Please Do Feed the Cat

by Marian Babson

  He carried Simon up the stairs, the child’s leg brace hitting against his sore ribs with every step.

  Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow he would try to put aside his personal problems and concentrate on solving the murder of the elderly much-loved local vicar. The tabloids were already baying at his heels about it and he was afraid that his job was on the line. Again.

  At the top of the stairs, he set Simon down on the floor and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Run along now,’ he said absently.

  ‘Run? Run? You fool!’ Christine, his wife, appeared out of the shadows. In a raging temper, as usual. ‘Hobble, you mean! You know he can’t run! He’ll never run! Hobble, hobble along, Simon, like a good little cripple!’

  ‘Christine!’ He tried to be understanding, to empathize with her. ‘I’m sorry. The doctor rang me about the twins this afternoon. Don’t worry, we’ll get through it somehow – ’

  ‘The twins! Simon! Lesley! There’s something wrong with every one of your children! Your genes are rotten! Useless! Damned – ’

  ‘Oh, really?’ He tried to keep calm and rational. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that it might be your – ’

  That was as far as he got. Where had that heavy iron frying pan come from? She must have been hiding it behind her skirt.

  ‘No! Don’t!’ he shouted, raising his arms to shield his head.

  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ She lashed out with the frying pan. ‘Do you want the neighbours to hear you?’

  No! No! That must never happen! He lowered his arms and grappled with her, trying to get control of the makeshift weapon.

  She kicked out and he felt his knees give way. He crashed heavily down the stairs, trying again to shield his face to minimize any visible bruising that would betray his shame to the world. The floor rose up to meet him. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.

  No one must ever know. To his dying breath, he must guard the worst, the most shameful, secret of all:

  That he, the brilliant detective, the hero of a hundred daring raids, the respected Detective Chief Superintendent, the man with hopes of becoming Chief Constable some day … that he … of all people … was a battered husband.

  The cats no longer even blinked when a paperback went soaring over their heads. To be honest, she hadn’t thrown it with her customary vigour. The storyline had brought back the sudden disturbing memory of the bruises on Macho’s face the other week. Those bruises had faded away now and no fresh ones had appeared.

  Did that mean that Cressie was growing better at controlling her temper – possibly because she was getting her own way? Or did it mean that she was striking where the bruises wouldn’t show?

  What’s it to you? The echo from that earlier unsettling dream returned to her, so vividly that it was hard to remember that it had been just a dream … a nightmare …

  What was it to her?

  Macho Magee was a colleague, a neighbour, an old friend who had grown more endearing since they had moved into nearby houses in this comfortable retreat. Macho Magee – No! – Lancelot Dalrymple was a sweet gentle man and a scholar, a man who deserved better in life than a termagant … a domineering shrew … a … a Cressie! Why couldn’t he come to his senses and realize that?

  What was it to her?

  She caught up as many of the remaining paperbacks as she could hold in each hand and hurled them across the room, this time with considerable force.

  The cats went skittering for the exit, colliding with each other in their eagerness to get out of her way.

  She continued throwing until there were no books left. Then, for good measure, she crossed the room and kicked them into an untidy heap. There! They could stay there! She wouldn’t waste another moment on them, far less force herself to read them. Perhaps tomorrow, she’d gather them up and hand them over to Freddie –

  Freddie! She was supposed to be at Freddie’s for dinner! Tonight … now! She was late – and she still had to change into something more suitable for a social evening.

  Had-I and But-Known raced inside the moment Freddie opened the door. Sniffing rapturously, they made straight for the kitchen, following the heady aroma of roasting chicken.

  ‘Can you take them anywhere?’ Lorinda shrugged an apology.

  ‘Funny, I got the impression they were taking you. I do admit, however, that you have better manners. Come in.’

  ‘Are we the first to arrive?’ Lorinda admired the inviting scene: bowls of nibbles on the tables, along with vases of spring blooms. Soft music played in the background. ‘You’ve really pushed the boat out.’

  ‘I thought I’d remind Macho what civilized living is like,’ Freddie said. ‘I don’t have the feeling that he sees much of it with Cressie.’

  A sudden loud crash from the other half of the semi-detached made them both jump.

  ‘That is,’ Freddie added bitterly, ‘if my dear neighbours can restrain themselves. Otherwise, Macho will think he’s still in the War Zone.’

  ‘So the Jackleys are back. I know Dorian had that postcard from Karla saying that they were on their way, but I haven’t seen them around.’

  ‘Neither have I, but for the past few days I’ve been hearing the occasional thump and bump on the other side of the wall. I assume they’re back, although some of the old fire seems to be missing. Perhaps they aren’t well.’

  ‘Or perhaps they have deadlines to meet before they can allow themselves to get back in the social swim.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Freddie sighed, ‘the peace and quiet was great – while it lasted. And, so long as I don’t admit that I’ve noticed that they’re back, I don’t have to do anything about it.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Lorinda was in perfect accord, she didn’t want to have to start coping with the Jackleys again, either. Cressie was quite enough to be going on with.

  Following immediately upon that thought, the doorbell rang. The temperature of the room dropped by about fifteen degrees when Freddie ushered them in. It was easy to see why.

  Macho held Roscoe clasped to his chest and Cressie was in an icy fury about it. Freddie and Lorinda exchanged glances; they would be lucky if the next heavy thuds didn’t come from this side of the wall.

  ‘Hello, Roscoe,’ Freddie said: he seemed to be the safest member of the trio to speak to. ‘Nice to see you again.’ Casually, she removed a heavy crystal ashtray that now did duty as an almond dish from within too-easy reach, replacing it with a plastic dish full of cashews.

  Roscoe miaowed a polite rejoinder and Cressie made a barely repressed sound of disgust.

  ‘And you, too, of course, Cressie,’ Freddie said. ‘And Macho.’

  Macho nodded glumly, neither looking at the others nor releasing his hold on Roscoe, who was beginning to squirm restlessly as he scented the chicken.

  Had-I and But-Known appeared in the doorway, lured from the kitchen by the sound of Roscoe’s voice.

  ‘God!’ Cressie exploded. ‘I don’t believe you people! You even take your damned animals with you when you go out to dinner!’

  ‘They’re welcome guests, too,’ Freddie said mildly. ‘If I’m not complaining, I don’t see why you should.’

  ‘Go and join your friends.’ Macho let Roscoe slip to the floor. Had-I and But-Known came forward to meet him, touching noses before leading him off to the kitchen.

  ‘And don’t think you’re breaking your diet!’ Cressie shouted after him viciously.

  Macho’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. We’ll see about that! hung in the air.

  ‘Drinks!’ Freddie intervened briskly, trying to avert the threatened scene. ‘Dry sherry …’ She began to pour. ‘Very dry sherry, in view of the menu.’

  ‘I don’t like sherry,’ Cressie said flatly. ‘Don’t you have any vodka?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Freddie said, ‘I used up all the vodka in the first course.’

  ‘You did?’ Lorinda felt a faint stir of alarm. ‘What are we having?’

&nbs
p; ‘I told you it was an experiment,’ Freddie said.

  ‘That’s where the vodka went?’ Bemused and forgetting her earlier declaration, Cressie accepted her sherry and sipped it absently. ‘What kind of experiment?’

  ‘Wait and see.’ Freddie raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers!’ Macho responded, lifting his glass with a barely veiled sneer at Cressie for starting before the toast.

  Someone’s been feeding him meat! Lorinda thought. And I’ll bet it wasn’t Cressie!

  ‘Anyway,’ Freddie smiled at Cressie, trying to defuse the situation, ‘isn’t it lucky that you haven’t sent your party invitations out?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It saves you the bother of having to cancel them.’

  ‘Cancel? Why should I want to cancel the party?’

  ‘Because you can’t have it now.’ It should have been obvious. ‘All things considered.’

  ‘What things?’ Cressie glared at her. ‘It’s going to be the most exciting party this place has ever seen. Everyone has heard about it and is looking forward to it. Everyone I talk to has been hinting for an invitation. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Freddie asked unbelievingly, looking towards Macho, who was oblivious. ‘Most people would consider a death in the family a good enough reason to put festivities on hold.’

  ‘It’s not my family,’ Cressie said.

  ‘Look.’ Freddie spelled it out. ‘You cannot hold a big party in a house where one of the occupants has just died. For heaven’s sake, they haven’t even done the autopsy yet.’

  ‘Autopsy?’ Cressie looked shaken. ‘Why should they want to do that?’

  ‘It’s customary,’ Lorinda joined the fray, ‘in the case of a sudden unexplained death.’

  ‘What do you mean, unexplained? She was hit by a car.’

  ‘The second person to be struck by a car,’ Macho was paying attention, after all, ‘in as many months. The police will have noticed that. They’ll want measurements, noting locations of breaks and bruises, to try to ascertain if the same car was involved both times.’

  ‘You people!’ Cressie distanced herself from them, shuddering. ‘How could it be the same car? Adèle Desparta hadn’t hit town yet when the first accident happened.’

  There it was again. That cool certainty that Adèle had disposed of her rival. And no one had even heard – or cared about – her side of the story. This town was turning into one big hanging jury – it was just as well that the death penalty had been abolished. Even so, fifteen to twenty years in jail wouldn’t do Adèle Desparta any good.

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you – ’ Lorinda began.

  ‘That’s it!’ Freddie drained her glass and made shooing motions towards the kitchen. ‘Let’s get started. Quick before it melts!’

  Since it was still in the freezer, there was little chance of that. Freddie took out a bowl, fluffed up the contents with a fork, divided them into sherbert glasses and sloshed a bit more vodka over the tops.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard of the Bloody Mary, you’ve heard of the Virgin Mary. Now we present – taa-daah! – the Frigid Mary!’

  ‘What is it?’ Cressie looked at the frosted red mass with suspicion.

  ‘Try it and see,’ Freddie said.

  ‘It’s a frozen Bloody Mary.’ Macho had already dipped into his. ‘Were you expecting real blood?’

  ‘With you people, who can tell?’ Cressie poked at it moodily.

  Lorinda and Freddie exchanged glances. It was clear that whatever bloom had once been on the rose had now definitely vanished. But, if Cressie was so miserable here, why did she stay? She had her own place in London, hadn’t she? That vaunted mews house, whose renovation she had so exhaustively and harrowingly detailed in Mooning the Builders.

  ‘This tastes funny.’ Cressie was determined not to be satisfied. For an instant, Lorinda felt a fleeting sympathy for the builders.

  ‘Everyone has their own recipe for a Bloody Mary.’ Macho eyed her coldly. ‘This is Freddie’s. It tastes just fine to me.’

  ‘You all stick together,’ Cressie complained.

  No one bothered to answer. Lorinda watched as Freddie crossed to the oven, stalked by the cats.

  ‘Now for the pièce de resistance – I hope!’ Freddie lifted a pan from the oven and swiftly transferred the golden chicken to a platter and placed it in the centre of the table.

  ‘Well, it’s golden in patches.’ She eyed her handiwork judiciously. ‘Could be worse. It’s probably the sort of thing that needs a bit more practice.’

  ‘What have you done to it?’ Cressie asked.

  ‘Gilded it,’ Freddie said. ‘Or, as it was known in medieval times, “endored” it.’

  ‘Medieval, eh?’ Macho studied the bird with interest. ‘From one of your old recipe books, no doubt.’

  ‘No, I mean, why is it so flat? Did you hit it with a rolling pin?’ Cressie wrinkled her nose. ‘It looks like a shelf between the two wings. Is that medieval, too?’

  ‘No, that’s modern – I think.’ It seemed that Cressie had hit a sensitive spot. ‘All the current advice is to roast your chicken breast down for the first half-hour, then turn it over on its back for the rest of the cooking time, and it gives you lots of moist juicy breast meat. So I tried it – and this is what happened. That damned bird went into the oven a 36C and when I turned it over, it was a 32A. I hoped it might plump up again when I put it back in the oven, but it didn’t.’

  ‘Your medieval cook would have cooked it on a spit.’ Macho seemed to be having trouble controlling his expression. ‘It would eliminate that problem.’

  ‘It probably tastes all right,’ Lorinda said, ‘even if it does look a bit peculiar.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Having allowed them enough time to contemplate it, Freddie began to carve briskly. ‘Let’s see how it tastes.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Predictably, Cressie balked at the first forkful. ‘It tastes weird.’

  ‘That’s probably the saffron,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s not everybody’s cup of tea – but it enhances the gold colour.’

  ‘Medieval food was usually highly flavoured.’ Macho spoke with authority. ‘And often too strong or too sweet to appeal to modern tastes. On the whole,’ he chewed reflectively, ‘this isn’t too bad, but I think I prefer your usual way of roasting it, right side up and covered with strips of bacon.’

  The cats circled the table, alert for kindness or carelessness. Lorinda let a small chunk of chicken slip to the floor as Roscoe nudged her ankle.

  Had-I and But-Known promptly crowded over, demanding their share – and giving her away

  ‘Are you feeding that cat?’ Cressie glared at her.

  ‘Not really,’ Lorinda defended. ‘It just fell off my fork.’

  ‘Put that cat out!’ Cressie ordered Macho. ‘Put them all out! They shouldn’t be in here when people are eating, anyway. It’s unsanitary!’

  ‘No!’ Macho said.

  ‘What???’

  ‘You heard me!’

  ‘Nevertheless, I believe I’ll put this recipe in the book.’ Freddie’s voice overrode the others. ‘It’s simple enough – and an experienced cook might be able to adjust the recipe enough to get better results.’

  ‘It’s a sort of sauce, is it?’ Lorinda tried to keep up her end of the conversation. ‘That should be easy.’

  ‘It looked easy,’ Freddie sighed. ‘Just one ounce of butter, a quarter teaspoon of saffron, an ounce of sugar, two tablespoons of white wine vinegar and one egg yolk. Bob’s your uncle, I thought – until I started cooking it. But when I melted the butter and all the salty scum rose to the surface, I realized that they should have specified unsalted butter. Then you’re supposed to stir in the saffron and cook it gently until the butter turns bright yellow – only the butter started to brown and it was a race to get the colour out of the saffron strands before the butter burned black. When it came to straining out the saffron, I did
n’t want to clog up my tea strainer with congealing butter, so I used a fork – it was like fishing spider legs out of the lemonade on a summer picnic.’

  There was a gagging sound from Cressie.

  ‘Then you add the sugar and wine vinegar to the saffroned butter and cook it until it goes syrupy, when you take it off the heat and stir in the egg yolk and cook, but don’t boil, stirring constantly, until it’s thick – only it started going lumpy. I think they should have told you to use a double-boiler, otherwise it cooks too fast. Then you slosh the gloop over your chicken and put the bird back in the oven for the last ten minutes or so to finish cooking.’ Freddie regarded the results gloomily. ‘I’m not sure it was worth it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I may try that,’ Lorinda said unconvincingly, privately thinking that, in these modern times, it might be easier just to rub some yellow food colouring over the chicken.

  ‘It could have a certain novelty value for special festivities,’ Freddie said. ‘But I’ve also decided that – just to give the readers a break – it would be more merciful to include some recipes from the past that no one in their right mind would want to try It would make such a nice change for them to just sit and read without feeling that they ought to be getting up and going to the kitchen to try out the recipe.’

  ‘Have you anything particular in mind?’ Lorinda’s voice rang out too loudly, now that the others had lapsed into silence. Cressie was sulking as Macho defiantly picked up a generous slice of chicken and hand-fed it to Roscoe. The brooding hunch of her shoulders told them all that he was going to regret that the instant she got him alone.

  For the moment, with his peers around him, he was safe. And so was Roscoe. Freddie heaped more slices of chicken on to Macho’s plate.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have. Artificial Ass’s Milk,’ Freddie said. ‘I found it in an eighteenth-century cookery book.’

  ‘What the hell do you do with ass’s milk?’ Cressie’s attention was diverted.

  ‘Cleopatra bathed in it,’ Macho told her.

  ‘This one is supposed to be a drink for invalids,’ Freddie said, ‘but I think you’d rather bathe in it than drink it.’