If Maureen was inclined to be silent, Johnnie was immensely voluble. The roar of Johnnie’s exuberant chatter, pitched to be heard above the television which was also blaring away in the kitchen, caused Jemima much secret annoyance. So this was the way the world had gone: how was she to know that children nowadays had a double escort of nanny and boyfriend? She was herself childless and Claudia was the nearest she had to a surrogate child. But having made her generous offer to Alexa Farrow, she could hardly start upsetting her domestic arrangements.
“Maureen is a bit glum” was how Alexa had put it. “And not wildly intelligent. But you won’t have any trouble with her. Claudia is used to her,” Alexa had summed up. “And that’s important in this situation, isn’t it?” The topic of Maureen was dismissed. Alexa had not mentioned Johnnie at all. “Oh Jem,” she rattled on, “I’m so grateful to you. You see, I can just about cope with all my future ex-husband’s vindictiveness by myself, but having to cope with Claudia—” Alexa was right back into the impossibility of life with Claudia’s lying, cheating father.
Claudia was thin, overthin perhaps for an eight-year-old, although once again Jemima was not certain exactly what an eight-year-old should look like. She had an anxious face and dark hair inclined to droop over her forehead. There was something touching about her: indeed, her very anxiety moved Jemima.
The saving grace of the situation in Edwardes Terrace was Claudia’s great love of the little golden cats. Jemima, a cat lover, guessed them to be about four months old (she realized that at thirtysomething she knew rather more about cats and their ways than she did about children). Rosy and Rusty still retained all the grace and playfulness of kit-tenhood, yet were large and lithe enough to go adventuring over the walls of the terrace gardens. From the top floor of the house where Claudia and Maureen slept (and perhaps Johnnie, too, though Jemima hoped not) she could sometimes trace the cats’ progress over this wall and that. There would be a flash of golden fur, a gleam of white (one cat had a white face, front and paws) and then another yellow streak as the second cat followed the first. They were always together.
The first time the two cats appeared on the narrow lawn of Jemima’s house and began to gambol with each other, Claudia gave such a piercing scream that Jemima thought she had hurt herself, and came running down from her study. But it was a scream of pleasure. Even Maureen allowed herself one of her rare smiles at the enchanting sight of the cat-kittens rolling over and over, biting, cuffing, licking, hugging, pawing each other.
Perhaps Claudia’s first words to Jemima should have warned her of possible troubles ahead: “Oh Jemima, can I keep them? I’ve always wanted to have a kitten, Mum said that one day I would have a kitten, and now there are two kittens.…” Claudia was hugging now one cat, now the other. Her pinched little face was flushed with happiness.
“Darling,” said Jemima gently, “I think we’d better find out where they come from. Look, they’ve got collars.” She took the cat with the white face from Claudia and checked the inscription on the medallion which hung, together with a small bell, from the red collar. Rosy, together with her all-gold brother, Rusty. Names but no telephone numbers or address.
“Some milk,” Claudia was saying importantly. She cradled both cats together in her arms and headed for the kitchen, which had a glass extension built out into the garden. Jemima hesitated, and decided it would do no harm. Claudia played happily with the cats for the rest of the afternoon and refused to go for a walk in Holland Park. Once again Jemima decided that would do no harm.
She did however ban Claudia from having the cats to sleep in her bedroom. When Claudia went to bed, just about the time that Johnnie came round for his evening session of chat ‘n’ television, Rosy and Rusty were put firmly back into the garden.
“Jolly little fellows,” said Johnnie approvingly. “Although I’m a dog man myself. Something big. Man-sized. You know, it’s an odd thing but big dogs are much more affectionate than small ones. When I get another job”—he was currently unemployed—“I’ll get a dog.” Jemima wondered nervously if Johnnie might be referring to a pit bull.
The next morning, quite early, Jemima looked out of her second-floor bedroom window and saw the small figure of Claudia, still in her pink pajamas, skipping about in the garden.
“Rosy, Rusty,” she was calling. Jemima rather thought that Claudia had something in her hand, food perhaps. There was no sign of Maureen. Jemima turned away, wondering what to do—she had to go to the studio early to do some dubbings for her new television series and would not be back until late. She decided to call Maureen, who was both sleepy and surprised—but finally quite sensible.
“She’s that excited about the little cats. And you said she would see them again in the morning. So I suppose that when she woke up … but don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
It didn’t happen again. At least not exactly like that. But Claudia’s obsession with the cats grew and grew. Jemima really believed the little girl thought about nothing else. The drawings she did, at Maureen’s suggestion, for Jemima’s return from work, were entirely of cats, bright yellow cats since the delicate gold of their fur was impossible to reproduce by crayon. Claudia’s letters to her parents, also at Maureen’s suggestion, were also concentrated on the same topic. And that was how the argument about the term “the old witch” came about.
One of Claudia’s unfinished letters was lying on the kitchen table when Jemima got home. The weather was still so stifling and humid that Jemima’s first instinct on her return was to fling open the glass doors of the kitchen-conservatory and breathe deeply in the night air. She had planted some tobacco plants in the decaying tubs by the glass doors—rented houses never had very thrilling gardens—and Jemima stood enjoying their subtle nocturnal scent.
There were various night sounds to be heard in the semi-darkness: in the heat, most of the back windows of the houses along the terrace were open. There was at least one television set on, but the noise was low enough not to be a real annoyance. That was fortunate since the terraced houses were all so narrow as to be really close together: from an upper window the various gardens looked like one big green area, punctuated by moderate-sized brick walls. There were about twenty-five houses all told. A few of the houses right at the end of the row backed into some kind of mews. But most of them, including Jemima’s own centrally placed house, faced a large high brick building with a flat roof. It looked as if it had been erected in the sixties. There were no windows facing into the gardens, no doubt due to some planning rule or other. Although some of the residents over the years had grown creepers up the blank wall, the effect was still rather prisonlike. Jemima’s end wall, for example, simply had a flight of stone steps leading nowhere, and another decrepit tub into which she had injected some white geraniums, at the top of them.
If the effect was slightly daunting, you could also say that Edwardes Terrace was extremely private—secure even, so far as a house in London could ever be really secure. An interloper seeking to enter Jemima’s house from the back would have to cross a great many walls to do so. Like the golden cats, in fact … Jemima looked speculatively into the darkness. But no cat slithered down to join her. Where were the cats now? How many walls did they cross to get to her garden? For that matter, whom did they belong to?
The answer to Jemima’s questions was contained, in a manner of speaking, in Claudia’s unfinished letter on the kitchen table.
The old wich got cross with me again today about the cats, she read. She’s so scarry. She lives at No. 18.
At that moment, as if on cue, Jemima heard a thin, reedy voice calling somewhere outside. “Rosy, Rusty, where are you? Ros-ee, Rust-ee.” A witch calling for her cats. (She would, of course, have to speak to Claudia about her letter in the morning.) At least the inhabitants of No. 16 were not guilty this time. The conservatory doors had been firmly closed, according to instructions, when Jemima returned. She could listen to the old witch—woman—calling without feeling embarrasse
d. She could also feel without shame that there was something distinctly querulous about the persistent, nagging calling.
Jemima’s complacency was shattered about five minutes later when the all-gold cat streaked out from beneath the kitchen counter and headed for the open doors: the white-faced cat followed.
Oh my God! thought Jemima. Wicked Claudia. Or should it be wicked Maureen? Tones of ecstasy, mixed with wails of reproach, echoed across the garden as the cats and their owner were reunited.
“Naughty cats! Where have you been? Did the horrid little girl get you?” At least, reflected Jemima, the cats had no language in which to answer that question: they could not give away the guilty inhabitants of No. 16. The next morning Jemima happened to be working at home. She took the opportunity to give Claudia that mild little lecture about the word “witch.” Furthermore, the cats from No. 18 were never, ever to be locked into No. 16.
Maureen stood impassively by while this scene was being enacted in the kitchen. And as it happened Johnnie was there too. At the time, Jemima felt some annoyance at his presence. But then she thought that Johnnie, too, might benefit from listening. Perhaps it had been Johnnie who, out of unthinking good nature, had helped Claudia, as he saw it, to “adopt” the cats.
Jemima forgot about Rosy and Rusty. Work at the office became all of a sudden extremely demanding. At the same time, her builders wanted a series of decisions. Claudia and Maureen appeared to enjoy an innocuous school-holidays routine of shopping, walks, trips for ice cream, other expeditions, hiring suitable videos mainly made by Walt Disney, all cozily based on Edwardes Terrace. So far as Jemima could establish, Johnnie was slightly less in evidence. Maybe he had a job? Or maybe something of Jemima’s inner irritation had conveyed itself to Maureen.
And now there she was, all of a sudden, facing Claudia’s scary witch on her own doorstep. In pursuit of her cats. The ghastly thing was that Jemima could not honestly promise that the cats were not in the house. Her visible irresolution had the effect of encouraging Miss Pollard. She stepped into the hall of the house and gave a series of eldritch shrieks up the stairs.
“Rosy, Rusty, where are you? Come to your mother.” Jemima found herself praying that no answer would follow from upstairs. It was quite late: something after nine o’clock, and Maureen (and Johnnie) were watching television in the kitchen. She devoutly hoped that Claudia was asleep upstairs—alone and catless. Her prayer was not answered. Almost immediately, to her horror, Claudia’s bedroom door opened. There was a light skittering sound, followed by the characteristic small tinkle which always indicated the arrival of the cats. Rosy and Rusty streaked down the stairs, there was a series of sharp mews, and Miss Pollard gathered both cats up into her arms.
A wail came from above her head. Claudia, once more in those pink pajamas, was standing on the landing, rubbing her eyes.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry …” she began. The sight did not move Miss Pollard.
“You wicked little girl! You will indeed be sorry for this, I can assure you of that. Just wait and see. I’m going to curse you. Bad things are going to happen to you because of what you’ve done. You’ll see.”
It was an extraordinary scene; for some reason, despite her good sense, Jemima found it quite menacing. She stood frozen, listening to the child crying and looking as if mesmerized at the woman clutching her cats. Then as Claudia’s cries became hysterical, Jemima realized she must leap into action.
“Miss Pollard, she’s only a child.” Jemima spoke as politely as possible, although Jemima did not feel particularly polite. “I apologize on her behalf now, and she will write you a note tomorrow, and so will I, and so, I expect, will her mother. Claudia will not touch the cats again, I promise you that. But as for now, I can’t help feeling you must be longing to get home with your cats.”
Miss Pollard ignored Jemima. She continued to stare in that disconcerting and rather horrible fashion up at the little girl. After a moment she transferred her gaze to Jemima. Jemima had an impression of a deep malevolence.
“I curse you too,” said Miss Pollard in a quieter voice. “I know who you are from television. I curse you too.”
Miss Pollard left and Jemima rushed upstairs. When she got to Claudia’s room, she could see nothing but a dark head huddled under the duvet. And Claudia beneath her duvet was shuddering with sobs.
“Claudie, dear, don’t cry. I’ll talk to Mum. You’ll get a kitten—two kittens if you like—for Christmas when everything at home is sorted out.”
“I’m frightened,” Claudia whispered. She finally fell asleep holding Jemima’s hand. Later Jemima went rather thoughtfully down into the kitchen and found Maureen and Johnnie still watching the television, the sound having masked all outside noises. Jemima related what had happened—leaving out the curse—and emphasized that on no account were the cats to be allowed into the house or garden of No. 16.
“You must shoo them away.”
Maureen said nothing. It was Johnnie who promised ardently: “Oh we will, we will.” Jemima walked past them into the hot, dark garden, closing the glass doors behind her. She walked to the end, mounted the steps, and leaned against the blank wall. There were no lights, none at all, to be seen in No. 18. Had Miss Pollard simply gone to bed with her cats? The garden windows—big French windows—were firmly shut. A flicker of light caught Jemima’s eye. Jemima realized that whatever Miss Pollard was up to in No. 18, she was up to it by candlelight. Jemima could just make her out sitting at a table. For some reason, she found that whole scene even more disquieting.
It was shortly after that evening, that everything in Jemima’s life started to go wrong. It was as though—but that was perfectly ridiculous—some curse really had been put upon her. For example there was a problem with the sound on one of the programs in her new series and no one could fix it, which left everyone blaming everyone else an in edgy way for what looked like being an expensive mistake. No sooner was that crisis surmounted, at some cost, than Cherry, Jemima’s longtime assistant and now partner in her production company, broke her wrist playing tennis and was forbidden even to raise her right hand. Given Cherry’s mastery of their new computer, this was another disaster.
Jemima herself completely forgot to turn up for an important lunch date of a professional nature, something which had never happened to her before. To cap it all, on the very same day, Jemima’s builders mixed up their instructions and painted the bathroom the rich somber color intended for the hall. It was not a day to remember. Jemima finally reached Edwardes Terrace having visited Cherry, sent flowers and apologies to her lunch date, and sorted out the builders.
She found herself confronted by both Maureen and Johnnie—not exactly the relaxing welcome Jemima actually wanted. She then understood Maureen to say: “Oh, it’s been murder here today.” Had Claudia been mischievous? Had there been yet another incident with the cats?
It took a moment for Jemima to understand, yet alone take in, what Maureen was actually saying: “We’ve had a murder here today” were Maureen’s words. This horrifying message finally sank in
“The old witch, Miss Pollard.” Was it Jemima’s imagination, or was Johnnie giving one of his wolfish grins? If so, what extraordinary taste he was displaying. “Found dead, she was. In her own kitchen. Like ours. You can see into it from the garden. I saw her in the morning, pitched forward onto the table. There was a candle burning. Thought she was asleep, drunk, some of these old ladies take to the bottle, you know. The unmarried sort. Watch out, Jemima—” Johnnie gestured cheekily in the direction of the empty wine bottles (not a few, it had to be said) which were lined up by the sink, awaiting delivery to the bottle bank.
Jemima was not to be diverted, although she did give Johnnie—who was incidentally clutching a can of lager—a frosty glance.
“Go on.”
“Like this. It’s me that called the police. Me and Maureen. In the evening. You were still out. Didn’t know when you’d be back. Because she hadn’t moved. The candle was
right down. Had gone out. And I could see the cats running, jumping everywhere in that kitchen. They were going mad. And that didn’t seem right. So …” He hesitated and looked at Maureen. “So we talked about it, didn’t we Maureen, and I called the police.”
Johnnie’s neighborly solicitude for Miss Pollard did him credit; so did his concern for the cats. The trouble was that Jemima did not believe him. That is to say, she believed parts of his story, including the candle burning on the table, something she had seen for herself. But the overall story had an odd ring to it. Jemima’s instinct—that famous instinct, feminine or gender free, on which she prided herself—told her that Johnnie was lying.
Her suspicions increased half an hour later when the police in the person of Detective Inspector Gary Harwood from the local station called round. Detective Inspector Harwood was young, pink-cheeked, very clean-looking, and had a professionally easy manner on which he evidently prided himself. It did not take Jemima long—after all, she also had a professionally easy manner on which she prided herself—to discover the main facts of the case. These were roughly as Johnnie had reported, with one significant exception. Miss Pollard was indeed dead. But the house at No. 18 had also been burgled.
“Robbery with violence!” exclaimed Jemima.
“We haven’t established the cause of death yet. But yes, robbery. We want to have another word with your Mr. Johnnie Johnson as a result. An old friend of ours, by the way.”
“My Mr. Johnnie Johnson? You mean—”
“Recognized him at once. Makes a habit of it. Stupidly he tends to concentrate on this area. Makes life easier for us poor overworked policemen.” The detective inspector flashed Jemima a smile: his teeth were amazingly regular and very white in contrast to the ruddy cheeks.
Jemima’s mind reeled. Johnnie a burglar? A burglar who, as Detective Inspector Harwood now jauntily told her, made a specialty of getting to know young nannies or au pairs, and then robbing the house next door or thereabouts.
Women on the Case Page 39