Chapter 2
“Disgraceful!” Mrs. Bilby said with relish. “Absolutely scandalous!” The newspaper rustled as she turned the pages for the follow-up to the front-page story. “It just goes to show you can’t trust anyone! I always suspected the police force was corrupt!”
“Only a few of them, Mother,” Bettina reproved absently. Her attention was centred on the cats. Feeding them was always tricky when there was more than one in residence. Four bowls, one in each corner of the room, had been filled from the various tins that had been delivered along with the cats. Naturally, after a couple of reassuring mouthfuls of their own food, the cats had begun to prowl around to investigate what the others had been served. At the moment, it was peaceful because they were still sampling each other’s breakfasts; the crunch would come when one of them decided to return to his own bowl and found another cat eating from it.
“Taking bribes … keeping lost property …” Mrs. Bilby read out the juiciest snippets. “Five of them suspended and the rest still under suspicion. Disgraceful! In my young days, you could rely on the police absolutely. Now they’re no better than anyone else. Worse, it seems! You’ve got to watch them every minute.”
Adolf was the one to watch. Having finished most of his own food and sampled Enza’s and Bluebell’s, he was now stalking Pasha with sinister intent. Pasha was still eating his own breakfast, but it was the little puddle of cod-liver oil in the saucer beside his bowl that was Adolf’s real target. That meant trouble: Pasha loved his cod-liver oil.
“And ‘there are allegations’”—Mrs. Bilby continued to be absorbed in the local scandal—“‘that certain of the policemen have been in league with burglars. When householders asked the police to keep an eye on their premises for the two or three weeks they would be away on holiday or on business, the information was passed to burglars who then removed all valuables at their leisure.’ That must have been what happened to the Burtons last year. Remember? They came back and found the place cleared out. Paintings, silver, china—even the rugs.”
Pasha raised his head and growled threateningly. Adolf snarled back and edged a little closer.
“And remember when Mrs. Hailey found that wallet with three hundred pounds in it and handed it in? She never heard another word about it for months and, when she went to inquire, they told her it had been claimed, but she never got a reward or even a thank-you note from the man who lost it. Now it looks as though they kept it all for themselves and never even tried to find the real owner.”
Pasha hissed, challenging the marauder. Adolf adopted an air of unconcern and sauntered past the disputed territory before turning and beginning to sneak up on the other side. Pasha shifted position to face him again, fur beginning to stand on end. He hissed another challenge.
Bluebell and Enza drew together and sat down a safe distance away to watch the proceedings. Only the slight twitching at the end of their tails betrayed their excited anticipation. Since they were not at the moment in a condition where males fought over their favours, they were prepared to take their thrills where they found them. Two males fighting over food would suit them just as well. Enza made an encouraging noise, blatantly inciting them to violence.
“Those cats aren’t going to fight, are they?” Mrs. Bilby lifted her feet to the rung of her chair, mindful of her bare ankles. “I told you there’d be trouble having them all here together. One at a time is more than enough. Put them outside where they can’t do any damage, otherwise they’ll wreck the kitchen.”
“They can’t go out,” Bettina said firmly. “It’s still terribly wet out there and some of those downed power lines may still be live. It’s too dangerous for them.”
“It’s too dangerous for me with them thrashing about in here!”
Morning had dawned with a wet and watery sky streaked by ominous grey clouds. There was a persistent wind noisily threatening to break out of control again; bushes rustled and trees bent and swayed. The electricity had come back on, but without radiating any confidence that it would remain on.
The transistor radio warned of damaged gas pipes, live power cables on the ground, fallen trees blocking roads, and the strong possibility of more rain and wind to come. And that was just the news broadcast.
When the weather forecast came on, the forecasters spent a great deal of time explaining just why this should not have happened; the freak atmospheric conditions responsible for it; the impossibility of predicting it and the unlikelihood that such conditions could ever occur again.
Mrs. Bilby pointed out that they had said the same thing several years ago and weren’t to be trusted as far as they could be thrown.
The noise level in the kitchen rose abruptly as Adolf feinted towards the bowl and Pasha reared up on his hind legs, lashing out to defend his property. Enza howled a battle cry and even Bluebell sang out encouragement, although it was not certain which one she was rooting for. Adolf ducked his head and dived for the cod-liver oil, managing to tip the saucer and spill the oil in the process.
Enraged, Pasha leaped over his bowl and struck out viciously, swearing at the top of his lungs. Adolf backed far enough to give himself room to charge forward, meeting every imprecation with one of his own. Enza and Bluebell screamed like hysterical cheer leaders, dancing around the periphery of the field of conflict.
“That does it!” Mrs. Bilby hurled herself from her chair and charged across the room, flinging open the back door. “Out! Out! All of you! Out!”
“Mother—no!” But it was too late. Instantly distracted by the scent of the great outdoors, the cats had abandoned their private hostilities and dashed for freedom.
“There!” Mrs. Bilby slammed the door behind them and leaned against it, panting. “Good riddance! Whatever happens, they’ve brought it on themselves!”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Bettina said, with precarious control, “I’m responsible for those cats. If they run away and get lost, I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to everybody.”
“Nothing will happen to the cats,” Mrs. Bilby said defensively. “No such luck! The worst that could happen would be that no one would ask you to cat-sit again. That would be a blessing.”
There was a brief renewed clamour of hatred, defiance and hysteria from outside … and then silence. Deadly silence.
“They’re gone.” Bettina’s heart both sank and raced, all at the same time. “They’ve run off. We’ll never see them again.”
She pushed her mother aside and wrenched the door open. The air was clear and fresh, scented with the rain.
All four cats huddled in a circle on the small patio leading down to the garden. There was a large puddle where the cement met the grass, marooning them on the damp cement. The cats were staring intently at something on the ground in front of them. Their tails lashed slowly back and forth, their bodies tensed to spring. They were united against some common enemy.
“Now what have they done?” Mrs. Bilby crowded into the doorway behind her.
“I don’t know.” Bettina’s heart refused to return to its proper place. There was something about the crouching intensity of the cats that boded no good.
“What have they got there?” Mrs. Bilby craned her neck. “Take it away from them and see.”
“Probably a shrew or a vole.” Bettina approached cautiously, dreading the moment when she would have to stoop and retrieve the small furry body. But it had to be done, the cats would be sick if they ate it.
Four voices rose in protest as her hand came down in their midst, groping for their lawful prey. It was injustice of the highest order. They were used to it, of course, but they didn’t have to like it.
Adolf, bolder than the others, slammed a proprietary paw down on his victim and growled. This was his. His alone. He glared at the other cats.
“I think he’s got a bird.” Divide and conquer was the method. Bettina scooped up Bluebell, who gave only a token struggle, contriving to wipe her feet on Bettina’s sleeve and bursting into purrs; sh
e hated getting her feet wet.
“Here.” Bettina passed Bluebell to her mother, “Put her inside.” She reached for Pasha, the next most amiable.
But Pasha wasn’t going to live up to his reputation today. Some of Adolf’s stroppiness was rubbing off on him. He twisted away from her hands and muttered a protest.
“Oh!” She had a clear view now. “They’ve got a pigeon.”
“Well, get it away from them before they make themselves sick on it. Nasty creatures! You can’t let them out of your sight for a minute, but they run off and kill something. I’ll never know why you want them around.”
“I don’t think they killed it,” Bettina defended. “They didn’t have time. They just got out here.”
“The poor little pigeon. It probably took one look at all those great louts charging down on it and dropped dead from fright. Mark my words: they killed it—one way or another.”
“Nonsense! It’s been dead for hours.” Bettina had taken a better look at the body now and it was definitely stiff, its head cocked to one side in an unnatural way. “The storm must have hurled it against the house and broken its neck.”
“A likely story! You’re covering up for those cats.”
“That must have been the thud that woke us in the night,” Bettina realized. “And that was why the cats were so anxious to go outside. They knew—and they wanted to get at it.”
“While it was still fresh!” Her mother sniffed. “Disgusting monsters! Just like them! As though they didn’t get enough to eat with you taking care of them and spoiling them to pieces.”
Adolf twitched his ears, growled menacingly and put another paw on the motionless and rain-drenched body. Pasha moved over to stand beside him, glaring at Bettina and her mother with unusual defiance.
Enza started forward and incautiously stepped into the puddle. She drew back, shaking her paw and complaining. This was no fit weather for cat or human. She withdrew to Mrs. Bilby’s ankles and looked pointedly at the kitchen door.
“That’s right, Enza.” Mrs. Bilby was slightly mollified. “You’ve got a bit of sense. You and Bluebell. We’ll go back inside where it’s dry and warm.” Bettina heard the door close behind them.
“Now then …” With her mother out of the way, Bettina was prepared to be tougher. “Let’s get that out of your grubby paws.” She swooped and snatched up the dead pigeon.
Adolf shrieked an immediate protest, but Pasha was distracted by the sudden enormous raindrops splashing down on him. The random storm clouds were overhead again and the heavens were about to open once more. Pasha looked skyward then moved back to the shelter of the porch, huddling against the kitchen door.
Adolf was made of sterner stuff. He bristled and snarled his fury. His tail lashed, he advanced menacingly, screaming of Anschluss and Blitz—but he had lost his audience.
Bettina stared down at the pathetic feathered heap in her hand, her heart constricting with dismay. This wasn’t just any common wild pigeon, this was—had been—someone’s pet. The little tube attached to its leg told her that.
A racing pigeon? A homing pigeon?—No, a carrier pigeon. A bird loved and cared for, living in a loft with others of its kind. Heading homewards towards shelter and its mate when it had been blown off course by the sudden storm, its tiny, ordered, happy life unexpectedly and cruelly ended.
It would have had a name, probably a favourite perch in the loft, a feeding tray filled with its favourite grain, a mate—a grieving mate. And an owner who would be watching the sky for its return, hoping against hope that it had found shelter from the storm and would eventually flutter in safe and sound, although much delayed …
“Bettina! Bettina!” The kitchen door opened and Pasha immediately hurled himself against it and shouldered his way through. “Bettina, are you going to stay out there all day? It’s raining again.”
“Yes, Mother, I know.” Even Adolf had noticed. The wind was rising and those first large splashing drops were turning into a concentrated downpour. He was no longer willing to stay and assert what he felt to be his rights over the pigeon; his main rights were to a roof over his head and solid creature comfort. He was at the door ahead of her.
“We’re coming.” She turned the knob and opened the door, allowing Adolf to streak in ahead of her; confident that he would distract her mother for the few moments she needed.
“That’s Pasha’s cod-liver oil, you miserable little tyke!” Sure enough, Adolf was running true to form and her mother was attempting to exert her authority; they would both be kept busy for the next few minutes.
Bettina stood on one leg, drawing up the other one to form a half-lap on which she laid the pigeon while she struggled to remove the message container from the stiff, cold leg. There would be identification inside the tube; someone to notify of the fate of a cherished pet.
Again Bettina felt her heart constrict and flutter as wildly as the little wings must have beat against the storm. She didn’t want to be the breaker of such sad news. All this while, she had secretly dreaded the accident which might have forced her to face the owner of one of her charges with such terrible tidings.
Now the nightmare was upon her, lessened only by the anonymity of the owner and the unfamiliarity of the corpse. In a way, that made it even more awkward. How do you telephone a complete stranger and say … ? Say … ? How did you phrase it to break the news in the kindest manner?
“Bettina! Bettina! Are you coming in? The storm’s come back and these ruddy cats are running wild in here.”
“Yes, Mother, I’m here.” Bettina slipped the cylinder into the pocket of her cardigan and opened the door. “Do you have a shoe box or something we can put the pigeon in?”
“You’re never bringing that thing in here! Shoe box? Are you out of your mind? Go down and throw it in the ditch where it belongs. You’ll be wanting to give it a Christian burial next!”
No … but she wanted to save it. Its owner would want to know what had happened to it; he might even want the body back in order to bury it himself. (Pigeon fanciers were usually men, weren’t they? Except for Her Majesty the Queen, that is.) Perhaps in some private plot of ground where he interred all his deceased pigeons.
“That’s not a bad idea.” She knew her agreement would infuriate her mother, but that was better than letting her know the real reason the pigeon was going to be preserved. She wrapped the little corpse in paper towels and looked around for a place to store it.
“Don’t you dare go near the freezer!” her mother snapped, “I’m not having that thing in there!”
“I’m just going upstairs,” Bettina said. “I think I have a box it will fit into in my room.”
“All the dead birds and animals there’ll be around after this storm,” her mother grumbled, “and you have to go and get sentimental over one just because it’s died on our doorstep.”
Adolf nearly tripped Bettina as she crossed the room; he was still noisily protesting the confiscation of his prize. Pasha trailed after him uncertainly, ready to join in if the pigeon were restored to them, but obviously coming to a more realistic assessment of the situation, for he lost interest abruptly and turned back to finish his cod-liver oil before Adolf remembered it.
Too late. Bluebell and Enza had discovered it and were licking the saucer to a fine polish. Muttering under his breath, Pasha retreated to his carrier, crouched down in front of it and sank into a monumental gloom.
Outside, the rain began to beat down heavily again.
“Typical Bank Holiday,” Mrs. Bilby said with deep satisfaction. “I don’t know why anyone tries to go away. At least, not to stay in this country. They ought to have learned better by now. Even you are smart enough not to do that.”
Bettina made an indeterminate noise in her throat, rather like Pasha’s complaints. Any attempt she had ever made to get away for a holiday on her own or with friends had inevitably been thwarted by one of her mother’s “attacks”, necessitating her cancelling her plans and staying at home to n
urse her mother back to “health”. It had not taken many such episodes before she had learned her lesson.
Pasha gave a querulous moan and Bluebell and Enza abandoned the empty saucer and went over to minister to him, although it was debatable whether breathing the fumes of his own cod-liver oil, all over him was going to be any comfort to Pasha.
“Look at the way those cats carry on.” Mrs. Bilby watched disapprovingly. “It’s a good thing Pasha is the way he is or there might be trouble there.”
“Poor Pasha,” Bettina defended him. “He can’t help it. I must remember to give him his vitamin pills every day.”
“Sylvia had to refund the last few stud fees when there weren’t any results, didn’t she?” Mrs. Bilby did not attempt to disguise her ill-humoured glee. “Jack Rawson says his name shouldn’t be Pasha, but Eunuch.”
“Jack Rawson had better pay more attention to his own cat.” Bettina glanced at Enza, whose gently burgeoning sides suggested a happy event in the not-too-distant future.
“Irresponsible!” Mrs. Bilby glared at Adolf—there was little doubt who was responsible for Enza’s predicament. “They should all be fixed!”
The paper towels were now soaking wet from the water draining off the feathers. Absently, Bettina unwrapped the pigeon, tossed the towels into the waste bin and pulled off fresh towels to shroud the bird.
This sent Adolf into fresh paroxysms. He reared up on his hind legs to bat out with a front paw, trying to hook the bird from her hand. She lifted it higher.
“Yes, I mean you!” Mrs. Bilby snapped at Adolf. “Especially you! You’re the troublemaker around here.”
Adolf dropped back to all fours and swore harshly at Mrs. Bilby, recognizing animosity and returning it. They were old adversaries and he was not easily going to forget the sudden glasses of cold water hurled over him as he strolled through the garden. He knew who was responsible for them.
“I’ll get this out of the way.” Bettina gestured with the bird. “He won’t be so excitable then.”
“That’s right, get it out of here. And don’t keep it in your room, either. It won’t be long before it starts to smell. Bury it, if you’re going to, and get it out of the way.”
The Diamond Cat Page 2
