Day 7
Poultry Game Bird Pie after H. H. Munroe ‘Saki’
“Another fiercely expensive pie from that Norfolk Pie sanctuary, you really must stop these extravagances” his Aunt poked the object on her plate with some distain.
“My dear Aunt” said Monty “with the Church stipend and the bequest from Uncle Stamford and my parent’s money too, my bank account can bear the strain of a small celebration in aid of the visit of my sole and favourite relative all the way from India. Before we discuss the pie post-mortem, how was your voyage?”
“I am old and this voyage was nothing but a stark reminder of the effort required to go to sea. The only calm part were the canal and Med - all else was squalls and discomfort. I think my next journey will be my penultimate Monty. I shall wrap up my affairs there post haste and return lock, stock and barrel. this time with rather more luggage” She pointed over to a carpet bag with umbrella strapped to the side and a vast, heavy coat hanging above them - she had travelled in full preparedness for a English summer.
He nephew cast a solemn glance both at the mortality of a woman who had in her pomp been an athlete but was now aged, slow and uncertain. She had fenced for her college and Oxford at one time but he regarded her as a major obstacle to be overcome in accessing the remainder of his Uncle’s fortune. He hated teh thought of her interference: his last relative would be much better able to keep an eye on him if she returned to London.
“Dear Aunt” he became as earnest as his flippant character would allow “this is indeed sad news, the good people at Cunard will be weeping into their ledgers.”
He leapt to his feet - “I too have made some decisions of late - I intend to move to Scotland in time for Christmas. I love the thought of being confined in a keeper’s cottage as the snow falls, pipe ‘n slippers, two labradors and a housekeeper.”
“Sounds idyllic, Monty, no bookmakers either!”
He frowned
“And I shall be happy to join you whilst my things are shipped over to Southampton.”
His face fell further
“Am I to take it that you were hoping the prospect of a holiday period in the cold Northern wastes with nothing to live on but potatoes and swedes would be enough to deter me from your company Monty?”
He toyed a graffetti’d copy of the Sporting Life - as though regretting his voicing of his escape bid. Defeated he brooded.
The old woman eyed him “we are each others last living relative and as such I think it only right we celebrate Christmas together and with our traditional exchange of inappropriate gifts.
Speaking of which my bag contains a small gift for you which, pie permitting I’ll recover presently. There’s also a considerable sum in cash in there but that is NOT for you.
They paused and turned to the matter plated before them.
As before the Aunt toyed and poked it. The crust proved to be insubstantial and damper within that she would have liked. The pie contents held together with gelatin and the substantial chunks of meat were welded in a marble effect.
“I fear for my teeth Monty - on the plantation dentistry is a novelty and such is my age and infirmity that I seldom get the attention they need.
“Well just try the pastry Aunt”
“Oh you are completely feckless Monty, your parents would be ashamed of your profligacy” she surveyed the cartwheel of a pie which had yielded only an eighth segment - sufficient though to feed both of them albeit with pickles from Fortnum’s.
“And what of your gambling debts? Are you content to fritter away your Uncle’s bequest on pies and women and the ill-judged bloodstock you seem to back on a daily basis?”
“My interest in racing is bearing more fruit each week Aunt and as my bookie notes, my knowledge of form grows each day”
“As does his bank account”
She took trouble to separate a single piece of breast meat - she took her time chewing it and pronounced:
“This is Guinea Fowl not Game - you’ve been had my boy!” She said indignantly “Moreover its over-cooked - tough as an old rooster, surrounded by this sickly geletine and the pastry is a disaster.”
“This pie - like you my boy, has no substance whatsoever” she continued “there is I suspect a hint of game about it, perhaps a smidgeon of widgeon...” she laughed to herself, he glowered
“It is nothing but a high class fake”
He shifted uneasily in his seat, his temples throbbed. He hated her and he had a pretty good idea that she hated him.
“I must just avail myself of your facilities Monty - take this away and bring me something edible. When I’m back we will discuss a letter I have received from your bank manager”
She withdrew and he fumed and paced the room.
When she returned he lay dead on the floor. Her carpet bag was open and a bundle of twenty pound notes in his death gripped hand. There was little sign of struggle but his face was wrought with agony. In the top of the bag a parcel of unknown content was wrapped in plain coloured paper topped off with an extravagant ribbon. A label bore the legend “Bray’s Cottage Pork Pie - for export”. Around the parcel a Banded Krait hissed at her approach. The snake’s fangs had been drawn back into their sheaths after penetrating the thick tweed on Monty’s thigh. The deadly snake had done its job. The old lady reached for the umbrella and twisted its handle. The sword hidden in the umbrella column was a Parisier of great potency and before the reptile could rear up fully, she despatched it with an advance lunge reminiscent of her younger days. The money and the dead Krait were not visible as she walked out of the flat with the carpet bag. The scene she left would of course baffle the police and worry the resident’s of the flats who would move cautiously for fear of the aggressive Indian venomous serpent was in their midsts.
On the table the vast pie and its half eaten segment lay uneaten.
