Free The Pigeon Pie Mystery by Julia Stuart Page B

tourists. The Princess and the General turned to see the organ grinder who was normally pitched outside Trophy Gate, much to the misery of the sentries who had to endure the same pitiful song played at a staggering variety of wrong tempos. Wearing a billycock hat with a broken brim, he slowly cranked his instrument of torment with a peaceful smile, the frayed ends of his coat sleeves reaching past his knuckles. General Bagshot strode over and demanded to know what he was doing. He had been hired to play outside the window of Lady Montfort Bebb, he explained, still turning, but had decided to give a brief recital on the way in the hope of earning a few extra pennies from the crowds.
    Returning to the Princess, the General said he needed to go and see what on earth his neighbour was up to. He then leant towards her. “Do think about our little rendezvous in the HauntedGallery. Just the two of us,” he added, his eyes lingering on her chest. Before she had the chance to reply he suddenly turned and stared at a bespectacled man in a black frock coat and top hat walking briskly past, a collapsible rule tucked neatly underneath his arm.
    “That’s Mr. Blood, the undertaker,” he gasped. “Who the hell has he come for?”

CHAPTER IV
The Ruinous Consequences of Shirt-sleeve Pudding
    SUNDAY, MARCH 20, 1898
    OTH carrying umbrellas, Mink and Pooki headed out early to divine service, the rain driving up the earthy odours of the gardens. It wasn’t Mrs. Boots’s warning of having to sit next to one of the malodorous soldiers that hurried the Princess’s step. Neither was it the opportunity to thank the Lord for her numerous blessings, for, as things stood, they weren’t immediately obvious. What drove her from her sheets at such an unchristian hour was unfettered curiosity over the sudden appearance of Mr. Blood.
    A dignified scrum was already standing outside the Chapel Royal as they approached, the hems of their skirts wet from the downpour. Many were dressed in perpetual mourning, while others stood hitching their fur tippets up around their ears as defence against the drafts gusting down the Tudor cloisters. In the middle stood Mrs. Boots, with the exasperated air of a woman who had not only missed her steamer but just discovered that the next one wasn’t due for another week. Suddenly the chapel doors opened, and the ladies surged forwards with the determination of dowagers at a draper’s sale. The housekeeper remained where she was, her eyes closed as she waited for the storm to pass.
    The Princess approached. “I was wondering, Mrs. Boots, whether the Astronomical Clock has stopped?” she asked with a smile.
    “Not yet it hasn’t,” she said. “It will do, though. I’m certain of it. There’s gout, and then there’s a hunch. I’m not the sort to confuse the two.”
    “You strike me as a woman with the most dependable predictions, Mrs. Boots. I only ask because the undertaker was at the palace yesterday.”
    The housekeeper shook her head. “Disgraceful business,” she muttered. “I can’t bring myself to talk about it.”
    “Come, come Mrs. Boots.”
    “Rest assured, all the residents are still very much alive. Though between you and me there are some I wouldn’t miss.” The arrival of Mr. Blood, as well as all the other tradespeople, was a practical joke, she continued. “Who was behind it, I’m not certain. But my first guess would be the General, given his dislike for Lady Montfort Bebb. Not that I’m one for gossip. I leave that for the residents.”
    The housekeeper then headed into the chapel. In a whisper more penetrating than her speaking voice she leant towards the Princess and said: “The chaplain is in one of his states, if you get my drift, and has just had another row with the organist. I always lock the communion wine in a cupboard and give the key to the verger before a celebration. But the chaplain must have gone through his pockets.”
    Lifting her skirts, she led the way up the