by Ruth Hay
Justine and the Catling Catastrophe
Cat Clues Book 2
Ruth Hay
Contents
Justine and the Catling Catastrophe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Afterword
Also by Ruth Hay
Justine and the Catling Catastrophe
Cat Clues Book 2
Everyone has secrets.
Nothing stays secret forever.
Returning to her Cornwall roots for rest and recovery may not be one of Justine’s better decisions.
She encounters a cat problem that almost overwhelms her, and she learns her past holds uncomfortable secrets that must now be faced.
One
I had made no real preparations for my change of location.
As I rode the two trains from Scotland to Cornwall, I began to wonder where I should choose to stay.
It was a way to distract myself from a deep longing for a certain Siamese cat who, I suspected, would be forever in my heart.
I thought of the old cottage on the clifftop where my earliest memories were, but that was far in my past life and this was to be a new start. There was little chance that the old place still stood against the winds of winter that drove through its flimsy walls and chilled every part of the place and every person who dared to live there.
I remembered my mother, Estelle, building up big fires of dried branches from the trees in the wood that was all that stood between us, and the wild Atlantic weather outside. Her constant fear was that the house would catch on fire while we slept and we would burn to death in our beds.
Estelle.
I could not think of her without shame. Our parting was not amicable. Words were exchanged between us in anger that I wish had not been spoken. In truth, I was not sure if my mother was alive or dead.
I shivered with the memory and drew my familiar knitted blanket around my shoulders.
All my possessions were in a case at my feet. One smallish receptacle was not much to show for a life that had taken me to some far corners of the world. But then, possessions were not all that important to me. It was better, and safer by far, to be ready to run from danger and not be hampered by objects that only weighed one down.
The same might be said about people.
I knew my psychic abilities were fragile in their way. Companions could not fathom their impact on me. Friends preferred to leave me to my solitary existence. I needed peace and solitude, much like others need noise and movement around them. I treasured the extraordinary mental capacities that allowed me to be special, different, and valued by certain others of my acquaintance.
So, where to settle?
I had recently come from a small village which gave me access to countryside, but that made me an object of intense local interest. I much preferred to live anonymously as long as fate permitted.
A remote location far from amenities? Not a safe choice.
A busy town used to the comings and goings of strangers? Possibly. But the chosen town must also have its peaceful areas and not simply a vast huddle of housing and buses, cars and continual noise.
Perhaps, a suitable house on the outskirts of a town, with all the health amenities?
A small place of my own, not too far from the sea?
It had been years since I could walk alone on a beach at dawn or sunset, and marvel at the endless power that the restless waves represent.
My heart sped up at the thought of it and I knew it was the right choice.
All that remained was to find this imaginary spot and settle in.
A long day of travel does not make for good life choices. I arrived at a hotel in Exeter, had a quick meal in the restaurant and fell into bed.
I slept for many hours, dreamlessly and comfortably, in a huge bed with the softest pillows.
The world looks different after such a restorative sleep.
Showered, changed, and fed, I set out to explore my options. I needed an estate company with substantial holdings in the West Country. I knew this entire section, comprising several counties, was a popular area for retirees who sell property in London and the major English cities, then escape to the countryside with full coffers, buying up the best homes in the prime locations. My search was not going to be easy with that kind of competition.
The one advantage I had was access to sufficient funds through a variety of bank cards I owned under various names. Unless I managed to live to a very great age, I would never run out of cash.
After an hour of browsing through main streets and viewing shopfronts, I found a well-known properties establishment with connections all over Britain, and a promise of ‘Exceptional Service’ printed over its entrance. This felt right to me so I entered and was greeted by a friendly, pleasant woman who was able to look past my ordinary clothing and appearance and listen patiently to my list of requirements.
“I am sure we can find something suitable in your price range Mrs.??”
I made a quick decision, based on my need to be untraceable.
“Justine Mercer. I am staying, presently, at the Exeter House Hotel, until I find the right house.
This information told her I was not providing more information than was necessary, and also assured her that I could afford good accommodations in the meantime.
“Excellent, Miss Mercer! I will start the search immediately. We have extensive online resources but I will do the searching for you and compile a listing of our most suitable matches for your requirements. May I contact your hotel when I have something to present to you?”
I agreed and shook hands with her.
Her desk sign told me this agent was Tamsin Preston. My brief contact with her hand told me she was confident, professional, and involved in a relationship with a young man who was not meeting her expectations and who would be on his own again before the week was out.
I exited the shop and felt free of decisions and problems for the first time in months.
I wandered through the Exeter shopping area, content to drift along without an agenda but aware that my right leg must not be overtired. My slow amble took me into an enclosed area, a gallery of shops where I hoped to get a coffee and newspapers before returning to my hotel room. I found a W.H. Smith and bought two newspapers, then proceeded on through the gallery toward the exit.
Suddenly, I was brought to a standstill. In front of me was a Pet Shop. One of these places where small animals of the most appealing types were displayed for passersby to see and desire to own. I detested this kind of thing. Animals are not a commodity to be purchased on a whim on a day’s outing, and neglected or disposed of when they prove more trouble than the buyer wished to take on. They are a serious commitment, in my view.
I turned back, the coffee forgotten, but the last thing I saw was a sign in the window advertising unlimited kittens and puppies ready to be adopted. The name on the sign was Crawley’s Cuties. That quick glimpse glued itself to my mind like a limpet. My eyesight flared and the surroundings grew dim for second.
I knew it meant trouble but I did not know, then, how much trouble.
Two
I sped back to the sanctuary of my hotel
room putting undue pressure on my leg, for which I would undoubtedly be sorry. I was still shaking when I ordered room service coffee and plumped down on the easy chair with my leg raised on a footstool.
My first instinct was to flee from Exeter at once, but I had been on the run too much of late and my energies were depleted. I tried to calm my thoughts with soothing words and promises that I would soon be off to the West Country and a quiet, peaceful existence far from such disgusting places as that Pet Shop.
It took a lot of deep breathing and a full pot of good strong coffee before I felt calmer. I opened the newspaper and flipped past the political chaos of Brexit news, and found a section devoted to trivia such as fashion and entertainment. I rarely used such information, but it served to distract me. Soon I felt fatigue overcome me and I repaired to my bed for a nap, placing a spare pillow under my right leg for support.
I remained close to the hotel premises for the next two days, resting and reading and gradually recovering my equanimity. I even ventured into the salon in the lower level where a friendly operative wearing a hospital-like uniform advised me to indulge in an Indian head massage followed by a cut and colour for my hair. This was a novelty, I could not resist. Seldom did the opportunity present itself for me to indulge in such luxury. I gave myself up to the ministrations of the salon owner and found the head massage to be amazingly therapeutic. The shampoo and cut that followed gave me a chance to study my reflection in detail. The mirror revealed a mop of longish blonde hair over a sallow complexion relieved by high cheekbones and the darker eyebrows and eyes that gave my face some distinctive elements. I looked long and hard at those brown eyes while Adrienne trimmed my locks. I could see nothing extraordinary there and yet, I knew I could see far beyond what presented itself to my outer vision. I had access to inner visions and dreams that were not duplicated by any other person, as far as I had been able to discover. I had been told how my eyes darkened to almost black and looked fearsome when I was in the grasp of one of my vivid images during psychic episodes.
It was this psychic ability that made me a valuable member of an exclusive team of men who endeavoured to give help and support to those in danger or, occasionally, to relieve criminal types of their ill-gotten gains for the benefit of others more worthy.
My active days in the team were now curtailed because of the damage to my right leg but strangely, trouble seemed to find me wherever I went. I never knew what, or when, I would be required to do something, and so I kept some energy in reserve at all times. At least that was the plan.
“May I have my glasses back now?”
“Of course! But you have such pretty eyes. I wonder why you disguise them behind such dark lenses.”
Adrienne could not know, but my spectacles were a way to prevent people from the frightening sight of my dark eyes filling my sockets when I was having a psychic episode. I found the lenses a daily screen behind which I could observe without being observed.
I declined the hair tint operation and returned to my room to find the telephone blinking to announce a message. Tamsin Preston had some house prospects for my consideration.
We decided to meet after lunch. Tamsin had a comfortable car in which she drove me to inspect the nearer items on her list. We were still in Devon and I preferred Cornwall, further to the west and south, but I thought it would be useful to see if Tamsin had a good grasp of my requirements. We followed the Teign River to its mouth, and then drove south along the coastal road to Torquay. It was a lovely drive in bright weather and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The sea was calm and blue under speeding clouds. I wound down the car window and breathed in the salt-scented air with delight. Tamsin kept up a one-sided account of her adventures in finding accommodations for clients and I was free to breathe and dream of happier days by the sea.
The small house, Tamsin pointed out to me was set high above the town of Torquay. It was one in a row of such houses and even from the attic window had only a brief glimpse of the sea. I was somewhat shocked at the high rental price, but this was a popular holiday area and overrun with tourists in the summer months.
Not what I wanted.
My guide suggested a more remote possibility in Dartmoor, which I rejected immediately. Such high moorland places, scoured by the wind, are always haunted with old crimes and old destinies that I wanted no part of.
At Tamsin’s suggestion, I acquired her remaining list of houses in Cornwall. I would hire a car and venture out by myself with the aid of a GPS. Should I find something suitable, she would do the conveyancing for me.
This was a fine idea. I greeted the suggestion with alacrity. I knew the mere address of some places would immediately tell me if I would be happy there, and that would not be easy to explain to my guide. I would be faster and more efficient on my own.
Three
The car was small, red and fast; perfect for the narrow roads I would find in parts of Cornwall.
There, the high banks that looked like tall bushes and trees interwoven with flowers and vines, concealed stone walls made to destroy vehicles trying to pass each other. This car could get me out of trouble quickly and on my way again.
I headed across country bypassing the Penwith Peninsula. I had no wish to stand at Land’s End and see the last point of the mainland of the British Isles. For the same reason, I ignored Falmouth and Penzance. Too many people frequently crowded there in the Cornish Riviera.
When I crossed the Tamar River, I knew I was in the true Cornwall. I think I always had Newquay on the North Coast in mind for my destination. I had a memory of accompanying my mother there to visit a lawyer’s office when I was a child. From the bus, I saw towering cliffs and small figures of people surfing through the waves with sheer abandon. I remember nothing else from that visit.
Newquay turned out to be a busy town with many amenities but geared toward holidaymakers with rows of houses dedicated to B&B trade. It was too frantic for my needs.
I could have driven north from there along the coast but something stopped me. Yes, the small towns would be quieter, but I would be heading closer to my childhood memories in the old wooden cottage on the clifftop, and I was not yet ready for that confrontation.
Instead, I went south. All I knew was that I would definitely stop and turn around if I reached as far as Tintagel.
Tamsin’s list included one available rental in a small place called Perranporth. I recalled hearing nothing about this port, so I was immediately pleased to see a huge curve of beach, cradled by grass-topped rocks and in that sheltered area the sea was calmed and reached the sands in gentle waves. I wanted to walk on that beach as soon as I saw it. It matched the dream I had in my head.
I found a parking spot near the harbour and decided to walk to the rental house and get a feel for the town. It did not take long for me to leave the centre where the main huddle of activity was. The houses were further apart as I walked slowly higher up a hill until I reached the summit. When I turned around, it was to see the bay and the beach spread out before me. Most of the town had disappeared in the slope I had climbed.
Now to find the house.
A short street curved into a hillside. On it were three houses. Only one of these seemed unoccupied. It was the third and last house. I checked the number of the house and the name of the street with my fingers crossed.
I was in luck. This house, in this location, with this view, was a dream come true.
Tamsin had given me the key to the lockbox on the front door. I took the key out of my shoulder bag and, with shaking hands, I entered the house via the covered porch.
It would not have mattered by this point if the interior was less than desirable. I could feel good vibes all around me. The rooms were compact, with furnishings designed for the use of two people at the most. The decor was a combination of country and coast with white-washed wood and blues and pale greens predominant. The windows, one of which I opened at once to let in fresh air, were swathed in white linen. A small bedroom was up a
short flight of stairs, in the peak of the roof and had the most amazing view of the bay. Everything else was on the ground level.
White china on open shelves, greeted me in the kitchen. The bathroom had no actual bath, only a shower, but I could live with that. I looked out of the rear window and saw no garden as such, only a small cleared and paved area with a blue chair and table. Beyond, was the crest of the hill and endless green. A pot of fragrant lavender growing beside the chair confirmed my belief that this place was meant for me.
I could have stayed there for hours, but I must return to Exeter and Tamsin, and make the necessary arrangements.
I locked up the house again and noticed it was called Sea View.
No surprise about that!
The walk downhill was much faster than in the uphill direction. I realized this exercise would strengthen my leg as long as I went at it slowly and gradually. I presumed my car would take me to the top of the hill most days. It could be parked safely outside the house until needed.
I reset the GPS for the fastest route back to Exeter. I did not wish to be driving on these roads in the dark. The route required my full concentration and I did not have time to indulge in future fantasies of waking up in that topmost bedroom and gazing out at the phenomenal view.
One thing was becoming very clear to me.
