards them with his net, but the beings heard the sound of his boots and turned to look at him. For one ghastly moment they held each other’s stare, and
he advanced again. But the spectres took off, and by the time he reached them they had vanished. He sank to his knees in despair at another fruitless night of missed sleep and disappointment, the rain working its way down his collar. Deciding to return home, he was packing up his equipment when he wondered whether the phonograph had recorded anything. He wound it up and from out of its brass speaker came voices from the other side.