Pedigree
August 2015, Le Méridien, Miami, Florida
‘Thirty-five. Thirty-five years of age, you and me together, or a-part. A part we play, a part we don’t. A part for you, apart from you!’
‘Your Grace, please stop, you’ve jumped enough!’ Maurice’s arms swing up and down clutching the Duke’s tuxedo tail.
‘No Mau-rice, Ma-man said I could jump on any ma-ttress that wa-sn’t ours, es-pe-cially ho-tel ma-tre-sses.’
‘Your Grace, you might hurt yourself, please.’ Maurice releases the tuxedo and steps down from the heavenly king bed, defeated. His master, the Duke John Pettigrew of Uttershire, tries to swing sideways from one of the four impressively carved poles, but lands awkwardly on the California King.
‘No more monkey jumping on the bed. None fell off and bumped its head!’ He yells out of breath, pointing at Maurice.
‘Hello, yes, we’re in room 2016. Please send a doctor and security, I think his Gra — , um, Mr. Pettigrew may be having an episode. Or should I dial 911?’
‘Maurice, fetch!’ His Grace pulls a handkerchief out of his front pocket.
A pair of pink fishnets knotted onto the handkerchief land on Maurice’s face. ‘Your Grace, help is on the way.’ He grimaces at the sight of a giant plastic spider caught in the stockings.
‘Give me your arm Maurice, one little, two little, three little Indiaaans, four little, five little — No, don’t open the door! Quick, hide, hide, you thick goat.’
‘Stop hitting me, your Grace.’ Maurice shelters in the wardrobe.
An access card clicks and four uniformed men walk in, carefully inspecting the room through the hallway mirror before stepping inside.
‘Good afternoon.’ Maurice crawls out of the wardrobe and smooths his hair as he stands. ‘I’m Maurice Pettigrew, and this is his Grace the Duke John Pettigrew of Uttershire.’
‘I’m the floor manager, Chris Riley. This is Dr. Samuel Line. What is the problem?’
‘Maman says there’s no problem, only solutions,’ the Duke pauses from blowing into his sock, to distribute his words of wisdom.
‘Why are you half under the bed, Mr. Pettigrew? Are you hurt?’ Asks the manager.
‘Your Grace.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why are you half under the bed, your Grace? Maurice refused to hide, and I tried to save him, but now you caught us. I poisoned her.’
‘Mr. Petti — your Grace, hold my hand, here.’ The manager lifts him up. His name tag shifts slightly and he adjusts it promptly.
‘You can arrest me now, I confessed.’ The Duke says lifting up his white sock in surrender.
Maurice attempts a placating pat on his master’s right arm, but the disdain in the Duke’s blue eyes freezes him, so he hides his gloved fingers behind his back, and looks down at his shoes.
The puzzled doctor fixes his gaze on Maurice whilst taking the Duke’s pulse. ‘Is there any chance he is poisoned?’
‘We went to the Île Sainte-Marie because he’s been watching this TV series, Death in Paradise. The last episode he saw featured a poisonous plant that grew there, by the beach.’
‘Yet you are in Miami at Le Méridien.’ Chris Riley remarks raising his eyebrows.
‘Well, it’s French. We hate the French. Our name is derived from French: petit “small” and cru “growth”,’ Maurice says in undertones, ‘and his Grace wanted to jump on the mattress. You see, he’s been having such a hard time. I resolved to indulge his every whim. His mother died a few weeks ago. He also found Mr. Whiskers fried inside the barbecue, and his fiancée eloped with the wedding planner, a “she”.’ Maurice stands closer to the Duke assuming a most dignified posture. ‘I’m his Grace’s butler. He has no one else.’
The men gape at each other.
‘You share the same name, or …?’ Dr. Line frowns.
‘His mother, Eleanor Duchess of Uttershire, adopted me at birth from Kenya, to be her son’s butler. We were born the same day, you see. And since I’m black and bear no title, no one saw any impediment … I mean, I had to have a last name and they thought Smith too vulgar.’
‘You strike me as highly educated.’ Chris Riley chimes in.
‘I attended Oxford University, same as his Grace. He couldn’t have possibly been left without a butler.’
The Duke picks snot out of his nose and dangles it into the light. The open terrace windows reflect the peaceful sky melting with the ocean outside. ‘Enough!’ He leaps gazelle-like across the room. ‘All this nonsense bores me. Where are the police? Where are my handcuffs? Maurice, see that they bring the handcuffs straightaway. And arrange that we are put in the same cell. I couldn’t bear the sight of anyone else.’ He shudders loathingly assessing the two guards placed as statues at the entrance.
‘Concierge already phoned for an ambulance,’ the doctor says, ‘we will request that the police arrive too. Any medical condition we should be aware of?’
‘He is a Duke.’
The doctor ignores Maurice’s serious demeanour. ‘This might be symptomatic of dementia, but it could be poison, so we need a blood analysis. Who does he imagine he poisoned?’
‘The Duchess was murdered, but his Grace worshiped her, and his belief that he might be the culprit is news to me.’
‘All right. Your Grace, the police are to take you momentarily. You’ll be thoroughly examined though, it’s procedure.’
‘Will they check my buttocks?’ The Duke inquires staring at his derriere. ‘For hidden poison?’
‘No, no, no such thing,’ assures the doctor. ‘Blood tests, general investigation.’
‘All right, but Maurice goes first.’
‘I was hoping you should decide this. It’s very sensible indeed.’ The doctor concedes, to Maurice’s astonishment.
‘Is it mockery I detect, doctor? Us Brits are a joke to you?’ The Duke taps his shoed foot, in rapid cadence.
‘No, no, of course not.’
A loud knock interrupts them.
‘Police, open up!’
‘Finally.’ The Duke rolls his eyes. ‘You people know how to take your time. Then he says to Maurice, ‘Splendid performance, my lifelong companion. Bravo. But you know I always win. We part ways now, farewell.’
**
‘Oh, it must be the cups.’ His Grace the Duke John Pettigrew of Uttershire scratches his beard at the view of a blue Maurice being taken out of the ambulance.
‘What cups?’ The woman in uniform jots down signs she surely believes belong to the English alphabet.
The Duke wrinkles his nose in disgust but remembers public servants have no education in America. How could they live in a society where justice was entrusted to analphabets?
‘What cups?’ She asks again, unperturbed.
‘Maurice,’ he orders, ‘Oh, the cretin,’ he recalls he’s dead, ‘How could he do this to me? He knew perfectly well it’s impossible to find a good butler nowadays.’ He is certain Maurice held a grudge, but to leave him to fend for himself at the age of thirty-five, motherless, and unmarried —
‘Sir? What cups?’
‘Your Grace.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your Grace, what cups? The Sleuths Guide, it said if you sense you’re in danger always switch the cups. And I did, apart from two that I couldn’t swap on time and I spilled. The guide specifies that.’
‘Which cups?’
The Duke classifies the policewoman as retarded and with a deep sigh he declares, ‘the cups I was evidently offered, to drink from. The food was an enormous challenge, but I succeeded.’ He triumphantly turns his eyes to the sky.
‘Maurice,’ the law officer replies.
‘Yes, yes.’ He waves an impatient hand. ‘Having to acquire a new butler is not something I’m inclined to forget. Toxicology reports will discover the same poison in his blood, the one he employed on Maman. His luggage, or my luggage will provide more evidence maybe. Well, a lifetime of assiduous education and we could not eradicate pettiness. It was in his blood.’
‘You suppose we’ll detect pettiness in his blood analysis, sir?’
‘Your Grace. And sarcasm is for the rich, young lady, I doubt you can afford it. When will I be driven back to the hotel? I must rent a butler before bath time.’
**
‘Sir, DI Cooper here, sorry I’m late. I won’t keep you long.’ A tall man attempts to shake hands with the Duke but thinks better of it.
Why is he wearing this horrid trench coat? His Grace is curious, it’s so hot out.
‘Oh, I’m a bit under the weather, ha ha,’ the inspector appears to understand the once-over.
‘How may I be of assistance?’ The Duke’s voice comes off alarmingly sweet to the policewoman standing by.
‘One thing confuses me still,’ DI Cooper pauses, ‘who grilled the cat? And why?’
‘Two things, you mean.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Two things baffle you. You have two questions inspector, therefore — ’
‘Yes, yes, obviously.’
‘Maman did, to punish me for Judy, my ex-fiancée. Judy adored Mr. Whiskers. If anything, DI Cooper, please call upon Her Majesty’s Police, their competence undoubtedly supersedes yours.’
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