The Cat That Got Your Tongue

by Fiona Snyckers

In its fourth month of existence, the Cat’s Paw had broken even for the first time. Now, a few months later, it was running at a modest profit. She expected this to improve as the warmer months approached.

  Fay updated her blog with a post about a dolphin pod that had been spotted returning to the coast of Bluebell Island in time for spring. The local charter boat companies would start offering dolphin watching tours soon and those were always a hit with the tourists. As the weather warmed up even more, whales would join the dolphins, especially family groups and mothers with single calves.

  “If that doesn’t net me a couple of bookings, I don’t know what will,” Fay told the cats on her desk as she pressed ‘post’. Today, her office companions were Smudge and Olive. Fay had noticed that they were starting to take an interest in the world beyond the playpen these days. As the kittens became more independent, the foster moms took short breaks from their charges.

  Fay spent time giving them each some love and attention. They had done an excellent job with the kittens. If there such a thing as foster mommy medals, they deserved them. Instead, they would get lots of strokes and love. The moment she stood up from her desk, they hopped back into the playpen and settled next to the sleeping pile of kittens.

  Fay went downstairs to help Morwen set out tea in the lounge for the residents. She spent nearly an hour chatting to the guests and making sure that were happy with the service they had received. She had found that the guests she took the time to get to know personally were more likely to recommend the Cat’s Paw to their friends and to rebook a stay for another time.

  After tea, she was free to pursue her other interests, namely finding out who had killed Desmond Pinkerton.

  It was five o’clock at last. Doc Dyer would be finishing off his consultations. She would probably catch him taking the air outside the surgery with his corncob pipe as a companion.

  Sure enough, his tall, tweed-jacketed figure was out on the sidewalk as he chatted to passers-by. He often got asked for directions at this time of day since he was so obviously a local.

  “Ah, there you are.” He waved his pipe at Fay. “I was hoping you’d come along soon. Are you ready to hear about the cat that got your tongue?”

  “Ready and eager,” said Fay.

  “Then walk with me. I like to stroll up and down the hill for exercise.”

  Fay fell into step beside him, trying to stay upwind of his pipe smoke.

  “You’re familiar with the saying ‘cat got your tongue’. Right?”

  “Right. People say it to someone who is being silent or unresponsive.”

  “Correct. No one knows the exact origin. Some say it refers to a Middle Eastern or ancient Egyptian custom of cutting out a traitor’s tongue and feeding it to the king’s cats. Others say it refers to the old naval punishment of being whipped with a cat-o’-nine tails. That experience was so painful as to rob the victim of the ability to speak for a while.”

  “That’s pretty gruesome.”

  “And also, probably not true. That explanation seems to have been discredited.”

  “I thought the saying was based on an old superstition.”

  Doc Dyer gave her a paternal smile. “Yes, well done. There are those who say that it referred to a medieval superstition about witches and how their cats would take away your ability to speak. And finally, there are theorists who say that it is nothing more than a children’s saying – that it is frivolous and without meaning.”

  “Is there a reference to it in one of Eleanor’s manuscripts?”

  “Not in so many words, but legend has it that one of the signs of the queen is an illustration of a cat-like creature standing on its hind legs and grasping the tongue of a man.”

  “Is the tongue still attached to the man?” Fay struggled to picture this.

  “Yes. The man is standing there with his mouth open while the cat holds his tongue. Nobody knows if it was a random medieval illustration or if it is related to the saying ‘cat got your tongue’. The cat is a mythical, unreal creature that bears little resemblance to an actual cat.”

  “A bit like the other signs of the queen,” suggested Fay. “The unicorns, gryphons, and phoenixes and so forth?”

  “Correct?”

  “Was the cat also intended to be a clue to the whereabouts of the dowry?”

  “We think so, but it’s a controversial one. No one can agree on whether the cat that got your tongue illustration really exists or not. Other illustrations that came out of Queen Eleanor’s Scriptorum have been seen and verified, but that one is just a legend. Supposedly, it is the most important clue of all because it will provide the person who discovers it with the last piece of information he needs to find the dowry.”

  “Then I think we can guess what the person who broke into Pinkerton’s Bookshop was looking for.”

  Chapter 21

  “What who was looking for?”

  Fay and Doc Dyer turned as David approached. He had emerged from the surgery and stood on the sidewalk pulling off his tie and rolling up his sleeves.

  Fay made herself look away from the glimpse of chest revealed as he popped open his top button. She reminded herself that this man was in a relationship and would probably be leaving the island soon.

  “We’re talking about that break-in at Pinkerton’s Bookshop in Truro,” said Doc Dyer.

  “Ah, yes. That time Fay turned criminal.”

  She returned his smile. “Was that before or after I hit Desmond Pinkerton over the head with a candlestick in the library?”

  Doc Dyer made a tutting noise. “This is no time for joking. If we are going to find out who this greedy, desperate person is, we have to take it seriously.”

  “What are you proposing, Dad?”

  “Well, I have quite a collection of medieval manuscripts that I have purchased over the years. One thing I have never done is look particularly closely at the marginalia of my documents. Several of the manuscripts were reputed to have come from Queen Eleanor’s Scriptorum. It might be worth going through them.”

  “Great idea,” said Fay. “If you would trust me to help, I promise to be very careful with the documents.”

  “We can do it together.”

  “I’ll help,” said David. He shook his head at their surprised faces. “I have some free time now. I can participate in this medieval treasure hunt of yours.”

  Doc Dyer led the way to his library. His manuscripts were collected into leather-bound volumes. He divided these into piles and handed them out. Silence fell as they began to go through them page by page.

  The careful hand-lettering by the medieval scribes was fascinating to behold. Fay got caught up in analyzing the individual variations in lettering technique demonstrated by the different calligraphers. Then she realized that her progress was too slow and confined herself to looking at the illustrations instead.

  Some of the drawings were part of the manuscript. The start of a new chapter or section was often signaled by an illustration. These were fascinating, but more interesting still were the marginalia - the doodles that the scribes occasionally drew in the margins. Sometimes they related to the story at hand and sometimes they were entirely random. They were often the product of the scribe’s imagination, which meant that they regularly tipped over into the surreal and the downright bizarre.

  Again, it was tempting to get stuck on particular illustrations as she tried to fathom what they might mean. Fay had to force herself to ignore the irrelevant ones and search only for the sign of the queen. After an hour, David announced that he might have found something.

  “What’s that, son?”

  “It looks like a giant bird with a little man trying to steal its eggs.”

  “The roc?” said Fay.

  “Could be. Tell me what you think, Dad.”

  Doc Dyer looked at the illustration and slid it along the table to Fay, so she could see too.

  It was definitely a giant bird with a huge wingspan and curved claws. A man had grabbed one of
its eggs out of the nest and was attempting to flee with it. Fay’s money was on the bird to catch him before he could escape.

  “What does it mean?” she asked. “It does seem to refer to the legend of Sindbad the Sailor and the roc, but if it’s a clue, what is it a clue to?”

  The writing next to the illustration was incomprehensible to her. It looked as though it could be a form of German, but she didn’t understand a single word.

  “That’s Old English,” said David. “My father can read it. What do you make of that, Dad?”

  “I’m a bit rusty. Let me have another look.”

  Fay held her breath as Doc Dyer examined the manuscript.

  “It seems to refer to a ‘column’ in a ‘holy house’ that ‘points the way’. I have no idea what it is referring to, but it does sound rather like a clue.”

  “Where did this manuscript come from?” asked Fay. “It would help if we knew which town it was referring to. A holy house sounds like a church, but what church? There are medieval churches all over England.”

  “All the manuscripts came from the Scriptorum in London, but I got this particular one at an estate sale right here on Bluebell Island. When Lord Chadwick was still alive he held a sale of some of the treasures of Chadwick Manor to raise money to fix his roof. I bought these manuscripts as a job lot. It’s probably just a coincidence that they ended up here on the island.”

  Fay shook her head. “I think there’s more to it than that. I’ve been wondering why the dowry hunters seem to be so attracted to Bluebell Island. Perhaps there’s a historical connection to Edward or Eleanor.”

  “The island was a popular spot with royalty over the years,” said David. “They came for the hunting and the fishing. Several of the older inns in the village claim to have hosted royal visitors over the centuries. Queen Anne apparently stayed at Penrose House.”

  “Yes, my grandmother told me that. We still have the bedspread she supposedly used. It’s framed and kept behind glass.”

  Doc Dyer rubbed his chin. “A holy house…”

  “What about the church on the high street?” asked Fay. “Is that medieval?”

  “No, it’s neo-Gothic. The only medieval church on the island is that one near Bluff Lighthouse. It’s not exactly a ruin but it is somewhat dilapidated.”

  “It might be worth checking that out.”

  They carried on combing through the manuscripts.

  At some point, David disappeared to the kitchen and came back with grilled cheese sandwiches and salad. They ate while they worked, taking care not to touch the manuscripts with oily fingers.

  There was nothing else that looked promising.

  At eight o’clock, Fay looked up and noticed that it was dark outside.

  “I’ve finished my pile of manuscripts. It’s time for me to move on to phase two of my evening’s activities.”

  “What’s that, Fay love?”

  “A spot of breaking and entering. There’s a locked root cellar near the library that I want to investigate. Someone opened it recently and put a brand-new padlock on it. I want to know why.”

  “How are you planning to get through the padlock?” asked David. “Bolt cutters?”

  “Nothing so brutal.” She took out the felt roll of lock picks and opened it on the table. “I plan to pick the lock.”

  Doc Dyer laughed. “That’s right up your alley, David. Or it was when you were a boy.”

  “I was crazy about the idea of picking locks when I was little,” David acknowledged with a smile. “I never succeeded, but not for lack of trying. I remember practicing on my mother’s pantry door once.”

  “I think that was the closest your mother ever came to losing her temper with you.”

  Father and son smiled at each other as they remembered the woman they had both loved.

  David turned to Fay. “May I come with you?”

  “Come with me?” Fay was annoyed with herself for sounding flustered. “Are you sure? I mean, you probably have better things to do with your evening.”

  “Better than seeing my childhood fantasy fulfilled? Nothing could be better than that. The fact that it’s a root cellar makes it even better. My friends and I were always trying to get into those, but we were never strong enough to lift the trapdoors. By the time we were big enough to manage it, we weren’t interested in root cellars anymore.”

  Doc Dyer nodded encouragingly, so Fay bowed to her fate.

  “Of course, you can come along. I’ll have someone to take the rap for me if we get caught. You might want to change your shoes, though. It’s muddy out there.”

  They walked down the high street in companionable silence.

  This was the first time Fay had felt completely relaxed in David’s company. The fact that he saw this as an adventure revealed a different side to him. She could picture him as a barefoot little boy growing up wild and free on the island with a gang of friends. She imagined the mischief they would have got into and couldn’t help grinning. He had a serious and responsible job now, but the fact that he was here with her this evening proved that the child inside him was still alive and well.

  As they walked past the Royal Hotel, something tickled at the back of Fay’s mind. It felt as though she had forgotten to do something. But what? She reviewed her day and concluded that it had been unusually productive. She couldn’t think of anything she had left undone.

  “I must be imagining it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I thought I’d forgotten to do something for a moment.”

  “Oh, I get that all the time. I’m usually right when I think that I’ve forgotten something. Especially when it comes to social engagements that I didn’t want to remember in the first place.”

  Still, no light bulb went on for either of them and they continued on their way.

  The service road next to the library was pitch dark.

  The library itself was in darkness apart from a security light at the entrance. Mrs. Tribble’s house next door was also mostly dark. There was a light on in the front living room where she was apparently watching TV.

  “Do you think we’ll find that root cellar in the dark?” asked David. “I can hardly see my hand in front of my face.”

  Fay switched on the flashlight on her phone. “There. That’s better. I took a photo of it and paid attention to where it was, so I should be able to find it again. It’s amazing how invisible they become when they are covered in mud or overgrown with grass.”

  When they were more or less opposite the stone fountain in Mrs. Tribble’s backyard, Fay stopped and swung the flashlight onto the ground.

  “Look. There it is. And the ground is even muddier than it was this morning.”

  “That’s odd. It hasn’t rained.”

  “It almost looks as though someone has been here since and swept more mud over it. Look there.” She pointed to the iron ring and the padlock that fastened it. “The padlock is all dirty now. This morning it was brand new and shiny. Someone has definitely been here.”

  She straightened up and swept the flashlight in a slow arc all around them. If someone had been there as recently as that afternoon, it was possible that they were still there or would return. Fay wished she had brought her gun. It would have made her feel better, even though there was nothing to suggest that the person who had murdered Desmond Pinkerton owned a weapon of any kind.

  David looked at the padlock. “Do you really think you’ll be able to get that open?”

  “That sounds like a challenge to me.”

  She forgot her uneasy feeling and concentrated on choosing the right tools for the job.

  The cat burglar whose set of picks she had confiscated all those years ago would probably have been able to pop it open in less than thirty seconds. It took Fay a little longer. She had practiced on many different locks over the years, and knew she was competent. But she would have been the first to acknowledge that she didn’t have the genius touch that some lock-pickers did.

&nb
sp; After several minutes she finally felt what she had been waiting for – the turning of the mechanism inside the padlock in response to her prodding, and the click of the shaft popping open.

  “That’s so cool!” said David, sounding exactly like the young boy he had once been.

  Fay had to agree. “It is cool. At first, you’re convinced that nothing is going to happen and then suddenly it does. It’s a great feeling. Now let’s see what’s under here.”

  She untwisted the padlock and tossed it onto the ground. Then she stuck her fingers into the iron ring and pulled as hard as she could.

  Nothing moved.

  David laughed at her dismayed face. “I told you it wasn’t easy. This is why I couldn’t open one of these it until I was almost an adult. Here, let me have a go.”

  “It’s really stuck.”

  “I think I can manage it.”

  Unfair as it was, a tall, broad-shouldered man with powerful arms managed to succeed where she had failed.

  “There.” He brushed his hands together. Aren’t you glad you brought me along?”

  The massive trapdoor had swung open on its hinges and was now lying upside down on the grass.

  A set of crumbling stone steps led down into the black depths of the cellar below. It was, Fay decided, one of the creepiest things she had ever seen.

  Chapter 22

  Fay shone her flashlight down the stairs. The beam was swallowed up by the darkness.

  “Spooky,” she said.

  “That was part of the attraction for us when we were kids. We thought it would be a fine place to play hide and seek. The adults disagreed. My mother was especially unenthusiastic about the idea of us shutting each other up in root cellars. My father assured her that we wouldn’t be able to get one open until we were old enough to know better.” He gestured down the crumbling stone stairs. “After you.”

  “Okay. But stay right behind me. This is super creepy.”

  She directed the beam of her flashlight at the stairs, so she could see where she was putting her feet. She had no desire to go tumbling into the void.