The Cat's Paw Cozy Mysteries

by Fiona Snyckers

  Fay had her doubts. There were at least four other lakes throughout the United Kingdom that had a better claim to be regarded as the final resting place of Excalibur, which had probably never existed in the first place.

  What troubled her now was that there was not the slightest gleam of light coming from the cabin. Just as she had feared, the windows were tightly shuttered and there was no sign of life. It looked like the Cat’s Paw crew had got it wrong after all.

  Switching the car off and dousing the headlights, Fay decided to walk once around the cabin before calling it a night and going home. There probably wasn’t another person for miles.

  But as she circumnavigated the dark cabin she heard an unexpected sound – the rise and fall of a low-voiced conversation. She stood still, trying to make out what was being said but the voices were indistinct. Fay walked up to the front door. It was possible that she was about to disturb a fishing party, but she didn’t think so. She knocked loudly.

  The voices stopped. There was a short pause and then the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door creaked open and Fay found herself looking into the face of Henry Bessinger from the antiques fair.

  “Hello,” she said. “Is this where the seminar is being held?”

  He stared at her. Fay held out her invitation.

  “You invited me, remember?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t expect…” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here and that must mean that you are dedicated to the cause. Please, come in.”

  Fay could have told him that she was dedicated to finding out who killed Desmond Pinkerton, but it was better for him to think that she was one of them. He led her through the kitchen of the rustic cabin to a room at the back. He pushed open the door and announced her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to our last-minute guest.”

  If the people in the room were surprised to see Fay, they hid it well. Marigold Bessinger and Cecil Travis nodded at her. Mrs. Tribble from the library raised a hand in greeting and her assistant Paul Leblanc did too. The sight of Mrs. Tribble sitting in an armchair sipping tea and nibbling on a ginger biscuit made Fay wonder if she had been too quick to dismiss her as a suspect. Was it possible that she could have slipped away from her work station, whacked Desmond Pinkerton over the head, and slipped back again without Fay noticing?

  Anything was possible, but it wasn’t likely.

  “I’ve been asking around about you, Miss Penrose,” said Henry. “Mrs. Tribble here, for example, knows you rather well. I can’t find a single person who knew that you were a collector of antiques.”

  Fay didn’t blink. “That’s because I’m not. Most antiques leave me cold. But I am very interested in anything relating to the period when Eleanor of Castile was the queen-consort of England. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  There was rather a long silence. Fay wondered if she had said the wrong thing.

  “Hmm,” said Henry. “Well, I think we all appreciate your candor. There can be no doubt that you are one of us, Miss Penrose.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Cecil Travis. “Would you mind telling us how you came to hear about Eleanor and our cause?”

  Fay had been expecting this. “I heard rumors when I worked as a police detective in New York City. I decided to find out for myself whether they were true.”

  Cecil nodded as though this made perfect sense.

  “Then I just have one more question before we begin the seminar,” said Henry. “Can you tell us, Miss Penrose, what title Eleanor inherited from her mother and held until her death?”

  Chapter 10

  Fay’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “Eleanor’s mother was Joan, the Countess of Ponthieu – a title she held in her own right. When she died, the title passed to Eleanor. The County of Ponthieu formed part of her dowry and moved under English control through Eleanor’s marriage to Edward. It was one of the disputed territories during the Hundred Years’ War and eventually moved back to French control.”

  Henry couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “You are more knowledgeable than I expected.”

  Fay smiled. She had her police training to thank. It had taught her to remember all the important names, dates, and places contained in any document she read. She hadn’t been consciously memorizing Eleanor’s details, but the facts had stuck anyway.

  The seminar was about to begin. Fay took a seat next to Mrs. Tribble.

  “Evening, Mrs. T. I didn’t know you knew these people.”

  “Oh, I don’t, dear. I met Henry and Marigold at the antiques fair this morning just like you. Paul and I are keen medievalists, so we decided to come along.”

  “That’s right,” said her assistant. “Once we had cracked the code on the invitation, we were more intrigued than ever.”

  “As we all know,” began Henry, raising his voice. “Our beloved Eleanor was a great patron of the arts and of literature. Under her patronage, painting and especially the art of tapestry design flourished in the late twelve-hundreds.”

  “Tapestry was regarded as a womanly art,” said Marigold. “Eleanor’s support for it can be seen as an early form of feminism.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Yes, dear. If you say so. But Eleanor’s greatest contribution to English cultural life was the Scriptorum that she formed and kept going for decades. Perhaps our newest arrival can tell us more about that.”

  Henry looked at Fay. He was trying to catch her off guard again.

  “The Scriptorum was a kind of college of writers and illustrators that Eleanor used to copy out any manuscripts that took her fancy,” said Fay. “She enjoyed the lives of saints and some of the tales from mythology and from the Bible. Thanks to Eleanor’s Scriptorum a huge number of illustrated stories became available to English society.”

  Mrs. Tribble looked impressed, but Henry remained impassive.

  “Correct. As any history book will tell you. What the books won’t tell you is about the secret clues that Eleanor had her writers and illustrators conceal in certain manuscripts.”

  “We believe that Eleanor came to England as a teenage girl with more than just the County of Ponthieu as her dowry,” Marigold said, taking up the story. “We believe she also travelled with priceless Spanish artefacts and a king’s ransom of jewelry sewn into the hems of her garments. Her father Ferdinand gave these to her without Edward’s knowledge. They were intended to give her something to fall back on if the English court turned against her.”

  “It was a volatile time in English history,” said Fay.

  “Very volatile,” agreed Marigold. “Edward’s claim to the throne was secure in blood but uncertain in battle. No sooner did Edward and Eleanor arrive back in England than the Second Barons’ War broke out. Eleanor was separated from Edward and spent time at Windsor Castle and at Westminster Palace. She was virtually a prisoner in these places. It is said that she worried about the fate of her future children, and particularly any daughters she may have. So, she got her scribes and illustrators to hide clues about the whereabouts of her fortune in certain manuscripts so that her children could find them later.”

  “But then of course Edward’s army defeated the Barons,” said Henry, taking up the story again. “He and Eleanor took over the reins of government and their position became much more secure. Eleanor started gathering property in her own name and her daughters were safely disposed of in marriage to various European royalty. There is a good chance that she forgot all about the fortune she had brought over as part of her dowry and that its whereabouts have been lost to history. There are only a few of us Eleanor enthusiasts who are determined to find the lost manuscripts and to decipher their secret. There is every reason to hope that the rare artefacts and jewels of Castile are still awaiting discovery somewhere.”

  An excited murmur rippled around the room.

  “How thrilling.” Mrs. Tribble turned to Fay. “Imagine being t
he person to break one of the codes and discover where to find some priceless artefact. It’s like being a detective of history.”

  “If medieval scholars haven’t been able to break the code after all these centuries, I don’t see how we’ll manage it.”

  “Hush,” said Paul. “That’s what Henry will talk about now.”

  He was right. Henry launched into a lecture about medieval cryptography, symbolism, and code-breaking. Fay tuned him out. She wasn’t interested in chasing after priceless antiques that may not have existed in the first place. Her only interest was in who had decided to snuff out Desmond Pinkerton’s life when he was only fifty-nine years old. Instead of listening to Henry expounding on ciphers that were popular in the thirteenth century, Fay focused on watching the reactions of her fellow seminar goers.

  The most obvious person to watch was Henry himself. There was no doubt that he took this more seriously than anything else in his life. The depth of his scholarship into medieval codes was astounding. He must have been studying it for years. It was clear that the political intrigues of the middle ages had more reality for him than anything that was happening in the present day. A Republican and a Democrat sitting at a bar in Brooklyn could not feel more passionately about current affairs than Henry Bessinger felt about the inner workings of the court of Edward I.

  His wife was right there with him. Not only did Marigold feel just as strongly about the middle ages as her husband, but her views were different to his, which led to some titanic battles.

  Fay could see on her face that she was frustrated by her husband’s slow and methodical method of teaching medieval codes. She longed to take over the lecture and make everything go faster. Would the two of them cooperate if they were hot on the trail of Eleanor’s dowry? Or would they stab each other in the back to get to it first? And would that stabbing be literal or metaphorical?

  Then there was Mrs. Tribble. Unless she was an excellent actress, this was all new to her. She hadn’t been searching for Eleanor’s dowry for years. It interested her, but two days ago when a medieval candlestick had been brought down on the back of Desmond Pinkerton’s head, she hadn’t even heard of it.

  Paul Leblanc was harder to read. He was here as Mrs. Tibble’s assistant. He listened to Henry’s lecture with an air of polite interest. Once, Fay caught him stifling a yawn. She could hardly blame him. She was having to concentrate hard to keep from yawning herself. She was determined not to lose sight of the fact that Paul was the only other person, besides herself, Mrs. Tribble, and Mr. Pinkerton, who had been in the library at the time of the murder.

  Then there was Cecil Travis, the man who stood to inherit everything Desmond Pinkerton owned. If that turned out to be much, Fay would be surprised. But perhaps the shop wasn’t the point. Perhaps Desmond had stumbled onto something related to Eleanor’s dowry. That discovery might have been what got him killed. Cecil would be the person that any cop would look hardest at. Any cop except Constable Chegwin and Sergeant Jones. The last Fay heard they were investigating the possibility that Pinkerton had suffered an epileptic fit and hit his own head against the library shelves. She just hoped they had gone through the motions of sending the candlestick off for testing.

  Henry’s lecture was winding down at last. Even the most diehard enthusiasts like Marigold and Cecil seemed relieved.

  Marigold hopped up and started to applaud just as it looked as though Henry was about to launch into another side topic.

  “That’s marvelous, darling. Thank you so much. I think we all learned a lot tonight and really appreciate your sharing your knowledge with us.”

  “But I wasn’t quite finished…”

  “I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea. People can approach you individually during the break if they need further explanation. Could we give Henry a final round of applause?”

  Everyone clapped wildly. It was as though they were afraid that if they didn’t applaud loudly enough he might carry on talking.

  There was a general movement towards the tea table.

  Like every cop she knew, Fay was a hardened coffee drinker. But since coming to Bluebell Island, she had learned to appreciate the merits of tea, particularly at night. She stood in line at the table and made herself a cup of tea with milk, took a choc-chip cookie, and looked around for someone to talk to. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity to find out what people had been doing while Desmond Pinkerton was hit over the head. She already knew what Mrs. Tribble and Paul Leblanc had been doing, but the other three remained a mystery.

  Henry and Cecil were deep in conversation with Mrs. Tribble, so Fay moved on to Marigold.

  “Have you enjoyed your stay on Bluebell Island?” she asked.

  “Oh, certainly. We always have a good time here. We come twice a year – in the spring and in the autumn. It’s always lovely, and somehow the weather is always a little better than on the mainland.”

  “I think that’s because we’re quite far south here. Do you always stay in the same place when you’re in the village?”

  “We used to try out different B&B’s. We even stayed at the Royal Hotel once. Then we found a place that really suited us and have been staying there ever since. It’s in one of those roads that runs parallel to the high street. It’s called the Cracked Spine. Do you know it?”

  “Of course. It’s run by a friend of my late grandmother - Nella Harcourt. I love the coffeeshop and of course I absolutely adore the bookshop. And Nella offers the best cream teas in the village.”

  “Quite right. Henry and I like it so much we recommended it to all our friends.”

  “Were any of the other exhibitors staying there?”

  “Why yes. Quite a few of them, including Cecil over there and poor old Desmond.”

  “Speaking of Mr. Pinkerton – what do you think happened to him? You must have known him quite well through your professional association.”

  “That’s easy enough to answer, my dear. I know exactly what happened to him.”

  Chapter 11

  Marigold lowered her voice. “It was government agents.”

  “Is that so?” said Fay.

  “It was indeed. They’ve known for years that we’re on the trail of Eleanor’s dowry. As long as they think we won’t find it, they leave us alone. But whenever we make a significant discovery they start monitoring us again.”

  “How do they monitor you?”

  “They tap our phones.” Marigold mimed holding a phone to her ear. “You can always hear it when there’s a tap on your line. Your voice has a funny echo and you can hear clicks and whistles. It’s unmistakable.”

  “And how do you…”

  “Your emails too.” Marigold wasn’t finished. “They intercept your emails and all cellphone communication. Everything is monitored and recorded.”

  “And what does this have to do with Desmond’s death?”

  “They took him out because he was getting too close to the dowry. He had found something that he wasn’t sharing with the rest of us. Somehow the government got wind of it – thanks to their constant surveillance.”

  “Why do you think the government is keeping tabs on the search for Eleanor’s dowry?”

  “Because they want it for themselves, of course.” Fay’s ignorance seemed to irritate her. “They will claim that it belongs to the Crown because it was originally the property of an English queen.”

  “I suppose that’s fair enough.”

  “Fair enough? It’s not fair at all. We’re the ones putting in all the work! Finders keepers – that’s the law.”

  Fay was pretty sure that this was not the law – either in England or America. But she said nothing.

  “It’s not right for the government to spy on its own people,” said Marigold. “And the moment we manage to find something through our own hard work and cleverness, they swoop in and take it all away. And it’s really not right for them to have assassinated poor Desmond.”

  “You think that’s what happened to h
im? That the government assassinated him?”

  “Yes! Maybe it was the CIA.”

  Fay could have pointed out that the CIA was an American organization that had nothing to do with England, but again she kept quiet. Something Marigold had said interested her more than her conspiracy theories.

  “What makes you think Desmond found something that he wasn’t sharing with the rest of you?”

  “You should have seen him over the last few days. He was like a child with a secret. He and Henry had found some old manuscripts and divided them up, so they could work on them separately. Desmond was very excited about the manuscripts until one day he pretended to lose interest. He said there was nothing of significance in any of them but refused to let Henry take a look. From then on, he had an air of suppressed excitement about him that made us all sure he had stumbled onto something. And now he’s dead. He must have made the mistake of telling someone about it. The CIA found out and bam no more Desmond.”

  “Wow.”

  Marigold caught her husband’s eye. “Excuse me a second – Henry wants to speak to me.”

  Fay finished off her tea and nibbled at her cookie. Henry and Marigold embarked on an intense, low-voiced conversation. Cecil was now on his own, so she took the opportunity to speak to him.

  “I’ve just heard an amazing story about your late boss,” she said.

  Cecil rolled his eyes. “About how he was assassinated by the CIA? I saw you talking to Marigold. She should spend more time living in the present. She has so much knowledge and insight into what was going on in the Middle Ages but absolutely no clue about today. She believes that if she read it on the internet, it must be the truth.”

  “Is Henry also like that?”

  “Henry is more clued up about the present than Marigold. But when it comes to the Middle Ages, she is a more brilliant scholar than him. Henry tends to believe everything he has ever read about the Middle Ages. If you mention the Illuminati and the Masons, he will believe any story you care to tell him.”