by H. Y. Hanna
I felt a thrill of happy anticipation at the thought of a place of my own. I couldn’t wait. Not that I didn’t love my parents or wasn’t grateful that they’d given me a place to stay, rent-free, when I came back to England. But when you’re heading into your thirties, living with your parents is just bad for your blood pressure. Actually, my father’s all right—in fact, most of the time you barely noticed that he was there. He was a semi-retired Oxford professor who spent most of his time with his nose buried in his textbooks, when he wasn’t spending it watching his beloved cricket on TV.
My mother, though, was a whole different kettle of fish. When she wasn’t meddling in my love life or buying me hideous things I didn’t want to wear from online shopping sites, she was usually doing something else to humiliate me or drag me into activities I didn’t want anything to do with. As if right on cue, I came back to the present to hear my mother saying:
“…with Dorothy back from holiday this week, we’re finally having a book club meeting and I thought you could join us tonight as the—”
“I can’t tonight,” I said quickly. “I’m going out to dinner with Devlin.”
My mother looked like she had tasted a sour lemon. “Oh. Gemma, you’re not really thinking of taking up with him again?”
I felt a flicker of irritation. “Yes, I am ‘taking up with’ Devlin, as you call it. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Oh darling—really! When you could have the pick of all the nice men in Oxford and you have to choose the… the village bobby!”
“He’s not the village bobby, Mother,” I said through gritted teeth. “He’s a top detective in the Oxfordshire CID.”
“Yes, but he mixes with… criminals!” My mother shuddered delicately. “Murderers and rapists and other ghastly types. Who knows what kinds of horrible perversions he might be picking up?”
I rolled my eyes. “Mother, criminal behaviour isn’t like germs. You can’t get infected by contact with it.”
“Oh, but darling—I’m sure it must affect you. In fact, I’ve read that detectives are good at their jobs because they could almost be criminals themselves! Their minds are arranged the same way or something… which means they could easily slip and go over to the other side! What if you find out that Devlin is actually a serial killer?”
“Mother!” I said, holding onto my temper with effort. “Devlin is not a serial killer! He’s a detective because he cares deeply about justice, and he’s noble and compassionate and dedicated to his work…” I stopped and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Why did I always let my mother get to me?
My mother pursed her lips, then she brightened. “Oh, well, if you must see him, at least you should get something out of it. Find out if the police are doing anything to investigate Dame Eccleston’s death, and if they’re not, then make him!”
I sighed. “All right, all right, I’ll mention it to Devlin tonight.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Maybe it looks better on the inside,” Cassie suggested hopefully as we stood across the road from an ugly brown brick building which looked like a relic from a 60s nuclear factory.
I sighed, not sharing her optimism. This was the third property we’d seen so far and if the first two were anything to go by, what you saw on the outside was often what you got on the inside. Still, I reminded myself that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover—so maybe you couldn’t judge a property by its vomit-coloured outer façade either. Besides, I was living inside the building, wasn’t I? So what if it looked hideous from the street? As long as it was airy and comfortable inside…
A few minutes later, however, my hopes were cruelly dashed as I stood looking in dismay at a dingy, cramped sitting room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room-cum-laundry, with a bit of linen cupboard thrown in for good measure. The walls had peeling paint and there was black mould visible in the corners of the ceiling.
The agent—a young man with oily hair and even oilier manners—stood by the door and reeled off a practiced speech about the flat’s attractions:
“… and as you can see, it’s a very cosy set-up. Everything at your fingertips, so to speak—ha—ha. And if you come to the window over here…” He led the way across to the dust-streaked pane of glass along the far wall. “You can get a lovely view of the ‘dreaming spires of Oxford’, to the east over there—”
“If you have a telescope and use a lot of imagination,” muttered Cassie.
I grinned and turned back to the agent. “How much did you say the rent was again?” I asked.
He named a figure which made my eyes water slightly.
“What? I can’t believe they have the cheek to charge that for this pigsty!” Cassie cried.
The agent flushed and said stiffly, “That price is very competitive for this area of the city. You are well aware that Oxford is one of the most desirable locations to live in, in England, and the property prices reflect that. This flat in particular is very well situated to take advantage of the rail and motorway links down to London, as well as being so close to the countryside, not to mention all the history and culture that Oxford has to offer. Really, you’re lucky to be getting such a great location for this price.”
“Lucky—!” Cassie spluttered.
I put a restraining hand on her arm and said politely to the agent, “Thank you for showing us the place. I’ll let you know if I’m interested.”
“Well, I wouldn’t advise you to leave it too long,” he said haughtily. “I have many other people interested in this flat, you know.”
“Huh! Good luck to them,” said Cassie when we’d come back out on the street again. “The place is disgusting. Seth could probably set up a biological weapons lab from the stuff growing in that apartment.”
I laughed in spite of myself. Seth Browning, my other best friend from college days, had stayed on in Oxford after graduation and climbed the academic instead of the corporate ladder. He was now a Senior Research Fellow and tutor at one of the collages, specialising in Organic Chemistry, and would probably have loved this apartment, though for all the wrong reasons!
As we got back into my mother’s car and looked despondently at the dwindling number of properties on my list, I felt my heart sink again.
“Cass, I’m never going to find a place,” I said in despair.
“Hey, we haven’t finished looking at them all,” said Cassie. “You never know—one of these last two might be perfect.” She shook her head. “Bloody hell, I didn’t realise how lucky I had it with my place.”
Cassie had a studio flat in Jericho, one of the trendiest suburbs in Oxford. It was a large airy space—really just one huge room—with dormer windows and sloping ceilings, tucked up in the attic area of a three-storey terraced house near the canal. Cassie had her bed in one corner and a second-hand couch and beanbag in another, but most of the area was filled with easels and canvases, and looked more like an artist’s working studio than a flat.
“You were really lucky,” I agreed. “How did you find the place?”
“It belongs to a lady who came to one of my dance classes at the studio,” said Cassie. “She was a regular and we got friendly. She heard that I was looking for a place and she told me that she had been wanting to sublet the attic space in her house but she was worried about renting it out to any old stranger—she’s a single mum, you see, and she’s got a young son. Anyway, it worked out really well. I get a discount on the rent because it’s not really a proper apartment—the bathroom’s very primitive and the plumbing’s a bit dodgy. And it’s pretty draughty in winter. But I can live with that. You just can’t beat the location.”
I sighed. “I wish I could find something like that.”
“We just need to keep looking,” said Cassie encouragingly. “Come on, we’re going to be late for the next appointment if we don’t get a move on.”
As I started the car, Cassie’s phone beeped and she glanced down at it, then made an exclamation of annoyance.
“What?” I said, looking at
her.
“The little blighter!” fumed Cassie. “It’s my younger brother, Liam. Mum and Dad got him a new camera for his sixteenth birthday and he’s been going around taking pictures of everyone since. Building a portfolio, he says…” She rolled her eyes.
“Does he want to be a photographer?”
“Yeah. Fancies himself as the next David Bailey.”
“I’ll bet he takes some great pictures,” I said, thinking that anyone in Cassie’s family probably had more artistic talent in their little finger than the rest of Oxfordshire’s population combined.
“He’s not bad,” said Cassie grudgingly.
“Then why did you make that sound?”
“Because he always takes such horrible pictures of me!” said Cassie irritably. “Honestly, I don’t know how he always gets me in those poses! Look at this picture he’s just sent me—he took that at the village fête on Saturday. I look like I have a triple chin,” she grumbled.
I leaned over to look. Okay, it was definitely not Cassie’s best angle. She had been snapped while she was in the middle of a conversation with someone and her mouth was pulled open in the most unattractive way, with her chin tucked down and disappearing into the folds of skin around her neck.
I chuckled. “You look a bit like Jabba the Hutt’s prettier cousin.”
“Don’t laugh! You wouldn’t find it funny if it were you!”
“Did he take one of me?” I asked in alarm.
“Dunno—I haven’t seen the whole set from the fête yet. I think they’re still on his camera. It’s one of those fancy ones which can connect to the internet and he’s just picking the ugly shots of me to send. He always does stuff like that to wind me up.”
I grinned. “That’s younger brothers for you. Anyway, just think—when he’s all grown up and famous, you’ll have a few Liam Jenkins originals which you can sell for a lot of money.”
Cassie shuddered. “No way! I’d rather pay someone a lot of money to delete all those pictures of me from existence!” She texted him back. “Hang on—let me ask him if he’s got one of you…”
Her phone beeped again a few seconds later and I leaned over apprehensively to look.
“No fair!” cried Cassie, pouting. “You look gorgeous in the one he took of you!”
I had to admit—with great relief—that she was right. Liam had caught me at my best angle, with my head slightly in profile, my eyes large and shining, and a hint of a smile on my lips. It had been taken in the cat show pavilion and I was standing by our table, looking down at Muesli in front of me, with my mother next to me, half out of the frame. Behind me was the mayhem of the cat show—the rows of tables filled with cat cages, the other competitors and their cats—but Liam’s skill with the lens had brought me and Muesli sharply into the foreground as the focus of the shot. Muesli was sitting in that perfect cat silhouette with her back arched, her ears small and dainty, and her tail curled around her paws.
“Oh, can you send a copy to my phone?” I asked. “It’s a beautiful shot—I think it’s one of the nicest shots I’ve got with Muesli. And I love it because it’s so natural—neither of us is looking at the camera. It’s like a moment captured in time.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Cassie, slightly dourly.
“Cheer up,” I said, laughing as I released the handbrake and eased the car out onto the street. “You haven’t seen the rest of the photos. There might be a gorgeous one of you in there.”
The next property was closer in to the centre of Oxford. I was feeling hopeful until we pulled up outside the address. It was right next to a busy road junction, with commuter traffic and buses going past regularly.
“I can’t live here—not with Muesli!” I said in dismay as we sat in the car looking at the block of flats. “Even if I never intend to let her out the front door, she might dart out when I’m not watching. You know how naughty she is and how good she is at escaping. And then she could get run over so easily.”
Nevertheless, Cassie persuaded me to go in to have a look, which only made me feel worse because the flat wasn’t that bad. It was compact but clean and had large windows which let in a lot of light. But the proximity to the road was a deal-breaker for me. I couldn’t put Muesli in danger.
We left regretfully and fifteen minutes later found ourselves at the last property on my list. I parked the car and looked at it eagerly. It looked wonderful. Part of a converted Victorian terraced house, the last in a row down a quiet side street, and with its own attractive gardens. Cassie and I exchanged a smile, then we hurried in to meet the agent. The flat was on the ground floor and, inside, we found a lovely bright U-shaped sitting room, with a kitchenette tucked at the end of one arm of the “U” and a small area that could be used as a study at the other. The bedroom was simple but spacious and the bathroom looked relatively modern.
“This is great!” I whispered to Cassie.
She nodded excitedly and said, “D’you know what they’re asking for the rent?”
“I think so—it was mentioned on the real estate agency website—but I’ll just check again…”
The agent confirmed the price and my heart leapt with excitement. It all seemed too good to be true.
“So the property is available straightaway?” I asked eagerly “Do I just put in an application—”
“Yes, if you just fill out the form and drop it in to our office with the accompanying documents, we’ll process it right away and let you know within a day or two if the landlord accepts. He was hoping to get the carpets cleaned so there may be a slight delay—”
“Oh, that’s no problem at all,” I said happily. “It will take me a few days to get my stuff sorted anyway, and my cat—”
“I’m sorry, you have a cat?” The agent frowned at me. “I didn’t realise you were planning to keep a cat here.”
“Yes, I am. When I looked on your website, it said this property was pet-friendly.”
“Oh, that must have been a mistake, because the property definitely isn’t available to pet owners.”
I stared at him, not wanting to accept what he was saying. “Well… it’s not like I’m going to keep a big dog—”
“The landlord doesn’t want any kind of pet. He’s had bad experiences in the past with damage to the property and odours.”
“No, wait, you don’t understand,” I said. “Muesli is a really small cat—you’ll hardly even notice her. She’s incredibly clean. She doesn’t smell at all. And she’s very quiet and sleeps all day and never makes any trouble.”
Okay, the last part was a blatant lie but desperate times call for desperate measures.
He shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry. The landlord expressly said no pets. No exceptions.”
Chagrined, I left, with Cassie trailing after me. I was feeling deeply depressed as we got back in the car. Even my best friend seemed to have run out of optimistic things to say.
“Well… we’ll just have to keep looking,” she said at last. “I’m sure something will turn up. There’ll be new listings next weekend.”
I sighed but didn’t reply. We drove for a few moments in a despondent silence, then I realised suddenly that we were very close to Eccleston House. For a moment, my own house-hunting troubles were forgotten as I thought of Mary. I wondered how she was.
I turned to Cassie as the car paused at a crossroads and said, “Hey, Cass—are you in a rush to get back?”
“No, why?”
“Do you mind if we stop off somewhere really quickly? I’d like to pop in to see Mary Eccleston.”
“The daughter of the woman who died at the fête yesterday?”
“Yeah, I drove her home. She seemed a bit… lost. I’d just like to check that she’s doing okay.”
“Sure.”
The Ecclestons’ maid, Riza, met us at the front door and told us that Mary was in the gardens at the rear of the house. We wandered around for a while but could see no sign of her. Finally, we returned to the house, and this time Riza apologise
d and showed us into a utility room at the back of the house, where we found Mary grooming one of the Persians. She looked up distractedly as we entered.
“Oh, hello. I’m sorry, I’m not really dressed for company…” She gestured down at herself. She was wearing leggings and a faded smock-type top, which was liberally covered in white hairs.
“That’s okay.” I smiled at her. “I didn’t realise you had to do so much grooming still. I would have thought that you can relax now until the next show.”
“Oh no, with Persians, you really need to groom them every day—otherwise they’re prone to tangles and mats because of their long, thick fur. Mummy also…” Her voice quavered and she swallowed. “Mummy also liked to bathe them regularly, with a shampoo and conditioner, sometimes with a degreaser and even a colour enhancer treatment. And then we would blow dry their fur… Ours are show cats, you see, so we have to keep them in top condition. So even if we’re not taking them to a show, they still each need about an hour every day.”
Bloody hell. I thought guiltily of my once-a-month hasty brush of Muesli and felt like a neglectful owner. Still, I doubted that my naughty little tabby would ever lie placidly on her side like this Persian was doing, and allow herself to be pulled and prodded for hours.
Cassie must have been having similar thoughts because she gave a snort of laughter and said, “We had a cat growing up—a big ginger tom—and you would never have been able to wash him! I think we tried to once and he nearly ripped us to shreds.”
“You have to start when they’re kittens and get them used to it,” said Mary. She looked down, fiddling with a brush. “Actually, I… I probably didn’t need to groom Tabitha today but… I… I needed something to do.”