The Pigeon Pie Mystery (8 page)

He ate his savoury omelette in silence, fearing that any mention of the wrong breakfast would elicit a comment from Mrs. Nettleship about his aborted new hairdo. Once settled behind his desk in his consulting room, he called for the first patient.
After Tom Saddleback left with his nose clamped as straight as a weather vane, a short, young woman with the telltale pallor of a maid took his place. Her eyes travelled over the microscope, the urinary cabinet, and the gynaecological couch kept discreetly in the corner.

“You’ve got rid of them stuffed birds,” she said, looking at the walls.

“They belonged to the previous doctor,” Dr. Henderson replied. “I take it you were one of Dr. Barnstable’s patients.”

“I was for a while, then …”

There was silence.

“Then?”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I don’t care to talk about it,” she replied, tucking away a blond strand that had escaped from her bun.

The doctor picked up his pen. “What’s the name?” he asked.

“Alice Cockle.”

“How old are you, may I ask?”

“Nineteen, sir.”

“And you work at the palace, I presume?”

“I’m a maid-of-all-work for Lady Bessington,” she replied. “You’d have thought a countess would be able to afford a household of servants. Not her.”

“I hope she doesn’t overwork you,” said the doctor, who had assumed the teenager too well spoken for a maid-of-all-work.

The maid shook her head. “Oh, no, sir, she treats me fair, not like some people down there …”

After pressing her further about her symptoms, he called Mrs. Nettleship to prepare her for examination. It didn’t take him long to find the cause of her troubles, and she returned to the seat opposite him, her coat drawn back over her grey morning dress.

“Alice,” he said gently. “The reason you’re vomiting so much is because you’re in the family way. And quite far gone.”

No amount of soothing could console the teenager that she wouldn’t necessarily lose her position. The doctor showed her into
the drawing room, where she sat drying her cheeks on his white silk handkerchief as he returned to his patients. When, eventually, she was sufficiently composed to return to work, she made her own way out. Wondering who the father was, the doctor watched her from his window as she headed back to the palace. He then thought once more of the woman he had seen at Trophy Gate the previous evening, the blueness of her eyes contrasting with the rich mellow hue of her skin, and instinctively he smoothed down his curls.

MINK WAS STILL DEEP IN
her dreams when she first heard the shout. She had gone to bed late the previous night, having had to wait up for the two furniture vans to arrive, as their drivers had got lost. After they had spent considerable time circling Richmond, helped in no part by two schoolboys who wilfully gave them the wrong directions on each revolution, they happened to find themselves on Hampton Court Road through no genius of their own. A further two hours were lost when they asked their whereabouts from the drunk woman selling pig’s trotters outside the King’s Arms. Despite its location next to the Lion Gates, the main northern entrance to the palace, the woman insisted that they were still miles from their destination. Into the pub they went to escape their frustration, paying her twopence to guard their loads. Eventually, on hearing of their dilemma, a footman sitting at the bar said that if it was Wilderness House they were after they should look out the back window, as it was on the other side of the wall. By the time they arrived, night had long descended and they were forced to work by candlelight, as many of the lamps had broken en route. Such had been their thirst that the dining room sideboard was taken up to one of the bedrooms, the davenport was carried down to the kitchen, and the Maharaja’s ceremonial sword was left propped up in the scullery.

When the second shout came, Mink sat up, her long dark plait
hanging down the back of her nightdress. Uncertain of where she was, she looked around in alarm. Recognising her surroundings, she lay back down, but immediately heard the voice again. “To the left!” it cried. “That’s the
right
, sir. I said to the left. That’s it. Follow it down. No, you’ve gone the wrong way. Turn round. You’re still facing the same way. Follow that dog, sir, he’s got the measure of it.”

She climbed out of bed, walked over to the window, and peered out between the curtains. There, sitting on a chair on a platform, was a man in a navy uniform issuing directions to an increasingly baffled visitor deep within the maze.

“The dog, I said,” yelled the keeper. “Don’t follow that lady. She’s been in there for almost an hour. In fact, ma’am, would you care to follow the dog as well? Not that one. He’s as lost as his master. The white one with the boot in his mouth. No, there’s no need to hand it in, thank you, sir. It belongs to someone who attempted to tunnel out through the hedging. He won’t be needing it, as he’s still in custody.”

At that moment Pooki came in, carrying a tray bearing the Princess’s morning tea and thin slices of bread and butter. “There is someone shouting outside, ma’am,” she said. “I was worried he would wake you with all that noise he is making. No one should have that much to say.”

Mink tapped on the pane. “It’s that man sitting on the chair over there,” she replied. “I presume he’s the Keeper of the Maze.”

The maid put down the tray and joined her at the window. “Why is he shouting at them?” she asked.

“Because they’re lost.”

Pooki pressed her nose against the cold pane. “Why did they go in there in the first place? It does not lead anywhere and you cannot see over the tops of the hedges.”

Mink continued to peer. “To see whether they could find their way out, I presume.”

The maid frowned. “But ma’am, why would you pay a penny to enter something just to find out whether you can get out again? And when you can’t find your way out, that man in the chair with the long whiskers shouts at you. It strikes me as exceedingly ridiculous.”

The Princess stood on her toes to get a better view of the dog. “I wouldn’t mind giving it a go. It looks like fun.”

Pooki turned to her, hands on her hips. “Where is the fun in getting lost, ma’am? Those people do not look like they are having fun. They are all clustered in that dead end arguing with each other and fighting over the map. I was lost many times in the East End, which is much more difficult to get out of than that thing, and I would not have paid a penny for it. Some people have more money than brains.” She walked over to the fire and knelt down to attend to it. “But not you, ma’am,” she added. “You have lots of brains but no money.”

ONCE MINK WAS DRESSED, THE
two women set about exploring their new home. Before being turned into a grace-and-favour residence in 1881, Wilderness House had been the official lodgings of palace gardeners, at one time the celebrated Lancelot “Capability” Brown, who complained of the offensive kitchen, and the rooms being small and uncomfortable. If it had appeared mournful in flickering candle flame, daylight did little to improve it. It had been newly painted, but the fresher colours did nothing to disguise its defeated soul. As Mink and Pooki wandered from room to room their excitement soon faded into gloom. Black beetles circled the kitchen floor like ice skaters. The smell of damp was unavoidable, and they soon stopped opening the cupboards, lest it plunge them further into despair. While the maid had risen at six to light the fires, the meagre flames in the tiny grates did little to combat the wind that rattled through the gaps in the sash windows.
The ornate carved furniture, much of it from India, looked out of place in the unfamiliar surroundings, and for the first time Mink questioned her father’s taste. After their inspection, they sat in silence at the bottom of the staircase, staring ahead of them, the Princess clutching the warrant, which she had finally opened.

“It says that I have to occupy the house for at least six months of the year, or it’ll be considered vacant and given to someone else,” said the Princess.

“That will not be a problem, ma’am, because you have nowhere else to go.”

“Even those tiny clerks’ houses have bathrooms these days,” muttered the Princess.

Pooki turned to her mistress. “I spoke to the butterman this morning. Apparently Mrs. Campbell did not put her fingers into her purse to maintain this house. I do not know why they thought it would be suitable for the daughter of the Maharaja of Prindur. Moths are very happy in the damp, and I have anxious forebodings about your furs. But do not worry, ma’am, no moth will get the better of me. After breakfast I shall wrap up your furs in linen washed in lye and put them in a drawer with pieces of bog myrtle. Then I will put saucers of quicklime in the cupboards to dry them out. And once we have hung your butterfly collection in the drawing room it will cover those marks on the wall.”

As the Princess stared at the chipped hall tiles she remembered the time, many years ago, when her father put a mutton bone under an oak tree to lure down a Purple Emperor. She then thought of the watercolours she had done for him of the jewel-coloured creatures they had caught together, which she found tied with a ribbon in his desk drawer when he died.

“I wonder how Albert is getting on,” said the Princess flatly. “He’d soon cheer the place up.”

Pooki remained silent.

Suddenly Mink stood up. “I’m going to hang the family portraits,”
she announced. “We’ll both feel much better surrounded by those moustaches.” She headed down to the kitchen in the hope of finding some nails, Pooki calling after her that such a task was not suitable for a princess.

LATER THAT MORNING, WHEN POOKI
answered the front door, she found Mrs. Boots on the step wearing a tight-fitting bonnet that squashed her beetroot cheeks. Before they had exchanged a word, the housekeeper barrelled her way inside, hoisted her skirts, and started up the stairs, elbows pointed. “Just having a quick check,” she explained over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe some of the pets residents try and smuggle in with them.”

Pooki stood with her hand on the banister, her mouth open. “But ma’am!” she cried, suddenly running after her. “Her Highness is in the drawing room. You are going the wrong way.”

“I won’t be long!” called the short, round form. “I can detect the presence of a cat or a dog at a hundred paces.”

Leaping up the stairs two at a time, the maid overtook the labouring housekeeper and stood at the top, her fists by her side. “Ma’am!” she ordered. “You must go down!”

But Mrs. Boots swerved and darted into a bedroom with the speed of a ferret. Crouching down, she looked underneath the washstand as Pooki stood helpless in the doorway. She then shuffled to the bed on her knees and lowered her head to the floor. “Birds are easy to find, as they make a noise,” she said, straightening up. “The other week I heard my name being called, followed by such a wicked insult I couldn’t eat for three days. Stopped me dead in my tracks in the middle of Clock Court, it did. I went to find the culprit, expecting one of the delivery boys, but it turned out to be an African grey parrot in Lady Beatrice’s apartments. Needless to say, I escorted that bird off the premises. With any luck it’s already been stuffed.”