Crime Writers and Other Animals

by Simon Brett

  ‘Quietened down a bit, have you?’ she crowed to the tangled bundle of garments, then slammed the door shut. ‘Won’t you be a nice clean boy now?’ She punctuated the words with her actions, switching the dial round to the maximum number of rinses, then vindictively pulling out the knob to start the fatal cycle.

  Seraphina Fellowes was a bit hung-over when she woke the following morning. And the first thing that greeted her pained eyes when she opened them was a ghost.

  Mr Whiffles sat at the end of her bed, nonchalantly licking clean an upraised back leg.

  Seraphina screamed and he scampered lazily out of the bedroom.

  She was far too muzzy and confused to deduce that Mr Whiffles must have jumped out of the washing machine during the few seconds when the alcohol had caught up with her. She was too muzzy and confused for most things, really.

  Her bleared gaze moved across to the chair, over which in the fuddlement of the night before she’d hung her new designer shirt.

  The rich silk had been shredded into a maypole of tatters by avenging claws.

  6. Cat on Hot Bricks

  It was nine months later. A perfect summer day, drawing to its close.

  On such occasions a finely tuned heat-seeking instrument like a cat will always know where the last of the day’s warmth lingers. Mr Whiffles had many years before found out that the brick driveway in front of the house caught the final rays of sunlight and held that warmth long after the surrounding grass and flowerbeds had turned chilly. So, as daylight faded, he could always be found lying on the path, letting the stored heat of the bricks flow deliciously through his body.

  Seraphina Fellowes felt very pleased with herself. Her self-esteem had taken something of a buffeting through the last months, but now she was back on course. She was on the verge of greater success than she’d ever experienced. And, to make her feel even better, she had taken delivery that morning of her new Ferrari.

  Seraphina was driving the wonderful red beast back from the launch of Gigi and the Dead Fishmonger, and she felt powerful. The party had been full of literati and reviewers; the speech by her publisher’s managing director had left no doubt about how much they valued their top-selling author; and everyone seemed agreed that the new series of books was destined to outperform even the success of the Mr Whiffles mysteries.

  Oh yes, it might take a while for the new series to build up momentum, but there was no doubt that Mr Whiffles would quickly be eclipsed for ever.

  Seraphina looked fondly down at Gigi, beautiful as ever, deeply asleep on the passenger seat. The cat had been characteristically docile at the launch, and the pair of them had been exhaustively photographed. Gigi was much more of a fashion accessory than Mr Whiffles could ever have been, and Seraphina had even begun to buy herself clothes with the cat’s colouring in mind. Together one day, she reckoned, they could make the cover of Vogue.

  She leant across to give Gigi a stroke of gratitude, but her movement made the Ferrari swerve. She righted it with an easy flick of the steering wheel, and reminded herself to be careful. In the euphoria of the launch, she’d probably had more to drink than she should have done. Not the only occasion recently she’d overindulged. Must watch it. George was the one with the drink problem, not her.

  The thought drove a little wedge of unease into her serenity. It was compounded by the recollection of a conversation she’d had at the launch with a major book reviewer. He’d expressed the heresy that he thought she’d never top the Mr Whiffles books. Those were the ones for him; no other cat detective could begin to replace Mr Whiffles in the public’s affections.

  The wedge of unease was now wide enough to split Seraphina’s mind into segments of pure fury. That wretched, mangy old cat was still getting more fan mail than she was! Bloody paw-prints over bloody everything!

  Her anger was at its height as she turned the Ferrari into her drive. And there, lying fast asleep on the warm bricks, lay as tempting a target as Seraphina Fellowes would ever see in her entire life.

  There was no thought process involved. She just slammed her foot down on the accelerator and was jolted back as the huge power of the engine took command.

  Needless to say, Mr Whiffles, alerted by some sixth or seventh sense, shot out of the way of the huge tyres just in time.

  The Ferrari smashed into a brick pillar at the side of the garage. Seraphina Fellowes needed five stitches in a head wound. Gigi, who’d been catapulted forward by the impact, hit her face against the dashboard and was left with an unsightly permanent scar across her nose. For future publicity, the publishers would have to use the photographs taken at the launch; all subsequent ones would be marred by her disfigurement.

  And the Ferrari, needless to say, was a write-off.

  7. Shooting the Cat

  One morning a few weeks later, along with the rubber-banded brick of fan mail – almost all with bloody paw-prints on the back – came an envelope from the publicity department of Seraphina Fellowes’ publishers. She tore it open and, reading the impersonal note on the ‘With Compliments’ slip – ‘These are all the reviews received to date’ – decided she might need a quick swig of vodka to see her through the next few moments.

  It wasn’t actually that morning’s first swig of vodka, but, Seraphina rationalized to herself, she had been under a lot of stress over the previous weeks. Once she got properly into the second Gigi book, she’d cut back.

  Through the vodka bottle, as she raised it to drink, Seraphina caught sight of Mr Whiffles, perched on her mantelpiece. The refraction of the glass distorted the features of his face, but the sneering curl to his lips was still there when she lowered the bottle.

  Seraphina Fellowes firmly turned her swivel chair to face away from the fireplace, took a deep breath and started to read the reviews of Gigi and the Dead Fishmonger.

  She had had inklings from her publisher over the previous few weeks that the reaction hadn’t been great, but still was not prepared for the blast of universal condemnation the cuttings contained. Setting aside the clever quips and snide aphorisms, the general message was: ‘This book is rubbish. Gigi is an entirely unbelievable and uninteresting feline sleuth. Get back to writing about Mr Whiffles – he’s great!’

  As she put the bundle of clippings down on her desk, Seraphina Fellowes caught sight once again of the tabby on the mantelpiece. She would have sworn that the sneer on his face had now become a smirk of Cheshire-cat proportions.

  Seized by unreasoning fury, Seraphina snatched open her desk drawer and pulled out the gun she had bought all those years ago when researching the first book. Her wavering hand steadied to take aim at the cat on the mantelpiece. As she pulled the trigger, she felt as if she was lancing a boil.

  Whether her aim was faulty, or whether another of Mr Whiffles’ extra senses preserved him, it was hard to judge. What was undoubtedly true, though, was that the bullet missed, and before the echo of the shot died down, it had been joined by the panicked clattering of a cat-flap.

  Mr Whiffles had escaped once again.

  Seraphina Fellowes’ Edgar, however, the precious ceramic statuette awarded to her by the Mystery Writers of America, had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

  8. All Cats are Grey in the Dark

  What had started as a niggle and developed into a continuing irritation, was by now a full-grown obsession. Seraphina couldn’t settle to anything – certainly not to getting on with the second Gigi mystery. The critical panning of the first had left her battered and embittered. It was a very long time since Seraphina Fellowes had felt even mildly pleased with herself.

  She now spent her days lolling in the swivel chair in front of her state-of-the-art computer, gazing at the eternally renewed moving pattern of its screensaver, or drifting aimlessly around the house. She ceased to notice what clothes she put on in the mornings – or, as her sleep patterns got more erratic, afternoons. More and more white showed at the roots of her hair, but the effort of lifting the phone to make an appointment at her
hairdressers seemed insuperable. The vodka bottle was never far away.

  And, with increasing certainty, Seraphina Fellowes knew that only one event could restore the self-esteem and success that were hers by right.

  She could only be saved by the death of Mr Whiffles.

  One day she finally decided there would be no more pussyfooting. He was just a cat, after all. And if one believed in the proverbial nine lives, his stock of those was running very low. Seraphina decided that she really would kill him that day.

  Bolstered by frequent swigs from the vodka bottle, she sat and planned.

  George was away for the day, on one of his rare visits to hear his agent apologize for her inability to find a buyer for the latest George Fellowes ‘literary novel’. So Seraphina went down to the bungalow, checked carefully that Mr Whiffles wasn’t inside, and locked the cat-flaps shut.

  Then she looked in her house for Gigi. That didn’t take long. The characterless, but now scar-faced, white Persian was, as ever, asleep on her mistress’s bed. Seraphina firmly locked the bedroom door and the cat-flap set into it. The little fanlight window was still open, but Gigi would never overcome her lethargy sufficiently to leap up and climb through a fanlight.

  Seraphina went down to the kitchen and prepared a toothsome plate of turkey breast, larded with a few peeled prawns. Then she sat down by the cat-flap, and waited.

  In one hand she held the vodka bottle. In the other, the means that would finally bring about Mr Whiffles’ quietus.

  After lengthy consideration of more exotic options, Seraphina had homed in on the traditional. From time immemorial, it had been the preferred way of removing unwanted kittens, and she saw no reason why it shouldn’t also be suitable for an ageing tabby like Mr Whiffles.

  She must’ve dozed off. It was dark in the kitchen when she heard the clatter of the outer cat-flap.

  But Seraphina was instantly alert, and she knew exactly what she had to do.

  It seemed an age while her quarry lingered in the little passage from the garden. But finally a tentative paw was poked through the cat-flap into the kitchen.

  Seraphina Fellowes held her breath. She wasn’t going to put her carefully devised plan at risk by a moment of impetuousness.

  She waited as the metal flap slowly creaked open. And she waited until the entire cat outline, tail and all, was inside the room, before she pounced.

  The furry body kicked and twisted, but the contest was brief. In seconds, the cat had joined the three bricks inside, and Seraphina had tied the string firmly round the sack’s neck.

  She didn’t pause for a second. She allowed no space for even the finest needle of conscience to insert itself. Seraphina Fellowes just rushed out into the garden, and hurled the miaowing sack right into the middle of the fishpond.

  It made a very satisfying splash. A few bubbles, then silence.

  The next morning, Seraphina woke with a glow of well-being. For the first time in weeks, her immediate instinct was not to reach for the vodka bottle. Instead, she snuggled luxuriously under her duvet, feeling the comforting weight of Gigi across her shins, and planned the day ahead.

  She would go up to London, for the first time in months. The morning she would devote to having her hair done. Then she’d visit a few of her favourite stores and buy some morale-boostingly expensive clothes. She wouldn’t have a drink all day, but come back late afternoon and at five o’clock, which she’d often found to be one of her most creative times, she’d start writing the first chapter of Gigi and the Murdered Milkman. Yes, it’d be a good day.

  Seraphina Fellowes stretched languidly, then sat up and looked down at the end of the bed.

  There, licking unhurriedly at his patchy fur, his insolent green eyes locked on hers, sat Mr Whiffles.

  9. Cat’s Cradle

  After that, Seraphina Fellowes really did go to pieces. She forgot to change her clothes, falling asleep and waking in the same garments, in a vodka-hazed world where time became elastic and meaningless. Her hair hung, lank and unwashed, now more white than black.

  And the thought that drove all others from her unhinged brain was the imperative destruction of Mr Whiffles.

  Now that Gigi wasn’t around – yes, a sad, white, bedraggled lump had indeed been pulled out of the sack in the fishpond – there was no longer any limitation on the means by which that destruction could be achieved. There was no longer any risk of catching the wrong victim by mistake.

  Mr Whiffles, apparently aware of the murderous campaign against him, went into hiding. Seraphina cut off his obvious escape route by telling George the cat had died, and organizing a carpenter to board over the cat-flaps into the bungalow. George was very upset by the news, but Seraphina, as ever, didn’t give a damn about her husband’s feelings.

  All through her own house, meanwhile, she established an elaborate network of booby traps. ‘Network’ was the operative word. Seraphina set up a series of wire snares around every one of the many cat-flaps. She turned the floors into a minefield of wire nooses, which, when tightened, would release counterweights on pulleys to yank their catch up to the ceiling. Designer-decorated walls were gouged out to accommodate hooks and rings, gleaming woodwork peppered with screws and cleats. The increasingly demented woman lived in a cat’s cradle of tangled and intersecting wires. She ceased to eat, and lived on vodka alone.

  And she waited. One day, she knew, Mr Whiffles would come back into the deathtrap that had been her home.

  And one day – or rather one evening – he did.

  The end was very quick. Mr Whiffles managed to negotiate the snares on the two cat-flaps into the house. He skipped nimbly over the waiting booby traps on the kitchen floor. But, entering the hall, he landed right in the middle of a noose, which, as he jumped away, tightened inexorably around one of his rear legs. He tried to pull himself free, but the wire only cut more deeply into his flesh. He let out a yowl of dismay.

  At that moment, Seraphina, who had been waiting on the landing, snapped the light on, and shouted an exultant ‘Gotcha!’ Mr Whiffles, frozen by the shock of the sudden apparition, looked up at her.

  Had Seraphina Fellowes by then been capable of pity, she might have noticed how thin and neglected the cat looked. But her mind no longer had room in it for such thoughts – no room in fact for any thoughts other than felicidal ones. She reached across in triumph to free the jammed counterweight which would send her captive slamming fatally up against the ceiling.

  But as she moved, she stumbled, caught her foot in a stretched low-level wire, and tumbled headfirst down the staircase.

  Seraphina Fellowes broke her neck and died instantly.

  Mr Whiffles, jumping out of the way of the descending body, had moved closer to the anchor of the noose around his leg. Its tension relaxed, the springy wire loosened, and he was able to step neatly out of the metal loop.

  And he started on his next set of nine lives.

  10. The Cat Who Got the Cream

  George Fellowes was initially very shocked by his wife’s death. But when the shock receded, he had to confess to himself that he didn’t really mind that much. And that her absence did bring with it certain positive advantages.

  For a start, he no longer had the feeling of permanent brooding disapproval from the house at the other side of the garden. He also inherited her state-of-the-art computer. At first he was a bit sniffy about this, but as he started to play with it, he quickly became converted to its many conveniences.

  Then there was the money. In the press coverage of Seraphina Fellowes’ death, her recent doomed attempt to start a new series of cat mysteries had been quickly forgotten. But interest in Mr Whiffles grew and grew. All the titles were reissued in paperback, and the idea of a Hollywood movie using computer animation, which had been around for ages, suddenly got hot again. The agents of various megastars contacted the production company, discreetly offering their client’s services for the year’s plum job – voicing Mr Whiffles.

  So, like a tidal w
ave, the money started to roll in. And, because his wife had never divorced him, George Fellowes got the lot.

  More important than all of this, Seraphina’s death freed her Catholic husband to remarry. And there was someone George had had in mind for years for just such an eventuality.

  The evening of Seraphina’s funeral, George was sprawled across his desk, asleep in front of the ever-moving screensaver on his late wife’s computer, so he didn’t hear the rattle of the reopened cat-flap. He wasn’t aware of Mr Whiffles’ entrance, even when the old cat landed quietly on his desk top, but a nuzzling furry nose in his ear soon woke him.

  ‘How’re you, old boy?’ asked George, reaching up with his left hand to scratch Mr Whiffles in a favourite place, just behind the ear. At the same time, George’s right hand reached out instinctively to the nearly full litre of vodka that stood on the edge of his desk.

  Mr Whiffles, however, had other ideas. Speeding across the surface, he deliberately knocked the bottle over. It lay sideways at the edge of the desk, its contents glugging steadily away into the waste-paper basket.

  George Fellowes looked at his cat in amazement, as Mr Whiffles moved across to the computer. One front paw was placed firmly on the mouse. (That bit was easy; for centuries cats have been instinctively placing their front paws on mice.) But, as the screensaver gave way to a white screen ready for writing, Mr Whiffles did something else, something much more remarkable.

  He placed his other front paw on the keyboard. Not just anywhere on the keyboard, but on one specific key. The ‘M’.

  Obedient to the computer’s programming, two words appeared on the screen: ‘Mr Whiffles’.

  George Fellowes felt the challenge in the old green eyes that were turned to look at him. For a moment he was undecided. Then, out loud, he said, ‘What the hell? I’m certainly not getting anywhere with my so-called “literary” novels.’

  And his fingers reached forward to the keyboard to complete the title: Mr Whiffles and the Murdered Mystery Writer.