Nanny Piggins and the Rival Ringmaster (17 page)

So the guests returned inside for the soup course and more questions. Mrs Pidgeon had just set the last bowl of pumpkin soup on the table when Nanny Piggins burst back into the room. ‘I know who the murderer is!’ she declared. ‘Or rather, who the murderers are!’

‘Oh would you be quiet for five minutes so we can at least enjoy our meal?’ complained Mr Green, before noisily slurping his soup.

‘Noooooooo!’ roared Nanny Piggins as she threw herself across the room, and smacked the spoon out of Mr Green’s hand.

‘What are you doing?’ protested Mr Green.

‘That is poisoned soup,’ declared Nanny Piggins, ‘because Mr and Mrs Pidgeon are the murderers!’

Mr and Mrs Pidgeon laughed. ‘Interesting theory, Nanny Piggins,’ said Mr Pidgeon, ‘but we’ve only had two clues. There are three more to come, so why don’t you wait and see what happens.’

‘Hah!’ scoffed Nanny Piggins. ‘I know what is really going on here because I have been upstairs going through your underwear drawer, which incidentally is a very foolish place to leave your tax returns when you invite me over to dinner. Because I now know that you were both fabulously wealthy orchid horticulturalists who lost all your money when you were given bad tax advice by your lawyer, one … Mr Lysander Green!’

Nanny Piggins pointed dramatically at Mr Green.

Everyone gasped.

‘This game is jolly good,’ said Mrs Simpson.

‘You can’t prove it,’ said Mr Pidgeon.

‘Yes I can, because I have the entire contents of your sock drawer stuffed inside my lycra bodysuit,’ declared Nanny Piggins.

‘Even the socks?’ asked Boris.

‘Especially the socks,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They were the most incriminating part, for the socks had the monogram LG. And we all know that Mr Green likes to give people socks with his initials on them.’ (Derrick, Samantha and Michael each got two pairs every year; one pair for their birthdays and one for Christmas.)

‘But the murdered person is a mannequin in the attic,’ reasoned Boris, ‘and the murder weapon is a steam iron in the garden.’

‘Hah!’ scoffed Nanny Piggins again. ‘That was just a ruse. A decoy. A red herring. The real murder victim is Mr Green, and the real murder weapon is that bowl of soup.’

Nanny Piggins turned and pointed at Mr Green’s soup bowl, which she was immediately astonished to see was now empty as Mr Green spooned the last morsel into his mouth. ‘You ate it!’ she exclaimed.

‘It was delicious,’ said Mr Green. (He always enjoyed free food much more than food he had to pay for himself.)

‘But it was full of walnuts!’ protested Nanny Piggins. ‘And anyone who has ever eaten with you knows you are allergic to all tree nuts. If one passes your lips, within five minutes you will go into full anaphylactic shock!’

Everyone gasped again.

‘That’s right!’ declared Mrs Pidgeon. ‘I ground them up and put them in myself.’

‘Ida, don’t,’ warned Mr Pidgeon.

‘I’m tired of this charade,’ said Mrs Pidgeon. ‘I don’t care who knows anymore. We knew he was allergic to nuts because when we met him to get tax advice, instead of talking about our business structure he went on and on about his child-care problems, and how selfish his wife was for falling over the side of the boat, and how if we were to get him a thank-you present to not get chocolates with nuts in them because he was allergic to them.’

‘She’s right,’ said Mr Pidgeon. ‘He even gave us a list of the nuts he was allergic to and the brands of chocolates that he preferred.’

‘That’s actually very sensible,’ said Nanny Piggins, with begrudging admiration.

‘Hang on,’ said Derrick, looking closely at his father. ‘If Father has had a whole bowl of walnut-laced soup, then why isn’t he dead yet? He hasn’t even come out in a rash or started wheezing.’

They turned and looked at Mr Green. While he was a trifle pale and guilty-looking, he was certainly not dead.

‘Yes?’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you dead yet?’

‘I’m sure it will come over me in a minute,’ spluttered Mr Green, pretending very unconvincingly to wheeze.

‘You’re not sick at all,’ scolded Nanny Piggins.

‘All right, I confess,’ said Mr Green. ‘I’m not really allergic to nuts.’

‘But you’ve been telling everyone for years that you’re allergic,’ protested Samantha.

‘I just do it to make myself more interesting,’ admitted Mr Green. ‘It gives me something to talk about in restaurants.’

All the guests stared at Mr Green. He really was pitiful.

‘You should have taken a swing at him with the steam iron,’ said Boris sadly.

‘I know,’ sobbed Mrs Pidgeon, ‘but we’ve been reading so many Agatha Christie books lately and her characters are forever poisoning each other, so it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

The guests could now hear the sound of a siren getting closer.

‘That’s the Police Sergeant,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I called him on the upstairs telephone. I’m sorry, Mr and Mrs Pidgeon, I now have to citizen’s arrest you
for attempted murder. But on the bright side, you can spend the rest of your lives in jail knowing you’ve thrown a marvellously exciting dinner party.’

‘She’s right,’ agreed the retired army colonel (although he always thought Nanny Piggins was right). ‘It’s the best dinner party I’ve been to. And I’ve been to dinner parties in wartime when people really did get killed.’

‘Before the police arrive and take us away,’ said Mr Pidgeon, ‘would you mind if we go out to the conservatory and say goodbye to our orchids.’

‘I don’t see what harm it could do,’ agreed Nanny Piggins.

The guests all followed Mr and Mrs Pidgeon out to their conservatory. It was a beautiful glass room full of the most elegant and exotic orchids.

‘Goodbye ophrys apifera … goodbye vanilla planifolia …’ began Mrs Pidgeon, touching each plant fondly.

‘And goodbye to all of you suckers!’ cried Mr Pidgeon as he pressed a secret button in the wall, releasing a trapdoor and causing him and his wife to plummet downwards.

Nanny Piggins and the children rushed over to see a secret underground garage, where Mr and Mrs Pidgeon leapt on a high-powered motorcycle, sped up a ramp and out into the street.

‘I didn’t see that coming,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I wish we had a secret trapdoor and waiting motorcycle at our house.’

By the time the Police Sergeant was on the scene, the Pidgeons were long gone.

Later that night Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children sat around the kitchen table, trying to come to terms with the strange events of the evening.

‘Who would have thought someone would go to such elaborate lengths to finish off Father,’ marvelled Michael.

‘I have no trouble believing it at all,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘The greater surprise is that people don’t try to feed him poisoned soup more often.’

‘Do you think the Police Sergeant will ever catch the Pidgeons?’ asked Samantha.

‘Oh no,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘With their great gift for horticulture they will easily be able to disappear into the forest.’

‘It’s just sad that nobody ever solved the make-believe murder,’ said Boris. ‘With the Pidgeons gone, we’ll never find out who murdered the mannequin in the attic with the steam iron.’

‘Oh that’s easy,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I knew that as soon as we heard the scream.’

‘You did?’ marvelled Michael.

‘Who did it?’ asked Derrick.

‘Samantha,’ said Nanny Piggins.

They all turned and looked at Samantha, and she blushed.

‘And that’s how I knew,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Samantha blushed when she heard the scream, she blushed whenever anyone mentioned the steam iron, and she blushed when you found the tickets from Paris.’

Samantha blushed again.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nanny Piggins, giving Samantha a hug. ‘Blushing is a very becoming characteristic in a young lady. As long as you never have to murder anybody in real life, it shouldn’t be a problem.’

Nanny Piggins and the children were sitting around the dining room table, eating breakfast with Mr Green. None of them had intended to start their Saturday morning this way. Mr Green had got up early planning to go into the office before his children woke up. But in a terrible coincidence, Nanny Piggins and the children had also woken up early hoping to go out slug-catching before Mr Green surfaced. (Michael had a particularly unpleas
ant spelling instructor and Nanny Piggins thought a jam jar full of slugs in her handbag would sort her out.) As a result they all had to spend ten minutes hurriedly eating their breakfast in shared company. They got through the ordeal by not making eye contact or saying anything. That was until halfway through the unpleasant meal when a pigeon flew into the room and landed on Mr Green’s head.

‘Aaaaggghh!’ shrieked Mr Green, who did not realise it was a pigeon. He just knew something was digging its claws into his scalp. (Please note – should a pigeon ever land on your head, it is actually very unwise to shriek loudly. Pigeons are small-brained, nervous creatures and if you give them a shock they do tend to go to the toilet, regardless of whether they are somewhere where such a thing is appropriate.)

‘Shut the window!’ called Nanny Piggins.

‘Shouldn’t we be opening the window wider to shoo the pigeon out?’ asked Derrick.

‘Not at all,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘We should be tempting the pigeon to join us for breakfast, because look, she’s got a letter.’

Sure enough, when the pigeon stood still to nibble on the slice of toast Nanny Piggins was holding out to her, they could all see that there
was a powder-blue envelope tied to the pigeon’s leg with a red ribbon.

‘That is an awfully big envelope with awfully thick and fancy stationery to be tied to a poor pigeon’s leg,’ observed Michael.

‘Who would do such a thing?’ asked Samantha but, as is often the way with these questions, before she had even finished asking it she knew the answer.

‘The Ringmaster!’ they all exclaimed. (Except for Mr Green – he was still trying to get his hair clean using a napkin. Fortunately he used so much hair grease that the pigeon poop had actually slid right off and landed on the back of his suit jacket, something he would not realise until three days later when Nanny Piggins pointed it out to him.)

Nanny Piggins quickly tore open the envelope and read the letter inside.

‘Do you think someone is trying to kill the Ringmaster?’ exclaimed Samantha.

‘I’m sure several people are. His cellmate, the prison guards, the person he had to trick to get this lovely stationery just for a start,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about it. The Ringmaster is forever saying things are a matter of life and death. He uses the expression like most people use commas.’

‘You never use commas,’ Michael pointed out.

‘I know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They baffle me. Nasty little squiggles. I’ve got no idea where to put them. When I want to pause for emphasis I simply stop talking. I don’t comma.’

‘But are you going to go and visit the Ringmaster?’ asked Derrick.

‘Hmmm,’ said Nanny Piggins, as she thought it over. ‘Much as it pains me to do anything that assists the Ringmaster, I must admit that this letter does make me very curious. And it will probably be handy to have the Ringmaster owing me a favour, just in case I am ever imprisoned myself, then I can write to him and ask him to smuggle in a cannon for me.’

And so Nanny Piggins and the children postponed their slug-hunting expedition and caught the bus down to the local maximum-security prison instead. (They did not go straight to visit the Ringmaster because Nanny Piggins first had to drop by and say hello to her old friend the Governor, as well as all the inmates in D block, whom she had met when she inadvertently tunnelled into the prison on a previous occasion. For details, see Chapter 2 of
Nanny Piggins and the Wicked Plan.
)

Eventually the Governor led them down to the high-security visiting area. The Ringmaster was kept in the isolation wing because he was considered a high escape risk. He had tried to break out on only his second day in prison by using a length of electrical cord tied to the watch tower to swing himself over the prison wall, but unfortunately the Ringmaster was not a good trapeze artist (his legs were too short) and he had slammed straight into the electrified fence, causing considerable damage to his moustache.

Then three days later he had tried to make an even more spectacular escape by arranging for
a helicopter to land in the middle of the exercise yard and whisk him away. Unfortunately, he then got in an argument with the helicopter pilot about payment and the pilot took off without the Ringmaster. Ever since then the prison officials had kept the Ringmaster under the strictest watch.

So when Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children entered the visiting area, they were ushered into a long grey room with a bulletproof glass partition and intercom phones that visitors had to use to speak to the prisoners on the other side. There were several prisoners waiting for visitors that day. Nanny Piggins looked along the line but she did not see the Ringmaster at first. Then he stood up and shook his bottom at her and she recognised him instantly.

‘How are you?’ asked Nanny Piggins as she picked up the intercom handset, although she could see for herself he was not good. The Ringmaster had lost weight (even his bottom was slightly less huge than usual), his clothes were the bleak blue–grey prison uniform (a far cry from the red tail coat with ostentatious gold buttons that he normally wore), and the lard in his moustache was certainly not living up to its job. Instead of curls, his moustache hung in limp angles, like a hot chip that has been dropped on the floor and trodden on.

‘I’ve never been better,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘I plan to escape from here next week.’

An official voice crackled over the line interrupting their conversation. ‘Prisoners are not allowed to discuss, plan or refer to escape attempts,’ a guard said in a bored voice.

‘But that’s not why I invited you here,’ continued the Ringmaster. ‘I wrote to you, Sarah, because I need your help. The circus is falling apart. It may not be there by the time I get out. I need you to save it for me!’

‘What?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘I need you to become the Ringmaster!’ declared the Ringmaster. ‘Only on a temporary basis, of course.’

‘Why would I do anything for you?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘A man who has done nothing but brought me misery, trickery and several unpleasant kidnappings over the years?’

‘Oh Sarah,’ said the Ringmaster, grinning roguishly. ‘You’re not going to hold that against me, are you? What are a few hijinks between friends?’

‘You once tried to sell me to a butcher, for bacon,’ accused Nanny Piggins.

‘Just as a lark,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘I knew he’d never be able to smoke and cure you. And with the
money I made I bought the new coffee machine for the staff break-room.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Rosalind is acting ringmaster. Why aren’t you talking to her?’

‘Rosalind has left the circus,’ said the Ringmaster. There was no twinkle in his eye now. ‘She shaved her beard and got a job as a receptionist.’

‘No!’ gasped Nanny Piggins.

‘I should never have left her in charge,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘The pressure was too much. Just because you are a world-class freak does not mean you can handle a leadership role.’

‘But surely there is somebody else,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘They’ve all either run away or gone over to join that dreadful woman Madame Saváge and her pretentious performance art at the Cirque de Soul,’ said the Ringmaster, looking angry now.

‘Madame who? At the what-de-what?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘Madame Saváge. She’s set up her cirque just one kilometre from our circus,’ explained the Ringmaster. ‘It’s one of those awful artistic circuses where they play classical music and impossibly thin acrobats hang by their teeth from the ceiling for ages
while the audience is meant to contemplate their own insignificance.’

‘It sounds dreadful!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.

‘It is!’ agreed the Ringmaster.

‘But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘Look, I understand that you may have a few misguided personal resentments against me that have built up over the years,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘But if you’re not going to save the circus for me, then do it for all your circus friends.’

‘If they are leaving voluntarily perhaps they will be better off somewhere else,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘Yes, they’ll all think that at first, but they won’t stay happy,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘Circus folk are circus folk. It’s in the blood. They can no sooner hold down a regular job than a cow can jump over the moon.’

‘But Bessie did once,’ interrupted Boris. ‘There’s a poem about it.’

‘And what about Nanny Piggins? She quit the circus and she’s happy,’ argued Samantha.

‘Ah yes,’ agreed the Ringmaster, ‘but only because Sarah treats nannying like a circus performance. If anything, she has increased her daily dose of death-defying stunts.’

‘He’s got a point,’ conceded Derrick.

‘The world needs the circus. And not just so that children can spend one evening a year being entertained by something other than a television. But so that freaks and oddities, acrobats and artists, flying pigs and dancing bears all have a home. A place where they are appreciated and respected, not jeered and laughed at.’

‘You used to get people to jeer at us all the time,’ said Boris.

‘But only in the most loving way,’ said the Ringmaster.

‘I’m still not sure,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘Then do it for your old friends,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘Many of them have gone over to work for Madame Saváge with her promises of improved working conditions, holiday pay and lifts to the hospital when they hurt themselves. But they don’t realise what she’ll do with them once she’s tricked them into signing despicable 50-year binding contracts.’

‘You tricked all of us into signing despicable 50-year binding contracts,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘I know,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘That’s where she got them from. She stole one off my desk and photocopied it.’

Nanny Piggins sat in silence for a moment, taking all this in. While she regularly complained about the Ringmaster and his wicked treatment, and she would often recite a long list of the awful things about living in a travelling circus, there was no getting around the fact that the circus was her home. It was where she grew up. Where she learnt so much of what she knew about life. She was not entirely sure how she would feel if the circus wrapped up. But she was pretty sure she would feel very, very sad indeed.

‘All right,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I agree to save the circus and re-recruit all your old circus stars. But I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me, because I don’t think I would enjoy eating chocolate in a world where Rosalind is a receptionist.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said the Ringmaster, grinning happily.

Nanny Piggins rose to go, but she turned back to say one more thing to the Ringmaster. ‘Before I go I just want to ask – obviously you have your e-s-c-a-p-e plans for next week.’

The guard’s voice crackled over the line, ‘Spelling out escape attempts doesn’t make it all right.’

‘But just in case that doesn’t work,’ said Nanny Piggins, ignoring the interruption, ‘you do have a
trial date coming up in two weeks. Have you given any thought to hiring a lawyer?’

The Ringmaster looked sulky. ‘Overpaid confidence tricksters! I know they’ll just try to rip me off.’

‘Yes, now you mention it, you do have a lot in common with the average lawyer,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘But the reason I mention it is because I know you are being tried for tax fraud and I do happen to know a particularly devious tax lawyer who may be able to help you.’

‘Father?!’ exclaimed the children.

‘Exactly,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘Ah,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘There may be a problem there.’

‘Yes, we know, you framed him and ruined his life when you were at school,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But Mr Green is not a terribly observant man. If he does recognise you I’m sure you can persuade him you are your own identical twin brother or something equally despicable.’

And so, after giving the Ringmaster Mr Green’s contact details and explaining the best times of the day to badger him, Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children left to go and save the circus.