The Pigeon Pie Mystery, page 23
Seeing that Inspector Guppy wasn’t around, Pooki walked quickly down Moat Lane towards the Tudor section of the palace, head bent and hands gripped into anxious fists. She had already come close to death on several occasions during her life. While working as a travelling ayah she had been tossed with such violence during screeching storms she had been convinced she would never see her mother again. Twice she had seen the glint of a knife while walking the perilous East End streets after she had been abandoned, and twice destiny had found her a place to hide. Then there was the time when the Maharaja pulled her out of the path of a hansom cab in Soho as she lay in the filth of the road, unable to move. But nothing filled her with more dread than the thought of being hanged. Her dreams, when she finally fell asleep, were invaded by images of her neck not breaking completely after the trap door opened, and her being caught in a monstrous half-death as her life was slowly dragged from her, her feet hanging limply from the bottom of her dress. As she continued, she imagined her mother being told of her degrading end, heaping shame not only on her family but on that of the Maharaja.
One of the soldiers showed her the way to Fish Court, a tall, narrow, redbrick passageway once used to store raw ingredients for Henry VIII’s kitchens. There were telltale signs of occupation. Several window boxes were filled with spring flowers, and the odd curtain moved at the sound of her feet. She found the Countess’s apartments by its nameplate, and stood with her hands clutched in front of her as she waited for the door to open. Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her and span round. But it was only Pike, the butcher’s boy, on his rounds, holding his basket on his shoulder.
Alice appeared at the door and immediately stepped back to let her in. “We’re in luck,” she said, as they climbed the stairs. “Her Ladyship is at a British Pteridological Society meeting, which is something to do with ferns. She’s crazy about them, and even has them on her tea set.” She took her into the drawing room and showed her the numerous specimens perched on plant stands, and pointed out the Wardian case underneath the window, filled with lacy fronds curling up towards the glass.
The servant then led the way up to her room in the attic, where they sat down on her single iron bed, over which hung a portrait of the Virgin Mary. Asking whether Pooki was hungry, she opened a cupboard and drew out a tin of Hovis biscuits. “Apparently they’re good for the bones, brain, flesh, and muscles,” she said, offering them to her.
“I do not believe advertisements,” said Pooki, taking a couple. “Dr. Nightingale’s Voice Pills are meant to give you the voice of a clergyman, but I do not even sound like a sexton. If Dr. Henderson’s treatment does not work, he will fire me up with electricity. Her Highness says she will be able to light the drawing room with me.”
Alice leant back against the wall, her feet dangling over the side of the bed, and straightened out her white apron. “What’s she like?” she asked. “One of my cousins once met that girl who came in the mornings to clean the boots and the knives.”
Pooki leant back next to her, her feet dwarfing those of the teenager. “She is a very good mistress, but sometimes I have to tell her what to do,” she said, with a weary shake of the head.
Alice suddenly turned to her with a frown. “A servant’s voice should never be heard by the ladies and gentlemen of the house, except when necessary. And then as little as possible. You should know that,” she said.
Pooki raised her chin. “Her Highness is always very grateful for my advice,” she said.
Alice looked at her. “You don’t talk to her when you’re bringing up coals or laying the cloth, do you?”
Pooki nodded, biting into a biscuit. “They are my favourite times, as well as when I am dusting,” she said, her mouth full.
The teenager stared ahead of her in amazement. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t pick up a book every time you come in the room.”
“She does, but my mistress can read and listen at the same time,” Pooki replied, brushing crumbs from her lips.
“You’d better keep quiet or she’ll get rid of you and you’ll end up working for a shopkeeper’s family,” Alice warned with a frown. “That’s what happened to a friend of mine. She kept telling her mistress the tradesmen’s jokes.”
“My mistress does not like the dripping man’s jokes, the dustman’s jokes, or the rag and bone man’s jokes. But she very much likes the butterman’s,” said Pooki, with a smile of satisfaction. “When I am telling them she raises her newspaper so that I cannot see her laughing. She finds them so funny she begs me not to tell them to her. Often I tell them twice in one morning just to amuse her.”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t leave the house to get away from you.”
“She does,” said Pooki, biting into another biscuit. “Sometimes she has to go out into the garden to compose herself.”
Alice looked at her dubiously.
“Why is an umbrella like a pancake?” asked Pooki, smirking.
The other maid shrugged.
“Because it is seldom seen after lent!” she said, a hand over her mouth as she snorted.
Alice remained straight-faced.
“Her Highness loves this one: why can a gentleman never possess a short walking stick?” asked the maid, her shoulders already shaking.
“No idea.”
“Because it can never be-long to him!” she cried, clutching her stomach.
Alice looked at the ceiling.
“And this one is my favourite: what kind of gaiters should a professor wear?” asked Pooki, her voice rising as she tried to stifle her laughter. But she didn’t wait for an answer. “In-vesti-gators!” she screeched, wiping away her tears with both hands.
Alice touched her arm. “Here, you’ll never guess what happened this morning,” she said, changing the subject.
“What?” asked Pooki, still laughing.
“Dr. Henderson’s housekeeper came round with some flowers for Her Ladyship.”
Pooki’s face fell.
“She said they were from the doctor and made a big point of telling me they were La France roses, which means ‘meet me by moonlight’ in the language of flowers,” Alice continued, her eyes wide. “Her Ladyship didn’t know what to do with herself when I gave her the message, and told me to hide them behind the curtains if anyone called. Nice as she is, I’m not sure what he sees in her, her being so much older than him and always complaining she hasn’t got two pennies to rub together.”
Pooki frowned, the thought of the doctor sending flowers to anyone apart from her mistress immediately sobering her up. As Alice went down to make some tea, she remained on the bed, helping herself to biscuits, each of which she told herself would be her last as she brushed away the crumbs. Remembering what she had come for, she got up and looked under the washstand and bed, feeling uneasy about searching the room of her only friend. She then went through the chest of drawers, moving aside stockings and pieces of underwear. There was nothing there. Suddenly she heard footsteps and sat back on the bed.
As Alice came in with the tea-tray, Pooki got up and opened the cupboard. “I am putting the biscuits away, otherwise I will eat them all and my feet will get bigger,” she explained. There was something inside that stopped her. Reaching in, she drew out a bottle of arsenic. Instantly Alice’s cheeks flushed. “I was just about to get rid of that,” she said, setting down the tray with unsteady hands.
Sitting on the bed, she told how she had been in Lady Beatrice’s kitchen borrowing some arrowroot when the bell rang and the cook went upstairs to answer it. Feeling hungry, she looked around for something to eat, and found the bottle of poison. “I put it in my pocket in case the cook got blamed for killing the General. Servants are always being found guilty of things they never did. You like your tea strong, don’t you?” she asked, picking up the pot.
Pooki stood up. “I had better get back to Wilderness House. Her Highness will be wondering where I have got to,” she said flatly.
After Alice closed the front door behind her, Pooki headed along Fish Court, her heart even heavier than when she had arrived. She glanced back, wondering whether it were possible that the girl had poisoned the General and left her to take the blame. And as she looked up she noticed Alice standing at the drawing room window, watching her.
CHAPTER XII
Pooki’s Dying Wish and Trixie Predicts Rain
THURSDAY, APRIL 14, 1898
OLLOWING a night of fitful sleep, Mink watched from her bed as Pooki poured hot water into the bath. The servant seemed even thinner than usual in the grey dress she wore in the mornings to hide the dirt of her heavier work. When she had emptied the final can and retreated downstairs to get on with her other chores, Mink took off her white nightdress and stepped in. Leaning back in the water, she cast her plait over the side, where it hung several inches from the floor. Hoping for some escape, she closed her eyes. But all she could think about was how utterly desolate she would feel without Pooki, and she took not the slightest pleasure from the warmth of the water or the smell of the soap.
It was while the maid was preparing breakfast that the Princess decided to bring up the contents of her bonnet box again, having previously been given a variety of explanations, none of which she found convincing. She came into the kitchen, instantly catching the maid off guard as she battled to make kedgeree. After asking numerous questions about the recipe, which further unsettled her, Mink started pacing up and down perilously close to Victoria, producing nervous glances and warnings to watch her feet. When it seemed that the maid was at the most crucial point in the proceedings, Mink suddenly asked, “So why did you have fly papers in your room?”
Distracted by the boiling eggs, the simmering rice, the poaching haddock, and a hedgehog in jeopardy, Pooki immediately blurted out with the truth. “To make me prettier, ma’am,” she replied, without turning round.
“Prettier?” the Princess repeated, incredulous.
“It is a beauty treatment some German maids once told me about,” the maid said, lifting the lid of the copper fish kettle and peering inside. “They soak fly papers in elderflower water and put the solution on their faces with handkerchiefs to improve the complexion.”
“Have you done it before?” the Princess asked.
Pooki continued to stir the rice. “No, ma’am. This was my first time.”
Mink sat down at the kitchen table, relieved at such a reasonable explanation. “So why didn’t you tell the Inspector that? It seems perfectly understandable to me.”
There was a pause, “Because of you, ma’am,” Pooki replied.
“Me?” asked the Princess, staring at her.
“You would have wondered why I wanted to be prettier, ma’am.”
After a moment it came to her. “Have you got a follower?” Mink asked, suddenly standing up.
The only sound was the rattling of the eggs. “Mistresses are not the only people who fall in love, ma’am,” the servant replied over her shoulder.
The Princess put her hands on her hips, immediately wondering whether he had something to do with the poisoned pie. “Has this friend of yours been in the kitchen?” she asked crossly.
The servant nodded. “I once invited him round to try a pound cake I made because it tasted as it should do and it might have been the first and last time.”
Mink paced the room. “You know very well that having a male friend in the house is not permitted. My father never allowed it either. Was his visit before or after you made the pigeon pies?” she asked, her voice raised.
Pooki continued battling at the range. “It was after the inquest, ma’am, so it could not have been him.”
The Princess folded her arms and looked at the maid, who still had her back to her. “I suppose this man was the reason for your mystery walk while you were making them. Would you care to tell me who it is?”
Pooki turned round, clutching the wooden spoon. “It is the watercress seller, ma’am,” she muttered.
The Princess walked to the window and looked out. “At least that explains why the larder is full of cresses. I suppose I should be thankful you haven’t fallen in love with the cats’ meat seller, or we would be up to the rafters in horseflesh.” She turned back to the maid. “So what is it about this man that you find so endearing?”
Pooki’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He has nice eyes, ma’am.” She paused before adding: “And he says my feet are just the right size.”
The Princess sighed. “And how serious is this love affair?” she demanded.
The servant looked at her. “I am not keeping company with him, ma’am, only walking out,” she insisted.
“Well, thank goodness there isn’t a marriage on the horizon.” The Princess folded her arms. “Is there anything else you’d like to get off your chest while we’re at it? We may as well get everything out in the open.”
The maid nodded.
“Well?” asked Mink.
“I have burnt the fish, ma’am.”
THE PRINCESS CLOSED THE GARDEN DOOR behind her and walked swiftly through the Wilderness, ignoring the admiring glances from the gentlemen excursionists. They weren’t the only ones who noticed her. Heads turned as she passed Purr Corner, where several residents were gathered, and even the gardeners in the Privy Garden raised their eyes from their beds. As she crossed through the Pond Gardens, she remembered the picnic and wished she had never gone, her stomach turning at the implications for Pooki. Headed towards the Great Vine, she thought again of the arguments Cornelius B. Pilgrim had overheard between the General and the keeper. She had no idea whether they bore any relation to his death, or indeed if they even took place. But it was certainly curious that Mr. Trout had attended the inquest. And, she suspected, he had a rather intriguing secret.
She stopped to read the notice nailed to the door of the Vine House: “The person showing the vine is permitted to take a small fee.” Slipping inside, she stood alone behind the barrier, staring up at the celebrated plant. As she glanced around, she noticed the short, stocky legs of Thomas Trout, who was up a ladder, snipping off a tendril from one of the branches clinging to a wooden frame against the roof. He bent down, looked at her, and scratched his neat moustache with the tip of a gloved finger. Immediately she got out her purse. “There’s no need, Your Highness. That sign’s for the visitors.”
As he resumed his work, he apologised for not stopping and explained that the vine was currently growing at almost an inch a day and he had to control it, as it produced more shoots than could fit into the hothouse. Of the Black Hamburg variety, it was planted in the 1760s by Capability Brown to produce grapes for the table of George III, he explained. It had been grown from a cutting of a vine at the Valentines Mansion in Essex, its branches now covering more than two thousand square feet. “Some say it’s become so big because the roots have got into the cesspool, and it’s been nourished by sewage. But it’s nonsense. It’s all down to the variety,” he said.
Each September he had a mature crop of more than one thousand bunches, which were presented to the Queen, who usually sent a share to hospitals. “The residents are always after them. I have to keep the door locked after hours, or there’ll be none left.”
Mink looked around her. “What a responsibility you have keeping such an historic plant alive, Mr. Trout,” she said. “Why, you’ve got one of the most important jobs in the palace. I don’t know how you do it. It would give me sleepless nights. I do hope you’re appreciated.”
Thomas Trout suddenly lowered his arms and looked down at her. “They have no idea of the enormity of it, ma’am,” he replied. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of dust the visitors give off. They should be kept behind a glass panel, but no one listens to me. About ten thousand of them turn up on bank holidays, all pushing and shoving in and out of that door.” There were pests to control, which he did by painting the vine in the winter with soft soap impregnated with nicotine. Mildew was another huge problem, which he kept away by spraying the plant with sulphur. Then he had to keep an eye on the temperamental boiler, which supplied hot water to the pipes heating the glasshouse and threatened to blow any minute.
“But do you know what keeps me awake at night?” he asked, coming down his ladder and standing with his hands on his hips. “Rats,” he said, without waiting for an answer. “Nothing tempts them faster out of their holes than hunger. If one gets in here after those grapes, it’s all over. I’ve even seen them nibbling the toes of the statues of Mars and Hercules in the Privy Garden, as lead tastes sweet.” He then pointed to the corner of the glasshouse. “See the vine’s stem? It’s thirty-eight inches in circumference. A rat could get through that before you could say ‘the Pied Piper of Hamelin.’ And will the palace get the rat-catcher in? No, they won’t go to the expense. So what did they give me instead? Lord Sluggard, the laziest mouser I’ve ever had the misfortune of having to feed. That cat would rather let a rat tie its whiskers than get up and chase it.”
Thomas Trout glanced at his pocket watch. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’m going to have to lock up so I can nip home for a quick cup of tea before the palace opens.” He looked up at the sky through the leaves. “It’s going to rain today, according to my leech barometer, so hopefully that will keep some of them away.”
“Leech barometer?” repeated the Princess.
“It was inspired by Dr. Merryweather’s tempest prognosticator, which he showed at the Great Exhibition,” he explained. Fashioned in the style of an Indian temple, it featured twelve bottles of water, each containing a leech that rang a bell when a tempest was expected. “That man was kind enough to place the bottles in a circle so that the leeches didn’t have to endure the anguish of solitary confinement. He advised the Government to establish leech-warning stations around the coast, but unfortunately they ignored him. My version’s a lot more humble than Dr. Merryweather’s, but it works.”
