But as the captain remarked to himself, getting into his motorcar and driving down the lane, one fresh brown trout looked pretty much like another. There was no telling whether these three had been caught in Moss Eccles Tarn this morning or purchased from the fish vendor’s boy, who always drove his blue-painted cart through the village at eleven on Monday and Thursday mornings.
And if the captain doesn’t know, I’m sure I don’t, either.
14
Crumpet Takes Command
At the same hour that Bertram Potter was on his way back to the ferry and his date with destiny at Lindeth Howe, and Captain Woodcock was investigating the three brown trout in Mr. Biddle’s kitchen, Crumpet was marshalling her forces. Or rather, she was attempting to, but without a great deal of success.
Throughout the afternoon, the gray cat had continued her survey of the village, gathering more reports of mysterious break-ins, petty kitchen and dairy thievery, and even a case of grand larceny. (Mr. Leach’s grandfather’s gold watch and fob was missing from its hook on the walnut bureau mirror in the bedroom at Buckle Yeat Cottage, where it hung when Mr. Leach wasn’t wearing it.) And Sarah Barwick was still tearing her hair out over her bakery accounts. When she finally got them unscrambled (which might not be for another week or two), it would be seen that she was missing at least twelve bob from her cash box.
Well. When all these misdemeanors and felonies were tallied up, they made for a frighteningly long list. Crumpet felt that she did not need a Sherlock Holmes to tell her that the village had been inundated by a crime wave of unprecedented proportions, and that she—as president of the Village Cat Council—should most assuredly have to do something about it. And since she was the new president, and this was her first significant challenge, whatever she did should be exceptionally fine and outstanding. (If you are thinking that this is an abrupt departure from the more . . . shall we say, sedentary style of her predecessor, Tabitha Twitchit, you are correct. Crumpet is out to make her mark on the world.)
So she had called an unusual meeting of the Executive Committee of the Council in the shed at the foot of the Rose Cottage garden. It had proved rather difficult to get the committee together, since Tabitha Twitchit (who still served on the Executive Committee) had to come all the way from the Vicarage, and Treacle—a motherly orange tabby who lived just across the lane at the Llewellyns’—had to ask Felicity Frummety to mind her kittens. This small group obviously wasn’t the police force Crumpet knew she needed, but perhaps it could function as a decision-making body.
“Well, then,” Tabitha Twitchit said cattily. Tabitha was a plump, elderly calico with an orange and white bib, who—even though she was no longer president—still fancied herself in charge of things. “What’s it all about, eh?” She scowled. “I should like to remind you, Crumpet, that during my tenure as president, I never, ever called a meeting of the Executive Committee before teatime. It just isn’t done.” With a resigned sigh, she examined a paw. “Although, of course, you’re new to the presidency, so allowances must be made. Do remember, though, for future reference. No meetings before teatime.”
Yes, indeed: sedentary. The older Tabitha got, the lazier she became. I daresay that both you and I have been acquainted with a great many such cats. There is such a one sitting on my foot as I write these very words.
Crumpet narrowed her eyes. “I do not believe, Tabitha,” she retorted, “that during your tenure as president, the Council ever faced such a dire and dangerous dilemma as the one that confronts the village now. We have to come up with a workable solution, and quick, before we are completely overwhelmed!”
“I sincerely hope,” Treacle put in plaintively, “that this won’t be a very long meeting. I need to get home as quickly as I can. Felicity was the only minder I could get on such short notice, and I’m not at all sure I trust her with those kittens. She means well, but she’s never been a mother and has no idea of the mischief a kitten can get up to when nobody’s looking. What’s the problem, Crumpet?”
“Don’t worry, Treacle,” Tabitha said in a comforting tone. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it isn’t nearly as ‘dire and dangerous’ a dilemma as Crumpet is making it out to be.” She gave a scoffing meow. “ ‘Overwhelmed,’ indeed. Our friend has always been prone to exaggeration, you know. The worse a thing looks, the better she likes it. A regular kitty Cassandra.”
“Cassandra?” Treacle looked around, puzzled. “Cassandra? Who’s she? I don’t believe I’ve met her.”
“I have never understood this personality quirk myself,” Tabitha went on reflectively. “Personally, I am very much a realist. I like to see a thing entirely as it is, without any exaggeration. I make it a rule never to cry wolf unless I myself have seen the paw prints and smelt the horrid creature. I am speaking metaphorically, of course,” she added with a superior sniff. “We have not had wolves here in my lifetime. And in the absence of proof, I should have to say that our Crumpet is making a ‘dire and dangerous’ mountain out of an innocent little molehill.”
This did not sit well with Crumpet. “Well, as far as metaphorical wolves are concerned,” she replied hotly, “I will tell you that—”
But whatever Crumpet was about to say was drowned out by the deafening rattle and clatter and pot-banging at the back door of Rose Cottage, to the accompaniment of shrill female shrieks. It was young Mrs. Pemberton, who with her husband and infant daughter had recently moved into Rose Cottage. (You may remember that this was the cottage where Grace Lythecoe had lived with Caruso the canary before she married Vicar Sackett and moved to the Vicarage.)
Hearing the racket, all three cats rushed to the shed door, to see brave little Mrs. Pemberton on her back stoop with a broom in her hand.
“Out!” she cried, swinging the broom so hard that it nearly pulled her off her pretty feet. “Get out of here, you dirty, nasty, wicked creature! Out!”
And across the garden, with a perfectly calibrated insouciance, sauntered the largest rat Crumpet had ever seen. He was very nearly as large as herself, with a sleek gray coat and neat paws, and a long, proud tail. He was carrying a cheese over one shoulder. A string of dried peppers was draped like a scarf around his neck. Balanced on his head, like a rakish brown hat, was a raisin-studded scone.
Now, the cats could not have known what this rat portended, but I am sure that you do. For this was no other than Jumpin’ Jemmy, one of Rooker’s boys, and the fastest rat in the pack.
Crumpet stared at the rat. The rat stared back. And then, incredibly, the filthy fellow gave her a broad, tantalizing wink and a seductive grin that showed crooked yellow teeth.
“Ah, kittee, my leetle love,” he crooned in a phony French accent. “Come, my sweet, let us rrrun away together. I’ll even show you where old Rooker’s rat gang lives!”
At that moment, Mrs. Pemberton looked up and saw the three cats sitting in the shed doorway, staring with stunned amazement at the rat.
“Get him!” she shrieked. “You lazy, good-for-nothing cats, get t’ wretched beast! Kill him!”
Perhaps you have been in a similar situation. You have opened the kitchen door and seen a mouse, or even large rat, helping himself to a cupcake or chewing open the corner of a package of pasta. And nearby, washing her paw or looking up at the ceiling or humming a little tune, sits your cat. Your lazy, good-for-nothing cat. So I am sure that you know exactly how Mrs. Pemberton felt about the members of the Executive Committee of the Village Cat Council.
But Crumpet was made of sterner stuff than her colleagues. Stung by the words “lazy” and “good-for-nothing” and infuriated by the rat’s bold wink and insulting taunt, she snarled, unsheathed her claws, and leapt into action. The rat glanced casually over his shoulder without a trace of fear. Then, at a speed that Crumpet found utterly astonishing, he ran straight for a gap between two boards in the back fence and darted through, still carrying his ill-gotten gains. Crumpet, chagrined, flung herself at the top of the fence but could not quite scale it. With an ignominious
whump! she thudded to the ground.
In the backyard of the village shop next door, Lydia Dowling had been pinning up damp tea towels on her clothesline. Now, hearing her neighbor’s lamentations, she rushed to the fence.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Pemberton? What’s happened?”
“It’s a rat!” Mrs. Pemberton cried. “A huge, horrendous, hideous rat! He’s been into my cheeses, an’ he’s made off with t’ very best one! And a scone an’ my peppers, too.” Her voice rose even higher. “And just look at those worthless cats—three of them! They sat there like dunces an’ let t’ beast get away! They’re not worth t’ food we feed ’em.”
“We were taken by surprise,” Crumpet replied defensively, as she limped back to the shed. “I don’t think you understand what we’re up against, Mrs. Pemberton. This is going to require a concerted effort. Effort and planning. And troops, as well. Troops who are a match for the enemy.” Her right shoulder hurt horribly and she was sure she had sprained it, attempting to leap that fence. “But at least I tried,” she added, glaring at Tabitha and Treacle. “You lot didn’t even budge. I call that cowardly, I do.”
“He was HUGE,” Treacle retorted with a shudder. “Revolting! Disgusting! And I have to put my kittens first, don’t I, Crumpet? If I had been injured or killed going after that rat, who would take care of my babies?”
Tabitha smiled a lazy, Cheshire-cat grin. “You were frightfully brave, Crumpet. But I’m sure you don’t expect a dowager cat of my years to actually chase a rat. You are so much younger and faster on your feet than I am, and you obviously gave that filthy fellow a run for his money. But fleet as you are, even you couldn’t catch him, now, could you? So you can’t expect me to do it for you.”
“I am so sorry,” Lydia Dowling condoled, leaning her forearms on the fence. “I wonder if it’s t’ same filthy rat that stole t’ sausages from t’ shop last night. And marrows, too—half a bin of ’em!”
“And Hannah Braithwaite told me this morning,” Mrs. Pemberton said, “that something pulled the lid off her pickle crock during t’ night an’ stole every last one of t’ little cucumbers she was savin’ to make sweet pickles with.”
“It’s an invasion,” Lydia said darkly. “That’s wot it is. They probably came in on a lorry or in the back of t’ brewer’s cart.” She shook her head. “Rats are bad trouble. And our village cats’re all too fat an’ lazy to do anything about ’em.”
“Well, something’s got to be done, Mrs. Dowling,” Mrs. Pemberton replied in a determined voice, “or us woan’t have a single cheese left. Nor pickles nor scones, neither.” She raised her broom and pointed it at the cats. “An’ you fat, lazy beasts doan’t need to look for any treats from me,” she cried. “Not until you take charge of those rats. An’ that’s a fact, that is! A pure fact.”
“Wot a grand idea, Mrs. Pemberton,” Lydia said approvingly. “We must all stop feeding t’ cats. When they get hungry enough, they’ll kill t’ rats an’ eat ’em. We’ll tell everybody in t’ village. No food for cats ’til t’ rats are gone.”
“No food?” Treacle cried. “I’m a nursing mother. If I don’t eat, how will I feed my babies?”
“Let them eat rats,” Crumpet growled. “And you, too.”
“My goodness,” Tabitha muttered under her breath. “No supper? I certainly hope they don’t hear of this at the Vicarage.”
“Wouldn’t hurt you to miss a meal or two,” Crumpet retorted sharply. Tabitha had gained several pounds since she’d resigned the Council presidency and moved to the Vicarage.
“No food,” Lydia said in a definitive tone, and left the fence.
“No food,” Mrs. Pemberton agreed heartily, and went back inside and shut her door.
“Oh, dear,” Tabitha cried.
“Yes,” Treacle meowed piteously. “My babies will starve!”
“Can’t you see?” Crumpet shrilled. “Forget food! Food is a minor consideration! That rat is the proof you were asking for, Tabitha. I am no Cassandra. I did not exaggerate. Those rats have broken into nearly every cottage in the village, taking food, valuables, even money—anything that the beasts can carry off.”
Tabitha cleared her throat. “I suppose we do have a problem,” she said reluctantly.
“Indeed we do,” Crumpet replied. “We must recommend a plan to the Council. But we have to take our resources into account. The village cats are in no position to take action. They are simply too weak and untrained. And lazy.” She did not add “Like the two of you,” but the accusation could be read in her manner. She looked from one to the other. “Well? I’m open to suggestions. What sort of plan do you think we should recommend? If we need a police force—it looks to me like we do—who should we recruit?”
There was a long silence, during which nothing could be heard except for the loud buzzing of a fly trapped against the window. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Treacle cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Crumpet,” she said apologetically, “but this sort of thing just isn’t my line, you know. I simply must get home to my kittens. You and Tabitha have much more experience of these matters than I do. Whatever you decide to do, you can count on my support.” She left without another word.
Tabitha cocked her head. “It must be nearly teatime,” she said, “and I’m sure I hear thunder. The Vicarage is quite a long walk, and I hate to get my fur wet. But do let me know when you’ve organized some sort of effort, will you, Crumpet? And please tell the Council that I wholeheartedly support whatever action you recommend. If it’s raining, I probably won’t come to the meeting.”
She walked to the door, adding carelessly, “Oh, and I don’t recommend trying to scale fences. You’re not all that young, you know.” And with that spiteful remark, she was gone.
Crumpet was still sitting in the dusky twilight of the old shed, smarting at Tabitha’s last remark, when Rascal pushed open the door and came in. He had just come from Jeremy’s house. He was still somewhat chagrined at the thought that the new baby was not to be called Rascal (with a capital R) and only rascal (with a small r, and prefaced by the words “sweet” and “dear” and “little”).
“I thought you were having a meeting this afternoon,” he said, looking around the empty shed. He gave himself a shake, spraying drops everywhere. It was beginning to rain, and his coat was a bit damp. “Where is everybody?”
“They left,” Crumpet said bitterly. “Tabitha and Treacle got a glimpse of the kind of horrid creature we are up against, and they were so frightened they bailed out.” She reported on Mrs. Pemberton and the piratical rat who had sauntered across the back garden, as well as all the other break-ins and robberies around the village. “It’s a crime wave,” she said. “Old Rooker’s gang, the rat told us. Something’s got to be done, Rascal. And whatever it is, it has to be soon!”
“You’re right,” said Rascal in a thoughtful tone. He sat down on his haunches. “Mustard and I caught one of those fellows last night, in the Hill Top chicken coop.” He told her about the sneering, filthy, foul-mouthed creature that he and the old yellow dog had captured and executed. “We thought he might be part of a gang, but we couldn’t wring anything out of him.” He paused, assessing the situation. “Well, old girl, I’d say we’re in a bit of a bind, wouldn’t you?”
Crumpet heard Rascal’s “we” and was immeasurably heartened at the thought that somebody was on her side. She had been feeling abandoned.
“A bit of a bind is right,” she said. “This is a brazen enemy. We are under attack. It was very bad last night—thefts all over the village—and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if it’s even worse tonight. And if we don’t catch them quick, they’ll get dug in, and it will be even harder to get them out of here.”
“I wonder where they’re holed up,” Rascal mused. “Since they’re carrying off the stolen property, they have to have a hideout somewhere close by. Did you get any hint of that, when you were asking around about the thefts?”
“No. But I didn�
��t ask, either,” Crumpet admitted, wishing she’d thought of it. Somebody might have been able to give her some information. “But when you stop to think about it, there aren’t too many suitable places in the village. It’s hard to say how many of these rats there are, but judging from the number of thefts, I’m guessing at least a dozen. I don’t think a gang that size could slip into any of the cottages without attracting the Big Folks’ attention.”
“You’re right. But a barn is a different matter,” Rascal said. “They’re full of holes and cubbies and places where rats can hide.”
“Exactly,” Crumpet said. “Felicia Frummety is frightened of her shadow. Perhaps this gang has moved into the Hill Top barn.”
“Not there,” Rascal asserted. “Mustard may not see as well as he once did, but there’s nothing wrong with the dear old fellow’s sense of smell. There are no rats in his barn.”
“Well, there’s the Llewellyn barn at High Green Gate,” Crumpet said. “And the barn at Belle Green.”
“Not at Belle Green,” Rascal barked firmly. That was where he lived. And even if he had been so careless as to overlook a bunch of hooligan rats holed up in his barn, the cow and pigs and chickens would certainly let him know about it.
“Well, then, that just leaves High Green Gate and Castle Farm,” Crumpet said thoughtfully. “And the stable at Tower Bank House.”
“What about that old ramshackle barn behind the post office?” Rascal suggested. “They might be there. Or in the shed behind Courier Cottage, where Mr. Sutton puts his extra patients when he doesn’t have enough room in the surgery.” Mr. Sutton was the village veterinary and a good friend of all the animals.
“Right.” Crumpet sighed. “I know what we ought to do, Rascal. We ought to set up an overnight surveillance at every single one of these places and find out where the rats are hiding. Then we might be able to come up with some sort of effective battle strategy. But there aren’t enough animals to manage the surveillance, let alone conduct the war.” She sighed again, despondently. “Right now, there’s just you and me, Rascal. And we can’t be everywhere at once.”
The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 17
