The Pigeon Pie Mystery (9 page)

The housekeeper hauled herself to her feet, sailed out, and immediately barged into the next room. “Something tells me that we’re not alone,” she muttered to herself, hunting behind the curtains.

“Ma’am!” Pooki protested from the doorway. “This is Her Highness’s bedroom. You should not be in here!”

But Mrs. Boots sniffed the air, then flung open the wardrobe. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

The servant approached her and stood with her hands on her hips. “Ma’am!” she shouted. “You are on a wild goose chase!”

Mrs. Boots turned and looked the maid up and down. “I wouldn’t put a flock of geese past any of them,” she said, then sank down onto all fours and peered underneath the chaise longue.

Shooting past the maid, she headed out the door and scuttled down the landing towards the attic staircase. “I’m getting warmer,” she announced, her cheeks scarlet. But there was no beating the speed of Pooki, who overtook her and stood at the bottom of the steps, her scrawny arms outstretched. “Ma’am, I may be thin, but I am stronger than I look. And you have not seen the size of my feet,” she declared.

The housekeeper looked down and raised her eyebrows as she saw what she was up against. Reluctantly she made her way downstairs, and once she had inspected the rest of the house, finally entered the drawing room. Pooki followed, and stood in the doorway, her bun dishevelled. “Mrs. Boots, ma’am,” she announced, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

It wasn’t until she had hunted amongst the palms, under the grand piano, and behind the oriental screen that the housekeeper noticed the Princess standing next to a ladder watching her. After a double take at the family portraits, she asked whether there were any pets on the premises.

“No, Mrs. Boots,” Mink replied curtly. “I’ve already told you.”

The housekeeper folded her arms across her chest. “You’d be
surprised what some residents tell me,” she replied. “Lies, most of the time.” She then announced that she was unable to give the Princess a tour of the palace “on account of my bronchitis that’s taken a turn for the worst.” If the Princess were agreeable, she continued, General Bagshot, a resident and Tudor expert who was writing his fourth history of the palace, would escort her. “You’ll be better off with him anyway,” she admitted. “I get my Georges muddled. Four shows a distinct lack of imagination, if you ask me. They should have called the last one Archibald and have done with it.”

DRESSED IN HELIOTROPE, WITH A
matching toque and pearl earrings, Mink headed out to meet the General at the King’s Staircase. As she passed the royal tennis court, built in the reign of Charles I, she was stopped by a milliner’s assistant carrying numerous boxes, who asked her the way to Lady Montfort Bebb’s apartments. Apologising that she didn’t know, the Princess continued and turned in to Fountain Court. As she raised her eyes to the windows, she noticed a number of pale faces at the curtains, which quickly disappeared.

Eventually she arrived in Clock Court, a large empty courtyard flanked on one side by the tall windows and gilded weather vanes of Henry VIII’s Great Hall. Following a group of excursionists through a doorway, she found herself at the foot of the celebrated staircase that led to William III’s State Apartments. Visitors stood gazing up in awe at the triumphant King and banquet of gods painted on the walls and ceiling by Antonio Verrio. Standing amongst them was Mrs. Boots, who had the perpetual air of someone who was late for her steamer. As soon as she saw Mink, she made much of looking at her pocket watch. Next to her was General Bagshot, a thin, large-nosed gentleman with flamboyant side-whiskers the colour of ash. The buttons of his dark
blue morning coat were engraved with his initials, and a heavy gold watch chain with numerous charms hung from his floral-patterned waistcoat. Born at the palace, he had been christened in a bowl on top of a table in the Chapel Royal when it still lacked a font. For a reason the Princess was soon to understand, she took an instant dislike to him.

Once the housekeeper had introduced them, Mink apologised for being late. “There seems to be an awful lot of people here,” she said, as the excursionists pushed past them.

“Sundays are the worst,” muttered Mrs. Boots. “You’re not still thinking of coming tomorrow, are you?” The assurance of the Princess’s presence at divine service provoked from the housekeeper a sudden bout of coughing. Her mouth muffled by a blue handkerchief, she explained that she was still waiting for a reply from the Lord Chamberlain as to whether foreign royalty was permitted to use the Royal Pew. If she didn’t hear back from him before the service, she continued, she would be obliged to sit with the congregation. “In which case you’ll have to take your chance with the seating like everyone else. The ladies insist the soldiers have an odour of the stables about them, and sit as far away from them as possible.” Suddenly the housekeeper looked through the doors to the sky. Mumbling that a north-easterly wind was blowing, she made her excuses, and then took off through the crowds.

The General’s eyes slipped up and down Mink. As he leant towards her, she noticed flakes of dandruff caught in his sprouting eyebrows. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Mrs. Boots quite undersold you. I read so much about your father in the papers last year, though I know next to nothing about you. We must get to know one another,” he said, his breath rancid from pipe tobacco and port.

“That’s the last thing I want,” thought the Princess, as her stomach curdled. She was just about to reply when General Bagshot turned away and stared through the doorway. She followed his gaze and saw two urchins standing under the colonnade built
by Sir Christopher Wren as a stately approach to the magnificent staircase. Bootless and irrefutably mud-streaked, each was holding an enormous basket of whelks. Pushing past the pleasure-seekers towards them, General Bagshot demanded to know what they were doing. “This isn’t Billingsgate Market,” he roared. “How the devil did you get past the sentry?”

The boys put down their baskets, dragged their caps off their unwashed heads, and clutched them to their chests. They had a delivery for Lady Montfort Bebb, they explained, but had been unable to find her apartments. He gave them directions, then returned to the Princess.

“Quite what Lady Montfort Bebb wants with so many whelks is beyond me,” he said. “Have you met her yet? My wife and I have the great misfortune of living next to her. She’s learning to play the pianoforte and slowly murders the same tune every day. A deaf elephant wearing mittens would sound more melodious. She was taken prisoner during the First Afghan War, but unfortunately was released. My guess is that she started practising her scales and her captors threw open the door and insisted that she leave.”

Passing his cane to a pair of warders behind a desk, who were also collecting bags, parcels, and umbrellas lest they damaged the paintings, he started up the stairs. “The palace was originally founded by Cardinal Wolsey in 1515, who subsequently handed it over to Henry VIII,” he announced at such a volume several excursionists turned their heads. “The King enlarged it, passing much of his time here with his six wives.”

The Princess followed him. “All of Henry’s additions, except the Great Hall and one or two other rooms, were demolished by William III, so I believe,” she said, remembering the palace history she had read before arriving.

The General looked momentarily taken aback. “Quite so, quite so,” he replied. “In the seventeenth century William and Mary commissioned …”

“Sir Christopher Wren,” interrupted Mink.

“… to build the existing State Apartments, copying the splendour of …”

“Versailles,” she added. “Shall we continue, General? We seem to be holding people up.”

They entered the King’s Guard Chamber, where William III’s gunsmith had mounted almost three thousand pieces of arms and armour on the walls. After looking at Canaletto’s Colosseum at Rome, and the life-size portrait of Queen Elizabeth’s porter who stood over eight feet tall, they moved on to the King’s Presence Chamber. Mink gazed at Sir Godfrey Kneller’s portraits of Queen Mary’s court, known as the Hampton Court Beauties. General Bagshot stood next to her, his hand momentarily brushing hers. “There’s something irresistible about them, don’t you find?” he remarked.

“Indeed,” Mink replied, stepping away as she felt his hot breath on her neck. “Though they lack the considerable charm of your wife, General Bagshot. I met her when I arrived at the palace on Friday.”

“She’s off to Hélouan-Les-Bains tomorrow morning. Apparently they’ve got about a dozen thermal springs. Do you know Egypt?”

“I’ve been a number of times,” she said. “I climbed to the summit of the Great Pyramid a couple of years ago. Two locals pulled me up by the arms, while another attempted to bring up the rear while clamouring for baksheesh. I beat him off with my parasol.”

They continued, engulfed by visitors, stopping to admire William III’s Great Bedchamber with its sumptuous Verrio ceiling and delicate carvings by Grinling Gibbons. When the General pointed out that the bed looked remarkably comfortable, Mink moved swiftly onto the next room. Eventually they came to the Communication Gallery, where hordes stood admiring the Triumphs of Caesar, nine vast canvases stretching down the length of the room, and the most important paintings in the palace.

General Bagshot stood so close to Mink she could detect his presence simply from the smell. “They were painted by …” he began.

“Andrea Mantegna,” she interrupted, taking a step away from him.

He advanced again towards her. “Quite so. For …”

“Gianfrancesco Gonzaga, the Marquis of Mantua,” she added, her voice trailing off as she noticed a huddle of chimney-sweeps, their pitifully red eyes fixed on the paintings. Each had a brush over his shoulder, its filthy bristles perilously close to the pictures.

“Good God!” the General cried. “Just a minute.”

As he ordered them out, sending two excursionists tumbling to the floor in the commotion, Mink took the opportunity to slip away. Grateful that he hadn’t asked a single thing about her, for she had not the slightest desire to form an acquaintance, she entered the restored Wolsey’s Closet, which had once been part of some grace-and-favour apartments and used as a butler’s pantry. After staring in amazement at the painted scenes from the Passion of Our Lord, and the magnificent Tudor ceiling, she was just about to head down the Queen’s Staircase when General Bagshot caught up with her.

“How the warders never spotted those sweeps is beyond me,” he fumed, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve never met such a disreputable bunch of uniformed men in all my life. Apparently the sweeps were also looking for Lady Montfort Bebb’s apartments. What on earth would she want eight for? Really, that woman is as mad as a hatter, and mine has just been carted off to the asylum.”

As they started down the stairs, he asked whether she had ever seen a ghost.

“I don’t believe in them,” the Princess replied dismissively.

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind once you’ve been here long enough,” he said, stepping back as a group of cockneys herded
past them. He pointed to a door on the right. “Behind that is the Haunted Gallery. Catherine Howard ran along it after escaping from her chamber hoping to persuade Henry VIII to call off her execution, but his guards seized her. She’s now said to haunt it.” He lowered his voice. “It’s closed to the public, but perhaps one evening when my wife is away I could get the key and we could go just the two of us and see whether she appears,” he added, rubbing a cold, thin finger against the back of her hand on the banister.

Immediately she pulled it away. “That would be delightful,” she replied curtly. “I will be sure to bring Mrs. Boots with me. She’s never seen a ghost.”

Looking horrified, he continued down the stairs. As they passed along a passageway at the bottom, he pointed to some oak steps. “They lead to the Silver Stick Gallery, which is said to be haunted by Jane Seymour, who died at the palace after giving birth,” he said. “Lady Beatrice lives there. Everyone says the ghost has driven her potty. She wore mourning for years, then suddenly took to wearing so many startling colours she looked like a toucan in a zoological garden. You’ll spot her soon enough. Now, I must show you Henry VIII’s Great Hall, where
Macbeth
was first performed. It will give me the chance to wake up the warders, who, instead of preventing the visitors from damaging the tapestries, will no doubt be sleeping off the effects of their evening in the Cardinal Wolsey public house.”

As they headed towards it, a tall woman with high cheekbones dressed in mourning came towards them, her blue eyes standing out against the endless black. Her bonnet tied firmly underneath her chin, she nodded at the General, who raised his hat. As she walked quickly past she glanced with unfettered curiosity at the Princess.

“That was Lady Bessington,” he said, lowering his voice. “Have you met her yet? She’s obsessed with ferns, and her late husband, the fourteenth Earl of Bessington, who was the last in the title.
We swapped apartments with her and found she’d made the place into a shrine to him. Their initials are entwined in the marble floor in the hall, and the study walls have been painted with the names of all the battles he had fought in. Unfortunately my wife still hasn’t got round to getting it all ripped out. A lady that good-looking should have remarried.”