by James Barrie
Maybe he can’t draw people, Emily thought.
There was a sheet of paper pinned onto a drawing board at the back of the room. An anglepoise lamp lit up the white rectangle of paper. She could make out some faint pencil marks. Drawing equipment was laid out on a table beside the drawing board. Not a pencil out of place. Also on the table, there was a little wooden mallet, the sort used to tenderize steaks.
I wonder what that’s doing there, she thought.
From the back wall of Michael’s house Theodore also wondered what the mallet was for.
◆◆◆
Emily didn’t know much about Michael. He was already living on Avondale Terrace when she’d moved in two years ago. He sometimes wore thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, other times he must wear contact lenses, she thought.
Philip had only appeared recently. She wasn’t sure if he lived with Michael, or just stayed over some nights.
She’d learned that Philip had had to go to work. He worked shifts at a fried chicken shop in the city centre. ‘McChicko’s’, Michael had called it.
‘Did you know Peter Morris at all?’ she asked Michael, when he returned. He was carrying a tray with a tea pot and two cups, all matching porcelain.
‘Not really,’ he said, putting the tea things down and arranging them on the table. ‘I used to hear him on a night. He talked to his pigeons.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. That’s not so surprising, is it? I bet you talk to your cat.’
‘Yes, but that’s different,’ Emily said, biting on her bottom lip. ‘I mean Theodore is intelligent.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Well, he used to talk to them... He had names for them too. Deirdre, Lily, Daisy, Ethel... I think Ethel must have been his favourite. “Oh, Ethel,” he used to say, “You are a beauty…” Late at night when I was lying in bed I could hear him... I sleep with the window open… Didn’t you ever hear him?’
‘No. Never... I go to sleep with the radio on,’ Emily said. ‘And I live further up the hill.’
They were both quiet for a minute.
Emily sipped at her tea. It was slightly citrusy. ‘What do you think she’s going to do with the pigeons?’ she said.
‘Probably sell them. The police said to me that some of them may be worth a bit. Maybe whoever killed Peter did it over a pigeon.’
‘Over a pigeon?’ Emily said. ‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Well, it would clear your cat – if someone had stolen the bird.’
On the back wall, Theodore pricked up his ears.
‘Whoever killed Peter Morris had to have a reason,’ Michael went on. ‘A motive if you like... If someone had found out that those birds of his were worth a lot of money…’
‘They might have broken into his yard to steal his birds,’ Emily continued the chain of thought.
‘And Peter surprised them...’
‘And they hit him over the head…’ Emily said. ‘And killed him.’
‘No,’ Michael said, shaking his head.
‘No?’ Emily said.
Michael took a sip of tea. ‘They’re not connected,’ he said. ‘The murder and the missing pigeon... It was probably your cat that killed it.’
‘But you said...’
‘The murder is unrelated to the pigeon. Someone bumped off the old man and then your cat made off with one of his birds.’
‘He wouldn’t have done,’ Emily said, glancing out of the window and meeting Theodore’s stare.
‘He’s a cat, isn’t he? Cats kill birds... It’s nature. And didn’t you say he dropped pigeon feathers on your bed? There’s the evidence. He as good as owned up to it.’
‘That doesn’t mean he killed the pigeon. He just wanted to get my attention. He discovered the body and he came to get me.’
‘I think you are giving him more credit than he’s worth.’
Emily sighed and shook her head.
‘What’s done is done,’ Michael said, matter of factly. ‘Even if your cat killed his pigeon, what’s the big deal? It’s only a bird at the end of the day. A rat with wings at that.’
He placed his teacup back in its saucer. ‘A rat with wings,’ he repeated. He had his right leg over the left and was jigging it up and down.
Emily stared down at his agitated leg, and noticing Michael said, ‘I didn’t have my run today…’
◆◆◆
Evidently Michael was not a friend of either the feathered or the furry among us, thought Theodore. He turned and looked at the pigeon loft on the gable wall. Now Ethel was gone, there were five pigeons; the day before there had been half a dozen.
He watched as a police officer cycled down the hill. She didn’t notice Theodore on the wall. She was looking the other way. Towards Wendy Morris’s house.
Theodore jumped down into the alley and up onto the other side, on top of Wendy’s back wall.
The trellis had square openings, about two inches apart. Theodore peered through the trellis and spotted Wendy, sitting at her kitchen table, her back to the window. Dirty dishes soaked in the sink. The knuckle of a rolling pin stood proud of the greyish brown washing up water. An early evening soap opera was on. A small television tucked into the corner. An advertisement break interrupted the programme.
‘All this baking!’ Irene said. ‘I don’t know how you can eat with what’s happened… Poor Peter. I mean he had plenty more life in him, didn’t he?’
‘I can always freeze them,’ Wendy said.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll freeze the pies. Unless you’d like to take one. I’ve not got that much room in my freezer come to think of it.’
‘Go on then,’ Irene said. ‘I don’t mind if I do. If I don’t eat it, Rocky will.’
‘Best to keep busy,’ Wendy said. ‘That’s what they say.’
‘And they haven’t found the murder weapon? I doubt they will now. I mean it could have been owt. A sledgehammer. A brick. A lump of concrete. I’ll bet it’s at the bottom of the Ouse by now. No doubt they’ll be out searching people’s backyards tomorrow morning. I doubt they will find owt though.’
‘Emmerdale’s back on,’ Wendy said, nodding her head at the television in the corner.
‘Oh, so it is.’
The two old ladies turned to face the television. However, Wendy did not follow the plot as it played out on the small screen. Instead the scenes from her own day replayed themselves in her head.
She thought of that scream that had got her from her bed. Then the silly girl sobbing in her yard; the man in tight running gear dashing off to call the police; his friend in purple pyjamas. Then the police arriving.
They took away the two men and the girl to Fulford Police Station, and then she was also taken to make a statement. When she returned from Fulford several hours later Peter had gone and the shed floor had been scrubbed clean. Two young female officers had sat with her into the evening, asking questions. Wendy was not sure if she were being counselled or questioned.
She was told by the quietly spoken police officer, her hand on hers, that her husband had died instantly and would have felt no pain. Then the other asked quite bluntly if she had any idea what might have done such damage. Wendy said that she didn’t know.
‘He wouldn’t have known what hit him,’ the first officer said.
The young police woman asked her if she had anywhere else to spend the night. ‘A relation you could stay with?’ she suggested. ‘It may be an idea after what’s happened...’
Wendy shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here,’ she said. ‘I have a friend who’ll come and sit with me... Irene.’
◆◆◆
As evening set in, Theodore knew that the police investigation would be put on hold until the next day. Now his own investigation could begin.
Night-time was a friend to the cat. While humans can only see darkness, a cat can pick out a thousand shades of grey. He walked along the back walls, inspecting the backyards and gardens, looking for anything out of place. Unlike the
police, he didn’t need to seek permission to enter a person’s yard.
There was a much neglected garden to the rear of No. 19, the house next door to his own. The grass had not been cut in years. Every curtain in the house was closed. They were never opened as far as Theodore could tell. It began to spit with rain but Theodore did not feel it through his thick coat.
He jumped down into the overgrown rectangle of lawn. He had explored this garden numerous times in recent months. In among the long, wet undergrowth were crumpled beer cans, plastic bottles, crisp packets, sodden newspapers, a bicycle wheel, the remains of a takeaway tied up in a plastic bag and numerous little blue plastic bags of canine excrement.
Theodore sensed something foreign among the undergrowth, something that hadn’t been there before and had no right being there now.
He approached through the long wet grass, his head close to the ground, sniffing the air. In front of him there lay a hexagonal-shaped cobblestone, just like the ones that paved the back alley. Its glazed blue surface was splashed with dried blood.
He thought back to the conversation he had overheard between Wendy and her neighbour Irene: ‘A sledgehammer. A brick. A lump of concrete...’
It was still raining; the raindrops splashed the surface of the cobblestone – washing away the blood. Washing away the evidence.
Theodore stood staring at the cobblestone lying in the overgrown grass, his tail held aloft. He looked at the boundary wall that separated this garden from his own yard. There was no way he could transport the cobblestone to his own house, to Emily. His only hope was to transport Emily to the cobblestone.
She was lying on the sofa in the front room, the television on, a glass of wine on the little round table in front of her. She was watching a cookery programme.
Theodore miaowed loudly from the doorway.
‘Come here, Theo,’ she said, her voice tired.
Theodore jumped up by her side and allowed her to hug him to her. He began to purr.
‘Ugh. You’re all wet.’
Theodore jumped down and walked to the door, wagging his tail from side to side.
He miaowed as loudly as he could. He turned round to see Emily still watching television.
‘You’ve got food,’ she said and took a sip of wine.
Theodore paced the hallway.
He remembered what Irene had said: ‘No doubt they’ll be out searching people’s backyards tomorrow morning.’
He heard the rain patter at the windows. The blood will be washed away by the morning, he thought. Even if they discovered the cobblestone, they would not realize its significance.
He stared up at Emily and miaowed once more. Emily shook her head. ‘I can’t do anything about the rain,’ she said.
She took her mobile phone from the arm of the sofa and began to tap the screen.
At times like these Theodore felt complete exasperation at his inability to be understood by his human. Like a driver beeping his horn and flashing his lights, trying to warn oncoming traffic of a collapsed bridge on the road ahead, Theodore could resort only to miaowing, purring or hissing in order to communicate. How was he going to alert the authorities to the significance of the blue cobblestone?
He thought for a minute, raised his tail, and then headed back outside.
◆◆◆
Emily woke in the middle of the night and knew that Theodore was not in his usual spot: the pillow beside her own. The radio talked quietly on her bedside table. Minster FM informed her that: ‘following the murder of a pensioner in the Clementhorpe area of York, the police are now looking for someone wearing pink pyjamas and gloves.’
They should put on some more sensible clothes, thought Emily, still half asleep.
She reached over and turned the radio off. She turned on her bedside lamp. She looked at the empty pillow by her side. Then she got up and went downstairs, calling her cat’s name. He wasn’t in the house.
Had something happened to Theodore now?
She grabbed her coat, pulled on her Garfield slippers and unlocked the back door. Outside it was still raining. She called his name quietly and a minute later heard a soft thud as he landed in the corner of the yard. He ran towards her.
‘Theodore, come here. What on earth have you been up to?’
She scooped him up.
‘Oh my God. You’re soaking. Look at the state of you.’
Theodore’s fur was sodden; twigs and other organic debris entwined in his fur.
Emily carried him upstairs to the bathroom. She towelled him dry and put him to bed on a fresh towel on his pillow. He was soon asleep.
The Strange Fish at No.19
Avondale Terrace is located in the Clementhorpe district of York, a short walk from the city centre. It lies to the south of the City Walls. The River Ouse and Rowntree Park are to the west; the residential sprawl of South Bank to the south, and the Knavesmire and the racecourse to the west. It is now a popular residential area. It used to be populated by railway and chocolate factory workers. These days the newcomers, living side by side with the old timers, are young professionals, mostly without children, who commute to jobs in Leeds, as York has little industry of its own except for tourism.
The Clementhorpe streets are formed by rows of Victorian terraced housing, fronting onto the car-lined streets and backing onto narrow alleys. The alleys are paved with hexagonal cobbles, and across the wet cobbles of the back alley between Avondale and Alcuin Terraces two police officers descended the gentle hill. They were not dressed in pink pyjamas and gloves, but were wearing their uniforms.
They peered over walls into the backyards and little courtyard gardens, not expecting to find anything of any significance but enjoying being out in the early morning sunshine that had followed the rain.
At a quarter to eight, one police officer turned to the other and said, ‘Well, have a look at that.’
His colleague peered over the wall. It was just an overgrown little garden with rubbish strewn around. At first he did not see what had caught his colleague’s attention. But then he saw it too.
The long grass had been pushed down in a long line extending from the back wall. At the end of the line was a circular clearing, where the grass had been flattened, and in the middle of the clearing there was a blue hexagonal cobblestone.
‘I think we’d better get forensics over,’ the policeman said, reaching for his radio.
His colleague added, ‘And we’d better have a little chat with whoever lives here.’
◆◆◆
The house belonged to Craig Foster, a middle-aged man with unruly ginger hair, which extended down the sides of his freckled face.
When questioned over his whereabouts the night Peter Morris had been killed, Craig did not have an alibi as such.
He had been home alone that evening. When asked what he’d watched on television, he admitted to not owning a television. When asked what he had been doing, he said that he had been up in his attic room looking at the stars through his telescope. Oblivious to time, he was not sure when he had gone to bed. He claimed not to know anything of the murder even though it was already all over the local news and on the tips of everyone’s tongues.
As he was being helped into the back of a police van, Theodore heard Craig reiterate to the police officer that he had been staring at the stars from his attic room the whole evening, adding with a stammer that he was a keen astrologist.
Theodore furrowed his brow. If Craig was so keen on the study of the stars, why would he confuse astronomy with the party games of astrology?
He was lying. He was the murderer without doubt.
He had assisted the police in getting the killer. Now he just needed to find out what had happened to Ethel the pigeon.
◆◆◆
Within a couple of hours, a white tent had been erected over the back garden of No. 19, under which several police officers were on their hands and knees conducting a fingertip search.
Theodore looked down at the grey
shadows dancing beneath the canvas from the back bedroom window and yawned with satisfaction at his handiwork. He gave himself a lick over and went down to have a light lunch of mashed cod fillets that Emily had left out. He returned to bed, satisfied that the police could now be left to progress the investigation while he caught up on his sleep.
The officer who had spotted the cobble in the rear garden of No. 19 returned to the police station to submit his report, in which he included the fact that the grass around the cobble had been flattened down. If this had not been the case, the cobble would probably have remained in the long grass and its significance would never have been realized. Neither he nor any of his colleagues could offer an explanation. A senior officer muttered something about ‘believing in crop circles next’, and the matter was dropped. It would therefore never be acknowledged that the police had had a little feline assistance in discovering what would soon transpire to be the murder weapon.
Forensics detected small amounts of blood on the cobble despite the heavy rain the night following the murder. It did not take them long to confirm that the blood had belonged to the late Peter Morris. However, if there had been any fingerprints, they had been washed away. Or the murderer had worn gloves.
The police began a thorough search of the inside of No.19 while Craig was detained at Fulford. In the attic room they found his telescope and a computer. The rest of the house was untidy and cluttered with stacks of magazines, newspapers, equipment and furniture that had suffered from long years of neglect. One of the bedrooms the police had difficulty in entering: it was so crammed with boxes.
It would take a team of twelve officers some time to go through the house and its contents.
◆◆◆
Shortly after midday a police officer visited Wendy.
‘He used that cobble to keep the shed door open,’ she told the police officer. ‘I realized it was gone when I went to feed his birds last night. The door swung shut on me.’
The police officer scribbled into her notepad and took a sip of tea. On arriving she had insisted on making a cup for both her and Wendy, although Wendy had protested.
