The Great Catsby

by T. H. Hunter

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “It would be something new,” he said. “Believe me, after decades of being cooped up in this place, novelty is rare and precious. You try out a lot of things over the years.”

  “Is that the reason you hold regular balls?” I asked.

  “One of them, yes,” he said, idly running a hand through his hair. “It’s the only way we can get to know new people. Not that my father cares for that sort of thing very much. He doesn’t really approve of partying these days. He usually just hides away. Probably better that way if you ask me, considering the mood he’s usually in.”

  “I understand he lost his wife – your mother?” I asked.

  Steven waved his hand as if brushing away a particularly irksome fly.

  “Yes, yes,” he snapped. “All very tragic. Happened years ago. At some point, you’ve got to move on. Especially when you’ve got an eternity ahead of you like we do. I mean, there has to be an end to the mourning period at some point, doesn’t there? I got over it eventually, didn’t I?”

  I was just about to inquire further when there was the echo of footsteps. Then, a young woman with red hair and a pretty face entered, heading straight for Lord Pembroke’s son.

  “ ‘Scuse me, your lordship,” she said in a broad, local accent.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said irritably, turning around. “What do you want? Oh, it’s you, Emma.”

  He suddenly seemed to be standing much more upright. And when he spoke next, it struck me that his voice sounded deeper, more mature.

  “The menu for this evening. Wonderful. This is Emma, everyone. She’s our newest addition to the staff. You’ll soon be witness to her excellent skills, I daresay. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

  “Well,” I said, taken aback by the question, “we’d love to, if that’s alright with you and Lord Pembroke.”

  “Oh, that old stuffed shirt,” he said, laughing, “he’ll hardly notice.”

  ***

  As we sat down, more and more guests arrived in the hall. Some seemed to be old friends that Steven greeted enthusiastically, while others received his full disdain, mainly on the grounds of being excessively boring.

  Privately, I couldn’t believe our luck. Perhaps Steven treated all new guests this way – we had been recommended to him through Alec’s channels, after all – yet the opportunity to have dinner with him was unexpected. Even more fortunate was the fact that Steven was more than willing to talk about the Pembroke estate and its history.

  Soon enough, the hall was filling up, though Steven informed me that most guests would be arriving the night before the ball.

  And then, Lord Pembroke entered. Without having seen him, I had pictured him somewhat as a copy of the portrait of his stern father hanging on the wall. Steven’s endless stories of his austere and humourless lifestyle did nothing but to reinforce that image.

  And yet, Lord Pembroke did not live up to it. Unlike the portrayal of his father looming above our heads, he sported no moustache. His hair was grey, too, though it was simply neat rather than held rigidly in place by excessive amounts of wax. In fact, Lord Pembroke did not look stern at all, and where Steven saw only austerity, I detected deep-seated sorrow.

  “Good evening,” he said as he saw us.

  “Father,” said Steven, “this is Amy, Val, and the Earl of Barrington – in cat form, over there.”

  “How do you?” he said politely.

  We all shook hands (and paws) with him in a rather formal manner. He didn’t seem particularly perturbed by Barry’s appearance. Perhaps he knew of the case. Or maybe he had seen so many peculiar things in his long life as a warlock that few things could arouse his curiosity.

  Conversation at dinner continued very much in the same vein, with the exception of a few interjections by Lord Pembroke. In the meantime, Carew had brought Barry a high stool so that he could eat from the table as well.

  At last, dinner was served. Since magic was strongly discouraged at the Pembroke estate, half a dozen waiters swarmed the long table, carefully arranging bottles of wine, bowls filled with Yorkshire puddings, steaming gravy, and plates full of tender mutton.

  “I wonder where Beatrice has got to?” said Steven, a frown on his face, looking at me searchingly.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t met her yet,” I said apologetically.

  “Oh, of course you haven’t,” he said. “I forgot. You’ve only just arrived. Beatrice is my auntie; my father’s sister. She’s got a sharp tongue sometimes, but I think you’ll like her. Here she comes now, I believe.”

  A woman in her late forties or possibly early fifties approached the long table, nodding occasionally to a guest she recognised. She wore an elegant, though clearly old-fashioned dress. It struck me immediately that she possessed much more of her father’s sternness than her brother, Lord Pembroke.

  Beatrice was followed into the hall by a very thin woman, who was a little younger than I was. She had dark hair and natural, pale good looks, although her face had a permanently pinched, slightly unhealthy look about it, as though she ate little and stayed indoors most of the time.

  “And now we are complete. Excellent,” said Steven, as the two women made for their seats at the table. “Introductions are in order, I believe. This is Beatrice, my aunt. And this is Sarah, who has been helping my father with some of his work.”

  Steven then introduced us. Beatrice was polite, but her eagle-like stare indicated that she was reserving judgment for the moment. Sarah seemed to be totally indifferent, until Barry was introduced.

  “The Earl of Barrington? Not the expert in therianthropy, surely?” she exclaimed.

  “Well,” Barry said, putting on an air of insincere modesty that fooled nobody, “I do my best. Are you in the field, too?”

  “No, not exactly, but I’ve read a lot of your work when I attended Warklesby’s School of Magic. I paid particular attention to your research in another area, however. There was an interesting article that I used for one of my papers…”

  And within a few minutes, Barry and Sarah were well away into the distant lands of experimental spellcasting and magical theory.

  The food, meanwhile, was as delicious as it looked.

  Glancing around the table, I noticed that Lord Pembroke hardly ate anything at all, while his son, Steven, had already helped himself to liberal amounts several times.

  Though I didn’t expect to glean much in regard to who was sending the threatening letters to Lord Pembroke, it probably was the best opportunity I would have to get to know his relatives. Unfortunately for me, Lord Pembroke hardly engaged in conversation with anyone. When he did speak, it was usually a request to pass an item on the table, or perhaps a reminder of a certain task that still had to be performed in the house.

  And yet, over the course of dinner and desert, certain patterns began to emerge. Steven spoke in an animated fashion with his aunt Beatrice, while he hardly exchanged a word with his father. Steven, so much was clear, was the driving force not only of the regular balls that were held at the Pembroke estate, but also pretty much all other things that went on in the house. One moment, he would have an idea and utter it, only to disregard later for what he considered to be an even better one.

  His aunt Beatrice seemed to be both amused and exasperated by her nephew. But whatever his fancy, she usually had a strong opinion about it. In fact, she seemed to have a strong opinion about almost everything.

  “I’ve seen many a government in my time, you know,” Beatrice was saying, pointing her fork around the table. “But with current affairs as they are, I think one can say with confidence that the current magical administration is the worst of the lot. I mean, just think of the way they handled the Gibraltar affair. An absolute disgrace. What do you think, Miss…?”

  “Sheridan,” I said, taking a sip of wine in order to buy more time.

  If truth be told, I had not paid any a
ttention to magical politics at all, though I knew that Barry was constantly complaining about the government, too. Then again, Barry liked to complain, so it didn’t really allow me to deduce whether it was as bad as he said it was.

  Not saying anything wasn’t an option. If I agreed, I might just come over as a sycophant, something I was sure Beatrice despised. If I disagreed, however, I risked showing my ignorance. I therefore opted for a third way.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I doubt the opposition would have fared any better. They’re all politicians, after all. They can’t help themselves.”

  “Ha!” said Beatrice triumphantly, making everyone around her jump in surprise. “So young and yet so cynical. Miss Sheridan, I like it. So what would you have done if you’d been in charge?”

  By trying to evade the question, I was just digging a deeper hole for myself. I was saved, however, by a timely intervention by Steven.

  “Please, auntie,” he said, grimacing. “Must we have politics at dinner? It hasn’t been the least bit interesting or exciting since the end of the war, you know.”

  “I just want to know where our guests stand, that’s all,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not connected to the government in any way, are you?”

  “Me?” I said, taken aback. “No, not at all.”

  “Good,” she said in a relieved tone, as though I had just tested negative for a particularly nasty disease. “At least you have some sense in you.”

  The conversation then drifted away to less controversial topics. All the while, I was trying to gauge Lord Pembroke. He hadn’t uttered a single word in almost an hour. But it was impossible to know what was going on behind that polite mask of his.

  Then, Carew, the butler, entered the hall. He hastened across the room until he stood right next to Lord Pembroke.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “But I did not think it could wait.”

  He held out a small, grey envelope. Lord Pembroke’s face went white as the blood drained from it. His hand shook slightly as it reached for the letter. He slid it open with the salad knife and read the contents. His face barely changed, though I could tell by Val’s reaction next to me that something more was going on.

  “Excuse me, please,” he mumbled.

  “Father…” Steven began.

  Lord Pembroke seemed to be beyond words. He simply handed the letter over to his Beatrice and got up from the table. It seemed he had entered some sort of dream world. Then, he headed for the door without uttering another word, followed by a worried-looking Carew.

  “What’s the matter?” Steven asked loudly.

  Beatrice was suddenly angry.

  “Shh, keep your voice down.”

  “But what is it?” he whispered.

  “It’s another one of those… you know what.”

  I pretended not to take any notice of what was going on, busying myself with the desert, though my ears were pricked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Steven lean in, trying to read the contents of the letter.

  “What does it say?”

  “It… it says there’s going to be…” said Beatrice in a hushed voice, “it says there’s going to be a murder.”

  5

  Steven cursed loudly as Val and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “A… a murder?” he whispered. “Are you sure, Beatrice?”

  “It says so in the letter,” said Beatrice. “Here, read it for yourself. I’ve got to see how your father’s getting along. This can’t go on for much longer, or he’ll go mad. We’ve just got to do something about it.”

  She got up from the table and walked over to where Val and I were sitting.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I’d better be off. Do sit with us again.”

  “Is everything alright?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said evasively, “just a little family matter. Nothing to worry about, I hope. Until then.”

  She then made for the door at the other end of the room. Steven, who apparently didn’t want to be left alone with the letter, picked it up and got up from his chair.

  “I think I’ll turn in early,” he said. “Haven’t been sleeping all that well. Good night, Amy. Pleasure meeting you.”

  We wished him goodnight and watched him follow his aunt out of the hall.

  “Come on, Val,” I whispered, getting up from my chair.

  “What?” she said, still eyeing the delicious pudding.

  “Time to take a closer look round.”

  “Right,” she said.

  Barry, sensing the commotion at last, tore himself away from his discussion with Sarah.

  “Are we leaving?” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll be back later. Val and I just have to freshen up a bit.”

  “Alright,” said Barry, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  I was glad that he didn’t say anything, however, for Sarah looked curiously at Val and me. It wouldn’t do to advertise that we were unnaturally interested in Lord Pembroke’s affairs, especially to his assistant. And something told me that Sarah was quite shrewd.

  ***

  Val and I left the hall, using the same exit as the Pembrokes had done. We found ourselves in a dark corridor, which was only lit by a few old-fashioned oil lamps. Most of the doors to our left and right were closed, though the ones that were open suggested that this part of the house was used mainly for storage.

  Finally, we came to an intersection with another corridor. Choosing to go left, we passed by dozens of little rooms to reach yet another intersecting corridor.

  “Where are we?” asked Val, frowning.

  “No clue,” I said. “It’s like a maze in here. And it doesn’t help that only a few of these oil lamps are burning.”

  “Carew probably has to do most of it himself,” said Val. “And without magic, that’s quite a chore. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a house with so many rooms before. I mean, Fickleton House is big, but nothing compared to this.”

  “Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “We should just…”

  But at that moment, Val clasped my arm tightly in fear.

  “There’s someone coming,” she breathed.

  Frozen to the spot, I listened.

  Val was right. There were footsteps, as well as voices in the distance. If we stayed where we were, we were bound to run into them. And then, there’d be some pretty awkward questions.

  “Quick,” I said. “Get in here.”

  I opened the nearest door at random. The room beyond turned out to be nothing more than a small storage room, sporting dozens and dozens of unused blankets and spare pillows.

  Once Val had joined me inside the glorified cupboard, I closed the door, plunging us into complete darkness, as we were below ground level. The footsteps were coming closer now. Crouching uncomfortably next to Val, I felt my heart racing and pumping like mad. I tried to control my breathing, but that just seemed to make it even louder and more erratic.

  I pressed my eye against the keyhole, trying to see who it was outside. But although I could tell that the voices were getting louder, the angle of the keyhole prevented me from seeing very far to either side.

  “… told you before, it’s bad form.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken, it was Steven’s voice. He had claimed earlier that he wanted an early night’s rest. What was he doing down here?

  “You can’t order me to do anything,” a woman’s voice snapped. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going through with it.”

  The footsteps came to a halt, just a few feet away from our door. But however hard I craned my neck, I couldn’t see who Steven was talking to.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Steven, his voice suddenly harsh and aggressive. “You’re making a lot of enemies, you know, including me. Stop it, now.”

  “And if I don’t?” came the stubborn retort.

  “Then it’s over between us,” Steven said.

  His voice had b
ecome icy. It sounded much more dangerous than when he had been overtly angry.

  “Then I’m ending it, right here and now,” the woman said. “I won’t be pushed around, not even by you.”

  “That’s your decision,” said Steven. “But you’d better watch out, that’s all I’m going to say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You heard what I said,” Steven murmured in a threatening tone of voice.

  And with that, he stormed off.

  I could hear footsteps coming nearer, lighter ones that couldn’t possibly be Steven’s. The woman was almost on our level now.

  I forced my face so hard against the keyhole that it began to hurt.

  And then, I saw her. It was Emma, the new maid that Steven had introduced to us in the hall.

  Gazing around, still shaking from the conversation she just had with Lord Pembroke’s son, she hurried down the corridor until I couldn’t see her any longer.

  “Who was it?” Val whispered.

  “Emma, the maid,” I said softly.

  “She… are you sure?” asked Val.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “She didn’t sound like Emma at all,” said Val. “Didn’t Emma have some sort of local accent?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She had. Yorkshire, if I’m not mistaken. But I’m positive it was Emma. The red hair. The face. Unless there were some sort of magical shenanigans going on or twins are involved, it couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”

  “You think someone might have taken her appearance – you know, with the help of a transformation potion or something like that?”

  “Maybe,” I said slowly. “But Steven certainly thought it was the same person. Remember how his entire stature changed when he saw that it was Emma in the hall a few hours ago? He was certainly attracted to her.”

  “Then why did she put on the Yorkshire accent in the hall?” asked Val.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “But I think it’s fair to say that she’s hiding something. And my bet is it’s the thing Steven wanted her to stop doing.”

  “But what is it?”