The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  What do you remember about . . .

  Never locked our doors. Neighbor could walk in and borrow a cup of sugar. It was a neighbor boy took my money. I knowed who he was, but I didn’t tell the constable. I knowed his voice. Worked on our farm sometimes.

  Why didn’t you tell the constable?

  His name was Basil. I felt sorry for him. His father was in prison. Killed a man.

  Was that the Whittlestaff family?

  I peeked out the window when he took my money. It was moonlight. I saw him runnin’ across our potato field. I knowed where he was headin’ for. The freight train stopped at Watertown to take on water. You could hear the whistle two miles away. Boys used to jump the freight trains and run away. One boy fell on the tracks and was killed. I never went on a train.

  End of interview.

  The volunteer interrupted Mrs. Woolsmith’s monologue. “Time’s up, dear. Say goodbye now, and we’ll go upstairs for our nap.”

  The old lady put forth a thin trembling hand, and Qwilleran grasped it warmly in both of his, marveling that such fragile hands had once scrubbed clothes, milked cows, and hoed potatoes.

  The volunteer followed him into the hallway. “Sarah remembers everything seventy-five years ago,” she said, “but she doesn’t remember recent events. By the way, I’m Irma Hasselrich.”

  “Are you related to the attorney for the Klingenschoen Fund?”

  “That’s my father. He was prosecutor when Zack Whittlestaff was convicted of killing Titus Goodwinter. Zack’s boy, who robbed Sarah and ran away, came back years later and repaid the eighteen dollars and seventy-three cents, but she doesn’t remember. He sends her chocolates every Christmas, too. He turned out to be quite a successful man. Changed his name, of course. If I had a name like Basil Whittlestaff, I’d change it, too,” she laughed. “He sells used cars and runs a garage. He’s ornery, but he does good work.”

  Qwilleran went home to dress for the wedding. He was not anticipating the occasion with any pleasure. He had been best man for Arch Riker twenty-five years before, when he was young and crazy and not always sober. On that occasion he had fumbled the ring, causing the groom to drop it and causing two hundred guests to titter.

  And now he was going to be best man for Basil Whittlestaff. When Hixie called him Mr. Chopstick, she was not far off base.

  At five o’clock the November dusk had painted the snowy whiteness of Pickax a misty blue. At the K mansion the draperies were drawn, crystal chandeliers were alight, and Mr. O’Dell had started a festive blaze in the drawing room fireplace.

  The tall case clock in the foyer bonged five times. Mr. O’Dell dropped a cassette in the player, and the solemn chords of a Bach organ prelude resounded through the house. In the drawing room the magistrate was stationed in front of the fireplace. The bridegroom and his best man waited in the foyer. There was a moment of suspense, and then the bride and her attendant appeared on the balcony above and started their dignified descent.

  Mrs. Cobb, usually seen in a smock or pantsuit or baggy jumper, was almost stunning in her pink suede suit. Susan Exbridge always looked stunning.

  By the time the wedding party lined up in front of the magistrate, he was red faced from the heat behind him. Flanking him on the hearth were two indignant Siamese whose territory in front of the fire was being usurped by a stranger.

  Qwilleran felt uneasy; Hackpole fidgeted nervously; and the magistrate mopped his forehead before commencing the brief ritual: “We are gathered together to join together this man and this woman . . .”

  Despite the tranquil beauty of the setting, the atmosphere was tense.

  “If any person can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or forever hold his peace.”

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  Hackpole frowned; the two women giggled; and Qwilleran felt a mixed reaction of amusement and apprehension.

  Herbert took Iris to be his wedded wife, and Iris took Herbert to be her wedded husband. Then it was time for the ring.

  This was Qwilleran’s moment. The ring was in his pocket, and he fumbled for it. Wrong pocket. Ah! He found the ring. And then he disgraced himself again. The wedding ring flipped out of his hand and rolled down the rug.

  Yum Yum was after it in a flash. The resident thief of the Klingenschoen mansion, attracted by anything shiny and gold, batted her small treasure under the Chinese desk with Qwilleran in mad pursuit. Just as the trophy was within his reach, she chased it into the foyer—batting it with one paw, darting after it, batting with the other. She was pushing the ring under an Anatolian rug when the best man finally intercepted it.

  At record speed the perspiring magistrate concluded the ceremony. “I pronounce you man and wife.” Hackpole gave his bride an embarrassed kiss, and the rest was hugs, handshakes, congratulations, and best wishes.

  The buoyant notes of Schubert piano music fitted the occasion, and Mrs. Fulgrove and Mr. O’Dell appeared with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Qwilleran, with crossed fingers and a glass of white grape juice, proposed a toast to the future happiness of the newlyweds.

  The moment of celebration was brief. The magistrate gulped his champagne and left in a hurry, and the new Mrs. Hackpole coaxed her husband into the dining room to see the wild-game carvings on the massive German sideboard.

  “I hope she’ll be happy,” Qwilleran said to Susan Exbridge. “Unfortunately I upheld my reputation as the worst ‘best man’ in nuptial history.”

  “But Koko did nobly as best cat,” she said. “His well-timed declaration broke the tension.”

  The Hackpoles returned from their brief sightseeing and expressed a desire to leave, the groom jingling his car keys and pushing his bride toward the back door.

  “Wait a minute,” Qwilleran said. “Give me your keys, and I’ll bring your car to the front door. We’re not throwing rice, but you ought to leave in style.”

  “But we have two cars,” Hackpole objected. “Hers is in the garage.”

  “Pick it up tomorrow. No one ever heard of a bride and groom leaving in separate vehicles.”

  Qwilleran and Susan watched them drive away to the bridal suite in the new Pickax Hotel. “Well, there they go,” he said, “for better or worse.”

  Susan accepted his invitation to dine at Stephanie’s, where shaded candles glowed on tables draped to the floor, and soft colors and soft music created a romantic ambience. It was the night before the Messiah oratorio, and they discussed the plans for the gala reception at the museum following the performance.

  “The Fitch twins are going to do videotapes,” Susan said.

  Qwilleran nodded his approval. “My friends Down Below refuse to believe the cultural activities in this remote county.”

  “I consider that we’re the Luxembourg of the northeast central United States,” Susan said with a dramatic flourish of her expressive hands. “And let me tell you about the surprise we’ve planned for the Messiah audience. Do you know why it’s traditional to stand during the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus?”

  “I’ve heard that the English king was so impressed when he heard it for the first time that he rose to his feet, and when the king stands, everyone stands. Isn’t that the legend?”

  “That’s right! Around 1742. King George the Second will attend the performance tomorrow night, with the entire royal court in eighteenth-century regalia. Our theater group is staging it. . . . You ought to join the Pickax Thespians, Qwill. You have a good voice and a good presence. We could do Bell, Book and Candle, and Koko could play Pyewacket.”

  “I doubt whether he’d want to play a cat,” Qwilleran said. “He’s an insufferable snob. He’d rather play the title role in Richard the Third, I’m afraid.”

  Dinner with Susan was a pleasant sequel to a wedding he had found distressing. He gave her an armful of pink roses to take home, and she gave him a theatrical kiss. Temporarily he forgot his regret at losing a live-in housekeeper and his disapproval of her choice of husband. He f
orgot until he made his nightly house check before retiring to his apartment.

  A slim volume lay on the library rug. It was a copy of Othello, and the best-known quotation came to Qwilleran’s mind: “Then must you speak of one who loved not wisely but too well.”

  As he carried the Siamese across the yard in the wicker hamper, he remembered another line, and his moustache bristled. “Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight.”

  Sunday, November twenty-fourth. Two more inches of snow fell during the night. When Qwilleran carried the wicker hamper to the main house on Sunday morning, the bronze bells in the tower of the Old Stone Church and the tape-recorded chimes in the Little Stone Church were announcing morning services. Mr. O’Dell, who had attended early mass, was busy with the snowblower.

  “Sure, I’m after clearin’ the driveway and parkin’ lot for the party tonight,” he said. “It won’t snow any more today, I’m thinkin’.”

  Qwilleran turned up the thermostat in the house and was preparing the cats’ breakfast when he heard the back door open and slam shut. It would be O’Dell, he thought, looking for a hot drink on a cold morning. When no one appeared, and when he heard a whimpering in the back hall, he went to investigate.

  “Mrs. Cobb!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? What’s happened to you?”

  Her face was haggard and drained of color; her hair was wild; she was leaning weakly against the back door. At the sight of Qwilleran she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

  He led her into the kitchen and seated her in a chair. “How did you get here? You’ve been walking in the snow. Where are your boots?”

  “I don’t know,” she wailed. “I just . . . ran out. I had to get away.”

  “What went wrong? Can you tell me?” He pulled off her wet shoes and bundled her feet in towels.

  She shook her head, and a sob turned into a groan. “I’ve made—I’ve made a terrible—mistake.”

  “I don’t understand, Mrs. Cobb. Can’t you tell me what’s happened?”

  “He’s a monster! I married a monster! Oh, what shall I do?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, scattering a torrent of tears.

  Qwilleran handed her a box of tissues. “Did he abuse you physically?”

  “Oh-h-h-h! I can’t talk about it!” She put her head down on the table and shook convulsively.

  “Was he drinking heavily?”

  She managed a tremulous yes.

  “I’ll make a cup of tea.”

  “I can’t—it won’t stay down,” she whimpered. “I’ve been throwing up all night.”

  “You’d better drink some water, at least. You’re probably dehydrated.”

  “I can’t keep it down.”

  “Then I’m calling the doctor.” He dialed the home telephone of Dr. Halifax, and the nurse who took care of the doctor’s invalid wife said he was at church.

  Qwilleran hurried outdoors and flagged down the houseman. “An emergency, Mr. O’Dell! Rush across to the Old Stone Church and get Dr. Hal. Look for a white head of hair, then walk down the aisle and beckon to him.”

  “I’ll take the snowmobile,” Mr. O’Dell said with a puzzled frown.

  He roared away on the two-seater, and Qwilleran returned to the kitchen in time to see Koko rubbing against Mrs. Cobb’s ankles. When she reached down to touch him, he jumped on her lap. She hugged him, and he allowed himself to be hugged, flicking his ears when her tears fell.

  As soon as the noisy machine returned, Qwilleran went to the back door.

  “Nice timing,” said the old doctor. “You got me out right before they took up the offering. What’s the trouble?”

  Qwilleran explained briefly and directed him to the kitchen. In a moment Dr. Hal returned. “Better drive her to the hospital. Where’s your phone? I’ll order a private room.”

  “I don’t know what it’s all about,” Qwilleran said in a low voice, “but her husband might be looking for her. I think you should specify no visitors.”

  He helped Dr. Hal walk the patient to the back door.

  “I’ll need—some things,” she said faintly.

  “We’ll pack a bag and send it to the hospital. Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Cobb.” Qwilleran would never be able to call her Mrs. Hackpole.

  The houseman brought the car up, and Qwilleran said to him, “While I’m gone, would you go to the Little Stone Church and catch Mrs. Fulgrove when the service is over? Ask her to come and pack Mrs. Cobb’s personal things for a short hospital stay.”

  The drive to the hospital was done in silence except for an occasional sob. “I’m so much trouble for you.”

  “Not at all. You were wise to come back to the house.”

  When he returned from delivering the patient, Mrs. Fulgrove was bustling about with importance. “I packed all what I could think of,” she said, “which it ain’t easy seein’ as how I never been in hospital myself, God be praised, but I put in what I thought was right and the little radio near her bed, and I looked for a Bible but I couldn’t find one, which I packed my own and it should be a comfort to her.”

  “Had Mrs. Cobb asked you to work tonight during the reception, Mrs. Fulgrove?”

  “That she did, but seein’ as how it’s Sunday—which I don’t do work on the Lord’s day—I couldn’t take money for it, but I’ll help out and pleased to do it, seein’ as how the poor soul is in hospital and I’m thankful for my health.”

  Qwilleran asked the houseman to deliver Mrs. Cobb’s necessities to the hospital. “Do you think we can manage the reception without her, Mr. O’Dell?”

  “Sure an’ it’s our best we’ll be doin’. The club ladies will be after needin’ help with the punch bowl and the likes o’ that. And should I take the little ones across the yard before the party starts, now?”

  “I don’t believe so. The cats enjoy a party. Let them stay in the house.”

  “When the club ladies leave for the concert, I’ll be lockin’ up and goin’ to the church for a little, but I’ll be comin’ back before it’s over. Mrs. Cobb was for turnin’ on all the lights and lightin’ all the fireplaces. Too bad she won’t be enjoyin’ it now. What is it that’s ailin’ herself?”

  “Some kind of virus,” Qwilleran said.

  Around noon the telephone rang, and a thick voice demanded, “Where is she? Where’s my wife?”

  “Is this Mr. Hackpole?” Qwilleran asked. “Didn’t you know? She’s in the hospital. She had some kind of attack, they say.”

  With an outburst of profanity the caller hung up.

  Phoning the hospital in the afternoon, Qwilleran learned that the patient was resting quietly and holding her own, but no visitors were permitted, by order of Dr. Halifax.

  In the afternoon Susan Exbridge and her committee arrived to prepare the punch and decorate the punch table. At the same moment Polly Duncan arrived with her overnight bag. The women greeted each other politely but not warmly, and the committee seemed surprised to see Polly on the premises.

  On the way to the Old Stone Mill for dinner Qwilleran said to Polly, “I see you know Susan Exbridge.”

  “Everyone knows Susan Exbridge. She’s in every organization and on every committee.”

  “She thinks I should join the theater group.”

  “You would find it very time-consuming,” Polly warned him testily. “If you’re serious about writing your book, it would definitely interfere.”

  She spoke with an acerbity that was unusual for her, and Qwilleran refrained from mentioning Mrs. Exbridge again.

  At the restaurant the customers were standing in line, and Hixie was frantically trying to seat the crowd. She had no time for banter. Qwilleran and his guest had to wait for a table and wait for a menu. Judging from the tenor of the conversation in the dining room, everyone was headed for the concert, and everyone was thrilled.

  Qwilleran said to Polly, “My mother used to sing in the Messiah choir every Christmas. My favorite number is the ‘Hal
lelujah’ chorus, especially if they pull out all the stops. I like that two-second rest before the last hallelujah—two seconds of dead silence and then POW!”

  Hixie handed them menus with an apology for the delay. Clipped to the folder was a small card suggesting a ready-to-serve Concert Special. Clipped to Qwilleran’s menu was another small card scribbled in Hixie’s hand: “Want a private talk. Call you tomorrow.”

  Shortly after six-thirty the restaurant emptied, and the diners converged on the Old Stone Church. The lofty sanctuary was filled to overflowing, both the cushioned pews and the folding chairs in the side aisles. The first three pews were roped off, and the audience was mystified. Guesses and rumors circulated. The anticipation was palpable.

  “Do you object to sitting in the back row on the side aisle?” Qwilleran asked Polly. “I want to leave right before the last note, so I can check the museum before the guests arrive.”

  At seven o’clock Mr. O’Dell slipped into a folding chair nearby, and the two men exchanged nods.

  Then the performers appeared—first the orchestra in gray livery. The chorus filed in wearing powdered wigs and pastel costumes—the women in lace fichus and voluminous skirts; the men in knee breeches, waistcoats, and stocks. Finally the soloists made a dramatic entrance in jewel-toned velvets, creating a stir in the audience.

  The conductor turned to face the expectant listeners. “Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for His Majesty, King George.”

  The doors to the rear were flung open, and while the orchestra played coronation music, the royal party moved down the center aisle in dignified procession—a panoply of red velvet, ermine, white satin, and purple damask. The audience gasped, then murmured in wonder, then applauded with delight.