The Cat That Played The Tombola

by Fiona Snyckers

  “Nonsense,” said Morwen. “Everyone I know thinks he’s marvelous.”

  “Ah. That’s because everyone you know is a townie. The old biddies with their cats and rats and canaries do think he’s marvelous. It’s what I said – he’s a small-animal man. That’s all fine and well for them that lives in the village, but not so good for the farmers when they’re trying to turn a breech calf at two in the morning.”

  “We can’t all be good at everything,” said Morwen.

  “The last vet was. Old Dr. Pinnock. He could treat your four-hundred-pound bull just as well as your goldfish. It was a real shame when he died.”

  “Oh, go on with you, Pen. You always think that the old ways are better than the new ways, and that the new person in the job can’t possibly be as good as the old one. Pay him no mind, Fay.”

  Pen shook his head slowly. “Now, that’s not true. I’ve no objection to herself, have I?” He jerked his chin in Fay’s direction. “Doing just as good a job as her gran, I reckon.”

  Fay tried not to blush. A casual word of approval from the dour Cornishman was worth more than sonnets of praise from other people.

  “Martin thinks that Fay is very capable too.” Morwen’s smile was twinkly. “In fact, he has rather a soft spot for her.”

  Fay closed her eyes. “You know I’m not interested in him, Mor. Why do you keep on taking his side?”

  “I think that when a man pays one the compliment of being interested, one should at least do him the courtesy of looking at his good points.”

  “That’s where your generation is different,” said Maggie.

  “What do you mean?”

  “People your age always seem to think that a man is doing them a favor by being interested in them. It’s like you believe you owe him something for his interest. For girls like Fay and me, it’s not like that. People are responsible for their own feelings. Liking someone doesn’t mean they owe you anything.”

  Fay was amused to be lumped into the same generation as Maggie. At thirty years old, she saw herself as halfway between the thirty-nine-year-old Morwen and nineteen-year-old Maggie. But she couldn’t deny that what Maggie had said was true.

  “I suppose I can see your point,” said Morwen.

  “And another thing,” said Maggie. “This vet guy was secretly seeing Mrs. Saville all the while he supposedly fancied Fay. And somehow, he got her to change her will to leave him a big chunk of money. And they were only together for a short while. He doesn’t sound like a great catch to me. Our Fay can do better than that.”

  Morwen looked struck by this logic. “You’re right, Maggie. I was blinded by that cute, puppy-dog face of his. He has those big, brown eyes that make him look so sweet and appealing. I didn’t think about what he has actually done lately.”

  “Yeah, well. You know who else has a cute puppy-dog face? Serial killers, that’s who.”

  Chapter 23

  Fay didn’t think she was dealing with a serial killer, but she wanted to speak to Martin anyway.

  He seemed to be the person who had been closest to Mrs. Saville in the weeks before her death. He knew more about her last days than anyone.

  Unfortunately, she had already used the excuse of needing to consult him for professional reasons. If only all her cats weren’t so healthy. As she played with the kittens after lunch, Fay examined them for any hint of a problem that could justify consulting the vet. There was nothing. They were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Every one of them was eating well, sleeping well, and bounding around like bunnies in the springtime.

  Even Zorro, the runt of the litter who had almost died in her first days of life, had caught up with her siblings and was now, if anything, slightly bigger than her sister, Cinnamon. Fay would never forget performing kitten CPR on her tiny body and carrying her around cradled against her neck all day while she recovered her strength. But now she was fine, and the five adult cats were in excellent health too. There was no reason to consult a vet until it was time for the kittens’ shots, and that wouldn’t be for another month.

  Fay sat on her bedroom floor as the kittens climbed all over her. She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Morwen.

  Fay: What excuse could I use to see Martin Trenowyth when I don’t need a vet for any of the cats?

  Morwen: I thought you were still here in the house. When did you go out?

  Fay: I’m still here. I’m in my bedroom.

  Morwen: You’re texting me from upstairs?

  Fay: Yes. I have kittens crawling all over me.

  Morwen: You millennials! Martin usually takes a break around four o’clock each afternoon. His practice stays open until six in the evening. You can usually find him having tea at the Cracked Spine most afternoons.

  Fay: That’s brilliant. Thanks, Mor. I’ll see if I can catch him there today.

  That gave Fay time to get her admin out of the way before she went down to the village. But right now, she was focused on kitten taming.

  She had recently found some of her grandmother’s old diaries. They mostly detailed her cat rescuing secrets, along with some fascinating personal anecdotes. Fay found them an invaluable source of information.

  One thing that Mrs. Penrose had prided herself on was that when her cats were ready to be homed, they would make excellent pets. It was a matter of pride with her to take a frightened, traumatized animal and turn it into a happy, relaxed pet that could fit into most household environments.

  If Mrs. Penrose had been famous for her pickiness in choosing homes for her rescue cats, she was equally careful in making sure that every cat who left her hands would make a delightful family pet. The difficult cases – and there were always some that would never fully trust humans – she kept for as long as it took, often providing them with a home for the rest of their natural lives.

  Fay had been reading up on how to turn kittens into affectionate cats and the secret was a lot of gentle handling and exposure to different people. As Mrs. Penrose wrote in fountain pen in her beautiful calligraphy, “the gold standard for kittens is this – when a stranger picks the kitten up, does the animal relax in their hands or tense up? If it relaxes, that is the sign of a happy and trusting animal.”

  So far, the kittens were used to being handled by Fay, Morwen, Maggie, and Pen. All four of them came upstairs to play with them at least once a day. Soon she would broaden their circle of acquaintances.

  Four o’clock saw Fay walking into the Cracked Spine - that charming bookstore and tea-room just off the High Street of Bluebell Village. It was owned and run by Nella Harcourt.

  Fay spotted Martin sitting at a small table with a cup of tea and a cream scone. There had been a time when the sight of him sitting there would have been enough to make her turn on her heel and walk straight out again. But today he was the person she most wanted to see.

  He spotted her and immediately looked down at his scone, clearly wanting to avoid a conversation.

  Fay wasn’t a pushy person, but she had learnt during her years on the force that pushiness was sometimes the only way of getting what she wanted.

  “Martin!” She made an effort to sound delighted. “Taking a tea break, I see?”

  He hunched in his seat. “It’s a long afternoon. I take a lunch break at twelve and then carry on until six. I deserve half an hour to myself every now and then.”

  “Of course, you do. I’m exactly the same. I like to get away from the B&B in the afternoon and enjoy a cup of tea somewhere in town.”

  “Really? I’ve never seen you.”

  She gave him a bright smile. “Well, here I am. I hear you have something to celebrate.”

  “Who, me? No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”

  “I hear you’ve come into a bit of money from Mrs. Saville. She must have been very fond of you.”

  He made a sound that might have been intended as a laugh but came out as a croak. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. I haven’t come into any money. That’s just a rumor. You
probably heard it on the village grapevine, but it isn’t true.”

  “Actually, I heard it from the executors of Mrs. Saville’s will. Her daughter Candice is staying at the Cat’s Paw. She asked me to be present at a meeting where they read out the terms of the will.”

  Martin took a long sip of his tea. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

  “Well, okay. It’s true. But please can you keep it to yourself? The people on this island are such vultures. As soon as they hear I’m coming into a bit of money, they’ll all want a piece of me.”

  That didn’t sound like the Bluebell Island Fay knew, but she nodded. “My lips are sealed. I believe you and Mrs. Saville were having a relationship?”

  “Where did you hear …” He stopped when Fay raised her eyebrows at him. “Okay, fine. We were having a relationship. I was in love with her. I’ve never felt that way about anyone before.”

  “Really? She didn’t seem like your type somehow.”

  “She was, I can assure you.”

  “I suppose when one gets to your age … how old are you again? Thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-six.” It came out reluctantly.

  Fay whistled. “Thirty-six. You’re even older than I thought. I suppose when a man gets to be your age, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  His knuckles tightened against the handle of the teacup. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “When men are in their late thirties, they can’t really attract the pretty young girls in their twenties anymore. And most of the women of their own age are already married. So, what choice do they have but to go for the fifty-year-olds?”

  “It wasn’t like that. It was a choice on my part. I can get any girl I like.”

  Fay smiled at him. “You couldn’t get me.”

  He half-rose from his chair, banging his thighs against the table and spilling tea into the saucer. Fay met his eyes calmly.

  He sank back in his seat and got himself under control. “I don’t know why you’re trying to goad me. It wasn’t like that with Mrs. Saville and me. I mean, with Elizabeth and me. We were soul mates. The age difference was irrelevant between us. What we had was deep and meaningful. I was proud of it.”

  “Then why did you keep it a secret from the whole island? Nobody knew about it until after she had passed away.”

  “That was because … It was because we knew that no one would understand. We knew people would be harsh and judgmental, just like you’re being now.”

  “I’m not judging you.”

  “It was mainly Mrs. Saville’s idea. I mean, Elizabeth. She didn’t want anyone to know about us - especially not her daughter. She knew Candice wouldn’t understand.”

  “You must have been the only person on the island who knew how wealthy she was,” she Fay. “The rest of us had no idea. She seemed to live such a frugal life.”

  Martin’s eyes went wide. “I had no idea. None. You could have knocked me over with a feather when the lawyers told me how much she was really worth. I thought she had taken early retirement and was living on a modest pension. She never spoke about her husband or what his career was. I thought I would be the breadwinner in our relationship and support her on what I make as a vet.”

  The tea Fay had ordered was placed in front of her, along with half a scone with strawberry jam and a tiny jug of clotted cream. She had ordered it despite the fact that she was still full after her ploughman’s lunch. She wanted to see if the clotted cream at the Cracked Spine was as good as the last time she’d had it.

  She dipped a teaspoon into the cream and popped it into her mouth, nearly swooning at the taste.

  “Oh, wow. This is even better than I remembered. Creamy, delicate, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Where does Nella get it from?”

  Martin’s shrug was impatient. “Who knows? It’s top secret. Everyone knows Nella has the best cream on the island, but nobody knows why. Who cares anyway? If you want to taste her cream, you come to the Cracked Spine.”

  “I care. It’s a mystery, and mysteries are there to be solved.”

  She tasted the cream again, rolling it around her tongue as though its secrets could be revealed that way. As she looked up, her eyes met Nella Harcourt’s across the tearoom. At six foot, Nella would always be an eye-catching figure. Dressed in a ruby crushed-velvet dress with a satin-lined opera cloak that fell almost to her ankles, she was unmissable. She smiled as she met Fay’s eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head as if to say, ‘You’ll never figure it out.’

  Which only made Fay more determined to crack the mystery.

  She turned back to Martin. “You must have been begging her to go to a doctor over the last few weeks.”

  Martin frowned. “Begging who? Oh, you mean Mrs. Savile. Why would I have been begging her to see a doctor?”

  “With her being so sick and all.”

  He thought for a moment. “Oh, you’re talking about her stomach ache. The police said she had been eating something dodgy.”

  “Do you have any idea what that might have been?”

  “I don’t have the faintest clue, as I told them. I thought she was making a big fuss over nothing. I thought it was just the aches and pains that come with being old.”

  “She was only fifty-seven.”

  “Well that seems old to …” He caught himself. “I never thought about her in those terms. I didn’t know she was in that much pain. Maybe she hid it from me. I don’t know.”

  Fay put money on the table and got up to go. “Thanks for the chat, Martin.”

  He shrugged. “Any time.”

  She took two steps and then turned back as though struck by a sudden thought.

  “She’s going to fight you on the inheritance, you know. Candice, I mean. She’s going to claim you used undue influence to get her mother to change her will. Candice sees that money as hers. It was her father’s money and he always intended it to go to her in the end. Perhaps a court will see it the same way.”

  “That’s nonsense. If Bernard Saville had been so concerned about Candice, he would have left her the money directly. He thought it would be good for her to make her own way in the world. That’s why he left it all to his widow. He even told friends about it at the time. She can sue me if she wants, but I have witnesses who will say she is wrong.”

  Fay gave a satisfied nod and left the tearoom.

  Chapter 24

  Fay ran a few errands in the village before returning to Penrose House.

  It was a quiet time of day for the B&B. Teatime was over and most of the guests had gone out for a last walk along the boardwalk or a trip to the village. They would trickle back to the house later to get ready for a night out. The village boasted a number of attractive dinner options, and Fay and Morwen were always on hand to advise or help with making reservations.

  While Morwen fed the adult cats, Fay prepared dinner for the kittens and took it upstairs to them. As soon as she stepped into her bedroom, she knew something was wrong.

  Only three little bodies were playing around the rope-and-sisal cat tree. There was no sign of the fourth.

  Fay did a quick head count. Freddie, Cinnamon, and Zorro were present and accounted for, but there was no sign of Tigger, the big, ginger male. She searched in all his usual hiding places – behind the curtains, under her desk, in her bed, and in her closet. The bathroom door was still firmly closed, but she checked in there anyway just in case he had learned to slide through walls.

  Then she went around checking that the windows were secure.

  “Where on earth is he?”

  Fay stood in the middle of her bedroom and turned in a slow circle, looking for any twitch or flicker of movement that might give away his position. Apart from the three kittens on the cat tree, all was still. Then she heard a sound.

  Scritch, scritch, scritch.

  There it was again. She listened intently, trying to figure out which direction it was coming from. Now the room was so quiet she thought she might have imagined it.

  Scri
tch, scritch.

  No, there it was again. It sounded as though it was coming from the tombola barrel. Fay had been meaning to put it away ever since the day of the spring fair but hadn’t got around to it. She took a closer look. The flap that opened the barrel was securely shut. But the noise was definitely coming from inside it.

  Fay noticed that the barrel was rocking slightly, as though an invisible force were moving it from the inside.

  “How on earth …?”

  Then she noticed the handle on the side of the barrel. There was a gap next to it that was just wide enough for an enterprising and athletic kitten to slip through.

  “Tigger?” Fay opened the flap and peered inside. The fat little kitten was rolling around on the numbered prize slips and scratching at them with his tiny claws.

  “You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?” she told him. “You’re trying to give me a heart attack by disappearing like that.” She reached in and scooped him out, mewing piteously. She plonked him on the cat tree where he immediately started playing with his siblings.

  Making a mental note to ask Pen to put the barrel away in the attic, Fay went to close the flap. A glimpse of something black caught her eye. She reached into the barrel again and pulled out a long box. As soon as she saw what she was holding, she dropped it like a hot potato.

  “Okay, that was dumb.”

  She fetched a scarf from her closet and picked the box up again, taking care not to let her fingers touch it directly. It was an old-fashioned ammunition box. The cardboard was so dry and cracked in places that rough handling could make it fall apart.

  Fay was almost sure she was looking at the box that had contained the bullets for the old revolver used to kill Mrs. Saville. She peered into the box and shook it out, but it was empty. Someone had apparently disposed of it on the night of the spring fair by popping it into the tombola barrel.