The Cat That Got Your Tongue

by Fiona Snyckers

  “I was just about to mention it.” He turned to Fay with a solicitous air. “Now, love. Don’t be alarmed, but the police were here.”

  “The police?” Laetitia looked over her shoulder as though an officer might pop up behind her. “What did they want?”

  ‘To ask questions about Fay,” said David.

  “Why? What did she do?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” said Fay. “They’re just following up on leads. I presume this was Detective Sergeant Bowden and Detective Constable Shufi from the Met?”

  “And Sergeant Jones too,” said Doc Dyer. “Although he looked embarrassed to be here asking questions about you.”

  “They were at Penrose House this morning. Apparently, there was a break-in at Pinkertons Rare & Collectible Books last night. And because I was at the bookshop that morning, the police came to me asking questions. And they know I was the one who discovered Desmond Pinkerton’s body last week.”

  “A body?” said Laetitia. “What body? I thought this was a sleepy little village.”

  “A rare bookdealer was hit over the head in the library on Friday,” said David. “We’re not sure if his assailant intended to kill him or not, but he landed awkwardly and now he’s dead.”

  “What a strange place this is.” This was delivered with a smile, but the words were barbed.

  “The only strange part about it is that a simple break-in seems to have provoked two senior detectives from the Metropolitan Police Service in London into action,” said David. “It makes one think there’s more to it.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said his father. “That DS Bowden chap seemed very worried indeed. I think something has gone missing – something of national importance.”

  “Property of the queen, perhaps?” said David. “She is the direct descendant of Edward I and Eleanor of Castile, after all.”

  Fay wouldn’t confirm or deny this theory, but it was a relief that the Dyers had figured it out for themselves. Now she had someone she could speak openly to.

  “There’s obviously something missing,” she said. “Something that is crucial to this whole puzzle. Whatever it was that Desmond Pinkerton died for has either gone missing or wasn’t the final piece of the puzzle.”

  “What could it be, though?” asked Doc.

  “I think it is more like to be a document than an object. Whoever broke into the bookstore last night was looking for something. From what Bowden said, the person was getting more and more frustrated, so we can probably conclude that they didn’t find it. I wish I knew what it was.”

  “I wonder if this has something to do with the legend of the cat that got your tongue,” said Doc Dyer.

  “What’s …?”

  The door opened, and Isobel stuck her head in.

  “Doc, your eleven o’clock is here. Dr. Dyer, yours too.”

  The men stood up.

  “Duty calls, Fay,” said Doc Dyer. “But come by the surgery after five o’clock this evening and I’ll tell you more.”

  Laetitia stood up too. “I’ll be on my way. I’m staying at the Royal Hotel this time. Meet me there for dinner at seven, David? I have a proposal to discuss with you.”

  David nodded, his mind already on his patients. As the men entered their respective consulting rooms, Fay found herself walking down to the village with Laetitia.

  “If the food at the Royal gets too much for you, you can always try that Asian fusion place two doors down. Their sushi is excellent.”

  “I like a good, plain dinner,” said Laetitia. “The Royal will be fine.”

  Silence descended as they walked. Laetitia wasn’t one for small talk, so Fay tried to think of something to say. At least in England there was always the weather to fall back on.

  “The forecast is good for the next few days. You can expect lovely weather for your stay. You might like to try one of the hikes that the island has to offer.”

  “I don’t think so. The weather is irrelevant to me. I am here for one purpose and one purpose only. Once I have accomplished it, I will be on my way.”

  “Oh?” Fay had a feeling that Laetitia wanted to tell her what that purpose was.

  “I’m here to persuade David to leave this godforsaken island. He is wasted here. His talents demand that he should be working at a large metropolitan hospital in a city like Boston or New York. It is incredibly unfair of his father to use emotional blackmail to keep him here. It makes my blood boil to see it.”

  “Is that what he does? I thought it was the opposite. I thought Doc had always tried to persuade David to live his own life.”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would a man of David’s caliber come to a place like this? It must be his father’s influence.”

  “Perhaps he likes it here.”

  Laetitia found this amusing. “Impossible. This is a man who trained at Harvard and Oxford University. I appeal to you, Miss Penrose. You’ve lived in New York City. Don’t you agree that David is wasted here on this tiny dot in the middle of the Atlantic?”

  “I think it all depends on whether he’s happy or not and what he wants to be doing with his life.”

  Laetitia snorted. “If he imagines he is happy here, then he’s wrong. He is hiding his light under a bushel. Now, I have found an excellent post at a teaching hospital in Boston for him. The opportunities for research would be unparalleled. It is a really prestigious position that he could have at the drop of a hat. It would be his for the asking. And best of all, we’d be living in the same city again.”

  “That sounds perfect. What did he say when you told him about it?”

  “I haven’t laid it all out in detail yet. That’s why I want him to have dinner with me this evening.” Laetitia allowed herself a small smile. “He’s going to be so surprised.”

  They had reached the high street by now. Fay needed to turn right to go the florist, while the Royal Hotel lay in the opposite direction.

  “It was good to see you again, Laetitia,” said Fay. “Enjoy your dinner tonight.”

  The other woman gave a regal nod and walked on.

  Fay crossed the road to reach the florist. Just the sight of it gave her a lift. Even the name was cheerful – Bluebell Island’s Bluebells. It was especially appropriate right now because the bluebells were out in force this spring. Large parts of the rocky island were uncultivated, so bluebells grew wild in great swathes wherever there was an open patch of land.

  Laurie Tennith, the owner of the shop, went out in her pickup truck and gathered them by the bucket load. Right now, her shop was a sea of blue, with bluebells spilling out onto the sidewalk. They were interspersed with daffodils, oxeye daisies, English stonecrop, and buttercups.

  Laurie looked rather like a spring flower herself with her halo of bright red hair, cornflower-blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. She always had a smile on her face, as though working with flowers all day put her in a good mood. Fay knew her because she had an ongoing contract to supply the flowers for Penrose House. It was an arrangement that dated back to Fay’s grandmother’s time. Once a week, she would arrive in her truck to set up a large arrangement of flowers at reception, several small arrangements for the breakfast room and the residents’ lounge, and bedside posies for the guest rooms.

  The gardens of Penrose House bloomed all year round with beautiful flowers, but Fay’s grandmother had given up trying to persuade Pen to supply flowers for the house. He flatly refused. And if she went out with a pair of secateurs to cut some for herself, he acted as though it were his own fingers and toes she were cutting off. So now Bluebell Island’s bluebells supplied the flowers – an arrangement that suited everyone.

  “Morning, Fay.” Laurie was as cheerful as ever. “There wasn’t a problem with the order this week, was there?”

  “It was perfect as always, thanks Laurie. I wanted to ask you about something else.”

  The florist had plastic gloves on and was snipping away at a bunch of hothouse roses. “What’s up?” />
  “Do you remember the antiques fair on Saturday?”

  “Of course.”

  “You supplied the flowers for some of the stalls, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Can you remember a woman by the name of Marigold Bessinger coming in on Friday morning to order flowers from you? She and her husband ran a stall under the RARE banner.

  “Of course. I know exactly who you mean. I’ve done the flowers for them before. They usually ask for a medieval theme. All the flowers in the arrangements must have been mentioned in medieval texts, paintings, or tapestries – like blue iris, hunting pinks, forget-me-nots, cowslips, and wallflowers.”

  “That’s such a cute idea.”

  “It’s a lot of fun putting it all together and coming up with the genuinely medieval arrangement.”

  “Can you remember if Marigold came to see you at about ten o’clock on Friday morning?”

  “Yes, she wanted to place a …” Laurie broke off.

  “What is it?”

  “Wait a minute. You said Friday morning – not Thursday?”

  “Yes, Friday morning. That’s when she said she was here.”

  “And the fair was on Saturday morning?” Laurie thought for a moment, trying to cast her mind back. “No, that’s not right. I remember it was two days before the fair that she came to see me. I told her that I might have trouble sourcing cowslips at such late notice and we talked about how I could substitute primroses instead. It was definitely two days before the fair. If she told you she was here on Friday, she must have been mistaken.”

  “She probably got the day wrong.”

  “In fact, I did see her on Friday morning and that’s probably why she got confused. She walked straight past my shop while I was outside setting out the sidewalk arrangements. I remember recognizing her and wondering if she was going to be happy with the arrangement I was creating. She turned off very close by here, which is probably why she thought she came here on Friday.”

  “Did you see where she was going?”

  “Not exactly, but it was close by. Maybe the library? That’s just a couple of doors down from me. She was carrying a pile of books, which is what made me think of it. She crossed diagonally in front of my shop and then disappeared.”

  “That’s very helpful, Laurie, thanks.”

  “You can always ask her where she was going. I’m sure she’ll remember.”

  “I might do that, thanks.”

  Fay stepped out of the florist and turned left. It was time to see what else was on this block besides the library.

  Chapter 20

  The library was hosting its weekly story-time event.

  Fay could see Mrs. Tribble sitting in front of a semicircle of preschoolers reading aloud to them from a series of colorful picture books. Their parents stood to one side near the tea table chatting in low voices. It was clearly not a good time for Fay to barge in and start asking questions.

  She circled the library, examining it from all angles. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. It was a free-standing building surrounded by a small patch of yard that was kept weeded and neat by the Bluebell Village Council. The library was one story high, but had a basement, which was where the archives were kept and where Paul Leblanc had his work station. Fay took note of the fire exit that led down to the basement and confirmed her impression that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. The killer might have got out that way, but he or she must have come in at the front door like everyone else.

  On one side of the library was Mrs. Tribble’s house. It was a tiny, double-story cottage on a small patch of land that Mrs. Tribble had cultivated into a garden.

  On the other side of the library stood the Bluebell Pronto-Print where you would go to have documents photocopied and photographs printed. It also sold photograph albums and picture frames. It was a deeply ordinary place. If Marigold had gone in there, it must have been for innocent reasons. Anything further removed from the Middle Ages was hard to imagine. On the other side of the print shop was the florist.

  Where could Marigold have been going? Why had she been carrying a stack of books? Had she walked into the library, picked up a candlestick, and hit Desmond Pinkerton over the head? Would she have put her books down before or after?

  Fay shook her head. None of it was coming into focus. A narrow service road ran along the side of Mrs. Tribble’s house. Could Marigold have taken that route? Fay set off along it, looking from left to right, trying to imagine what Marigold had been doing.

  Her foot caught on something and she stumbled.

  She stopped and looked back. The path was muddy from the recent rains, making it difficult to see what she had tripped over. She scuffed her foot against the ground, feeling for the obstruction. It had felt large and solid against her shoe.

  Suddenly she saw it – the corner of a piece of wood set into the ground. She brushed more sand aside with her foot and saw that it was much larger than she first thought. This was a sizable piece of wood, at least ten foot by five foot. The edge of it nudged onto the pathway but the rest extended into the grounds of the library. Then Fay saw the iron ring attached to the far end of the wooden rectangle and knew what she was looking at. It was a root cellar.

  Root cellars were a common sight on Bluebell Island. They were used in the old days to store root vegetables during the winter. Turnips, carrots, swedes, and parsnips were the only vegetables that would grow during the long winter months and were an important source of nutrition at a time when food was scarce, and the ground was as hard as iron.

  Two things were noteworthy about this cellar. It had been recently opened and there was a brand-new shiny padlock on the iron ring.

  Fay couldn’t imagine who would want to lock an old root cellar. Most of them were so overgrown as to be impossible to open. The ground around this one, on the other hand, had been recently disturbed. Some root cellars were still used by local farmers to store equipment or supplies. None of them were locked. This was Bluebell Island. Most people didn’t bother to lock their front doors, never mind their root cellars. Fay took a photograph of the trap-door, so she could remember where it was. Another rain would wash more mud over it, making it difficult to find.

  It might mean nothing, she told herself.

  Someone could be storing their power tools down there and have put the padlock on to keep them safe. But Fay had every intention of coming back to explore further. As she saw it, she had two options. She could alert Sergeant Jones to the existence of the cellar and let him do whatever he liked with that information, or she could come back later with a set of lock-picking tools to see what she could find. There was no doubt which was the more sensible option, but she already knew which one she was going to choose.

  If the cellar had been on private property, she wouldn’t have dreamt of picking the lock. But the cellar was on public land. As a taxpayer, she had as much right to snoop as anybody. The Bluebell Village Council might not agree with her on that but that was her story and she was sticking to it.

  Fay walked back to the high street to consider her next move. She wanted to hear more about the legend of the cat that got your tongue, but Doc Dyer would only be free again after five o’clock when he had finished consulting for the day.

  Her lock-picking activities should probably wait until after dark. She didn’t want Mrs. Tribble peering out her kitchen window and wondering what she was up to.

  She should go back for lunch now.

  The fact that her phone had been silent the whole morning meant that the police weren’t looking for her with a view to placing her under arrest. She took this as a good sign. Hopefully she was no longer their number-one suspect in the break-in. Sooner or later they would realize there was no evidence against her. She hoped it would be sooner.

  Fay sat in the playpen with kittens climbing all over her and picked at the knot of a piece of ribbon holding together a felt pouch.

  “What’s that?” asked Morwen who had come
in to give the kittens their midday milk.

  “A set of lock-picks I once confiscated from a cat burglar. I was off-duty at the time and it was my apartment he was trying to break into, so I felt no guilt about not handing them over to my captain.”

  “And now … you’re going to teach the kittens to pick locks?” Morwen watched as Fay trailed one of the long flanges along the ground for Tigger to chase.

  “That’s an idea, but I think I’ll use them myself. I discovered a rather intriguing root cellar near the library.”

  “A root cellar? What’s interesting about that? Most of them are empty these days, unless badgers have got into them.”

  “This one was recently opened, and someone put a shiny new padlock on it.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit that’s unusual. Do you think it’s related to the Pinkerton case?”

  “Let’s just say I won’t be able to rest until I know what’s in there. If it’s nothing, I’ll close it up again and no one will be the wiser.”

  Morwen shook her head. “I’m just wondering if there’s enough money in the petty cash to bail you out when you get caught. If Sergeant Jones or Constable Chegwin comes along while you’re picking that lock, you’ll spend the night in a cell.”

  Fay waved this away. “It will be fine. I’ll wait until its dark. Besides, the cellar is on public land. I have as much right to go in there as anyone else.”

  The expression on Morwen’s face showed that she was not convinced of this either.

  “I’ll keep my phone next to me while I’m watching Poldark tonight, so I can rush over with the bail money when you get arrested.”

  After lunch, Fay put in a few hours in her office catching up on paperwork, paying bills, ordering supplies, and balancing the books. When she had taken over the Cat’s Paw, her biggest fear had been that she would run it into the ground through lack of financial knowledge. She had taken a correspondence course in small business administration and discovered an unexpected talent in herself for financial management.