The Cat That Got the Cream

by Fiona Snyckers

  “Exactly.”

  “Speaking of which, what do you know about the poor man who was found dead in front of the Cracked Spine this morning?”

  “Not much,” said Fay. “I know his name was Edward Mayweather and that he taught fencing at Galliano’s studio in the village.”

  “Fencing? Then I think I might have seen him once. Some coaches from the fencing studio came to give us a presentation a couple of weeks ago. They told us that fencing is a marvelous way to regain your agility and flexibility in later life. They offered us a weekly fencing class in the recreation center if they could get a minimum of fifteen people to sign up for it.”

  “And did they?”

  “I believe so. The main instructor was so lovely, you see. He was really good looking, with a divine Italian accent. But of course, once everyone had signed up and paid their deposits, it turned out that the lady would be our instructor.” Laura permitted herself a giggle. “You can imagine the disappointment.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, I do hope it wasn’t the good-looking Italian gentleman who was killed.”

  “Who exactly came here to give the presentation?”

  “It was the Italian gentleman, and another gentleman who was with him. He was at least ten years older and more thickset. I can’t remember his name. Then there was the lady instructor who was called Frances King. She’s the one who will be taking the classes.”

  “It was the older one who died – Edward Mayweather. Can you remember anything about the dynamic between the three of them? Did they seem to get along?”

  Laura thought for a moment. “It was very much the Italian gentleman’s show. He made it clear that it was his fencing studio and he was in charge. When the others tried to contribute something to the presentation, he shut them down. I could see that they resented it. That’s why we were all so convinced that he was the one who would be giving us lessons. If you listened to him, you would think that the other two barely knew one end of a sword from the other.”

  “Interesting. Would you say he put them both down equally, or targeted one of them more than the other?”

  “I’d say he targeted them equally, but if you want to know which one of them minded it more, I can definitely tell you that.”

  “Please do,” said Fay.

  “It was the woman, Frances. She struck me as very angry - very angry indeed.”

  “I suppose if she felt patronized …”

  “It was more than that. The Italian gentleman was patronizing both of them, but she was much, much angrier about it. What did you say the other one’s name was? Edward. I’ll tell you what. If I had been Mr. Galliano and she had been giving me those murderous looks, I wouldn’t have slept a wink that night, and that’s the truth.”

  Fay thanked Laura and left the estate, promising to return early the next morning to check on her traps. She was optimistic that she would find a bundle of black fur inside one of them. She might be new to this cat rescuing business, but she knew that cats were creatures of habit, especially where their food was concerned. The cat would arrive during the night expecting to find food outside Laura Schuyler’s cottage.

  It would smell the food and realize that it was inside the trap. That was the sticking point for many ferals. They resisted entering an enclosed space to look for food. It made them feel unsafe. It might take a couple of nights for the cat to feel secure enough to enter the trap, but Fay was prepared to be patient.

  As she started the Volvo and lurched along the path that would take her back to the main gate of Sunset Acres, Fay mentally prepared a list of people she wanted to talk to. Edward’s sister Maria Baines was an obvious candidate, and so was Frances King. As a lawyer, Edward must have had colleagues who knew him in a professional context. His sister could probably tell Fay who they were.

  Then there was Galliano himself. Or rather, Maxie Galway. He seemed to have a knack for upsetting people. Of course, he wasn’t the one who had ended up dead. But perhaps he knew more about what had happened than he’d admitted to Fay.

  She would be in a better position to assess that after she had spoken to the people on her list.

  Chapter 8

  Fay drove down to the village, planning to turn onto Mountain View Road, the route that would take her up Tintagel Mountain in the direction of Baines Farm.

  But the moment she got to the High Street, she realized that something had happened. A group of people were standing around an object lying in front of Sweet’s candy store. Fay wondered if someone had been taken ill. Then she saw Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin arriving on the scene in their separate patrol cars. Their sirens were silent, but their lights were flashing – an unusual enough sight to prompt her to pull over and get out the car.

  The object attracting everyone’s attention was a fencing sword. Fay didn’t know enough about the sport to be able to identify what kind it was. Normally an object like that lying on the sidewalk would have been picked up and handled by dozens of onlookers, but this one was left alone.

  It was easy to see why. From its wickedly sharp tip to about half-way down the blade the sword was stained with blood. Some of that blood had smeared onto the sidewalk. It was a gruesome enough sight to turn the strongest stomach.

  What attracted Fay’s attention even more than the blood was the fact that the broad silver handle was clearly engraved with the letters MG.

  “Move along now. There’s nothing more to see here.”

  “Clear the pavement, ladies and gents. The show’s over.”

  Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin moved among the crowd like a pair of distracted sheep herders. They flapped their hands and chivvied the crowd until it dispersed.

  The citizens of Bluebell Island grumbled as they took themselves off. The entertainment for the day might have been over, but they wanted to stay to the bitter end. Some retreated to a distance and continued to watch the scene.

  “Afternoon, Fay love,” said Sergeant Jones as he caught sight of her. “Did you see what happened here?”

  “I’m afraid not. I just arrived. That’s either the murder weapon that killed Edward Mayweather or it has been made to look like it.”

  Constable Chegwin looked up and pointed with his baton. “That’s the fencing school right above us, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Sergeant Jones. “You think someone dropped it onto the pavement from up there?”

  His junior officer shrugged, but Fay shook her head. “I think there’d be more blood on the sidewalk if that had happened. I reckon someone was walking past and just dropped it here.”

  They looked up as the sound of a commotion reached their ears. It was Massimo Galliano striding down the street and shouting in Italian.

  “Arresto! Fermare! Ascolta! What is this nonsense about a sword?”

  “See for yourself, Mr. Galliano,” said Sergeant Jones.

  The fencing instructor came to a halt as he caught sight of the sword. Some of the bluster went out of him. “This is … this is outrageous.”

  “That looks like your sword to me, Mr. Galliano,” said Jones. “It’s all covered in blood too.”

  “Stupido! What makes you think it is mine?”

  “It has the letters ‘MG’ engraved on the handle,” Fay pointed out. “I guess that doesn’t necessarily stand for Massimo Galliano, but who else with those initials owns a fencing sword on this island?”

  “Well, I never. I didn’t even notice that.” Sergeant Jones pointed to draw Constable Chegwin’s attention to the letters. “That looks like it’s your sword all right, Mr. Galliano. And I’m willing to bet that’s Edward Mayweather’s blood all over it. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you for murder right now?”

  Galliano’s face went grey beneath the olive make-up. Then he rallied. “Yes, I can, imbecille. This is the exact sword that I reported stolen at your very police station just two days ago. That stupido over there took my statement.” He indicated Constable Chegwin with an im
patient thumb.

  Sergeant Jones raised his eyebrows at Constable Chegwin, who nodded reluctantly.

  “That’s true. He did report it stolen. Described it pretty minutely too. Right down to the engraved letters.”

  “So, you see – whoever used this sword for a nefarious purpose did so after it was stolen from me,” said Galliano. Fay noticed that the more excited he became the more Welsh his accent sounded.

  “Where did you keep your sword, if you don’t mind my asking?” she said. “Was it out in the open in the fencing studio or did you have a special place for it?”

  “I had a special rack built for it, but it was right out there in the studio where anyone could have taken it. I was sbalordito when it disappeared. That someone would dare to touch Maestro Galliano’s special sword seemed to me to be incredibile.”

  “The only other people who worked in your studio were Edward Mayweather, Frances King, and an administrator?”

  He waved her question away. “Sì, but that means nothing. The studio is constantly crowded with students, teachers from the local school, and parents. Anyone could have taken that sword. I will be glad to have it back.”

  He bent as though to pick it up, but Sergeant Jones stopped him with a touch on the shoulder.

  “That’s evidence, that is. We’ll let you have it back when we’re done with it, but I can’t begin to guess when that might be. We’ll be dusting it for fingerprints and sending it off to Truro for a DNA test of that blood.”

  “Naturalmente there will be fingerprints on it, imbecille! My fingerprints. We use gloves when we fence, but I touched it with my naked hand – oh, many times. The presence of my fingerprints will be meaningless. I do not deny that it is my sword. I do, however deny that it was in my possession when – or rather, if! – it was used to kill this poor Edoardo.”

  Sergeant Jones gave Galliano a longing look, as though it would give him great pleasure to arrest him on the spot. Instead he dismissed him, and the fencing master went back to his studio.

  “Irritating little worm, isn’t he?” said Jones when he was out of earshot. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t understand Italian, but it seemed to me he was calling us a lot of very insulting names.”

  Fay could only agree. “Stupido pretty much speaks for itself.”

  “He’ll soon find out we aren’t nearly as stupido as he thinks. If he’s the one who stuck a sword into that poor man, he’ll pay for it and no mistake. Right, Chegwin?”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  They loaded the bloodied sword into their largest evidence bag and drove off with it to the police station. Fay continued on her way up Tintagel Mountain towards the Baines Farm.

  Most of the island’s fertile land was located on the slopes of the mountain. The flatlands further west were too brackish to be much good for farming. Consequently, some of the most popular herds to raise were those breeds of Cornish sheep and goats that had an almost magical ability to negotiate even the steepest cliffs. Some farmers kept cattle, especially for dairy purposes, but they were constantly having to keep them away from the edges of cliffs.

  Fay knew that the Baines Farm was one of the biggest commercial agricultural enterprises on the island. They raised dairy cattle, poultry, sheep, and a series of rotating crops that included wheat and barley. Because of a quirk of the Cornish climate, most of the wheat was grown for animal feed rather than human consumption.

  She hoped that Sergeant Jones had done the next-of-kin notification as he had promised David. She had no desire to break the news to Maria Baines that her brother had been murdered. Next-of-kin notifications had always been her least favorite part of being a police officer. Some cops were able to shrug it off, but Fay felt the effects for days.

  She turned left at the sign for the Baines Farm, trying to ignore the squeals of protest her car was making as it tackled the increasingly steep gradient of Mountain View Road. She was about to hop out and open the farm gate when she noticed a goose-neck contraption with a red button on it. She pressed the button and the gate swung open automatically. Once she had driven through, she noticed it swinging smoothly shut behind her. It struck her as a very modern touch for a centuries-old farm.

  A smooth dirt road took her to the farmhouse where a pack of dogs came bounding out to meet her. Judging them to be friendly, she got out of the car and started scratching heads and allowing her hands to be thoroughly licked.

  Maria Baines emerged from the house a moment later. She was wearing jeans, a sweater, and a flowery apron. Her hair was cut sensibly short and she looked to be about fifty - a few years younger than her late brother. She wore very little makeup, but there was a hint of smudged mascara under her eyes. This made Fay think that Sergeant Jones had indeed got around to breaking the news to her.

  “It’s Fay Penrose, isn’t it?” she asked, brushing flour from her hands.

  “That’s right. Morwen Hammet introduced us at the farmers market a few months ago.”

  “I remember. It was you who found my brother, wasn’t it? It was good of you to come and see me. Please come inside.”

  “I don’t want to bother you at such a difficult time, especially when you’re busy.”

  Maria waved this away. “You can sit in the kitchen with me while I work. We slaughtered a pig last week, so I’m making pork pies.”

  She ushered Fay through to a large square kitchen that was obviously the heart of the home. Its original ancient proportions could be detected behind the modern conveniences.

  Maria made tea for both of them before continuing with her pastry making.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Fay said. “You must be in a state of shock.”

  “It doesn’t feel real. Edward and I hadn’t been close in years, but I hoped that his coming to visit was going to change all that.”

  “Was he staying here with you while he was on the island?”

  “Yes, if you can call it staying. He kept disappearing, you see – sometimes for days at a time. Some mornings he would say he had been here all night, but I could tell that his bed hadn’t been slept in even though he tried to disarrange the covers.”

  “Do you have any idea what he was doing during those times?”

  Maria leaned heavily into her pastry rolling. “Not really. I mean, I have my suspicions. There were times when I thought it might have had to do with …”

  Fay looked up as the kitchen door crashed open and a man walked in. His gait was slightly unsteady, as though he were intoxicated, which didn’t seem very likely at four-thirty in the afternoon.

  “Oh, Fay,” said Maria. “You must let me introduce you to my husband.”

  Chapter 9

  Farmer Baines was one of the pillars of the community – a well-known figure in the village.

  So, why could Fay not remember the last time she had seen him? And why had it taken her a moment to recognize him? Now that she looked again, she could see that it was clearly him, but something had changed.

  His hair was thinner, for one thing. And his facial bones stood out in relief as though he were recovering from a debilitating illness. The skin across his nose was red and mottled, with a coarse network of broken capillaries. While some parts of him appeared gaunt, others, like his midriff, were puffy and overweight.

  “You’re old Mrs. Penrose’s girl, aren’t you?” he asked Fay.

  “That’s right. She was my grandmother.”

  His voice was steady, but Fay couldn’t shake the impression that something wasn’t right with him. Then he got close enough to shake her hand and she got a distinct whiff of brandy.

  “Fay is the one who found Edward and called the police, Danny.”

  For a second, her husband looked blank. The words ‘Who’s Edward?’ seemed to tremble on his lips. Then he recovered.

  “Oh, Edward. Right, yes, of course. Terrible business. Terrible.”

  The kitchen door swung open again and a man in the distinctive navy overalls of Baines Farm stuck hi
s head in.

  “Sorry to disturb, Mr. Baines. We was just wondering if you’d made a decision about Lower Field yet. Rape or barley? What’s it to be?”

  There was silence in the kitchen as Danny Baines struggled to process the question. His wife stepped into the breach.

  “We’ve decided to plant rape this year, Bob. There’ll be no profit in it, but it’s a good way for the field to recover so we can plant barley again next year. I’ve ordered the seed. You should get the delivery by Thursday. You and the boys can do the sowing when the harvest is over.”

  Bob nodded and withdrew.

  Fay sipped her tea. “Your brother had a temporary job teaching at Galliano’s fencing studio, didn’t he?”

  Maria’s attention was focused on her husband, but she dragged her eyes away from his face and turned to Fay. “What’s that? Oh, the fencing. It was more of a hobby than a job. I doubt he was even being paid. It was just a way to keep his hand in. He always loved the sport.”

  “But that wasn’t why he came to the island?”

  “I think it was part of it.” Maria’s eyes tracked her husband as he wandered out of the kitchen towards the dining room. Before the connecting door swung shut, Fay caught a glimpse of a large wooden sideboard with crystal decanters standing on it.

  “You said that was part of his reason for coming to the island?” Fay prompted as she fell silent.

  “Sorry, yes. I never knew exactly why he was here. The story seemed to change from day to day. One moment he wanted to rekindle family ties and the next he was here to learn a special fencing technique he could only get from Mr. Galliano. But it also had something to do with his work. He was a lawyer by profession, a solicitor.”

  Fay nodded. She had familiarized herself with the English legal system since moving to the island. She knew that English lawyers were divided into barristers and solicitors, depending on whether they appeared in court or not. Barristers did and solicitors mostly didn’t. It wasn’t all that different from the American system where some attorneys specialized in litigation and others didn’t.