The Disappearing Diva

by Sarah Todd Taylor

  She hurled the linen squares to the floor, kicking them to the back of the box, out of sight. Maximilian stumbled a little as the smell of the knock-out drops hit him, but he pressed on, hissing at her and gnashing his teeth. The woman pounced on him, grabbing him with both hands and lifting him high in the air. Her fingernails dug into him as she twisted him this way and that and shook him from side to side making him miaow in pain.

  “You stupid animal,” she snapped. “Don’t worry, Your Majesties – it’s an alley cat. Probably riddled with disease. I’ll get rid of it for you.”

  Maximilian let out his “the only thing we need to get rid of is you!” miaow and, wrenching his paw free, scraped his claws down her face. She screamed, staggered backwards and let him go. Maximilian fell in a heap in front of the King, who had risen and gallantly placed himself in front of his wife to protect her from this dreadful scene.

  “What on earth is going on?” demanded the King. “What is this cat doing in the box? And who are you, madam? We didn’t hear you come in. How did you get in here? Where are my guards?”

  The King’s deep regal tones bounced around the auditorium, making several ladies in the dress circle glance over at the Royal Box. The King had a booming bass voice, rich and sonorous. Every word resonated, demanding to be heard. Below them on the stage one of the corps de ballet looked up and bumped into Sylvia, sending her headlong towards the orchestra pit.

  “I demand to know what is going on!” the King insisted, his voice growing louder.

  Distracted, the conductor of the orchestra looked round and up towards the Royal Box. One by one the orchestra stopped playing and ground to a halt, first the trombones and trumpets, who had the best view of the auditorium, then the cellos and double bass. Without them the dancers started to lose step. The leader of the orchestra, a particularly fine violinist, leaned out to tap the conductor with his bow and the violins fell apart too, causing a cacophony of squeaking till eventually they gave up. A final “parp” from the bassoon dribbled away to silence.

  Up in the Royal Box, the fake Madame was clutching her face where Maximilian’s claws had raked a deep wound into her cheek.

  “It’s clearly a dangerous animal,” she spat. “Just look what it did! It should be put down. It should…” Her words faded as the door to the box flew open. In the doorway stood the real Madame Emerald. Beside her stood two of the theatre doormen and Monsieur Lavroche, red in the face and wringing his hands with worry.

  “YOU!” the imposter rasped. “How did you get here?”

  “Oh, I had a little help!” Madame said, nodding towards Maximilian. Maximilian could hear the audience murmuring at the sight of the drama playing out in the Royal Box. Several people in the grand circle above were leaning over the handrails to get a better view.

  The real Madame Emerald flung out an arm and pointed at her imposter.

  “This woman is a jewel thief, Your Majesty,” she announced. A ripple of excitement and shock ran round the audience. “She has been impersonating me in this very theatre for the last few weeks in order to gain entry to this box tonight. She is none other than Jessie Spinel, a thief well known to Scotland Yard, and had this brave animal not come to my aid this evening, no doubt she would have been picking up quite a few trinkets at tonight’s entertainment.”

  The Queen gasped. Her hand went to her throat where her necklaces sparkled in the light, and then to the tiara on her head, and then to her arm where diamond bracelets hung in dazzling rows. She really did not know which jewels to protect first.

  Maximilian stared at Madame in admiration. She was a wonderful woman. Brave, elegant and poised. He could not wait to hear her sing.

  “Well, she won’t get away with it, miss. We’ve called the police and we’ll hold her till they get here,” said one of the doormen. He moved forwards, ready to take hold of the woman’s wrists. Maximilian relaxed a little. She was strong but she would be no match for the theatre doormen. Maximilian had once seen just two of them carrying a grand coach for the finale of the Christmas show picking up the great silver carriage as though it were a child’s toy.

  In the corner of the box the fake Madame, Jessie Spinel, dashed something against the wall. There was a smash and she stood there, a shard of glass flashing in her hand. The air began to fill with the smell of the knock-out drops.

  “Let me through,” she hissed, brandishing the sharp edges of the smashed bottle in front of her and edging her way towards the door of the box. No one dared move.

  Madame Emerald stood her ground and stared at the shard of glass. She was pulling herself upright and seemed to be gathering herself in. Her arms floated slightly away from her bodice as she breathed in, deep and low, and then started to sing one single, high note. It grew and grew, resonating around the box and swelling out into the auditorium. There were exclamations of delight from the audience as the sweet, pure tone danced around the theatre. The imposter glared at Madame Emerald and stepped forwards, flashing the glass in front of her, the jagged edges glinting. Madame Emerald sang on, her voice growing louder and louder. The audience’s murmurs died away into an awestruck silence. Everyone’s eyes were on the Royal Box.

  Beside him on the table Maximilian heard a rattle. A lead-crystal champagne glass was quivering, tiny cracks appearing in its stem. Agnes’s story about the shattered wine glass rang in his head and he looked closely at the shard of glass in the imposter’s hand. It began to quiver. Madame’s eyes glinted. She gave one final push with her voice and the shard of glass splintered into hundreds of pieces.

  “Ow!” The woman drew back her hand with alarm and looked around wildly, glaring at Madame Emerald, at the King and Queen, and finally at Maximilian, who whisked his tail away from his ears and gazed adoringly at Madame. The King stepped forwards, clapped a firm hand on Jessie Spinel’s shoulder and nodded towards the two doormen.

  “I think the police will be wanting to have a word with this woman,” he said. Turning to Madame Emerald he gave a regal half-bow and added, “I think you are due on stage, Madame. We have longed to hear you sing.”

  “And puss here really saved you?” Agnes was saying.

  “And she was really going to drug the King and Queen?” Sylvia was saying.

  “And then steal the Queen’s jewels?” Miss Julier was saying.

  “YES!” Madame said, laughing. “She was going to wait until the King and Queen fell asleep and then steal all their jewels while everyone was watching you lovely people dance. Then she and that maid of hers would have scarpered long before it was time for her to sing in Act Two. Silly woman, she really met her match in this little puss.”

  Maximilian stretched himself out on the chair in Madame’s dressing room. So much had happened since the night of the show. Madame had taken to the stage in the second act and had delighted everyone with that beautiful voice of hers. She had been charming to Archibald and he had been so stunned by her that he forgot to try to drown her out with his own voice. The King had insisted on the ballet being repeated so that he could enjoy it properly this time, and had praised Sylvia and Agnes for their wonderful footwork. The evening had ended with a sea of flowers being thrown on to the stage and no one stood prouder as the national anthem was played than Maximilian, a cat who had spent most of the evening on no other lap than the Queen of England’s.

  “But how did she get into the box?” Agnesasked. “Surely they would have noticed.”

  “Would you believe it, she drugged the guards!” Madame said. “What a cheek. Then she slipped some velvet slippers on over her shoes and crept in at the back, hiding in the shadows. No one would have seen her if it wasn’t for puss here.”

  “And Oscar,” Maximilian miaowed. It would never do if he were to take all the credit.

  “One thing we never solved,” Sylvia said. “Why did she sound so wonderful when she was in the dressing room if she couldn’t sing a note?”

  Madame Emerald frowned.

  Maximilian miaowed his “I can ex
plain that one for you” miaow and jumped down from the chair. He walked over to the table where the phonograph stood and nudged at the record on the turntable.

  “Ah, fair fates…” sang the record.

  Madame Emerald gasped. “Well, I never!” she cried. She turned to Sylvia and Agnes. “That’s one of my practice records. I listen to myself sing and it helps me work out how I can improve. There is always room for improvement, you know, Agnes. She must have stolen it when they broke into my house to kidnap me. They were horrid, you know. They broke so many things. And they took all my luggage, and all my jewels. That horrible creature had taken them for herself.”

  She stretched out an arm. The Golden Stones glistened on her wrist. Maximilian had thought when the fake Madame arrived that she was acting as if she had never seen her clothes before. Now he knew why – she hadn’t. It was everything that Madame Emerald had packed for her visit to the theatre.

  Maximilian gave a “this is all falling into place nicely” miaow. Agnes leaned forwards and tickled him on the head.

  “Yes, old thing, we know that it was you who saved Madame and solved the case really,” she said.

  “We should reward him,” Sylvia said. “Give him a proper name. We can’t go on calling him plain old puss, not now he’s the hero of the Theatre Royal.”

  Madame Emerald eyed Maximilian carefully. “How about naming him after one of the great performers who has been here?” she suggested.

  Agnes frowned. “Archibald!” she announced, half giggling.

  Maximilian let out a low growl. Really, one could carry a joke too far.

  “Hubert!” Sylvia said, naming an actor who had fed Maximilian tuna constantly during a comedy revue that had opened at the theatre and flopped within a fortnight. Hubert was better, but still not his name.

  “Allandro, after the great Allandro?” Madame suggested.

  “Antonio?”

  “Giovanni?”

  “Maximilian?” Sylvia threw out.

  Maximilian miaowed loudly. “That’s my name!”

  “Who?” Agnes objected.

  Maximilian miaowed again. “That really is my name!”

  “Well, he’s never visited us but it’s the name of a singer I heard in Bath once,” Sylvia admitted with a sigh. “Oh, he was wonderful.”

  Maximilian sprang from the chair and ran to Sylvia, miaowing and skipping in circles to get her attention.

  “Well, he seems to like it, so I say Maximilian it is,” Madame said firmly.

  “And Max for short!” added Agnes.

  Maximilian looked up at his new family. A family who did not care if he left hair on the cushions or knocked over plant pots. A family who let him climb and chase mice and be himself and loved him for it. A family who would never replace him.

  Finally he had his own name back. Not “puss”, or “mon petit chat”, or “go away”.

  Finally, Maximilian.

  That night, Madame sang again. Oh, how she sang! The audience were held rapt as the beautiful notes rose and fell, dancing around the auditorium, hiding in the folds of the curtains and leaping out as echoes to surprise them.

  Up on the roof, Maximilian and Oscar watched through the vast dome roof of the theatre.

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” sighed Maximilian.

  Oscar nodded. “Exquisite. Her voice reminds me of—” He broke off. “But no, tonight is a night for your stories. Tell me again about how you foiled their plot.”

  Maximilian laughed and told Oscar for the fourth time how he had leapt from box to box to save the Queen.

  “You’re a tremendously brave cat, my friend,” said Oscar.

  “I learned from the bravest I ever met,” said Maximilian with a courteous bow. He nudged a sardine across the roof towards Oscar.

  “Well, perhaps we make a good team,” Oscar allowed. He made a brief bow to Maximilian. “To future adventures?” he said, winking his one good eye.

  Maximilian did not hesitate. “To future adventures,” he said, and together they sat and watched the show unfold below them from the finest theatre seats in London.

  THE END

  CURTAIN CALL

  If this were a theatre show, the people I’m about to name would run on one by one and bow while you applauded them. So please give them a huge round of applause, because this book wouldn’t be here without them.

  Thank you to Kirsty Stansfield at Nosy Crow, who picked Max up and brushed him down so he looked his absolute best. Thank you to Fiona Scoble for being a good friend to him too. Joanna Moult, my amazing agent, thank you for taking Max to your heart and being his champion. Massive thanks to Nicola Kinnear for her fantastic portraits of Max and all his friends.

  Thank you to all my lovely friends and family, especially Mum, Liz, Seren, Rick and Pete, for always believing in me, and Debbie Moon for all her writerly advice and encouragement. Thank you to all the Prime Writers for being the best writing group in the world. Thank you to all my theatre friends for providing so much inspiration over the years, particularly Cat, who first persuaded me to join a theatre group and who was my “partner in crime” in many on-stage escapades.

  Most of all, thank you to Neil, best husband and best friend in the world.

  Take a bow, everyone. You’re all wonderful. xxxxx

  Copyright

  First published 2018 by Nosy Crow Ltd

  The Crow’s Nest, 14 Baden Place, Crosby Row

  London SE1 1YW

  www.nosycrow.com

  ISBN: 978 1 78800 035 2

  e-ISBN: 978 1 78800 110 6

  Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks

  and/or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd

  Text copyright © Sarah Todd Taylor, 2018

  Illustrations © Nicola Kinnear, 2018

  The right of Sarah Todd Taylor and Nicola Kinnear to be identified as the author and illustrator respectively has been asserted.

  All rights reserved

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of Nosy Crow Ltd.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in the UK by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc

  Papers used by Nosy Crow are made from wood grown in sustainable forests.

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