It was Macleod’s turn to look contrite. ‘Sorry, I forgot about your head. Here’s the feline masterpiece.’ He held it up.
I was quite impressed with the broad bands of green, spatters of yellow, and intriguingly random trails of red and black. In the bottom right hand corner was the signature, a blue paw print.
‘Put an armed guard on that, M. It’s worth a fortune.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said soothingly.
‘You don’t believe me? According to Ewing, paintings by cats can fetch $15,000 in the States. I think a suitable title might be Impressions of Muirfield.’
Macleod held the paper at arm’s length and studied it with exaggerated reverence for a long moment. ‘$15,000, eh. Get that blue paw print on Fast Castle in the Sunset and Fast Castle in the Haar and you can take early retirement.’
I adopted a wounded expression. ‘Too much flippancy, Chief Inspector. That’s—’
What I was about to say was interrupted by raised, heated voices outside.
He frowned. ‘We’ve put a police guard in the corridor. There shouldn’t be any—’
The door edged open a fraction, then slammed shut with the sharp report of a pistol shot.
He threw the painting onto the chair by the bed and in a couple of strides was across the room. The noise of argument raging in the corridor increased by several decibels as he flung open the door. Mindful of the dire consequences of sudden movement, I lay still, eyes closed.
‘—ab-saw-loot-ly preposterous…’ The unmistakable fruity tones sank to an indistinct murmur as the door clicked shut again.
I was left in suspense for several minutes until I heard Macleod’s, ‘Do you feel strong enough for a visit from the gastropod extraordinaire? She insists she has something absolutely important to tell you.’
I opened my eyes and swivelled them in his direction. ‘Gastronome,’ I said sternly. ‘A gastropod has a flattened muscular foot and eyes on stalks…’
His mouth twitched. ‘Exactly. Fair description, don’t you think?’
I choked back a gurgle of laughter.
‘She insists it’s a matter of life and death. Do you want to see her, or will I send her on her way?’
The decision didn’t have to be made. The door opened a few inches. Through the narrow gap I could see a young police officer engaged in an unseemly tussle with what appeared to be a billowing purple chiffon sheet.
‘It’s all right!’ I cried. ‘Let her in.’
Felicity surged into the room, red-faced and perspiring.
‘My dear, how ab-saw-loot-ly ghastly you look! Pale as a ghost. Not a smidgeon of colour in your cheeks. But never mind, I’ve brought you a couple of little things to build up your strength.’ With some difficulty she disentangled a white insulated box from the voluminous folds of her caftan. ‘Here we are! You’ll find this will slip down just a treat.’
Before my eyes floated a vision of ice cream, silky, creamy, refreshing. One of my partialities. ‘Wonderful!’ I drooled. ‘What flavour is it?’
‘Flavour?’ The folds of Felicity’s ballooning caftan deflated gently around her as she sank heavily onto the bedside chair and the $15,000 Impressions of Muirfield Picatso. Would I have to retitle it Impressions on Muirfield? ‘Flavour?’ she repeated. ‘Well, very subtle, of course, but definitely,’ she pursed her lips in thought, ‘definitely fishy.’
‘Fishy! Would this be a new gourmet recipe of yours, Felicity?’ I asked, somewhat stunned.
‘Oh no, dear. I can’t take the credit for that. It’s quite traditional.’ She opened the lid and peered at the contents. ‘I think this one…’ Between finger and thumb she held up for inspection the warty shell of a medium-sized oyster.
Macleod’s eyes met mine. Apparently his aversion to oysters equalled my own. ‘Time for you girls to have your little tête-à-tête.’
I heard the door open and close as he made his escape.
‘Your project, Felicity? Something’s happened?’ I said, desperately hoping the question would distract her from force-feeding me with a slimy mollusc.
Her eyes moistened. Unnoticed, the bi-valve slipped back to rejoin its companions in the box.
‘There is no project! I have no project!’ A tear roller-coasted over the plump contours of her face and added itself to the briny oyster pool. ‘There’s been a ghastly development. Mrs Mackenzie has been,’ she dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper, ‘has been arrested.’
I could hardly say, I know. And I’m responsible! Well, I hadn’t personally snapped on the handcuffs, but you know what I mean…
I opened my eyes wide in feigned astonishment. ‘Arrested! Not for the murder of Mr Mackenzie?’
‘No, no, no,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s in all the papers. On drug charges. I’ve built everything round her marvellous recipes. But who will want to read the recipes of a criminal?’
‘I’m sure there’s some way of retrieving the situation, Felicity.’
I cupped my hand to my face in prostrate emulation of Rodin’s Thinker. I didn’t hold out much hope. The watery gastronome extraordinaire was in no fit state to participate in a brainstorming session. Wallowing in gloom as she was, her mind was as cloudy as uncooked cornflower sauce. Thanks to Spinks’s administrations, my thought processes were pretty ropey too.
As barely suppressed sobs shook the purple tent, it suddenly came to me. I patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Your project will be a winner,’ I smiled. ‘All you have to do is entitle it, Gourmet Recipes from a Prison Cell.’
Her woebegone face uncrumpled. ‘Ab-saw-loot-ly super!’ she breathed.
Beaming, she delved into the depths of the insulated box. With a flourish, she whipped out two glasses and a small bottle.
‘Oysters and champagne. Time for a leetle celebration, don’t you think, my dear!’
About the Author
From the moment that, as premature twins, they were placed end to end beside a radiator in an Edinburgh nursing home, HELEN AND MORNA MULGRAY have lived together. The identical twins have also pursued an identical career path, and after retiring from teaching, they now live and write together. They also love to travel when they are not plotting and writing DJ Smith mysteries at home in Edinburgh.
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2007.
This ebook edition first published in 2013.
Copyright © 2007 by HELEN AND MORNA MULGRAY
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.
Extract in Chapter Eleven from ‘Edinburgh’ by Alfred Noyes, used by kind permission of the Society of Authors, Literary Representative of the Estate of Alfred Noyes.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1380–6
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