The Diamond Cat

by Marian Babson

  Bluebell abruptly dropped her aloof pose and gave Zoe a rapturous reception, then settled in her arms, purring loudly.

  “Bettina! Bettina! Come in here and answer these questions. I can’t understand them at all. Bring Zoe with you.”

  “Questions?” Zoe arched an eyebrow.

  Bettina shrugged and motioned Zoe to follow her.

  “Sylvia! So you gave up on the weekend, too.” Zoe stopped and looked again. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were Sylvia.”

  “No.” The woman shook her head. “No, I’m Viv. Vivien, actually. Vivien Smythe—” She stopped abruptly and one could almost see the hyphen hanging in the air.

  “Sorry,” Zoe apologized again. “But you do resemble her. And, of course, you’ve got Pasha.”

  Pasha looked up at the sound of his name and muttered querulously. It was not Sylvia—that was his complaint, too. The soft material covering the lap was the same, the perfume was almost the same, but the fingers dabbing tentatively at his head were stiff and awkward and the face was different He regarded Bluebell, purring smugly in Zoe’s arms, with envy and discontent. She had her Zoe back again, but he did not have his Sylvia. Nevertheless, he had someone. He twisted his head to direct the clumsy fingers under one ear and gave an encouraging purr.

  “Oh!” Vivien’s face softened; her fingers relaxed into a caress. Pasha rewarded her with a louder purr. “I think he really likes me.”

  “And I thought you were here to work,” Mrs. Bilby said.

  “Right …” Shooting Mrs. Bilby a venomous glance, Vivien picked up her clipboard and looked at the form clipped to it. “I have your two names.” She nodded coldly to Mrs. Bilby and Bettina. “But not yours.” She looked at Zoe. “Are you a member of the family, too?”

  “Not quite,” Zoe said. “I live next door.”

  “Oh, good. Then I can do two houses at the same time.” She lifted the top page and began making notes on the second. “You are … ?”

  “Zoe Rome. Why do you want to know?”

  So Zoe, too, thought there was something not quite right about Vivien Smythe.

  “Oh, just a formality. You needn’t worry. It’s market research. If you wouldn’t mind just answering a few questions.” Before Zoe could register any protest, she rushed on. “Mrs. Bilby has been explaining to me that she’s just taking care of these cats over the weekend. Does that absolutely gorgeous cat belong to you?”

  “Yes.” Zoe unbent a bit at the description. “This is my Bluebell.”

  “How sweet. Is she an only cat?”

  “She is, at the moment. When she’s a little older, I may breed from her.”

  “Oh, fine.” Vivien ticked off one of the boxes on her form. “That’s very valuable to know. And what do you feed her? Dry cat food? Tinned cat food? Any special diet?”

  “What sort of market research is this?” Bettina asked.

  “It’s for a pet food manufacturer,” Vivien said earnestly. “They’re exploring the possibility of expanding into new lines, checking up on how well the opposition is doing, making sure their product is satisfactory, thatsortofthing.” She ran the last words together nervously in her haste to finish the explanation.

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, well, I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you that. But it’s one of the big ones, one of the very big ones. Now …” She brandished her clipboard, grazing Pasha’s back as she did so. He gave an indignant cry and jumped off her lap.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Vivien apologized. Pasha gave her an injured look and withdrew to the far side of the room.

  “It’s all right,” Bettina said. “He’s just startled. He’ll forgive you.”

  “Good …” Vivien sounded happier. “Anyway, with all these cats in the neighbourhood, I take it there aren’t many dogs?”

  “I had one,” Mrs. Bilby said, “but it died. There aren’t any others around now. The cats have won.”

  “Er, yes.” Vivien was momentarily disconcerted, then rallied. “And I suppose … there aren’t any birds, either?”

  “Fat chance any bird would have with these little murderers around!” Mrs. Bilby snorted.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Bettina offered quickly, hoping to divert her mother before she blurted out anything else about birds. Especially dead pigeons.

  “What?” She had succeeded. Her mother turned to glare at her. “Have you gone mad, Bettina? We don’t want tea now. It’s nearly time for dinner.” Having made her point, she turned to Vivien and said with a carefully contrived show of hospitality, “Of course, if you’d like a cup of tea, Miss Smythe …?”

  “No, no, thank you.” Vivien was thoroughly intimidated. “I haven’t time. There are so many more interviews I must get through. I really ought to be going.”

  “If you’re quite sure,” Mrs. Bilby said with satisfaction.

  “Quite.” Vivien cast a regretful look at the downpour outside. “Quite sure.” She rose slowly to her feet.

  “I ought to be going, too,” Zoe said. “I’ll have to ransack the freezer and get something out to start thawing for dinner.”

  “Oh, no!” Bettina cried. “I … I mean …” She was conscious of her mother and Vivien listening. She could not possibly explain anything to Zoe in front of them.

  “I mean, I was just thinking. Why don’t you and your mother come over here and we’ll ring up for an Indian takeaway? They’ll deliver and it’s going to be a perfect night for a good curry feast. And it will save us doing any cooking.”

  “What a good idea!” Zoe agreed enthusiastically.

  “Well, I suppose we could do that.” Mrs. Bilby was not going to betray any enthusiasm, but she dearly loved the occasional curry and it had been quite a long while since they’d had any. “Are you sure they’ll be open over the holiday? And do you think they’ll be able to deliver in this weather?”

  “You can depend on the Patels,” Bettina said. “They’re a large family, so the place is always open—and they’ll deliver our order if they have to swim with it.”

  Vivien had a wistful look as she slowly put on her Burberry and retied the Hermes scarf around her head. She gave the impression that she would much prefer staying in the pleasant little living room cuddling Pasha and sharing the curry feast to going out again into the chill downpour and resuming her canvassing of the neighbourhood.

  Bettina closed the door behind her and stood watching.

  As Vivien reached the gate, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform and cap appeared suddenly. He, too, was carrying a clipboard and seemed to have come from the other side of the street. They conferred briefly, then moved off in the direction of the sports car.

  Chapter 7

  “Either she’s the richest market researcher on record”—Bettina turned to Zoe, who was standing beside her, also watching—“or she was lying about the whole thing.”

  “Perhaps they’re both market researchers, but the market research is really about something else,” Zoe said. “Like class attitudes towards different types of researchers. So the questions themselves weren’t important at all. That would make sense. She didn’t seem to follow up on any of them and she gave up awfully quickly when your mother got a bit nasty.”

  “Bettina!” her mother called from the living room. “I believe I’d like that cup of tea, after all.”

  “She would,” Zoe muttered. “Mine is bad enough, but I don’t know how you stand your mother sometimes.”

  “Sometimes, neither do I,” Bettina murmured, then raised her voice: “All right, Mother. I’ll just go and put the kettle on.”

  “I hope you throw it at her.” Zoe followed her into the kitchen, still urging the rebellion she would like to stage herself. “She needn’t have grudged that poor woman a measly cup of tea. Did you see how wet her shoes were? I hope she doesn’t have to pay for them herself because she’s ruined them.” Always erring on the charitable side, Zoe had evidently decided that her interpretation of the situation
was the correct one.

  “Mmm …” Bettina was not so sure. She filled the kettle while Zoe settled herself at the kitchen table, still cuddling Bluebell. The other cats drifted into the kitchen, drawn by the comforting sounds of food in preparation and hopes of getting some. Enza hopped up into a chair beside Zoe. Adolf and Pasha were placing their bets on Bettina and followed her from stove to fridge, alert and expectant.

  “Uh-oh!” Zoe looked at the window in the back door where a dark shadow loomed against the glass. “That’s bad news if it’s my mother—and it might be even worse if it isn’t.”

  The shadow looked too large to be Mrs. Rome. Bettina opened the door a crack, leaving it on the chain, and was proved right. One of the workmen stood there, obviously waiting for the door to be opened enough to walk in.

  “Yes?” She fended off Adolf with a practised foot, grateful that he was providing an excuse for not opening the door any wider.

  “No, Adolf, you’re not going out. You’re not a Turkish Van—you can’t swim.”

  She had totally confused the man at the door. He regarded her uneasily, obviously losing track of what he was about to say.

  “Yes?” She allowed an impatient note to creep into her voice. “What is it?”

  “Need to check yer cellar,” he muttered.

  “We have no cellar.” It was not strictly true. They had a semi-finished room in the basement; her father had been working on converting the space into an extra room at the time he died.

  “Yer loft, too. Need to check yer loft—an’ yer roof.” The look he gave her dared her to tell him she had no roof.

  “Don’t let him in!” Mrs. Bilby appeared in the kitchen behind her. “Don’t let anyone else in! I’m not having mud trailed through my nice clean house while they’re snooping.”

  “Sorry,” Bettina said. “You can see how it is.”

  “I could take my boots off,” he offered.

  “Who is he? What does he want? Let me see his credentials—if he has any!” Mrs. Bilby crowded in behind Bettina, a raging fury in defence of hearth and home.

  “Never mind.” The man backed away nervously, keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Bilby. “If yer gets flooded, it’s yer own fault. Only tryin’ to help.”

  “And don’t come back!” Mrs. Bilby shrilled at his departing back. “We know what you’re up to! You’re not fooling me! If I see you again, I’ll call the police!”

  “Poor man,” Zoe said softly. “He’s soaked through and chilled to the bone. He was probably just hoping for a cup of tea.”

  “Well, maybe your mother will give him one.” Mrs. Bilby sniffed triumphantly. “He’s over at your door now.”

  “I’d better go.” Zoe thrust Bluebell into Bettina’s arms. “I’ll collect her after the curry feast,” she promised. “The house will have warmed up by then.”

  “Don’t let that man in,” Mrs. Bilby warned. “You’ll find your house burgled next time you go away.”

  The kettle was boiling and Bettina let Bluebell slide to the floor and turned away to make the tea. Her mother remained at the door, craning to watch what was happening next door.

  “He’s talking to them,” she reported. “Zoe got over there just in time. Mrs. Rome would have let him in, sure as fate.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” Bettina said absently. Adolf, Enza and Bluebell were gathered around her feet; Pasha slumped despondently against a table leg—losing someone who even resembled Sylvia had depressed him more than ever.

  Had he had his cod-liver oil this morning? With everything else to think about, Bettina wasn’t sure she had remembered. And, if he had, how much had he been able to keep for himself with all the other cats waiting to dive in and get it? Perhaps another spoonful of it might cheer him up. (“I often give him an extra dollop if he’s been good,” Sylvia had said. “He enjoys it so—and it’s good for him.”)

  “Here, Pasha.” Bettina lifted him on to one of the kitchen chairs and poured a splash of cod-liver oil into a saucer. “You have that all to yourself—and don’t let the others take it away from you.”

  Adolf immediately yowled a protest at this rank favouritism. He reared up on his hind legs and propped his forepaws on the edge of the chair, glaring at Pasha accusingly.

  “No, Adolf.” Bettina struggled with Adolf, who suddenly seemed to have developed about six more legs, and finally got all four paws on the floor.

  “She’s shut the door in his face!” Mrs. Bilby reported triumphantly from her observation post. “But he’s still standing there. She’s never going to—”

  “Perhaps Pasha won’t mind if you have a little of his cod-liver oil.” Bettina used the bottle to lure the other cats away. “Here, you can have some over here. Just leave poor Pasha in peace.” The cats converged on the saucer as she poured the golden liquid into it.

  “She is! Well, I do despair! That Zoe is a prize fool! She’s giving him two mugs of coffee.” Mrs. Bilby shook her head at the stupidity she was witnessing. “Treat them like that and she’ll never get rid of them. They’ll be expecting sandwiches next!”

  “Zoe is very soft-hearted,” Bettina said. So was Zoe’s mother. If Zoe had a mother like Mrs. Bilby behind her, she would face the world with more suspicion and less charity. On the other hand, Zoe was going to have a lot better chance of getting help with rolling up her carpets if that became necessary.

  “Just watch, she’ll probably let them in when they come to return the mugs. She’ll feel as though she knows them by that time.”

  Bettina didn’t comment. It was only too likely. And perhaps Zoe was right. It was not necessary to view the world as though it were peopled exclusively by enemies, potential enemies and criminals.

  And yet … Bettina’s hand went to her pocket again. Something decidedly odd and unsettling was going on. Apart from the storm, that is. The storm was complicating matters; it was not unnatural that emergency crews of all sorts should be out trying to control the damage being done by the flooding.

  The storm was the cause of her problem. If it had been a fine night, the pigeon would have soared through the skies to its destination, arrived safely, and she would never have suspected that such strange things were happening elsewhere in the world.

  Adolf backed away from the saucer, licking his chops, and looked at Bettina with eager interest. What else might she have in the way of delicious goodies tucked away?

  Right now, the storm was her excuse for inaction. No one could blame her for not instantly reporting the treasure trove that had almost literally fallen into her lap. Not when there was so much to do and so many other things to worry about. (Was it time to empty the buckets again?)

  Was it treasure trove? Perhaps not, since it hadn’t been buried. Or did that necessarily apply? In any case, there ought to be some sort of reward given for the safe return of the diamonds.

  Return to whom? How could she find out who owned one anonymous pigeon? And why was the pigeon so anonymous? She seemed to recall reading that tame pigeons were ringed with identification bands at birth—if only to separate them from the millions of other pigeons who flew around, heirs to all the natural hazards that creatures known to their enemies as “flying vermin” were apt to encounter. Sudden death was endemic to the species, whether from small boys with air rifles, determined poisoners, traffic, or even cats.

  Bettina thoughtfully returned Adolf’s gaze. He was looking too innocent to be true, which probably meant he was plotting something. She’d have to keep an eye on him.

  It was too bad she didn’t know as much about pigeons as she knew about cats. Bettina tried to remember just what she did know about pigeons. Someone had once trapped her in a corner at a party and given her a long and tedious lecture on the subject. Who had it been? Random bits of it came drifting back to her.

  Pigeons had always been used to carry messages, especially in wartime, from prehistory through to World War I when the legendary bird Cher Ami had even been decorated for his services. In the nineteenth century, a banking hous
e had used them to gain knowledge of currency movements on the Continent well ahead of its competitors. Reuters news agency had found them invaluable. They had been used to carry word from cities under siege and from racetracks and sporting events. They had been invaluable in their time.

  Improved telecommunications had gradually made them obsolete. And these days fax machines transmitted information instantaneously. But pigeons still had their fanciers, they were still pets. And they were still used, it seemed, for transmitting …

  “Telephone, Bettina,” her mother said. “Are you deaf? Answer the telephone.”

  It had already tweetled several times, Bettina realized as she went into the hall and picked it up. The cats were there and regarding it with the exasperated, slightly frustrated expressions of those who suspected some sort of bird was enclosed in it and mocking them.

  “Bettina, it’s William.”

  “Oh, William, yes. How are you?”

  “How are you is more to the point. The news reports say we have flooding in low-lying areas. Is your house all right? Is Zoe’s?”

  That was the nub of the call. Zoe. Or … was it? William Simson, chief designer at Jelwyn Accessories, was friend and Old Faithful to (once he had met Zoe) both of them.

  “It’s pretty wet here, William,” Bettina said, “but we’re still above water. The whole street.”

  “You’re sure?” He sounded disappointed. “I could come round and help. Do anything that’s needful. I know you have your hands full looking after Zoe’s place as well as your own.”

  “Where are you then?” Bettina asked. “I thought you were going to France for the weekend.”

  “Not in this weather,” William said. “The ferries were suspended. If I’d wanted to hang around for a couple of days until the weather eased, I might have got a sailing, but it didn’t look likely the way the gale was blowing. Force nine, at least. The ferries weren’t going out in that. So I gave it up as a bad job, turned around and came home.”

  “So did Zoe.” Bettina decided to be magnanimous. “It was storming in Bournemouth, too, so she and her mother have come back home. She’s coping with things now.”