The Diamond Cat

by Marian Babson

  The doorbell rang, startling her.

  “BET—”

  “I heard it! I’m coming!”

  “Well, you needn’t snap my head off!” Her mother’s voice was aggrieved, “I’m only trying to help.”

  A daughter’s place is in the wrong. She’d been stuck in this house all day, when she might have had the respite of being at work. And that after being stuck in the house all Bank Holiday weekend. Worse, she was trapped for the unforeseeable future—all her plans dependent on Adolf’s digestive system. No wonder her nerves were twanging and her temper shortening.

  “Oh! Inspector Hughes!” Preoccupied by her thoughts, she had forgotten about him. “That was quick. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “I was nearby when I rang.” His smile was so guileless, it aroused a faint suspicion. He seemed to be alone.

  “Come in.” She stepped back and looked beyond him. “No constable today?”

  “His shift ended. He’s got a home to go to.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  “Not up here. Not much of a one in Sussex, either, since my wife died. I brought Timmy up with me. That helps.”

  “BETTINA! Are you going to stand out in the hall all night? Who’s out there with you?”

  “It’s Inspector Hughes, Mother.” With an apologetic shrug, she led him into the living room. “He has a few more questions for us.”

  “Humph!” Mrs. Bilby eyed him coldly. “I thought policemen were supposed to get it right the first time. Or does that only apply when they’re lifting valuables?”

  “Mother!” Bettina turned to Inspector Hughes. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Quite all right.” He cut off her apology. “I take it whence it comes.”

  “Humph!”

  “The fact is, madam”—he faced Mrs. Bilby sternly—“most inquiries are preliminary. As we learn more, the situation clarifies and we know the additional questions we need to ask in order to get at the truth of the matter.”

  “Humph!” Mrs. Bilby picked up the remote control and began channel hopping just to show how unimpressed she was.

  “Our proceedings are governed,” he continued smoothly, “by the information we discover or, in this case, don’t discover.”

  Mrs. Bilby was still pretending obliviousness, but she hesitated, allowing the screen to fill with the image of a rock star being interviewed, any word of whose language would ordinarily have had her switching channels instantly.

  Bettina, watchful as any of the cats, waited her moment to dart in and gain possession of the remote control.

  “I would like to speak to you”—he raised his voice over the blare—“regarding this matter.”

  Mrs. Bilby stared at the television screen, her thumb moved imperceptibly and the sound volume increased.

  “With your permission … ?” Inspector Hughes barely waited for Bettina’s nod before crossing the room in a few swift strides, bending and switching the electricity off at the plug.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Bilby gasped with outrage as the screen went dark. “You put that back on immediately!”

  “After just a few questions, madam.” Inspector Hughes smiled unpleasantly. “Unless you’d care to accompany me to the station house and answer them there?”

  “What? And have all the neighbours see me being driven away in a police car?”

  “The choice is yours, madam.” Inspector Hughes waited.

  Adolf and Pasha strolled in to see what was going on.

  “Blasted cats!” Mrs. Bilby glared from them to Bettina, as though trying to decide which to blame for her predicament. “It’s police harassment, that’s what it is.”

  “Doubtless the cats will act as witnesses, if you care to register an official complaint, madam.”

  Adolf yawned hugely and settled down to await developments.

  “There aren’t so many of them today,” Inspector Hughes noted in an aside to Bettina while Mrs. Bilby composed herself.

  “Two of them have gone home,” Bettina said. “Adolf’s owner won’t be back until next week and Pasha …” What could one say about Pasha? “Pasha will be here for a while yet.”

  “You’re not keeping him!” Mrs. Bilby snapped. “Don’t you dare let yourself think that for one minute!” She glared from Bettina to Inspector Hughes as she spoke. She wasn’t going to allow Bettina to keep him, either—just in case she was getting any ideas.

  “What did you want to ask?” Bettina quickly tried to avert Hughes’s attention from her mother’s clear but unspoken message.

  “We’ve told you everything we know! There can’t be any questions left. It’s just some kind of excuse.” For what, Mrs. Bilby fortunately did not specify.

  “You told us the workmen were from the Water Board,” Inspector Hughes said. “How did you know that?”

  “Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Who else would be splashing around in puddles in the pouring rain?”

  “Then you didn’t see any identification?”

  “Why, no,” Bettina said slowly, remembering. “We just assumed … or possibly from the council …”

  “Why?” Mrs. Bilby butted in sharply. “Who were they? Where did they come from?”

  “They weren’t from the Water Board,” Inspector Hughes said. “And they weren’t from the council. Both authorities deny having had any people in this area at all. There were no priority problems here, the flooding was much worse in other sections of town. They had to concentrate on those.”

  “I told you to ask for their credentials!” Mrs. Bilby trumpeted, glaring at Bettina. “Burglars, I knew it!”

  “Burglars are unlikely in this neighbourhood,” Hughes said dismissively. “At least, that sort of burglar. Amateurs, chancers, yes. But not planners.”

  “Then who were they?” Mrs. Bilby challenged. “We’d never seen any of them before. The whole place was swarming with strange men unblocking drains. You can’t tell me they were just public-spirited citizens!”

  “I wouldn’t even try,” Inspector Hughes assured her. “We’re working hard on finding out who they were. You wouldn’t have any ideas?” Over Mrs. Bilby’s head, he looked at Bettina.

  “As Mother said, we’d never seen any of them before.” She hoped that he wouldn’t think to ask if she’d seen any of them since.

  And yet … she was growing very tired of trying to keep everything to herself. Inspector Hughes seemed so very sympathetic … could he be trusted? He had nothing to do with the corruption that had tainted the local force; he had been brought in specially from another part of the country to help. Perhaps she could confide in him … perhaps he could help her …

  “Why ask us?” Mrs. Bilby snapped. “It’s up to you to find out who they are. That’s your job!”

  No, she couldn’t talk in front of her mother. And, unable to leave the house, trapped by Adolf, she couldn’t arrange to meet Inspector Hughes somewhere else to tell him the story. The best she could manage would be to follow him to the front door when he left, step outside with him and try to speak rapidly before her mother became restive and began shouting for her or, worse, came out after her to see what she was doing.

  “If we could go back to the beginning,” Inspector Hughes said patiently; suddenly there was a notebook and pen in his hands. “Don’t try to look for something you think might be significant, or anything you think I might want to hear. Just start at the beginning and tell me all about your encounter with these men. When you first noticed them, what they were doing, when they came to speak to you, everything they said …”

  It was half an hour later when they had run out of details and Inspector Hughes closed his notebook. The fragrance of a well-cooked meal, ready to be eaten, was permeating the living room. The cats were moving restively, starting towards the kitchen and looking back over their shoulders, wondering why no one else was moving.

  “I think that’s all, thank you,” Inspector Hughes said reluctantly, looking a bit wistful.

  “I should hope so!�
� Mrs. Bilby said. “Now maybe you can get on with your work and leave us in peace.”

  “Gladly, madam.” He no longer looked so wistful; the tastiest meal in the world would turn to ashes in the wrong company. “If you think of anything you’ve forgotten, please ring me at the station.”

  “Don’t hold your breath!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, madam.” He was in the front hall before the last word was out and advancing on the front door.

  “I’m sorry.” Bettina was right behind him. “Mother is just—” She moved in front of him and opened the door, ready to step out.

  “Stop apologizing!” he said roughly. “She’s not your fault.”

  “No, but I—” A movement at her feet caught her attention; she looked down. “Oh, Bluebell—what are you doing out at this hour?”

  Bluebell crossed the threshold into the light of the hallway, stopped and looked up at Bettina unhappily, uttering a piteous little mew.

  “What’s the matter, Bluebell?” Bettina stooped to her. “Isn’t Zoe home yet? She’ll be back soon. It must be her late night.”

  But that didn’t explain what Bluebell was doing out so late; both of the Romes always took good care to see that Bluebell was safely inside before night fell and marauding toms began prowling.

  Bluebell mewed again and moved a bit farther into the hallway before stopping again and, mewling complaints, shook one paw after another. She hated getting her feet wet.

  And her paws were wet … and red.

  “Here, girl.” Inspector Hughes crouched and spoke soothingly. “Come here, let’s have a look at you.”

  Adolf and Pasha materialized at her side, sniffing at her paws with mouths open and tongues curled back, seeming intrigued yet revolted at the message coming through to them.

  Bluebell shied back, frightened and further upset at all this sudden attention. She skirted round the humans and moved down the hallway in search of the comfort of the kitchen with its warm familiar smell of cooking.

  “She isn’t limping.” Hughes started after her. Adolf and Pasha fell in on either side, escorting her.

  “Here, Bluebell …” Bettina swooped on the cat, capturing her. “Let me see. Shh, it’s all right, darling. Let me see.”

  “Hold her,” Hughes directed, closing in and taking a forepaw gently. “Shh, it’s all right, girl, it’s all right. Just let us take a look.”

  Bluebell wriggled uneasily, but did not try to scratch as Hughes inspected her paw. He parted the fur and they could see that the blood dyed only the outer hairs. Closer to the skin, the fur was soft and pale and unmarked. Hughes checked each paw in turn and nodded. He stroked Bluebell’s head lightly and looked at Bettina.

  “She isn’t hurt,” he said, “but I’m afraid someone is. She’s been treading in it.”

  “Zoe!” Bettina gasped.

  “Do you have a key?” Hughes was wise in the ways of friendly neighbours.

  “BETTINA! Is that policeman still here? What are you doing out there?”

  “Through the kitchen,” Bettina directed quickly. “They never lock the back door. It will be faster.” She looked down at Bluebell irresolutely.

  “Bring the cat with you,” he said, already at the kitchen door. “We don’t want to start her off again.”

  “BETTINA! Where are you? Answer me!”

  “Just popping round to Zoe,” Bettina called. “I’ll be right back.” She glanced down and, with a cold chill, saw that a smudge of blood had transferred from Bluebell’s paw to her blouse.

  Zoe … She shuddered and stopped short just outside the door, suddenly unable to move.

  “Doing fine,” Hughes murmured encouragingly, closing the door behind them.

  She should have put the back-door light on; it was awfully dark out here. That was why she couldn’t move. It was too dark and she couldn’t see a thing.

  “Which way?” Hughes took her elbow, his hand was steadying.

  “Through here.” She led him through the gap in the hedge. Bluebell began to wriggle as they approached Zoe’s back door; she didn’t want to go in.

  Neither did Bettina. She had to brace herself, clutching Bluebell tighter, to step across the threshold.

  The light was on in the kitchen. Bettina looked at it. It seemed quite dim. Either Zoe needed a new bulb, or there was another power reduction on.

  She looked at the table, where a cup of tea had overturned and spilled across the table, dripping to the floor to merge with …

  She looked at the undrawn curtains framing the window, at the stove, at the closed door leading to the larder.

  She looked anywhere to keep from looking at the battered and bloodstained body sprawled on the floor beside the table.

  Chapter 14

  “Stay there,” Hughes said. “Don’t move. Don’t touch anything.” He crossed to the still form and knelt beside it, reaching for Mrs. Rome’s wrist, searching for a pulse.

  Bettina looked at the window again. At the darkness outside, blotting out the garden, at the bottom of which another body had been found. She looked away. There was no comfort, no escape, in looking out of the window.

  “Where’s the telephone?” Inspector Hughes straightened up, frowning.

  “Is she … ?”

  “Still a flicker, I think. We need the ambulance—fast. The telephone?”

  “In the living room.” She started forward, but he waved her back.

  “I’ll do it.” His grim tone promised that he could get faster service than she could—and that there were other calls he had to make. “Can you get something to cover her with?”

  “A blanket … upstairs …” This time he let her move out to the staircase. She noted vaguely that he had just countermanded his own order not to touch anything—but, of course, saving a life had to take precedence over preserving evidence.

  Bluebell quietened as she carried her into Zoe’s room and set her down on the carpet while she took a blanket from the oak linen chest. She was about to carry it downstairs, leaving Bluebell behind, when she saw that the cat, with an air of fastidious distaste, had lifted one paw to her mouth to begin to wash it.

  “No! Don’t do that!” She dropped the blanket and caught up Bluebell, rushing her to the bathroom, where she held each paw under the running tap until the worst of the blood had disappeared down the drain and the water ran clear, leaving only a faint pink tinge to Bluebell’s fur. Then she dabbed at the paws with a towel and dropped Bluebell back in Zoe’s room, picked up the blanket, shut the door and hurried down the stairs.

  She felt a crushing sense of guilt, although the whole process could only have taken a minute or two. Surely nothing dire—nothing, worse—could have happened to Mrs. Rome in that time. And she couldn’t—she couldn’t—have let Bluebell lick that blood from her paws. Perhaps that might count as destroying evidence, but she couldn’t help it. She could not have let Zoe come home and find her mother’s blood on Bluebell.

  She was prepared to argue her case, but Inspector Hughes made no comment on the length of her absence, perhaps it hadn’t taken so long, after all. Hughes took the blanket from her and draped it over the still form, leaving the face uncovered, she was relieved to see.

  “They’ll be here soon,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down?” Already there was a faint shriek of sirens in the far distance, coming closer.

  “Zoe,” Bettina said. “Someone will have to tell Zoe.” She waited, hoping he would say that that would be done by a policewoman when one arrived. They were trained for situations like this, weren’t they?

  “Yes.” Instead, he nodded agreement, his nod aimed vaguely in the direction of the telephone. “She can meet us at the hospital. It will save time and keep her out of the way here while the crime team gets to work.”

  “Crime …?” She hadn’t thought of it like that, she hadn’t really been thinking at all. Every mental process had seemed to stop when she realized Bluebell had blood on her paws.

  “Bluebell …” Her mind
caught at an acceptable, a normal, activity, “I’d better take Bluebell home with me. There’ll be strangers tramping through the house, frightening her, leaving doors open …”

  The siren was deafening now, underlining her fears, then it stopped suddenly. Outside.

  “Take the cat away now,” Hughes said, “and telephone from your house. It’s going to be hectic here.”

  The doorbell pealed urgently, proving his point. Bettina accompanied him into the front hall and started up the stairs as he opened the door. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to get out of that house, even at the price of having to telephone. Zoe with the horrible news of what had happened.

  Zoe kept Bluebell’s carrying case in her closet; Bettina took it out. Bluebell had been curled up asleep on the bed and muttered a drowsy protest as Bettina bundled her into the case and carried her out into the hall.

  The hallway and stairs were being sporadically transformed into an eerie blue cavern by the flashing lights, on the vehicles outside.

  Two paramedics were carrying Mrs. Rome on a stretcher through the lower hallway. Bettina waited on the stairs to allow them a clear passage. As they went past, Mrs. Rome stirred faintly, her lips barely moved.

  “don’t … know … don’t …” It was less than a whisper, just a faint suggestion of words … “don’t … know …”

  The door opened and they carried her through to the waiting ambulance.

  Outside, a crowd was gathering like vultures, drawn by the sirens and lights. Bettina recognized Jack Rawson and Graeme Martin among the faces. Others were less familiar, from streets farther afield.

  At the very edge of the gathering, her face distorted by some emotion and unearthly in the blue illumination, there was—wasn’t there?—yet another well-known face.

  Bettina blinked and looked again, but the face was gone. Had she really seen it at all? Or had Vivien Smythe arrived in pursuit of her own ends and chosen to disappear again, horrified by all the attention suddenly surrounding her quarry?