The Cat That Got Your Tongue

by Fiona Snyckers

  “You need a new hobby, Fay love.”

  “Going home for a shower? I’d recommend it.”

  “Are you trying to start a new fashion, Fay? We can call it garbage couture.”

  The jokes flew thick and fast. Fay just rolled her eyes and plodded on. She turned off the high street and up the road that would take her to Penrose House. It was just after five o’clock. The dumpster diving had taken longer than expected. As she approached the doctor’s surgery, she saw a familiar sight. Doc Dyer was taking the air outside the surgery with his corncob pipe.

  “Fay, love!” he called to her. “Take pity on an old man and stop for a chat. What is that rather fascinating objet d’art you are holding?”

  As Fay got closer, he reeled back in horror. “Darling child. Not to be rude, but where is that appalling smell coming from?”

  Chapter 4

  Fay kept her distance. “Sorry, Doc. You’d better stay upwind of me. I had to climb right inside a dumpster to retrieve this.”

  Doc Dyer adjusted his spectacles and peered at the artefact.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, it was worth it. What an extraordinary find.”

  The gleam of interest in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “Do you recognize it? It looks like it belongs to the late Middle Ages or early Renaissance.”

  “Spot on, dear girl. You have a good eye. It is certainly very old. I would guess that it came from a church or cathedral in southern Europe in the late twelve-hundreds or early thirteen-hundreds.”

  Fay held it up, so he could take a better look. He couldn’t resist getting closer, even as his nose wrinkled at the smell.

  “Yes, yes … I see. I thought it looked Italian, but now I see that it’s Spanish. It would have come from a town like Seville or Granada. You can see the Moorish influence in the twelve-pointed drip plate just under the bowl where the candle would have fitted.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “A thousand pounds, maybe. It would have been part of a pair. If you could find its mate, the two together would be worth around four or five thousand pounds. It’s an incredible thing to find in the garbage. Someone must have thrown it out by mistake, not knowing its value.”

  “I think someone threw it away because they used it as a weapon to kill a man and were worried that it could be connected to them in some way.”

  “The body from the library? David is working on it now.”

  “I was hoping to see him. I’m pretty sure this is blood on the candlestick. I wanted him to test it and see if it matches the victim’s.”

  “All he’ll be able to tell you is whether the blood type matches,” said Doc Dyer. “If you want a genetic match, it will have to be sent off to the mainland.”

  “That’s fine. A blood type match would be good enough for me. When the blood has been tested, I’ll hand it over to Sergeant Jones to see if he can lift fingerprints from it.”

  “So, no one must touch it with their bare hands.” Doc Dyer nodded. “You can leave it with me. I’ll make sure that David gets it when he finishes the autopsy.”

  Fay had an hour before dinner.

  After showering and changing her clothes, she took the opportunity to feed the kittens. She noticed that they were all biting and chewing at their bottles and made a note to start the weaning process. As an experiment, she put a small amount of formula milk onto saucers and laid it out for them in the playpen. They weren’t very interested in it, having just been bottle-fed, but they all had a taste, which confirmed that they could lap.

  Fay looked forward to unbroken nights when she would no longer have to wake up to bottle-feed four kittens. She and Morwen were supposed to alternate nights, but in practice Fay had done most of the night feeds. She was nine years younger than Morwen and felt responsible for the kittens since it was her grandmother who had started the cat rescue business.

  As the kittens submitted themselves to an energetic wash from Smudge and Olive after their evening feed, Fay went online to find out what she could about Desmond Pinkerton.

  The first hit she got was for Pinkerton’s Rare and Collectable Books in Tabernacle Street in Truro. The bookstore had a website with a color photograph of the proprietor, Mr. Desmond Pinkerton.

  Fay printed out the photo for future reference.

  There were photographs of the exterior of the shop and several beautiful shots of the interior, showing its collection of maps, illuminated manuscripts, and leather-bound books.

  The ‘About’ section detailed how the bookstore had been in the Pinkerton family for over a century. Desmond described himself as both a buyer and a seller of old books. He frequently attended fairs and sales of deceased estates in an attempt to add to his collection.

  The bookstore didn’t seem to go out of its way to advertise itself. Desmond was a member of several societies devoted to book-collecting and was the co-founder of a society called RARE – the Rare and Antiquarian Relic Exhibitors.

  In a personal note on the website, Desmond described himself as particularly interested in the study of books, letters, and manuscripts relating to Eleanor of Castile.

  Fay had heard of Eleanor of Aquitaine, but this lady was unfamiliar to her. She opened a new tab on her computer and Googled the name. Eleanor of Castile turned out to have been an English queen, the first wife of Edward the First. Their marriage was a strategic alliance between European royal houses. According to Wikipedia, she was born in 1241 and died in 1290. She was born in Castile, which would later form part of the unified country known as Spain.

  Fay made a mental note of the fact that she belonged to the same region and era as the candlestick but couldn’t see how this was important.

  She clicked on the RARE website. It was a loose affiliation of booksellers, antiquarians, and collectors. They got together once a month to exhibit their wares and to sell to the public.

  We are always on the lookout for antique objects from the public and will pay cash for interesting items. Have a look through your basements and attics and bring your treasures to us for evaluation.

  These exhibition days were held at different venues each month all over the west country, which encompassed Cornwall and Devon. Fay was interested to see that the next exhibition would be held the following day on Bluebell Island. The venue was advertised as Church Square and it would be open from ten in the morning until six in the evening.

  Perhaps she would pop in to see how the members of RARE were responding to the death of their president.

  There was a knock at the office door and Morwen’s head popped into view.

  “Dinner’s ready. You can have it whenever you like.”

  The staff of the Cat’s Paw ate lunch together, but not dinner.

  “Thanks, Mor.”

  “I ate early because I’m taking the family from the Boscastle suite on a sunset drive of the island. That was a good idea of yours, by the way. We’ve had several requests for it.”

  “That’s good. Tell me, do you know anything about the RARE Antiques Fair and Exhibition?”

  “Not much. They come to the island a couple of times a year. It’s a popular event. People always like to think that their chipped old tea sets must be worth a fortune. Why? Are you thinking of buying or selling something?”

  “No. If there’s one thing Penrose House has enough of its antiques. It’s just that the man who was killed, Desmond Pinkerton, was one of the co-founders of RARE. The next fair is tomorrow. There’ll be people there who knew him.”

  “That must have been what he was doing here – getting ready for the exhibition.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking too.”

  “They’re an odd bunch, the RARE exhibitors. It’s like they live in the past. Things that happened hundreds of years ago have more reality for them than what’s happening now. You’ll see what I mean if you talk to them.” Morwen checked the time. “I’d better go. The Khans will be waiting for me. There’s petrol in the Jeep, right?”

  It to
ok Fay half a second to realize that she meant gas. “Oh, sure. I filled her up myself two days ago.”

  Morwen had no sooner pulled out of the driveway with her car-load of guests than the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house for the second time that day. Thinking Morwen must have forgotten her key, Fay went to answer. She recoiled slightly at the sight of David Dyer on her doorstep, looking tall, dark, and grumpy.

  “Dr. Dyer.”

  “Good evening, Miss Penrose. May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stood back. “Did we … have an arrangement?”

  It wasn’t like her to forget something like that, but murder had a way of pushing everything else out of one’s mind, and Dr. Dyer wasn’t the sort to drop in spontaneously.

  “We didn’t, but I have information for you regarding the object you left in my father’s care this afternoon.”

  “Oh, right. The candlestick. Come through to the kitchen. It’s the coziest room in the house.”

  As she ushered him past reception, Fay saw Mrs. Lark shuffling down the stairs towards them. Arabella Lark was a regular at the Cat’s Paw. She lived in Penzance on the mainland but came to Bluebell Island at least once a week for bird-watching. She was there so often she was practically a permanent resident.

  She was also hard of hearing and an incurable busybody.

  “A gentleman caller, Fay!” she said loudly. “How lovely for you, dear. It’s time you had a date.”

  “Nothing like that, Mrs. Lark. Dr. Dyer here just came around to …”

  “I’ve been so worried about you, love. All alone at your age with the clock ticking away. Tick tock, tick tock.”

  “I’m thirty, Mrs. Lark. Not quite an old maid yet.”

  “Are you as much as that, Fay? Thirty! The big 3-0. That’s a very anxious time for a girl. Very anxious indeed. This young man here is quite the knight in shining armor. You must be very grateful to him.”

  Fay wondered if the sound of her grinding teeth was audible to everyone. She reminded herself that the customer was always right and that a Penrose never forgot her manners.

  “Dr. Dyer, do you know Mrs. Lark? She’s one of our regular guests.”

  Mrs. Lark adjusted the spectacles on the end of her nose. “Oh, is that you, Dr. Dyer? I came to see you a few weeks ago when I lost my hearing aid, remember?”

  “I do. You threw it at a vole that was getting in the way of a rare bird you were trying to photograph, as I recall.”

  Mrs. Lark made a sound rather like a giggle. “My late husband always said I should learn to control my temper. I guess it’s too late for that now. You young people go ahead and enjoy yourselves. I came downstairs to take my evening stroll in the grounds. I find the night air makes me sleep well.”

  She shuffled out the front door and into the gardens.

  Fay led Dr. Dyer to the kitchen where he noticed the preparations for dinner.

  “I’m sorry, you were eating. I interrupted you.”

  “I hadn’t started. Morwen prepares dinner early and leaves it out for Pen and me to help ourselves. She makes enough to feed an army. I don’t know if you’ve already had dinner, but you’re very welcome to join me. Looks like its lasagna and salad. Morwen’s lasagna is legendary.”

  Dr. Dyer looked baffled. It was like he was trying to remember whether he had eaten dinner or not. Fay couldn’t imagine forgetting a crucial detail like that.

  “I remember now. I was going to join my father for dinner, but I got caught up testing that candlestick of yours. I think Dad ate on his own.”

  “Then please join me. We can talk while we eat.” Fay paused as though struck by a sudden thought. “You know, Mrs. Lark was right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This is a date.”

  Chapter 5

  David’s looked at her with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Fay tried not to laugh but failed miserably. “The look on your face!”

  “You were joking?”

  “Of course, I was joking. It was worth it just to see your expression. You’d swear a judge had passed the death sentence on you.” Fay’s shoulders shook with laughter as she scooped lasagna onto their plates.

  “Not a death sentence. Definitely not that. It was more that I was caught by surprise. It’s not that I don’t find you …” David stopped. “It’s just that I already have a …”

  He couldn’t believe how tongue-tied he was.

  Fay had mercy on him. “I know. I’m sorry I teased you. It was irresistible after Mrs. Lark’s ramblings.” She divided the remaining salad between two bowls. “How about a glass of wine? We have red and white.”

  “I walked here, so yes, thank you, I’ll have a glass of red.”

  Fay poured them each a glass of Chilean Syrah and sat at the table. She dug into her salad while he started on the lasagna. He glanced at her and smiled.

  “That reminds me of my years of studying in America. You eat your salad as a starter. We have it as a side dish to go with the main course.”

  “You were at Harvard, weren’t you?”

  “I was. I did my first medical degree at Oxford University and then specialized as a surgeon at Harvard.”

  “Don’t you find Bluebell Island a little tame after living overseas?”

  “Not tame, no. Infuriating, unpredictable, challenging – yes. Never tame. I became a general surgeon because I didn’t want to be doing the same operations over and over for the rest of my life. These days, I wake up not knowing whether I’m going to be delivering a baby by Caesarean section, taking out someone’s tonsils, or performing an appendectomy. Before I came here, the islanders had to take the ferry to the mainland if they needed a surgical procedure. Now they can have it done right here, and I get to have the kind of varied practice I always wanted. When I got out of bed this morning, I didn’t expect to be testing blood that I had scraped off a thirteenth-century candlestick, for example.”

  “And what did your test show?”

  “Nothing conclusive, but it seems likely that the blood belonged to the victim, Desmond Pinkerton. A police lab will confirm it, but I can say with a ninety percent certainty that it’s his blood. The blood type matches. B-positive, so it’s not particularly common.”

  Fay nodded. That was good enough for her.

  “May I ask where you got that candlestick? From the state of it I would guess that you fished it out the garbage.”

  “A dumpster in Mildgate Alley to be precise. I knew that whoever hit Desmond Pinkerton over the head had used an object to do it - probably quite a large object that would have been covered in blood. Sergeant Jones thought I was being ridiculous, but I’ve seen too many murder weapons turn up in dumpsters to disregard their value. I didn’t expect it to be such a strange-looking thing, though.”

  “My father is a keen antiquarian, as you might have gathered. He was very interested in the candlestick. He photographed it from every angle. I left him sending an email to various antiquarian societies asking for help in identifying it.”

  “He handled it with gloves, I hope?”

  “Of course. We both did. I just handed it in at the police station for fingerprinting.”

  “Do you know anything about the RARE antiques fair that’s happening tomorrow in the church square?”

  “Not really. I mean, I’ve seen them before. They pop up in different venues all over the west country. My father usually goes along to have a look, even though he doesn’t approve of them as a society.”

  Fay took a sip of wine and started on her lasagna. “Why is that?”

  “They’ve been after him to join their society for years, but he never wanted to. He says they are obsessed to the point of being unethical. The past has more reality for them than the present. They get so caught up in ancient conspiracy theories that they can hardly tell what’s real and what’s fake anymore.”

  “Could Desmond Pinkerton have been here for the fair? He ran an antique bookstore in Truro and w
as a member of RARE.”

  “That’s quite possible. Some of the exhibitors come over just for the day but others spend a few nights here. I didn’t recognize him and nor did my father. Dad would have remembered him if he had been coming here for years.”

  “I wouldn’t mind knowing who else from the antiques fair was in town yesterday.”

  A clanging sound made them look up. It was the cat flap crashing open as a large and shaggy cat came into the kitchen. The moment he saw David, he raised his tail in greeting and uttered a pleased meow.

  “This is Ivan, right?” Dr. Dyer clicked his fingers.

  “Right.”

  Fay watched in amazement as her least sociable cat jumped onto his lap, turned around twice, and lay down heavily.

  “I’m sure you don’t want him on your suit. He sheds like a demon and he’s soaking wet.”

  The Harvard-trained surgeon scratched Ivan’s head. “It’s fine. I see he doesn’t mind the rain.”

  “It’s that thick Siberian coat of his,” said Fay. “Nothing penetrates it – not snow, not rain. He must have his own built-in furnace because he never feels the cold.”

  “How are those kittens you were fostering?”

  “They’re fine. I built a nursery for them because they were getting too big for the nesting box. They’re still quite wobbly, but now they can move about and play.”

  “Do you think I could …?”

  She looked up as he stopped. “Yes?”

  “No, never mind. It’s late.”

  “It’s barely seven o’clock. Do you want to see them? They’re in my office.”

  She led him upstairs, hoping the kittens would be awake. It was cute when they lay together in a fluffy pile but even cuter when they were tumbling all over each other.

  “Now that’s an unusual sight.” Fay peered into the playpen in surprise. “This is the first time Sprite has shown any interest in them.”

  The lilac-point Balinese that Fay had brought with her from New York had hopped into the playpen to watch the kittens play. Now and then she extended a gentle paw to trip them up. The foster mothers, Smudge and Olive, watched with beady eyes to make sure she wasn’t rough with the kittens.