“They’re very sweet,” said David, watching the kittens wobbling around the playpen. “And I’m not even a cat person.”
“Hmm.”
He was staring raptly at the kittens and had long, pale fur clinging to his pants where Ivan had been sitting on him. He might not have been a cat person, but he was doing a convincing imitation of one.
The antiques fair was already underway when Fay arrived at Church Square after breakfast the next morning.
She had fed the kittens, baked some muffins and currant buns, helped Fay prepare and serve the breakfast, and cleaned up afterwards. She had also Googled some facts about antiques, so she didn’t sound like a total ignoramus. In her pocket was a piece of paper she had printed out that morning.
Every stall was covered by a plastic awning with dropdown sheets that could be released at any moment to cover the wares. It wasn’t raining, and the forecast was good, but the stall holders knew not to trust the English weather.
The sky was a mild blue with wispy cotton-wool clouds. The sun shone on the golden cobblestones of the church square. Overhead, seagulls wheeled and screeched, hoping for tidbits. It was a lovely spring day. All around the square, residents had decorated their apartment window-boxes with spring flowers, like crocuses and daffodils.
The Bluebell Islanders were out in force looking for bargains and collector’s items. Fay spotted Doc Dyer poking around a display of vintage pipes. She said hello to Mrs. Binnie, Maggie’s mother, who was looking through a vintage clothing stand.
“Fay, cara!”
“Bella! Buon giorno.” A burst of Italian made Fay turn around.
“Buon giorno, signores,” she said.
It was Vito and Luigi, the Sicilians who ran Pappa’s Pizzeria on the high street. They had left their native island thirty years earlier in search of adventure. Both swooningly good-looking, their arrival on Bluebell Island had set female hearts aflutter. They had dashed those hopes forever by eventually getting married - to each other.
“What are you gentlemen looking for this morning?”
“Blame Vito,” said Luigi, pulling a face. “He is addicted to tchotchkes. If it needs dusting, he can’t resist it.”
“And what about your addiction to antique silverware?” said Vito. “We are both as bad as each other.”
They puttered away to examine a display of fine porcelain.
Fay scanned the square, looking for a place to start. She hadn’t expected it to be such a jumble of stalls. She would start with the biggest and most organized looking stall. It had the highest prices too. As she got closer, she realized she had hit the jackpot. The stall was run by a couple that Fay recognized from the RARE website as being two of their board members – Henry and Marigold Bessinger.
“No,” she heard the tall woman saying as she approached. “That would be cold-blooded murder.”
Chapter 6
“But it was murder,” said Henry Bessinger. “The king knew that his brother was plotting to have him removed by accusing him of treason. He had no choice but to get rid of his brother first.”
“That’s a lie! The king was already guilty of treason. He had sold information to the French via his sister who was the French king’s mistress. The brother was only doing his duty by drawing the cardinal’s attention to what was going on.
The man folded his arms across his chest. “You can be so blind sometimes, Marigold. You see what you want to see and anything that doesn’t fit your narrative gets thrown out the window.”
Marigold’s grip on a china teacup tightened until Fay feared for its safety. “Never mind me, Henry. What about you? Your loyalty to the king is ridiculous. You know what he did to his poor third wife. He and the cardinal were in league together when they were younger but then they started plotting against each other. Besides, he should never have been king in the first place. He was not of the true bloodline.”
The crowd of people around the stall drew in a collective breath. Marigold had done it now. She had said the unforgivable. Henry took a step towards her, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Excuse me,” said Fay loudly. “I was wondering about this milk jug. Is it Victorian or Edwardian? The shape suggests Edwardian but the curlicues on the handle suggest Victorian.”
The flush in Henry’s cheeks faded and he stepped back. Marigold turned towards Fay, forcing a smile onto her face.
“That’s an interesting question. It falls very much between the two eras. We have dated it tentatively at 1901. It’s a curiosity precisely because it shows the evolution from one style to the other. That’s also why it’s a little pricey.”
“Ah.” Fay hadn’t checked the label yet. She turned the jug over and felt her knees go weak at what she read on the label. Three hundred and fifty pounds. That was about four hundred and eighty dollars in what she still thought of as real money. For a jug.
“Are you interested in purchasing the item?” asked Marigold.
“I don’t think so, thank you.” Fay put it down quickly. “I was wondering if you have any items from Spain?”
“Spain? We do have a few. Which century were you interested in, in particular?”
“The thirteenth century. Spain in the late thirteenth century.”
Was Fay imagining it or did a glance pass between Henry and Marigold?
“That’s really ancient. We don’t bring anything that old with us to fairs like these. The items are too rare and valuable. There’s a danger of them being stolen or damaged in transit. They wouldn’t even be covered by insurance.”
“But do you own any items like that?” asked Fay. “Either at your home or at your shop if you have one?”
“We have a shop in St. Ives. We do have some items from the period you mentioned, but they are hugely expensive. We tend to sell them at auction, rather than to walk-in customers.”
Fay reached into her back pocket and pulled out the piece of paper she had printed that morning. She unfolded it and held it up so that Marigold and Henry could see it.
“Have you ever had an item like this in your shop?” It was a photograph of the candlestick used to murder Desmond Pinkerton. From this angle, you couldn’t see the blood or the dirt still clinging to it.
If Fay had been hoping for a reaction, she was not disappointed. Henry and Marigold looked as though they had seen a ghost.
“Where did you get that?” asked Henry.
“I printed it off the internet. It’s part of a pair of candlesticks I’ve been trying to track down for months. I contacted a man who said that he might be able to help me trace one of the pair. His name was Desmond Pinkerton. He was supposed to meet me here today, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
Henry gripped the edge of the table. His wife sank into a chair.
“Is something wrong?” asked Fay. “I seem to have upset you.”
“I’m sorry to tell you that Desmond Pinkerton died yesterday,” said Henry. “It seems to have been an accident.”
“The poor man! I’m so sorry to hear that. Was he a friend of yours?”
Once again, the look that passed between the antiquarians was impossible to read.
“Not a friend exactly,” said Marigold. “But we knew him. He was also in the antiques trade. We ran into each other at events like these.”
“I don’t suppose you know what he was going to tell me about where to find these candlesticks? I’d love to add them to my collection.”
They shook their heads. “No idea, sorry.”
“That’s a shame. Well, I hope you have a successful fair. Are you staying on Bluebell Island or are you just here for the day?”
“We’re staying for a few days. We arrived yesterday and we’re not sure when we’ll go back.” Marigold turned to Henry as though struck by a thought. “Do you think this lady would like to come to our seminar this evening?”
Henry raised his eyebrows. They held each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he turned to Fay.
“If you have a real interest in the
history and artefacts of late thirteenth century Spain, and if Desmond trusted you enough to arrange a meeting with you, we would be happy to have you at our seminar.”
Fay made herself look eager. “Just tell me where and when. I’ll be there.”
“Let me give you an invitation. That should be clear enough.” He reached under the display table and pulled out a printed flyer. He folded it neatly in half and handed it to Fay who put it in her purse.
“Thanks for this. I’m really excited to attend.” Taking a last look at the four-hundred-and-eighty-dollar milk jug, Fay moved on to the next stall.
She bought herself a coffee from the food truck parked in a corner of the church square. As she sipped it, she surveyed the stalls and wondered if there was one that would be worth visiting. Her eye was caught by a small and chaotic stand advertising rare books and manuscripts. She noticed two things about the stand. One was that the word “Pinkerton’s” was stamped in old-fashioned letters at the bottom of the sign, and the other was that Mrs. Tribble was deep in conversation with the young man who was running it. Curiosity got the better of Fay and she moved closer.
“I still have the one, but I don’t know where the other one is,” said Mrs. Tribble.
“That’s unfortunate,” said the young man. “We really need both. Did you look everywhere?”
“I suppose I can look again but it’s very distinctive. I’ll ask my assistant Paul if he moved it.”
“Have you lost something, Mrs. Tribble?” asked Fay.
The librarian jumped as though she had been electrocuted.
“Goodness me.” Mrs. Tribble patted her chest. “You startled me, dear. What was that you said? Have I lost anything? No, nothing at all. Just a curiosity that the library owned that Mr. Travis here was asking about.”
“I couldn’t help noticing that your stand says ‘Pinkerton’s’ on the sign. The late gentleman Mrs. Tribble and I found in the library yesterday was Desmond Pinkerton. I believe he had a rare books and manuscripts shop in Truro. Are you from that shop?”
“I am indeed,” said the young man. “Cecil Travis at your service. I was Mr. Pinkerton’s assistant and associate.”
“I thought Pinkerton’s might not have a stall here today, in the light of Mr. Pinkerton’s recent death.”
“I knew people would think it was strange, but it was so important to Mr. Pinkerton to appear here today that I thought it best to carry out his wishes.”
“Have you been here since earlier in the week, Mr. Travis?”
“I only arrived yesterday. I brought the stock from the shop as Mr. Pinkerton requested and got settled into my B&B. Then I heard the news that Mr. Pinkerton was dead. It was a dreadful shock. I nearly turned tail and went back to Truro. But I knew Mr. Pinkerton would have wanted this exhibition to go ahead. He had great hopes for it. I decided to set up the stand exactly as planned in his memory.”
“Who will take over the store now that Mr. Pinkerton has passed away?”
Cecil Travis’s fair skin turned pink. “Well … the thing is … he didn’t have any family. I rather think – although obviously I haven’t seen the will yet – but I think he left the store to me.”
“Is that so?” said Fay. “Including all contents?”
“That’s what I understood from what he told me. But as I say, I haven’t seen a will yet. Nobody has. The way Mr. Pinkerton explained it to me, he wanted to leave the shop and its contents to someone who would understand and appreciate it. I’m happy to say that he trusted me and knew that I shared his love of rare and collectible books and manuscripts.”
“Do you have any idea why Mr. Pinkerton was so excited about this exhibition in particular? According to the website, he’s exhibited here for years. What was different about this year?”
Mr. Travis paused before answering. He seemed to be assessing Fay – possibly in an attempt to figure out how much she already knew.
“These exhibitions aren’t so much about the sales you make as the opportunity for networking with other collectors. Mr. Pinkerton was excited about certain connections he expected to make at the fair. He was looking for answers to questions that had been puzzling him for some time. He knew he would find the answers here.”
“And you, Mr. Travis?” asked Fay. “Do you think you will find those answers?”
His manner was calm, but he couldn’t hide the excitement bubbling inside him. He pressed his lips together to stop himself from smiling. “I don’t know anything about that. I’m just here to represent the store and to make a few sales.”
“So, you’re not coming to the seminar this evening?”
“The seminar?” His face was wary.
“Henry and Marigold invited me to it.”
“Really? And do you think you’ll be able to find the venue?”
“The directions are on the invitation, I presume. I haven’t looked at it yet. But how hard can it be?”
Cecil Travis smiled. “I’ll be there, but somehow I doubt that I’ll see you.”
Chapter 7
All thoughts of Desmond Pinkerton and his mysterious demise flew out of Fay’s head as she got back home.
She had stopped off at the pet store and bought some sachets of kitten food. The packaging promised that it was high in protein and fat and highly digestible for tiny kitten tummies. She was looking forward to seeing how they reacted to it.
“They’re ready for solid food now,” said Morwen as Fay walked into the kitchen. “The milk isn’t satisfying them anymore. What kind of food did you get?” She glanced inside Fay’s shopping bag and nodded. “Your grandmother favored that brand too.”
“That’s what they told me at the pet store. Do you want to come and watch?”
“Better not. This fish pie I’m making is rather temperamental. I need to take it out of the oven at exactly the right moment. If I walk away from it, it’ll burn.”
Fay emptied kitten food onto two flat feeding plates. The kittens would be able to reach the food easily. As soon as they saw her, they clamored to be fed. Morwen was right – the milk wasn’t enough for them anymore. The question was whether they would recognize the food for what it was or try to play with it. She let herself into the nursery and placed the food plates on pieces of newspaper.
She took a small amount of food and mixed it with water to form a runny paste. Then she dipped her forefinger into the concoction and dabbed a dot of it onto each kitten’s muzzle. As she watched, their little pink tongues appeared to lick away the strange substance. The surprised expressions on their faces made her laugh.
The biggest kitten Tigger approached her on sturdy legs, looking for more. She dipped her finger into the mixture again and held it out to him. He licked her finger and sniffed the food with interest. Soon he was licking away at it and adapting quickly to this new factor in his life.
Only the smallest female, Zorro, looked at the food as though she couldn’t begin to imagine what it could be for. Fay put three more dabs of liquid onto her muzzle and she licked them off each time. Only then would she venture to lick the food off Fay’s finger. Fay fed her several smears of food off the tip of her finger before Zorro turned away to play. It was a good enough start. Fay had read that some kittens took more easily to solid food than others and that one should never force the issue.
The other two kittens, male and female, that Fay had tentatively named Freddy and Cinnamon, took small nibbles of the food before deciding that what their siblings were up to was more interesting and running off to play. Freddy had got his name because his facial markings reminded Fay of Freddy Mercury, and Cinnamon because she was the color of cinnamon.
Smudge and Olive wandered over to try out a few mouthfuls of kitten food. Fay didn’t stop them. They would have their work cut out trying to keep the kittens clean from now on. They could do with some extra energy.
Fay went down to lunch feeling pleased with her morning’s work. Morwen, Maggie and Pen were already at the table when she got to the kitchen.
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“How did them kittens like their lunch?” asked Pen.
“It was a good start. They all tried some. The big boy, Tigger, ate the most, of course.”
“And the peely-wally one?”
There had been a time when Fay would have had to ask for an explanation of that word. Now she knew it was a Scottish expression meaning pale and sickly looking. Pen’s mother had been a Scotswoman.
“You mean Zorro? She licked some food off my finger before losing interest. But it’s a start. She’ll eat more this evening, I’m sure.”
Fay wasn’t surprised at Pen’s interest in the kittens. While he claimed, like David, not to be a cat person, she had noticed him slipping upstairs to the office to check on the kittens several times over the last month. She had also noticed that the five adult cats liked to hang out with Pen and could often be found in the garden where he was working, or in his cottage keeping him company.
“My mother said she saw you at the antiques fair this morning,” said Maggie. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“Apart from a milk jug for four hundred and eighty dollars, not really. But I had some interesting conversations. I met the man who will inherit Desmond Pinkerton’s entire estate, including his bookstore in Truro. He’s not even related to him. One moment he’s a lowly shop assistant and the next he owns everything.”
“That sounds like motive to me,” said Maggie between bites of her fish pie.
“Either I have the wrong idea of the book trade or a rare books and manuscripts store in a quiet seaside town is not exactly a license to print money,” said Morwen.
“Agreed,” said Fay. “If a shop like that even turns a profit I’d be surprised. But there’s something else at play here – something they’re all excited about. If I can only figure out what it is, I think I’ll know why Mr. Pinkerton was murdered.”
The Cat That Got Your Tongue Page 4