Moggies, Magic and Murder

by Pearl Goodfellow

  “Please,” Clara murmured, breathing in the floral scent. “It is I who needs comforting right now.” She flicked her head toward Madame Starling. “I feel positively naked under the scrutiny of the all-seeing-peacock eye.” Louisa couldn’t hold in her mirth. She brought a white-gloved hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter, and Clara felt the woman relax a little more.

  A big-boned lady, sporting a large, flat face, brought the number of bodies to the required ‘eight.’ Lady Daphne Dwerryhouse sat between Marie-Claire and Madame Starling, the latter being the evening’s portal to the world of spirit. Clara’s lips curled upward as she witnessed Lady Dwerryhouse pop a French Fancy — whole, no less — into her mouth. She chewed, and made a commendable effort to keep her lips together, but a piece of pink fondant flew from her mouth, anyway. Lady Dwerryhouse covered her candied projectile quickly, by placing her palms on the table.

  One could arguably count on Daphne’s presence at … well, any given social event, truthfully. Providing there was a free sherry, or a complimentary chive scone on offer, Lady Dwerryhouse was certain to be there. Clara had seen the lady in action, swooping in on resplendent buffet tables, or accosting unsuspecting servants with their silver trays of dainty alcoholic beverages. Daphne Dwerryhouse was very likely one of the richest women in Europe. She owned land over most of the continent, and also a breathtaking amount in the Lake District and southern Scotland. But Lady Daphne abhorred spending money when there was no need, and the copious invitations she received, to attend opulent social gatherings, saw to it that her personal food bills were kept to a minimum.

  Madame Starling drew in a deep breath, bringing Clara out of her reverie. “I believe we are all ready?” The clairvoyant let everyone settle into position. “Let us begin.”

  Clara felt a chill creep up the length of her spine, until it swirled like an uninvited draft around her neck. She was not a superstitious woman, by any means, nor did she wholeheartedly believe in the channeled information that was about to be relayed to her fellow comrades in the room, but her hand flew from the table to the reticule in her lap, nonetheless. She quickly snaked her fingers through the drawstring enclosure, and brushed her finger tips across the smooth resin of the locket she kept in the beaded purse. She might not be able to feel the tiny creature that lay suspended in the amber, but just the soft curves of the peculiar gem alone gave her comfort. She gave her forefinger one more pass across the piece of jewelry. Just for good measure, she told herself, almost with embarrassment. Madame Starling cleared her throat and looked directly at Clara, which forced the young lady to bring her hand back to the table.

  Evelyn Starling, medium extraordinaire — so it was purported — began sucking in long gulps of air, the peacock feather flouncing out from the centre of her turban, as she drew in air. Clara felt a slight tremor along the side of her hand, and she watched, as Louisa Hollander’s little finger hooked around her own. A small measure of comfort, but, indeed, Clara felt the peace in it.

  Madame Starling started moaning. Or more like droning, to be precise. Clara noted everyone’s shoulders become rigid, and had shot up close to their ears. She found this reasonably funny, until she discovered that her own quarters had bunched up to within a hair’s breadth of her temples.

  “Forgive me, Madame Starling?” Belinda Little leaned across the table, her bright blonde hair presenting itself as a murky grey in the dull corona of the oil lamp. “Who shall be first to ask questions from those of the afterlife realms? I have some queries I should like to ask, and—”

  One of Evelyn Starling’s eyelids flew open. She pinned Belinda with a glittering pupil. “My dear,” she said, her peacock feather bobbing, and staring. “The spirits avail themselves as and when, and to whom, and where they wish. One does not simply pick the subject, time and place of spiritual discourse. Now, if you wouldn’t object, I should like —”

  “Please,” Belinda said, her lips pulling upward in a brittle smile. Clara thought it looked painful for her to configure her features in such a way. The former forced a girlish titter. “Forgive my interruption, and, please, proceed.”

  Starling’s eye snapped shut, and the table’s occupants waited patiently while the ‘medium extrordinaire’ cycled through the heavy breathing, and moaning routine once more.

  Clara jumped when both of he medium’s eyes flew open suddenly. In near perfect timing to the channeller’s frenzied eyeball reveal, Aunt Gwen sunk her nails into Clara’s little finger. To the right of her she could hear Louisa Hollander’s breath change from a steady tide to a rapid and hectic whirlpool. She wanted to reach out — to rub Louisa’s back, but she was scared to break the circle. And seeing the other ladies, their faces pulled into twisty terror, but also keeping their hands in place, Clara was inclined to do the same.

  Evelyn’s mouth fell open, exposing ramshackle yellowed enamel. The medium let out a whooshing sigh, lifted her hand, and pointed. Clara’s head followed the woman’s arm all the way to her finger, and to where that knobby finger aimed: At a stunned Belinda Little.

  The sound that came from Madame Starling’s mouth could not be described as a woman’s voice, much less human. The medium’s words flew like ashes on a cold wind; as if they had decayed even before they left her thin lips. She kept her liver-spotted finger pointed directly at Belinda Little’s flawless forehead. Clara found the contrast between the two anatomical specimens, startling.

  “The children,” Evelyn Starling rasped. “The children. They will not remain quiet. They insist … the children.” Her eyelids fluttered, and through the rapid lid movement, Clara could see only the whites of the clairvoyant’s eyes. “The children,” Evelyn said again. “They are … they are running. Yes, running.” Her eyes fluttered ever more violently, and her next question came out sounding more like herself, if a little querulous. “What? What are you running from, children?”

  Clara looked directly at Belinda, wanting to know how the young woman was handling this bizarre confrontation with the spirits. Oh, dear, not terribly well, then. Clara silently observed Belinda’s body take on a subtle vibration, building rapidly to a whole-body tremor, until her royal blue, satin dress murmured in time with her shaking.

  Madame Starling’s hands flew to her head, squishing the all-seeing-peacock eye, in the process.“The building is falling!” She very nearly screamed, cowering under her fluttering hands. “The building … it’s crashing. It’s crashing to the ground!” Madame Starling’s neck snapped backward suddenly, until her face looked up at the poorly lit ceiling rose. Belinda Little went horribly pale. Horribly, terribly pale. Her pupils began to dilate right at the moment the clairvoyant brought one of her hands to her neck and started coughing. “Choking,” she wheezed, scratching at her throat like a madwoman.

  Betsy Hollander’s face turned white, making her rouge stand out in grotesque relief against her new-found palour. She made a noise that sounded very much like the warble of a discombobulated turkey, and lunged for her sherry. She threw the contents of the crystal glass to the back of her throat with an expertise that surely must have taken years of studied practice. Clara withdrew one hand too. Only her sense of calm didn’t come from an alcoholic beverage, as had Lady Hollander’s. She reached for the golden babble inside her purse, instead. She worked her fingertips across the glossy surface, palmed the comforting, smooth circular weight of it, and soon felt a thread of equilibrium steal into her being. But it was very quickly followed by a torrent of relief for the fact that she hadn’t been the one Madame Starling’s spirits had wanted to communicate with.

  Evelyn Starling’s deathly rattle continued unabated, however. “It’s the dust,” the seer choked, finally. “Dust everywhere. Broken bones. Falling masonry. The books … all the books are gone. Ruined. Smashed like children’s skulls…” Her voice was an insane rasp. “Their home … gone. Gone … in a cloud of dust. Lives … ruined. So much dust … so…much … dust.” She fell forward into another coughing fit, and Belinda Little tipped sid
eways off her chair, tumbling in a rustle of satin to the floor.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Gloom! How could you say such a thing?!” Hattie Jenkins reached down for her cat, but Gloom was too quick. She darted, ears flat, to the other side of the crowded basement. As black as three a.m, the troubled cat stopped next to a large, veiled object — one of the warlock artifacts they’d be cataloging shortly — circled twice, and then turned to face her flabbergasted guardian. She pushed out her chest and locked eyes with Hattie Jenkins. “Well, it’s true,” she spat, her lips taught. “Once that baby’s here you’ll forget all about us. We’ll be forced to move out, and you’ll celebrate because we’re gone! Forever!” Gloom pulled her dark profile deeper into the shadows, while her seven brothers, whiskers at attention, looked on breathlessly. Gloom had many outbursts, but they rarely failed to leave her audience with hanging jaws. Onyx, the self-professed scholar of the clatch of eight felines, spoke first. “Dear sister, I believe you owe Hattie an apology. We all know your tendency to lean toward the negative,” he said. “But your accusation isn’t just…pessimistic, it’s utterly preposterous! And after all we’ve been through with Hattie too.”

  Eclipse cleared his throat. “I agree with Shakespeare here, sis. You know full well it wouldn’t make Hattie happy to have us out of her life.” He turned to the latter and gave a tiny nod of his head. Hattie returned the gesture to the most mysterious of her clowder and turned her attention back to her cat-in-hiding. “Gloom, honey,” she said, laying down the clipboard she’d been holding. They’d already inventoried a good chunk of the devices that stuffed Portia Fearwyn’s basement, and she hoped they’d be able to finish the last before the day was over. They’d been at it for nearly three days now, and although the work wasn’t hard, it wasn’t exactly pleasant either. Labouring in the artificial light of a damp, low-ceilinged cellar would hardly be anyone’s idea of fun, but at least up until now they had all got along. But now this. Hattie stared into the shadows, to the place she thought Gloom might be hiding. Gloom tittered silently as she watched Hattie’s earnest face plead with a spot two feet to Gloom’s left. “I’d never in my life dream of getting rid of you, honey,” Hattie said, to the empty spot next to her cat. “You guys are as much my guardians as I am yours. I love you.” Her eyes swept over the male members of her immortal familiars. “All of you. Very much.” Her words wavered then, sounding like the delicate strings of a fairy harp in concert. “If I lost you guys … I don’t … I…” Hattie’s mouth worked but her lips merely formed mute shapes.

  Shade shook his head and looked into the shadows at his sister. His eyes narrowed. “Dude, c’mon,” he said. “This ain’t right, and you know it. Hattie’d put her life on the line for us, ain’t I right, boss?” The likeable tom swerved his fuzzy head toward Hattie, and then back to his disgruntled sister. “And there ain’t no way, no how, she’d think of getting rid of us. Not when we’ve got a baby sister on the way.” Without taking his focus from Gloom, Shade’s paw extended toward the other side of the room. A sole cat toe, stretched to the limit, claw included, pointed directly at Hattie Jenkins’s belly. As if in cosmic response, Hattie’s unborn girl gave a jubilant punch to the inside of her Mom’s midriff.

  Murmurs and looks of awe from the cats. But not Gloom.

  “Respect,” Midnight said, dipping his head in reverence. He moved over to his witch guardian, and jumped onto the inventory table, placing his nimble toes between an array of strewn artifacts; each one numbered, bagged and tagged. Midnight hopped up next to the baby bump and rubbed his cheek against the mound of warm life there. “She can’t wait to meet her fam, hey, boss-lady? She’s got hashtag goals.” Hattie’s midnight-adventuring-cat’s grin stretched up to his ears. “She knows her furry fam’s got the feels for her already.” Hattie knew Midnight couldn’t wait to brag to his strange, band of night-wandering beasties; his night-creature buddies whom no one (besides Midnight himself, that is) had ever seen.

  Hattie forced a smile and tousled Middie’s head. She turned back to Gloom. Had she been paying enough attention to how her female cat was handling all the ‘new baby’ news? Gloom, as her namesake suggested, wasn’t exactly a proponent of the ‘warm ’n’ fuzzy’ even at the best of times. But Hattie could tell when her morose moggie felt troubled. “Sweetie?” She said. “Do you believe —“

  Gloom’s face burst from the darkness. She stood, and stomped, with the confidence — and near girth — of a tank, toward her host. Behind her trailed the grimy dust sheet that had covered the sizeable object she had stood next to. Her claws must have caught in the fabric and pulled the cover free. Gloom’s cargo did nothing to hamper her determined trajectory, however, and she barrelled through the neat line of her brothers with the ease of a breeze. The sheet detached from Gloom’s back paw, and landed, motionless, behind her. Then with agile speed — for a cat of her weight — she leapt onto the inventory table, and up onto Hattie’s tummy, knocking an indignant Midnight from his former position of warmth and comfort. Gloom nestled down and rubbed her face as softly as she could against Hattie’s full belly.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so sorry. The last thing you need right now is the stress of dealing with my cattiness.”

  Hattie brought her hands to Gloom’s face and plowed her fingers through the thick fur of her cheeks. “S’okay, sweetie, you don’t —“

  “I’m scared,” Gloom said. “It’s just … just scary, that’s all. I’m scared you won’t love us; me, as much, I guess.” She pressed the top of her head into the baby bump and sighed. She already felt better. Included, and safe. Loved.

  She never intended to cause trouble. Well, not for the people she cared about, anyway…but, no matter what, Gloom seemed doomed to stir up chaos. She tried not to, and as she sometimes watched herself craft conflict from peace, she would often scream inside her head. Full self-rage for her apparent endless compulsion for self-destruction. She had no idea why she was the way she was…she just knew she was that way. And, as teeth-clenchingly irritating as they could be for … well, most of the time, her family; Hattie and her husband, David, and Gloom’s seven crazy brothers. They all loved her deeply despite Gloom’s obvious character flaws. And for their lack of judgment for her, for their ability to see through her pricklier side, for their insanely infinite capacity for all-inclusive love … Gloom loved them for it. So it hurt her when she hurt them.

  Hattie pulled her troubled cat into her. She put a hand to her own belly, momentarily relishing the hilly curves of her unborn baby. “Look, guys, I know this is nerve-wracking,” she said. She cast a tender gaze over her beloved moggies. They’d been through so much together. Not only had they solved a string of eight murders, but they had fought — and won — a battle against an evil, so powerful, it had nearly brought them to their knees. But through love, trust, and the deep bonds of friendship, Hattie and the crew had come through. With the support of magical allies and the powerful witch, Portia Fearwyn, the Infiniti and their guardian had brought down the sly Warlock Chief, Gideon Shields, and his attempt to rule the world by fire-of-dragon, and other weapons of mass warlock destruction. Hattie shook her head clear of those tough times. “Guys, bear with me, okay? We only have two weeks until little —“

  “Catarena?” Gloom asked, hopefully.

  Hattie laughed. “No, sweetie, we don’t have a name for her yet, but I highly suspect David won’t go for—“ The sound of the basement door opening put a halt to Hattie’s speech.

  Portia’s voice was clipped and efficient as it marched down the steps toward the inventory crew: “Hattie, I need your help up here for a moment, if you please?” She said. Everyone below could hear the Witch Fearwyn’s next sharp intake of breath. “And if you could please make sure your meddlesome cats don’t touch anything they’re not supposed to?” She paused for a second, probably so her caution could sink in. “I’ll see you in the study in exactly two minutes or less. That’s all.” The do
or closed.

  Hattie shrugged. “You heard her, guys,” she said, moving to the stairs. “Don’t touch anything, alright? Just continue with the inventory without getting too deep into the snooping, got it?” She looked at her cats one last time and smiled. “And, remember. You all mean the world to me, and I honestly can’t wait for you all to meet your sister. You guys are going to rock it with your lunatic love.” Hattie chuckled, and with that, she pulled herself up the stairs, one swollen foot in front of the other, leaving the Infiniti to their workload. And their imaginations.

  “Cool! Yep, yep!”

  Seven furry heads turned to an excited Jet. The catnip addled cat bounced exuberantly in front of the artefact Gloom had disrobed.

  The object began humming.

  To be continued…

  Also by Pearl Goodfellow

  The first four books of A witch and her Cats Cozy Adventure Mystery can be found here:

  Murder, Magic and Moggies