The Pigeon Pie Mystery (43 page)

The news quickly spread through the household that Isabella was dead, and when Mrs. Bagshot returned from her walk all eyes fell to the floor. The General immediately took her up to her bedroom, and even the cook heard the shriek from the kitchen. It was several months before she came down again, by which time the servants had been instructed never to mention Isabella’s name again.

“I’d been dismissed by then,” said Alice, clutching the Princess’s
wet handkerchief in her fist. “Shortly after the doctor had taken Isabella, the General accused me of stealing one of Mrs. Bagshot’s brooches, a little frog with diamond eyes. Then he took me up to my room and found it underneath my pillow. Funny that.”

“And you never told anyone that you heard Isabella cry?” Mink asked.

She began to doubt herself, the maid explained, and she didn’t want Mrs. Bagshot ending up in the asylum over something she had imagined. “She was always good to me. Not like him. He caught me in Tennis Court Lane one night on his way back from his club. Pinned me up against the wall and lifted my skirts. Stank of booze, he did.” When he had finished with her, he told her that if she ever told anyone he would inform her mistress that he’d spotted one of the soldiers going into her apartments while she was out.

“And now I’m carrying his baby, ma’am, and I’m going to lose my position all over again,” she sobbed.

WHEN MINK RETURNED TO WILDERNESS HOUSE
, she found the door open and Dr. Henderson standing in the hall, talking to Pooki.

“If you’ve come to apologise for your antics last night, doctor, forgive me, but I have absolutely no time to listen. And this door should be locked. I left strict instructions that it should not be opened to anyone,” she said crossly.

But the general practitioner hadn’t come about the ball at all. “The grocer’s boy just told me that Inspector Guppy has arrived on the train from London and is about to arrest your maid,” he said.

CHAPTER XV
Worse Than Harris in the Maze

INK
strode through the cold cloisters of Fountain Court, wondering how she was going to confront her. She ignored the laughter of the excursionists buying cherries from the fruit seller and continued on, her heart tightening at the thought of what she was about to do. She turned up the steps, an empty basket hanging motionless in the stairwell. Standing for a moment outside the door to gather her thoughts, she rang the bell. Dora Cummings appeared wearing servant’s mourning, and informed her that her mistress wasn’t at home for visitors.

Mink insisted that she be seen. “It’s a matter of urgency,” she said.

The parlour maid hesitated, glanced at the caller’s hat, then stepped back to let her in. As the Princess followed her across the hall, she noticed the intertwining initials on the marble floor. The servant showed her into the drawing room, perfumed by white lilies, then went in search of her mistress. Invaded by the scent of death, Mink stood at the window with its coveted view of the Thames. But all she could see was her task ahead of her. Sitting down on the sofa, she looked around at the modern Arts and
Crafts furniture, and then at the dated wallpaper, finally understanding why a woman lauded for her impeccable taste had failed to change it.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” said Mrs. Bagshot from the doorway, choked to the neck in widow’s weeds. The Princess watched as she came to sit opposite her, remembering the kindness she had shown her when she first arrived. For a moment the Princess studied the crape on the woman’s skirt, then raised her eyes.

“Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Bagshot. Your husband was good enough to give me a tour of the palace.”

Mrs. Bagshot offered a thin smile. “He was very fond of the place. Very few gentlemen are given a warrant. We were lucky in that regard.”

“I hope you don’t think that my maid was somehow involved in his death. Much was made at the inquest of the pies she made for the residents’ picnic.”

“One hears all sorts of rumours, but I never believed that one for a minute,” said Mrs. Bagshot, shaking her head.

Mink sat back. “She was rather reluctant to come with me to the palace. Domestic servants aren’t terribly keen on the place.”

“Finding a good maid is hard enough, let alone one who’s prepared to live here. I’ve been through umpteen, what with one thing or another,” said Mrs. Bagshot.

“Sometimes it’s just little things that servants take, and you never realise until months or even years later that they’re missing,” said Mink. “You look for a particular pair of earrings, and when you can’t find them, you wonder whether you’ve lost them or someone has pinched them. And yet you can’t believe any of your servants are capable of it. I understand that you had a problem with Alice Cockle.”

There was a pause. “My husband found a little brooch of mine under her pillow. I didn’t for a minute think she had taken it.
I assumed it was one of the other maids who had put it there. You do hear about these petty jealousies amongst them. But I was unwell at the time, and didn’t have the strength to get involved. I was very pleased to hear that Lady Bessington had offered her a position.”

“I happened to be talking to Alice this morning,” said Mink. “She says you treated her very well.”

Mrs. Bagshot frowned and looked out the window. “I always felt guilty for not standing up for her, but I had other things on my mind at the time. I did like the girl very much.”

“She remains very fond of you.”

“She does?” asked the widow, turning back.

Mink nodded. “So much so that she never told you that she heard Isabella cry when Dr. Barnstable took her away.”

The widow stared at her.

“Your husband convinced her that she was imagining it, and you would become mentally deranged if she ever told you,” the Princess continued.

Mrs. Bagshot put her hand over her mouth.

“Did your husband lie to you about your daughter having died?” Mink asked.

There was no reply.

“Is that why you killed him?”

Still there was silence.

“Mrs. Bagshot, the police have come to arrest my maid, and she’s entirely innocent. I’m aware that the wallpaper in your husband’s bedroom contains arsenic.”

The widow held her gaze, then gradually her eyes sank to her clutched hands. “God forgive me,” she whispered.

Eventually she raised her head and looked out the window. She had no idea why she kept losing her babies, she said. Some died before she even realised she was in the family way. “But the pain of all those lost souls faded the moment Isabella was born.
She brought me a joy that I didn’t know was possible. I even forgot the loneliness of my marriage.”

It was she who suspected that the baby couldn’t see. Isabella wasn’t even three months old. She asked Dr. Barnstable to call, and he confirmed her terrible suspicion. When she wondered how it could be, he asked her about the failed pregnancies, as well as a number of intimate questions. “He said nothing for a moment, then turned to me and with the frankness of a butcher said that I probably had the loathsome disease. I asked him how it was possible, given that I had never been anything but loyal. In retrospect, it was such a silly question. I was in shock. To this day, I still don’t know who my husband caught it from. It could have been anyone, a girl with a pretty bonnet he’d spotted in the West End, or one of the ladies who hang around Trophy Gate. I caught him with at least two parlour maids over the years. One would have hoped for a little more imagination from one’s husband.”

Once it had been confirmed that Isabella was blind, her husband wanted nothing more to do with the child. “I still thought she was perfect.” Fearing his temper, she said nothing of the syphilis, and silently took the mercurial blue pills the doctor prescribed until the symptoms went away. Shortly after the baby’s diagnosis, she returned home to find that none of the servants would look at her, and she knew at once that something was wrong. Her husband sat her down in her bedroom and told her that Isabella’s heart had suddenly stopped, and that the doctor had just taken away her body so she wouldn’t have to see it. “After that I went through what he always referred to as my ‘hysterical phase.’ I couldn’t even attend the funeral. My friends went. They said it was extremely moving. Of course, my husband didn’t want all that fuss made, but I insisted on it.”

It was quite by accident, almost a year ago, that she discovered that Isabella might still be alive. She was rushing home through the rain when she noticed the soaked watercress seller still standing
at the palace gates, his tray almost full. “He looked even thinner than usual, and I offered to buy the lot so he could go home.” She suggested he accompany her home, as she couldn’t carry it all, and, sheltering him with her umbrella, they started up the drive. The man finally stopped thanking her when they reached Fish Court, and he read the brass nameplate next to her bell.

He waited in the hall while she fetched some coins, and the footman relieved him of his cresses. But he didn’t move after she told him to keep the change, and when, eventually, he got out his words, he told her he had something to tell her. “He looked in such a state I immediately showed him into the library.” Clutching his sodden cap in front of him, he told her that when he had no means for a bed for the night he was in the habit of sleeping in an empty coffin at the undertaker’s in East Molesey. One night, four years ago, he had just climbed in through the window when he heard a noise and hid behind a door. He watched through the crack as the undertaker’s apprentice walked in carrying a sack, which he put inside a tiny white coffin, and screwed down the lid. Once the apprentice had left, he came out of his hiding place and looked at the nameplate. While he was not one for letters, he had never forgotten the name, and what he had witnessed had troubled him ever since. He had never told anyone, fearing the consequences of Mr. Blood knowing he had been sleeping in his premises. Nor did he want to meddle in other people’s business, especially that of the rich. “I was just grateful that he told me and I asked him to keep it to himself. I bought from him regularly after that.”

Mrs. Bagshot paused, her gaze drifting out the window. “Sometimes I wonder what the apprentice put in the coffin. Was it stones or a bag of flour, perhaps? Did he weigh it in his hands, wondering whether it matched the weight of a three-month-old baby? Did he pick up his own child to check? Did I, week after week, year after year, put flowers on the grave of a dead cat washed
up in the Thames, weeping for its loss? And how much money was that man offered until he agreed to ruin my life?”

The two women sat in silence until Mrs. Bagshot continued.

She immediately went to find the apprentice, but Mr. Blood had fired him years ago and had no idea where he was. “So I went looking for him. I had to call on most of the undertakers in London, but eventually I found him in his lodging house. I told the housekeeper I was an aunt, and she let me go up to his room. He was in bed at the time. Of course he denied everything. So I got my husband’s pistol out of my bag and pointed it at him, at which stage he lost control of his bladder and finally had the good grace to tell me the truth: Dr. Barnstable had paid him to fill the coffin with the weight of a small baby. He had no idea why, and just took the money, which a pickpocket stole from him anyway. I then cocked the gun and warned him that if he ever did anything like that ever again, I would find him and see to it that it was the last time.”