The Diamond Cat

by Marian Babson

  Bluebell leaped to her feet and began dancing up and down the windowsill, her plumed tail waving a welcome. Bettina did not have to look to see who it was.

  “Zoe’s back,” Mrs. Bilby said unnecessarily. “Do you suppose something’s gone wrong?”

  The neat little Fiesta sailed down the street and pulled to a halt in front of the house next door. It was the first vehicle Bettina had seen all day with readable numberplates.

  Bluebell began purring loudly. The two men turned to survey the car and its occupants while still moving towards their own van.

  Zoe got out, waved cheerily to Bluebell and stared with open curiosity at two drenched men walking backwards. Her mother struggled out on the passenger side and stood on the pavement, also looking at the two strangers behaving so oddly. She said something and Zoe laughed.

  Obviously stung, the men swung around and marched purposefully to their waiting van and leaped into it, slamming the doors vehemently. The engine roared and the van took off.

  Zoe looked after the van with mild surprise then turned to the window and shrugged, giving another little wave with the twirl of the fingers that signalled “Be round later”. Her mother was already halfway up the path to their front door. Zoe removed two suitcases from the car, locked the door and followed her.

  “They look all right,” Mrs. Bilby said grudgingly, turning away from the window now that the show appeared to be over. Bluebell raced her to the door and began agitating to be let out; she wanted to go home, now that Zoe was back.

  The other cats decided that they just wanted to go out. They gathered behind Bluebell and raised their voices.

  “There they go again!” Mrs. Bilby said. “My nerves can’t stand this. Let them out!”

  “It’s pouring,” Bettina protested automatically. “I’ll pop Bluebell home; that will be one less to worry about.” And it would give her a chance to warn Zoe about the unexpected addition to her freezer.

  How much else should she tell her?

  “You’d best empty those buckets before you do anything else.”

  Damn the buckets! She barely stopped herself from saying it aloud. Her nerves were fraying worse than her mother’s—and with better reason. If only the buckets were all she had to worry about.

  “I’ll do it now,” she said meekly and escaped into the hallway, conscious of Bluebell’s accusing look.

  Just about in time. Large dollops of water were plopping into the buckets. Another half-hour and they’d be brimming over. Had the holes in the roof grown larger? Or had a slate or two blown off in the storm? She’d have to cross the street and try to inspect the state of the roof with the old opera glasses that had belonged to her grandmother. Just as well the inept workmen had managed to unplug the sewer and drain away the flood-water; it would be too much if she’d have to go wading as well.

  She positioned the empty buckets under the leaks, watching glumly as the water fell into them with a hollow splash. The leaks were definitely worsening. If this rain didn’t stop soon …

  “Bettina!” Her mother’s voice rose in a shriek. “Bettina! Come down here at once! Now those men are swarming all over our garden!”

  Chapter 6

  “Burglars!” Mrs. Bilby stood well back from the window and glared out at the workmen at the bottom of the garden. “That’s what they are—burglars! Sneaking around under cover of the storm to see who’s away for the holiday weekend, so they can back up a lorry and carry off the contents of the whole house. I knew it!”

  “They’re not the same men,” Bettina said thoughtfully. These looked more like genuine workmen, properly dressed for the job with thigh-high waders and heavy oil-skins. Like the others, they carried long poles and kept prodding the bushes with them. Like the others, they appeared to be unhappy and bad-tempered, communicating in short bursts, jaws thrust forward pugnaciously and eyes snapping.

  “I don’t think any of them can be burglars,” Bettina said. “Burglars wouldn’t make such a spectacle of themselves. Everyone in the neighbourhood who stayed home must be watching them.” The cats had already jumped up on the windowsill to stare out at the renewed entertainment appreciatively.

  “A lot you know about it! What are they doing all over the place then? What are they looking for?”

  “Isn’t there a drain leading into the main sewer down there some place?” Bettina suggested carefully. “Perhaps that’s blocked too.”

  As she and her mother watched, the men had another short altercation, then turned and stumbled around the hedge into Zoe’s garden where they ignored the wide sweep of underwater lawn and began prodding at the hedge on that side.

  “Telephone Zoe,” Mrs. Bilby urged. “Warn her about what’s going on out there. Tell her to lock away her valuables.”

  “Why don’t we just call the police if you’re that nervous?”

  “Them!” Mrs. Bilby had changed her mind again. “A lot of use they’d be with burglars! You saw that newspaper. They’d probably just join forces with them for a cut of the loot.”

  “I shouldn’t think they could find enough valuables in this neighborhood to make it worth their while.” As she spoke, Bettina felt a slight pang, her hand went guiltily to her pocket, the contents of which alone would be worth any amount of a burglar’s time and attention. But no one could possibly know about that … could they?

  “Sylvia Martin’s house is full of fancy silverware and gewgaws. And those horrid modern paintings. She’s always boasting about how much they’re going to be worth, although I wouldn’t give them houseroom myself.”

  Pasha stirred restlessly and turned to give Mrs. Bilby a hostile look, almost as though he could recognize criticism of his mistress—and resented it.

  “They’re emergency crews from the council or the Water Board—or both,” Bettina said firmly. Although … those unmarked vans cruising around had been big enough to accommodate any number of paintings. And the pinstriped gentleman and his expensively clad assistant looked as though they would be more at home strolling through an art gallery than splashing about in puddles.

  “If you’d like,” Bettina offered, “I’ll go out and speak to them and ask for their identification.”

  “And get your throat cut! You’ll do no such thing!” Mrs. Bilby went pale with horror.

  “There goes Zoe …” Bettina’s attention had been caught by a sudden movement. Zoe had opened her back door and advanced to the edge of her patio, holding her raincape over her head. As they watched, she called out and waved to the men.

  “Mrs. Rome must have sent her out to see what’s going on.”

  “That woman doesn’t have the sense God gave to geese!” Mrs. Bilby said. It was unclear which woman she meant.

  Bluebell recognized Zoe and reared up, pawing at the windowpane and uttering excited cries. Adolf joined in, always willing to back up unreasonable demands.

  “She’ll come and get you later,” Bettina tried to calm Bluebell. “She’s busy right now.”

  They watched as the two workmen at the bottom of Zoe’s garden reluctantly decided that she was waving and gesturing to them and had another argument about it Eventually the loser slowly waded up the shallow brook which had once been a path and joined Zoe at the edge of her patio, where she engaged him in spirited conversation. At least, it was spirited on her part; he looked rather dispirited himself. Until he raised his head and gave her a long malevolent look radiating hostility. Zoe, pointing towards the correct position of the drain, seemed oblivious.

  “I’m going over there.” Bettina snatched up her raincape—the twin to Zoe’s—and draped it over her head.

  “Don’t be stupid! You don’t want to get involv—”

  Bettina avoided her mother’s clutching hand, blocked Bluebell’s hopeful dash for the opening door with a foot, and ran out into the rain.

  “Oh, Bettina …” Zoe turned, momentarily distracted, as Bettina came through the gap in the hedge. The workman took advantage of that to slip away. When she turned b
ack, he was halfway down the path on his way to rejoin his workmate.

  “What was that all about?” Bettina asked.

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid.” Zoe frowned at the man’s departing back. “He isn’t very articulate, but I gather we’re in imminent danger of a flood if the situation doesn’t improve.”

  “A flood? Here?”

  “Why not? Something seems to be terribly blocked up somewhere along the line. If they can’t find the blockage and this rain doesn’t stop, well …” Zoe shrugged. “It looks as though we’d better start moving things upstairs. I’ll help you roll up your carpets, then you can help me roll up ours.”

  “If that isn’t all I need!” Bettina’s exasperation was mingled with relief. No wonder there were so many emergency crews swarming all over the place. It had nothing to do with—Her hand crept to her pocket.

  “At least, we ought to have plenty of warning,” Zoe said. “With all these workmen around. Perhaps we could suborn one of them to help with the carpets.”

  “I don’t think my mother is going to want any of them coming into the house.” Bettina sighed heavily. “She’s got it into her head that they’re burglars checking out the neighbourhood for likely houses to rob.”

  “Oh, God!” Zoe shuddered. “Don’t let my mother hear that or we’ll have two of them!”

  “BETTINA! BETTINA!” They turned at the familiar call to see Mrs. Bilby waving wildly from the front door. “Come back here right now! Now there’s a clipboard lady at the door!”

  “I’d better go and see what that’s all about.” Bettina started back.

  “Maybe they’re getting ready to evacuate,” Zoe said nervously. “If the situation is as bad as those men think it is. Let me know.”

  “If it’s that bad, she’ll be along to you next.”

  “I wish we hadn’t come back,” Zoe said unhappily. “We should have stayed away—and we wouldn’t have known anything about this until it was all over and there was nothing we could do.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “Mother insisted. It was pouring in Bournemouth, too, and she said it was too depressing to bear. It reminded her too much of her honeymoon.”

  The doorbell was chiming loudly and persistently. It had acquired an “I-know-you’re-in-there-and-you-might-as-well-answer-because-I’m-not-going-away” tone. The cats had lined up in the front hall and were watching the door with interest.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming!” Mrs. Bilby called, braver now that she had reinforcements behind her.

  “Well?” she demanded, flinging back the door. Bettina caught Adolf just in time as he dived for the opening. The woman outside, not surprisingly, looked taken aback.

  “I suppose you’re from the council!” Mrs. Bilby continued her attack.

  The woman hesitated before answering. For a moment, she seemed to be contemplating the advantages of pleading guilty as charged.

  “I hope you’re sending round sandbags! We’re going to need them soon.”

  “Er, no.” The woman obviously realized there were no advantages in being from the council, “I’m market research, actually.”

  Bettina wondered if it would be possible to get a job in market research if Jelwyn Accessories folded; she hadn’t seen anyone wearing clothes like that since the Vogue issue featuring the designer collections. The only problem was that she had never heard that market research paid that well—unless one happened to own the company.

  “In this weather?” Mrs. Bilby regarded her suspiciously. “On a Bank Holiday weekend?”

  “Overtime,” the woman said with a trace of desperation. “We’re paid extra for unsocial hours—lots extra.” She tried a confiding smile. “And I can really use the money.”

  Adolf sauntered forward and sniffed with great interest at the woman’s Gucci shoes, as though detecting a strong odour of fish.

  Bettina moved casually to the window and looked out. A jaunty, bright red foreign sports car was now parked at the end of the road.

  “Er, do you think I might come in, please? I’d just like to ask you a few little questions.” She brushed at a wet lock streaming out from under the Hermes scarf tied around her head, adding plaintively, “And it’s awfully wet out here.”

  “I suppose so.” Mrs. Bilby stood back ungraciously.

  “Oh, thanks.” The woman rushed in before Mrs. Bilby could change her mind, “I’m most awfully grateful.”

  Mrs. Bilby sniffed and led the way into the living room. The cats regrouped and followed them.

  Inside the door, the woman hesitated. She was not so young as she had appeared, Bettina was interested to see. “Well preserved” was the description that sprang to mind. But the woman’s attitude was still girlish. “Oh, I don’t want to drip all over your nice carpet …” She looked around helplessly. “Perhaps I should take my coat off?”

  “I’ll hang it in the hall.” Bettina held out her hand for the Burberry raincoat, which was not as wet as it might be. “Where’s your umbrella?”

  “Oh, I—I left it in the car.” The woman gave another ingratiating smile. “It’s so hard to juggle it along with a clipboard and handbag.” The long gilt chain of the bag clinked as she set the bag on the floor while she slipped out of her raincoat. The discreet suit underneath was also a Chanel worn over a turtleneck cashmere sweater. (How lucky the poor dear was able to earn a little badly needed overtime by working through the Bank Holiday weekend.) A heavy gold bracelet hung with chunky gold charms peeped from below one sleeve, the two charms on view depicted a TV screen—or possibly a computer screen, since a tiny mouse with an even tinier diamond for an eye, underlined the letter “V”—and an artist’s palette with sparkling coloured gemstones depicting the paint blobs and two brushes rising from the fingerhold.

  It took all of Bettina’s willpower to keep from putting her hand in her pocket and clutching protectively at her own little hoard of gems. She escaped thankfully to the front hall with the Burberry and took her time about arranging it on the hook on the old Victorian coat stand.

  Another impulse came to her and this time she did not resist. She paused only a moment to listen and make sure that the woman was fully occupied in dealing with Mrs. Bilby. Their voices drifted out to her reassuringly:

  “Well,” the woman said, “I guess I don’t need to ask the first question. I can see the answer right here before me. You must be real cat lovers here.”

  “I’m not,” Mrs. Bilby denied fiercely. “I hate the nasty little monsters!”

  “Oh, er …” The woman sounded hopelessly confused. “But you have so many … and such lovely ones.”

  “Expensive, you mean. There’s no accounting for the way some fools will throw their money around.” Bettina could tell from Mrs. Bilby’s tone that her mother was raking their visitor’s outfit with a damning look; she didn’t approve of wasting money on clothes, either, and even Mrs. Bilby could recognize a Chanel suit.

  “Oh … er … um …”

  While the woman was floundering, Bettina took a deep breath and plunged her hand into one of the Burberry’s pockets. It came out with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a wedge of folded paper. Bettina gazed with wonder at the delicate scrap of sheer material surrounded by the deep lace border. Did people actually use something like that these days? They did—when they didn’t have to worry about laundering it themselves.

  She tried to unfold the paper noiselessly, pausing again to make sure there was no danger of being discovered by the others. They were still talking in the living room.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Bilby was saying with grim relish. “Did he ladder your nylons? Mind you, it wouldn’t take much, they’re very sheer. Ten denier, I suppose.”

  “Seven, actually.” The voice seemed to be coming from between clenched teeth. “It’s quite all right. Oh!”

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Mrs. Bilby gloated. “He wants to get up on your lap. Pasha’s taken quite a liking to you.”

  “How nice.” There w
as a violent brushing sound.

  “I’m afraid he’s shedding a bit. We haven’t had time to brush him today.”

  “Quite all right.” The voice was cold enough to lower the temperature of the room. Mrs. Bilby was not endearing herself to her visitor—nor did she intend to. “Such a beautiful cat.”

  It sounded as though Pasha had their visitor well anchored. Bettina tilted the unfolded paper towards the dim light filtering in through the narrow side window. It was a map. A photocopy of a street map of the whole area, marked with a wide pencilled circle taking in an area of about a mile. Another dotted line circle marked a wider area outside the inner circle. The Bilby house was close to the centre of the inner circle. Several of the surrounding streets had neat little crosses marking—

  “Bettina!” Her mother raised her voice. “Bettina, where are you?”

  Cursing silently, Bettina tried to refold the map along its original folds. Trust her mother to interrupt at a crucial moment! There was complete silence in the other room as they waited for her to answer. The map crackled loudly. Loud enough for them to hear?

  Enza appeared in the doorway, looking curious. Her sharp ears had caught the sound. How long before someone else came to investigate?

  There was a sudden clatter at the back door, an insistent knocking. Bluebell darted out of the living room and raced down the hallway.

  “That must be Zoe,” Bettina called to her mother, using the sound of her voice to cover any further rustle as she shoved the folded paper back into the raincoat pocket, “I’ll get it.”

  When she reached the kitchen, Bluebell was sitting beside the back door, casually washing a paw with an attitude of utter indifference.

  “Who is it, then?” Bettina asked her, taking the precaution of looking out before opening the door. But it was Zoe. Bluebell was obviously going to pay her out for going away and leaving her.

  “It’s raining harder than ever,” Zoe said, hurrying in. “I suppose I’m glad we came back. Hello, darling …” She spotted Bluebell and stooped to scoop her up. “Are you glad we came back?”