The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  Joey was running a circle round the horse and goat, barking. It sounded like a measured, tempered bark, as if it had a specific purpose.

  The tall man inclined his head by way of acknowledging Jury. Jury returned the gesture, and at that point the door was opened by Ruthven, Melrose Plant’s manservant. Ruthven was taken aback by this duo at the kitchen door, seeming to have come here together.

  “Superintendent Jury! Why—please come in.”

  Ruthven did not appear surprised at the sight of the other visitor, who must have been here before. “And Mr. Jarvis, come in.”

  On his way through the door, Jury said, “You might want to see to the dog out there harassing the other animals.” When Jarvis was out of earshot, Jury said, “Must be his, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. Lord Ardry’s expecting you; he’s in the drawing room. If you’ll just follow—”

  “Oh, don’t bother, Ruthven, I know where it is. Go and see to your visitor.”

  Ruthven bowed and went off toward the kitchen.

  In the handsome drawing room, Melrose was situated at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and talking to someone on the outside of it—Mr. Blodgett, probably. Blodgett came up to the windows regularly, either to make wild faces at Melrose’s aunt Agatha or to make a request or to keep Melrose abreast of estate happenings. Today’s happening (as Jury well knew) was the presence of a dog.

  “My word,” said Melrose, mostly to the sky and earth, as he was leaning out the window. “Damned if you’re not right, Blodgett. D’you think it’s rabid, or what?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jury, joining them at the window. “It’s just an old dog. Must belong to the man in the kitchen. Jarvis? That his name? I told Ruthven about it.”

  “I didn’t hear the front door. How long have you been here that you know more than I do?”

  “That’s not hard.” Jury was leaning out the window now, elbowing Melrose aside. He could see Joey running herd on Aghast while Aggrieved looked on with seeming indifference. Jury couldn’t see the horse’s expression, but indifference figured in the tilt of his large brown head. Aggrieved would watch for a moment, then go back to chomping grass.

  “The dog’s just enjoying himself. Hello, Mr. Blodgett.”

  “‘Lo, Mr. Jury. Nice t’see ya ag’in. Well, I best be goin’, fer I got things to do. Just thought mabbe you’d want to know ‘bout the dog.” Blodgett, who wasn’t going off at all, went on, “’E looks a bit like one o’ them sheepdogs.”

  Ruthven came in then, and Melrose motioned him over to the window. “There’s a dog out there, Ruthven. Know anything about him?”

  Ruthven seemed to sail when he moved, gliding smoothly over the Turkish carpet. “I expect he belongs to the man in the kitchen, Jarvis.”

  “Oh, I see. First I’ve got a dog in the garden, and now I’ve got a man in the kitchen. Good Lord, the place could be taken over by an army of elves and I’d be the last to know—there he goes!”

  The three of them—or four, if one included Mr. Blodgett on the outside—moved to another window on the other side of the fireplace that gave them a better view of the stables. Joey was still attempting to round up the goat, Aghast. Aggrieved watched.

  “Look at him! He’s barking at Aghast. Who in hell does he think he is?”

  “A dog,” said Jury. “Looks like he’s herding.” Melrose looked at him. “Herding?”

  “Well, as Blodgett said, he looks like a sheepdog. Aggrieved and Aghast don’t seem to mind him.”

  “If he’s a border collie,” said Ruthven, “he’ll probably carry on—” Then, mindful that it was not his place to be standing here giving his opinion, Ruthven swanned off.

  “Wait. Who’s in the kitchen?”

  Ruthven turned. “It’s Jarvis, sir. You remember.”

  “Oh, him. So it’s his dog?”

  “I’d say so. Martha’s fixed him a meal.”

  “Well, bring us a bottle of that Médoc and tell Jarvis to collect his dog before he leaves.”

  Joey and Aghast were lying down now. Aggrieved stood, still munching quietly. The grass he nibbled at was such an evenly bright green, it looked enameled; the maples and willows shone in the brilliant light of early afternoon.

  Melrose still leaned against the wall, peering out the window. “I can’t tell if he’s wearing a collar.”

  Ruthven was back almost immediately with wine and glasses on a tray. “Mr. Jarvis says he knows nothing about the dog. But if you like, he could take the dog with him, get him off your hands.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’d want to do that,” said Jury rather quickly. “Probably he belongs to some tourist who was passing through and the dog got away from them.”

  Ruthven had uncorked the bottle and was pouring the wine. “I agree with Mr. Jury, m’lord.”

  “When’s the last time you ever saw a tourist pass through? Long Piddleton is not exactly a destination village. But you’re probably right.” They both accepted a glass of wine from the tray Ruthven passed.

  Melrose thanked Ruthven and told him to see the dog got his dinner along with the goat and the horse.

  “And use the good silver,” said Jury.

  Ruthven allowed himself a brief snicker and sailed off.

  Melrose plopped himself down in his wing chair. From the corners of the ceiling molding, unconcerned cupids observed. “I should put an ad in the paper, shouldn’t I?”

  “That’s what I’d do,” said Jury. “He’s got tags, at least a rabies tag.” Dr. Kavitz had seen to that. But how would Jury know it? “I saw him up close when I was waiting. And he’s got a name tag, too. His name’s Joey.” Jury smiled.

  A little later, done with wine and talk about the dog and Jarvis—a homeless soul who stopped by from time to time (which struck Jury as even more unlikely than a tourist)—they walked down the drive and crossed the Northampton road after a party of cyclists, all in black leather, gunned on by.

  Jury thought he was caught up in a dream. Motorcyclists were even more unlikely than homeless men.

  Melrose watched them out of sight, looking thoughtful, then said, “You know, I read a poem by some American poet. He’s describing the coming on of night, comparing it with an onslaught of cyclists on a blacktop road. I used to hate motorcycles, but after reading that, I’ve never looked at them the same way. Now they have a kind of exotic beauty. Now they look as if they’re ushering in something we should know about.”

  “The next big thing. That’s what poetry should do: usher in the next big thing.”

  They were passing Lavinia Vine’s cottage and stopped to admire the garden, a late May idyll.

  “Look at those apricot roses,” said Melrose. “And those tulips.” With a riot of colors from pale blue to a red so strong they looked dipped in blood, a large square of tulips shouted down the flowers around them. Jury wished he’d stop thinking about death. The next big thing.

  A couple of drunken butterflies were sorting through the yellow blossoms of some shrubby plant. Against the low wall on the left was a border of peonies and clouds of white hydrangeas.

  “The fragrance is sleep-inducing,” Jury said. “That must be what put the cat down.” He was referring to a big cat sleeping atop one of the stone pillars set by the walk.

  “Desperado’s a nasty piece of work. I’ve seen him take down dogs.”

  They walked on.

  “Speaking of dogs, the new one should have a name,” Melrose said, ignoring Jury’s earlier comment. “We’ll have to have a naming competition.”

  “I told you, his name’s Joey,” said Jury. He was getting irritable. They were near Long Piddleton’s center, if it could be said to have one. It did have a pleasant green, where a shallow little lake served as home to an extended family of ducks, a few of which were, like the butterflies, drunkenly floating around. Why, Jury wondered, lifting his face toward the sky, couldn’t humans get drunk on air?

  “You know, you haven’t mentioned your fri
end Detective Inspector Aguilar. I assume she’s still in hospital?”

  “Yes. Not good. She’s in a coma.”

  Melrose stopped. “Good Lord. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  Jury nodded.

  They resumed their walk. Through the window of the local library, Miss Tooley, the librarian, waved at them. Melrose raised his hand in a dispirited way to return the wave. “What’s the chance she’ll come out of it?”

  “Just that—a chance. But if she doesn’t, she’s signed a paper saying she doesn’t want what they call ‘heroic measures’ instituted. The doctor says a person usually comes back from a coma in a couple of weeks, or not at all.”

  Melrose shook his head. “I’m really sorry.”

  Across the village green sat Vivian Rivington’s house. “That place is beautiful,” said Jury. “I wouldn’t mind a house like that.”

  “Then marry her. I bet she’d be delighted.”

  How dense can you be? thought Jury. “I bet she wouldn’t. I proposed once and got turned down.”

  Melrose stopped again. “You didn’t!”

  “She was engaged, if you remember, to Simon Matchett. Didn’t love him, though, that was clear.”

  “I’ve never understood her.”

  “I know. That’s because you’re as thick as two planks.”

  29

  Melrose tapped on the leaded window of the Jack and Hammer, and the group sitting at the table in the bay window peered out and waved. Except for Marshall Trueblood, apparently not finished with his morning calisthenics, who stood and threw his arms about in meaningless gestures.

  Inside, Melrose asked, “What in God’s name was all of that semaphore about?”

  “To warn you off,” said Trueblood. “Theo Wrenn hyphen Brown saw the two of you and is now leaving his shop and coming here. Hell.”

  Jury said hello to the four—no, five, for here was Dick Scroggs the publican, bringing fresh drinks; no, six, for here was Mrs. Withersby, Dick’s char, who was slapping her slippered feet toward them. She had a cigarette behind her ear and was hoping for another, along with her free favorite pint.

  “Wrenn hyphen Brown? What’s that about?”

  “He thinks a double-barreled last name has more cachet.”

  Said Melrose, “I have the care of a new dog. A homeless man came to the door and I’m sure he had the dog with him, but he denied it, so we don’t know where the dog came from. He’s lost or something. Maybe got free of his owner.”

  “What kind of dog?” asked Diane Demorney.

  “Sheepdog.”

  “Mountain dog,” said Jury, who had remained standing.

  Melrose looked at him. “You know the difference?” Nonchalantly, Jury shrugged. “You can just tell about this dog.” Melrose frowned, then said, “For heaven’s sakes, sit down, will you? You’re making us nervous.”

  Jury laughed, looking at the group slouched comfortably round the table. “Yes, I can see all of you are a bundle of nerves.”

  Diane Demorney, taking precious time from her martini, asked, “Does the dog have a name?”

  “No,” said Melrose.

  “Joey,” said Jury at the same time.

  They stared at Jury; they wanted evidence.

  “It’s on his collar.”

  “When did you ever see his collar?” said Melrose.

  “I told you. When he went by, I got up close to him.”

  Vivian Rivington frowned. “He stopped for you?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.”

  They were all frowning at Jury now. He knew why, too. They wanted to have a name contest and he could be throwing a spanner into the works with his “Joey.”

  Right, Trueblood apparently decided. He said, “We’ll have to name him.”

  Theo Wrenn-Brown had come and pulled a chair round as if he were welcome. He shoved it in between Trueblood and Diane. He called over to Dick Scroggs, who was reading the Sidbury paper, leaning over it on the bar. Theo called for a gimlet. He could have called for his fiddlers three with more success.

  He then settled in to get attention paid him. “Superintendent! Solved any cases lately?” “Hee-haw” was precisely and phonetically what Theo’s laugh sounded like. Hee-haw. “Where’s my drink? Dick!”

  Dick blew his nose with a big handkerchief and went back to his paper.

  “Oh, for God’s—” Theo shoved back his chair and stomped over to the bar.

  “Should we do the naming the same way we did for Aghast?” said Joanna Lewes, who wrote books that were a commercial success.

  “Nobody won that,” said Diane. “Melrose rejected all of our suggestions and went with his own name.”

  “Well, it was my goat. Anyway, it was really Agatha who came up with it, by accident, of course. She was ‘aghast’ that I had a goat.”

  “All right, all right.” Trueblood leaned over the table next door and plucked up a few small paper napkins. These he dealt out like a card shark.

  Jury sighed. “I don’t have time to stay through another one of your contests. I’ve got to get to Chesham.”

  “You mean Amersham?” asked Trueblood.

  “No. I mean Chesham. Thanks.” The thanks was for Dick Scroggs, who had just handed Jury a pint of Adnams. “Besides, the dog’s already got a name: Joey.”

  Diane said, “Yes, but you don’t know if it’s really his name.” On the edge of her glass, she tapped the toothpick that had lately speared the olive in her martini.

  Jury knew better than to use reason with this crowd, but his line of work condemned him always to try. “Then is ‘Aggrieved’ real? Is ‘Aghast’ the goat’s real name?”

  “Well, of course. We named him.”

  That made sense. Jury drank half his pint and set it down. “I’ve got to get going. I’m meeting my sergeant in Chesham.”

  “Yes, old scout. You didn’t tell us what was going on in Chesham.”

  “A killer-naming contest. See you later.”

  They stared after him openmouthed, clearly wondering, and he let them.

  30

  Mungo had paced for so long, he felt he’d worn his paws to nubbins.

  Morris was lying on the carpet in the music room, watching him. She yawned and slowly closed her eyes; all that pacing tired her. Most things did.

  Mungo stopped. Why is it all down to me? This is your fate we’re talking about. I’m not the one who wants to get back to Amerslum.

  Amer-sham. Anyway, it’s Chesham. I told you, more than once.

  More than once. More than once. He lay down and tried to curl his legs into his chest. Do you have more joints than me?

  I don’t know. Morris yawned again: How are you going to get me back to Chesham?

  Mungo didn’t answer. He went over to the walnut bureau and its bottom drawer, looking at the pile of kittens, looking for Elf. He needed to relax. The kittens were piled on top of one another. Was there nothing but black cats in this whole wide world? No wonder Mrs. Tobias thought Morris was Schrödinger. It was amazing that the two cats could coexist in this house without anyone’s knowing.

  Mungo rolled two kittens away from the pile. They spat at him. Then he unearthed Elf.

  What are you doing with that kitten? Morris asked.

  Nothing. Mungo had Elf in his mouth, looking around for a hiding place. This activity relaxed him a bit; he could do it and think about a problem at the same time. He looked over the music room. Not the grand piano; he’d done that, along with the coal scuttle, the umbrella urn, the planters.

  Put that kitten down, said Morris.

  Boss, boss, boss, boss. Mungo didn’t care; he wasn’t all that interested in hiding Elf, so he dropped him.

  Elf made his way fuzzily back to the drawer, trying to think nasty thoughts about his tormentor, but he couldn’t, as he was too little and his mind was formless and without messages.

  The Spotter had been talking about Chesham and a case. Then he’d gone on about the “two kids”—oh, what an adventure tha
t had been! But if there was a “case” in Chesham, was it possible it was Morris related? Mungo stopped his pacing and stared at Morris (who was taking a nap, no help there). Morris had been witness, if not to the murder, then certainly to the dead body.

  Mungo hitched up one paw, set it down, picked up the other paw, set it down, the other up, down, up, down. Nervous excitement. He paced again, head down as if he meant to ram through a—Wait! Morris might not have known what she was seeing. How could you see a murder and not know?

  He trotted over to Morris and gave her a shove where she lay.

  Wake up!

  Morris shifted and recurled herself.

  Wake up! Listen—Think! Did you see a murder? Did you see anything at all that might have been a murder?

  Morris narrowed her eyes. Of course not. I saw this person lying there, and then the woman and dog came along.

  Mungo paced again and wished he smoked cigars. He could stand reflectively by the bay window, tapping ash. All right, maybe she hadn’t seen anything. What if she had? What would they do with the knowledge? Go to the local station and fill out a report?

  Pacing. Stopping. But . . . what if the Spotter were to see Morris?

  Well, maybe . . .

  What did they have to lose?

  Nothing at all.

  Mungo went over and plopped himself down beside Morris. Listen: Here’s what we’ll do. There’s this pub called the Old Wine Shades Harry’s always going to. The Shades, for short.

  I’d rather go to my own pub.

  Don’t go all weepy on me. Life’s hard enough.

  It is for Dora.

  Oh, God, thought Mungo, I’ll run away and be a hobo dog. But he knew he wouldn’t. The food was tasty here, and the beds were good. And there was Elf and the rest.