The Pigeon Pie Mystery (27 page)

They wandered through the crowds, stopping the muffin and crumpet maker so that Pooki could try his fare. As the maid nibbled, she noticed a red-and-white tent and headed towards it. Mink followed, looking round for any of her suspects.

“It is a wild animal show with rare and savage beasts from the most impenetrable jungles and forests of the world!” exclaimed Pooki, reading the sign. “We must see them, ma’am.”

They joined the huddle in front of a man in a frayed silk top hat adorned with a string of large, ivory-coloured incisors. With his thumbs in the pockets of his strained green waistcoat, he announced that the last living example of the world’s rarest creature, the long-legged golden lyrebird, was in the tent behind him. In a voice more penetrating than an omnibus conductor’s, he warned that no loud noises were to be made, lest the notoriously timid bird die of shock, bringing the species to a tragic end. For centuries, the barbs of its feathers had been spun into a gold thread used to embellish the wedding gowns of Arabian princesses. Its voice, which could only be heard in springtime, was said to be the most beautiful sound ever heard by man. As a result, the Ottomans had put them into baskets and carried them into battle, opening the wicker doors the moment they met their enemy. Pacified by the tender rhapsody, they would drop their guard, enabling
the Ottomans to wield their devastating swords. The trick was so successful that they ruled for more than six centuries. But such was the breed’s delicate constitution, the showman hollered, it had all but died out. Much to his amazement, the only remaining specimen had just that morning laid an egg. Despite its incalculable value to collectors around the world, in honour of the holy festival of Easter, he had decided to give it to a member of the audience.

“Ma’am, I have never seen a long-legged golden lyrebird,” said Pooki, turning to her mistress. “We must go inside. And if I am given the egg, I will sell it and settle all the bills. Then they will stop sending you those letters.”

“Maybe the reason why you’ve never seen a long-legged golden lyrebird is because they don’t exist,” suggested Mink, her eyebrows raised.

“They must do, ma’am, as even the Ottomans knew about them,” said Pooki, her eyes wide. “You think ghosts do not exist either, but my grandmother comes often to my room. Even if I have managed to sleep through her visit, I know she has been because the room smells of cardamom in the morning. I was hoping she might not know I had moved to Hampton Court Palace, but she found me.”

The Princess sighed.

Pooki stuck out her chin. “We need that bird’s egg, ma’am.”

With a glance at the man’s patched coat, the Princess reluctantly paid him their penny entrance fees, and he pulled the door flap to one side with a flourish. Entering the unsavoury-smelling gloom, they made out several cages stacked round the edge of the tent, and went over to look at the contents. As Pooki peered at the swans and ducks, the Princess muttered: “I bet they got this lot from Leadenhall Market.”

The maid sat down in the row of seats closest to the stage, followed by Mink holding a handkerchief to her nose to mask the stench. As they waited, Pooki wondered out loud whether there
would be an Indian elephant, as she hadn’t seen one since the Maharaja’s funeral. Suddenly a spotlight appeared on the faded green velvet curtains, and a familiar-looking man walked onto the stage, wearing an old red hunting jacket. As he delivered his introduction, the Princess tried to remember where she knew him from, catching the odd phrase including “an extremely cunning animal that I personally saved from the cooking pot of a man-eating tribe in Ceylon.”

The curtains parted, and the man thrust his arm at the still empty stage. Two porcupines eventually sauntered on, a pair of hands flapping behind them from the wings. After their initial steps, the creatures stopped and looked at the audience. Suddenly there was the sound of a boot banging on the floorboards, and they scuttled to the other side, their quills raised. Next up was a zebra, ridden bareback by a smiling dwarf in a red turban and matching harem trousers. It was followed by a kangaroo, which made only a brief appearance before hopping back the way it came. It wasn’t long before the man in the second-hand jacket reappeared and called for silence. In a voice Mink was certain could be heard in Kingston, he announced the entrance of the long-legged golden lyrebird, which could die in an instant of fright. The audience shuffled forward on their seats and craned their heads as he wheeled on a box draped with black velvet, on top of which stood the avian marvel. As they peered at the creature with the large bill, the bird stared back, blinked, then cocked a knee backwards. Instantly the Princess recognised one of her father’s flamingos, still shimmering from a diet of goldfish. Suddenly there was the noise of a handle being turned off stage, followed by the strains of a house sparrow, as the miracle’s beak remained irrefutably closed. Once the applause had died, the man who had shaved off his mangy beard that was no match for that of his pygmy goat plunged his hand into his pocket. He drew from it a brown chicken egg, admired it in the light like a flawless ruby, and presented it to Pooki with a low bow.

As they stood outside, the stunned maid cradling the prize in both hands, the Princess suddenly spotted the Keeper of the Maze, instantly recognisable by his Piccadilly weepers. Thrusting a penny at Pooki for some gingerbread, she told her to meet her by the skittles, and hurried after William Sheepshanks. If she were going to get to the bottom of the case, she would have to get on everyone’s good side, including his. Wondering how to tackle the keeper, she threaded through the crowds, following his bowler hat until she found herself outside the ghost show. With a glance at the panels depicting the terrifying scenes that could be witnessed within, she lifted her skirts and climbed the steps to the pay-box. She found the keeper inside, and sat down at the back behind him as the front benches began to fill. Eventually the organ stopped and the torn curtains opened with a squeak. William Sheepshanks quivered each time the spectre appeared, courtesy of an actor below floor level reflected onto the stage with the help of a light and a sheet of plated glass. He forgot to breathe when the Ghost of Christmas Past stood perilously close to Scrooge, gripped the bench until his knuckles turned white when a wispy King Hamlet beckoned his son to follow him with a long, bony finger, and almost fainted when the spirit of Napoléon I drew his sword and looked in his direction.

When it was over, the audience begged for more, then reluctantly got to its feet. Still trembling, William Sheepshanks was just about to return his hat to his head when Mink introduced herself and asked whether he was the Keeper of the Maze. He flushed, having been caught away from his post on one of the busiest days of the year.

“I thought it was you, Mr. Sheepshanks,” she said, with a smile. “I’m so pleased to see that you’ve taken some time off. You poor man. All I hear all day is you giving those hopeless visitors directions out of the maze. What do these people do? Leave their brains at home before they set off for the palace? Why, some of them don’t even know their left from their right!”

He looked at her and blinked. “You’re right, Your Highness. They don’t,” he replied. “I shout left and they turn right, and then they blame me when they’re still stuck in there half an hour later and they’ve missed the last launch to London Bridge.”

The Princess shook her head. “Silly oafs! And once you’ve kindly shown them the way out, do they thank you for it? No!”

William Sheepshanks stared at her. “How did you know, Your Highness?” he asked.

Mink threw up her hands in despair. “I’ve watched them from my windows, Mr. Sheepshanks.”

“Some even try to tunnel their way out!”

“With the state of that hedging?” the Princess asked, eyes wide. “The maze needs replanting, if you ask me. I bet the palace won’t pay for it to be done. And there’s you having to defend it to all those rude people who say they’ve got healthier weeds in their gardens and ask to be let in for free. You should take the whole week off, Mr. Sheepshanks, not just the afternoon!”

The keeper put his hat on the bench next to him and explained that he never expected to end up on a chair exposed to the vagaries of the English weather, giving instructions to people who had no sense of direction. He had followed his father into service, starting off as an undergroom to a Field Marshal. He worked his way up, eventually becoming the youngest footman in the palace. When the valet was dismissed after being caught with the butler in the attics, the Field Marshal offered him the position, which entitled him to his master’s discarded clothes, a lucrative perquisite. When the old man became ill, shortly after the death of his wife, it was William Sheepshanks who carried him up and down the stairs. When things worsened, he organised the sick room, sleeping in a chair next to his master’s bed, and fetching another handkerchief when he coughed up blood. But nothing could save him, and he died clutching the servant’s hand. “He’d always been very generous, and left me enough money to open a small shop. I’d even
chosen it. But his relatives disputed the will on the grounds of insanity. None of them had visited him for years. He was as sane as you and me.”

He wanted nothing to do with the upper classes then, and, without a care for the fall in status, applied for the position of Keeper of the Maze. The palace authorities liked the idea of a valet being in charge, as his predecessor, a gardener, had been over-possessive of the hedging, leading to complaints from visitors about being lectured. Such was his elation when he was given the job, he bought everyone in the King’s Arms a drink, including the drunk woman who sold pig’s trotters. After so many years spent indoors on his feet, which had given him varicose veins and the hue of the dead, he sighed with contentment as he sat in his chair in the tender spring sun, listening to the melodies of the birds. In the summer he was warmed further by the happiness of the excursionists, and thanked the Lord every night in his prayers. As autumn approached and the evenings darkened, he grew a pair of whiskers to keep out the damp, and marvelled as the leaves turned gold in front of his eyes. And when the first snow fell, he tilted back his head and caught the spiralling flakes on his tongue.

Initially he found his income, made up of the penny entry fees, entirely sufficient. But when his mother became ill, there was not enough to cover the medical costs, and he started to allow people into the maze after hours to earn a little extra. Eventually he was found out, hauled before the Lord Chamberlain, and given a fixed salary. But it failed to match his previous gains, and he was forced to use the homeopath from East Molesey. “Mother died shortly afterwards,” he said. “I was on duty at the time. The neighbours came to get me, as she’d stopped crying out with pain.”

The Princess offered her condolences. “How were you found out?” she asked, watching him closely.

“One of the residents heard someone laughing in the maze when it should have been closed, and wrote to the Lord Chamberlain.
I’d told them to keep it down, but they’d just been to the King’s Arms,” he replied.

“Fancy writing to the Lord Chamberlain, Mr. Sheepshanks. What a spiteful thing to do,” she said. After a pause she asked lightly, “Who was it?”

The keeper looked away. “It’s not something I care to talk about,” he said.

Suddenly one of the actors entered. “You’ll have to pay if you want to see it again,” he said. “Unfortunately there won’t be any ghosts. The man who plays them has just been brawling with the sherbet seller, who’s not as puny as he looks.”

As Mink made her way back to Pooki, she wondered whether it was the General who had complained to the Lord Chamberlain. It certainly seemed the sort of thing the dead man would have done. Had the keeper refused to name him, knowing that it would instantly give him a motive? She was still debating how to discover the resident’s name when she found Pooki a short distance from the skittles booth, gazing at a sign propped up outside a small, filthy tent.

“Madam Sharkey, the world-famous fortune-teller, has come here all the way from Mesopotamia!” the servant said excitedly. “Mole-reading is her speciality. I would like my mole read, ma’am.”

“I bet she’s come all the way from Whitechapel,” muttered Mink. “And anyway, I can tell you precisely what’s going to happen to you. Absolutely nothing.”

“You do know quite a few things, ma’am, it is true. But you do not know everything like the world-famous Madam Sharkey.”

“She can’t be that famous. I’ve never heard of her. Wouldn’t you rather go and see the mermaids?” she asked, looking round at the other tents.

The maid stuck out her chin. “No, ma’am. I have seen mermaids before. They are women with tails instead of legs. I want to see my future.”

Drawing back the tent flap with the tips of her fingers, Mink entered, followed closely by Pooki. Sitting behind a table was a heavily lined woman, smoking a clay pipe and wearing an ill-fitting wig. Several glittering chains hung down into her battered cleavage. But the carats were no match for those in her head. For when Madam Sharkey removed her instrument and smiled a bored greeting, she revealed two rows of golden teeth. Pooki sat down next to her mistress, her eyes not leaving the woman’s mouth for an instant.

“I knew you’d come,” said the fortune-teller, with the mangled vowels of a cockney.

“Your talent is exceptional, Madam Sharkey. We’ve only just decided ourselves,” said the Princess. “I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to tell my maid her fortune.”

The woman slowly unfurled her palm, revealing stained nails that curled like cat claws. The Princess dropped into it a piece of silver that immediately vanished.

“So, ’ave you got a mole?” the woman asked, turning to Pooki.

The maid nodded, clutching the egg in her lap.

“Where is it?” she asked.

Pooki didn’t reply.

“It ain’t time to be modest. Where’s your mole?” demanded Madam Sharkey.

“It is on my thigh.”

“Lemme see.”

Pooki hesitated.

“I needs to see what shape it is,” the clairvoyant insisted. “If it’s round, you can expect plenty of good fortune. If it’s got angles, a mixture of good and bad. And God ’elp you if it’s oblong. The deeper the colour, the deeper the good or bad luck will be. Then, of course, there’s the question of whether the thing’s ’airy or not. A bald mole indicates good ’ealth. If it’s got a few long ’airs, it means you can leave service ’cos there’s prosperity on the way. And
if it’s a sprouter, then I’m afraid to say your goose is well and truly cooked.”