Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd

by Alan Bradley

  Did I imagine it, or did a chilling giggle reach my ears? A giggle so cold as to make the bones of the buried dead seem warm by comparison?

  “Carla?” I called again.

  I needed to establish communication.

  “Carla?”

  Another giggle from somewhere among the tombstones.

  It is not the dead who are to be feared, I thought, but rather the living. Only the living can cast you down among the dead.

  Echoing among the ancient monuments, Carla’s stony voice seemed suddenly to be coming from everywhere.

  “Air the speeding arrow doth splinter

  Flying forth to make the kill.”

  With those words, she came rushing at me out of the darkness, her eyes blazing like lanterns and her face hideous to behold.

  On her head were strapped the antlers of the Horn Dance.

  A fierce heat seemed to radiate from her features, as if she had been possessed by some ancient sun god.

  She’s mad, I realized. Quite mad.

  She came to a sudden stop, grasping at a leaning tombstone, breathing heavily, her feet pawing at the ground and steam issuing from her nostrils like a stag at bay.

  “Well done!” I said, because I could think of nothing else. “Sing it again, please, Carla.”

  If she obeyed my veiled command, I would have a few more moments to think, and heaven knows, I needed them.

  Oh, if only Dogger were here, I thought. He would know what to do. When it came to dealing with disturbances of the mind, Dogger had a great deal more experience than I.

  I don’t mean that to sound condescending. It’s the truth, and Dogger himself would be the first to admit it.

  If he were here.

  But he wasn’t.

  It was too much to expect—I knew it already—that fond Fate might have caused him to follow me to the churchyard in the same way that he had followed me on the train to London.

  Although Fate loves coincidence, it does not chew its cabbage twice.

  I was on my own.

  Carla was still glaring at me, mad-eyed in the moonlight.

  “Please, Carla,” I said again, quietly. “Sing it again. Please.”

  She clasped her hands at her waist in the familiar crustacean pose.

  “Hark the horn, the sound of winter

  Hark the hunter on the hill

  Air the speeding arrow doth splinter

  Flying forth to make—”

  “The kill,” I said. “That’s what you think you’ve done, isn’t it, Carla? You think you killed Roger Sambridge. Or should I say Oliver Inchbald? But you already knew perfectly well who he was, didn’t you?”

  Carla looked dazed, the ancient antlers rocking crazily from side to side on her head; the gleam of old, polished bone in the moonlight.

  “I know you were there, Carla. I smelled your throat spray.”

  It was true: the sulfurous dioxide solution had been a dead giveaway.

  I had only just realized this—perhaps prompted by the smell of lightning. A whiff of brimstone had definitely been present in the death chamber and my overactive mind had allowed itself to substitute Satan for science. It’s a well-known fact that sulfurous acid (H2SO3) is the main ingredient in throat sprays used by opera singers from Caruso right down to the current American heartthrob Mario Lanza.

  It is an even better known fact that a solution of sulfurous acid has a more clinging and long-lasting odor than its more famous relative, sulfuric acid. Which is why it lingered in the room.

  “He was probably already dead,” I said. “You just happened along and blamed yourself.”

  “He wasn’t dead!” Carla shrieked. “He laughed at me!”

  Laughed at her?

  My mind was turning mental gymnastics as the remaining facts fell into place as smoothly as oiled tumblers in a lock.

  “You went there to apologize for damaging the misericords, didn’t you? And to butter him up by begging him to sign your copy of Hobbyhorse House.”

  “He insisted I sing for him first,” Carla blurted, her face an agony.

  “And did you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “He laughed at me!”

  I had no trouble imagining the scene: the pain-racked old man hanging suspended head downwards in his homemade surgical frame…

  She must have taken him by surprise.

  He had probably meant to put her at ease—to reassure her—but Carla had taken it the wrong way.

  “Your aunt had forbidden you to go there, hadn’t she? But then the vicar ordered you—”

  “I have no aunt,” Carla said in a surprisingly calm voice. “My aunt is dead.”

  “Come off it, Carla,” I scoffed. “What do you take me for? Your auntie Loo has been living here for years—right across the road from her old swain, Oliver Inchbald—and putting it about that she’s a witch to keep the neighbors off. Isn’t that true?”

  “Swain” is a nice touch, I thought. The word was used in “The Lass with the Delicate Air,” and even Carla could hardly miss its meaning.

  That stirred her! Carla shook herself like a bear coming out of an Alaskan river.

  “Auntie Loo is dead,” she said in a dull, resigned voice.

  “Perhaps she is,” I told her, “but Lillian Trench lives on. Isn’t that the truth?”

  With a gulp, Carla let loose a tattered scrap of laughter. I thought for a moment she was going to vomit.

  But she did nothing of the sort. Instead, she lowered her head and charged directly at me.

  She was trying to impale me on her deadly antlers.

  It is at moments such as these—moments of great distress—that time becomes treacle and things go into a peculiar, oozing sort of slow motion: the kind of thing we see in documentary films where bullets burst water-filled balloons.

  This was precisely what was happening now as Carla came hurtling towards me, floating like lazy thistledown upon the air, her hair lifting and falling in slow, sweeping waves like owl’s wings and her mouth opening and closing in a slow, rubbery grin.

  Because she was considerably larger than me, Carla had the advantage of both weight and speed.

  The crusty snow between the graves had been polished by the wind, and footing was treacherous. I tried to sidestep—slipped—and fell.

  Carla went rocketing past and, with an almighty crash of ringing antlers, collided with a crooked tombstone. In an instant, she was on her feet again, shaking her head groggily.

  I managed to claw my way round behind a tall marble monument upon which the finger of a sculpted hand pointed to heaven. I rolled over, hauled myself to my knees, and sucked in several deep breaths.

  I hadn’t realized how shaken I was.

  A low moan and a moist slobbering sound told me that Carla was on her feet again. I could see her shadow on the snow, the antlers motionless, her head cocked—listening.

  I held my breath.

  But here she came again. She had spotted my trail in the snow and was lumbering heavily towards me.

  Although I could not yet see her, I could hear clearly each clotted gasp of her breathing.

  I stood up and peered round the monument. Since she already knew where I was, there was no point in hiding. Better to have her in plain view, I thought.

  “Listen, Carla,” I said. “Inchbald or Sambridge or whatever you want to call him died because he couldn’t release himself from the rack he built. The gear was jammed. The stupid thing was broken. I saw it with my own eyes. You’re not responsible for his death. Do you understand?”

  There was a long pause, during which I could almost hear her thinking.

  And then there came one of the most spine-chilling sounds I have ever heard: a soft, sucking laugh that was hardly human.

  “Ss-omething ss-lipped.” She giggled, her words coming in machine-gun gasps. “He ss-creamed. Couldn’t—get loose. He begged me. I could—have cut—him down. I could—have gone—for help.”

  “But he had laughe
d at you,” I said, trying to sound as if I understood.

  Carla nodded, looking almost relieved. I saw that tears were running down her face.

  “I left—him there…to die.”

  And with an ear-splitting wail she came running at me again, passing so close this time that I could feel the heat radiating from her body. I could even smell the distinctly rank and goatish odor of her sweat.

  She was the hunter and I was the quarry. How easy it would be, I remember thinking, to lose an eye to that vast expanse of pointed antlers.

  “Carla!” I shouted, as firmly as I could. “Sing to me! Sing to me, Carla!”

  I had heard of disturbed people being calmed by someone taking sudden command. I could think of nothing else, and it was worth a try.

  And it almost worked.

  Having stopped, she stood motionless for a moment, her mouth writhing, her lips twisting in a horrible tortured grimace, as if something unspeakable was trying to escape her body.

  Had she heard me?

  Her voice came on the bitter air.

  “Hark the horn, the sound of winter…”

  But this was no longer Carla’s voice. It was the voice of some poor tortured soul crying out to be released from whatever hellish prison it had fallen into.

  “Hark the hunter on the hill…”

  The voice of a madwoman.

  “Air the speeding arrow doth splinter

  “Flying forth to make—

  “THE KILL!” she shrieked, lunging at me again.

  I spun away, my frozen fingers clawing at the buttons of my coat. I dodged behind a tombstone just long enough to extract my arms frantically from the sleeves.

  With a shrug, the coat was off—clutched in my hands.

  Carla’s head oscillated from side to side as if she were an adder zeroing in on the position of her prey. From her mouth was oozing the most unspeakable slime.

  Without another word she launched herself at me, head down, and as she did so, I sidestepped, spun round, and flung my coat over her head, entangling the antlers, putting every last ounce of my remaining strength into giving it a powerful twist.

  With a sickening thump, she went down into the snow.

  I threw myself on top of her, holding on in spite of her thrashing.

  I was surprised to find myself sobbing.

  Only then did I notice that the vicarage lights had come on and that dark figures in windblown dressing gowns, carrying torches, were approaching cautiously through the snow.

  · TWENTY-TWO ·

  AN HOUR AND A quarter had come and gone. Dr. Darby had been summoned and had arrived quickly on the scene to calm Carla with a sedative.

  By the time Inspector Hewitt returned—called back by the magic of automotive wireless, and still in the company of Lillian Trench and Hilary Inchbald, who had reported Carla missing—the scene in the vicarage drawing room was one of near normality.

  Wrapped in ancient eiderdowns, Carla and I huddled in front of the fireplace. Carla, in a glassy-eyed trance, stared fixedly at the flames as if she had never seen fire before, while I sipped distractedly at the cup of hot Oxo Cynthia had somehow managed to rustle up.

  Lillian Trench rather furtively eased herself onto a stool beside me.

  “Meddler!” she hissed in a whisper. “You had no business—”

  “You were all in on it, weren’t you?” I interrupted. Inspector Hewitt was busy with Hilary Inchbald, and this was my chance.

  “Frank Borley was in love with you, wasn’t he? He’d do anything to help you.”

  “Is this blackmail?” Borley had asked me in his office. “Do you realize what would happen if this got out?”

  Proof positive that something was going on, if only I’d been paying attention.

  I had wondered at the time what fired his boiler, and know I knew.

  It was Lillian Trench.

  “He helped cover up, didn’t he?” I said, keeping my voice as low as possible. “With that business of your death in the Mediterranean, I mean.”

  Shooting me a look that would have killed spiders, Lillian got up and crossed to the other side of the room, where she stood hugging herself.

  Well, it made no difference. Inspector Hewitt would be left to find out all of this in his own sweet time. There was no need for me to steal his thunder.

  I glanced across at him and could tell that the inspector was mildly peeved—although he didn’t show it—to find that Carla was in no fit state for questioning.

  “I’d hoped to have a word or two,” he said, not looking directly at the doctor.

  “She’s still a young woman,” Dr. Darby said. “Plenty of time for that. Besides,” he added, unwrapping a mint and popping it into his mouth, “they’re expecting her at the hospital. Mustn’t keep Matron waiting. Matron doesn’t fancy being kept waiting, if memory serves.”

  And with that, Carla, Lillian, and Hilary were gone, given over to the care and keeping of Detective Sergeant Woolmer, who shepherded them to his car as if they were three lost lambs.

  “Now, then,” Inspector Hewitt said, as soon as they were gone. “Out with it.”

  He opened his notebook and stared at me expectantly.

  “Well,” I said, “Cynthia—Mrs. Richardson, I mean—asked me to take a message to Mr. Sambridge.”

  Cynthia nodded confirmation. “It’s true,” she said, as she had done before.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Richardson,” Inspector Hewitt said. “We needn’t trouble you further. You’ve been most helpful.”

  With an almost audible sigh of relief, Cynthia got to her feet and left the room, muttering something about silver to polish and surplices to iron.

  I was alone with the inspector at last.

  “Carry on,” he said.

  “I found him dead. Hanging from the door. Trapped in a surgical frame of his own invention. Broken release catch.”

  I thought the inspector would appreciate professional brevity.

  “Yes,” he said, glancing at his watch, “We know all that. Get to the point.”

  I thought I had, but I began again. “As I came away from Thornfield Chase I saw the curtains twitch across the road. I know now that it was Carla, who was visiting her aunt Louisa, alias Lillian Trench.”

  I couldn’t resist the “alias.”

  Inspector Hewitt said nothing, but scribbled something in his notebook.

  I told him about my trip to London and my visit to the offices of Lancelot Gath; I told him about my visit to the newspaper archive at Colindale; I told him—somewhat fearfully—about my snoop round Louisa’s flat in Cranwell Gardens (where, I claimed, I had found the door conveniently open). In the interests of truthfulness, I even told him about my interview with the former Scout James Marlowe.

  I did not, of course, tell him about Mildred Bannerman.

  Some things, after all, are sacred.

  During all of this, his Biro scarcely left the paper.

  “You’ll want to share these with Inspector Cavendish of the Somerset Constabulary,” I said, laying out in front of him the negatives and prints that James had made that dreadful day on Steep Holm, when he had stumbled upon the ravaged body of the deceased Walter Glover.

  Ratting on poor James caused me a momentary pang of regret, but hadn’t the police had years to question him? It was hardly my fault if they’d bungled it.

  A ghastly silence fell as Inspector Hewitt thumbed slowly through the photographic prints. I had brought them along to shock Louisa, should she decide to deny the truth of my deductions.

  “I expect I shall,” he said at last, setting them aside.

  And then he sprang the trap. “Incidentally,” he asked, “how did you connect Louisa Congreve with Lillian Trench?”

  It was the question I had been dreading.

  “It came in bits and pieces,” I said. “But it began with Thomas More.”

  Inspector Hewitt looked at me blankly.

  “The cat,” I said. “The cat at Lillian Trench’s co
ttage was the same cat I’d seen in Roger Sambridge’s bedroom.”

  “I see,” Inspector Hewitt said, his Biro going like fury. “Please explain.”

  “It was her cat, not his.”

  “I see,” the inspector said again. “And how did you deduce that?”

  Was he twitting me? I wasn’t sure.

  “Cats don’t meow at the doors of strangers,” I said. “And yet it meowed at hers.”

  “Please go on.”

  “Well, it seemed evident that someone from Miss Trench’s cottage had been inside Thornfield Chase on the day that Roger Sambridge died—at least, that was one possibility. The cat had come in with them and had been locked in when they left.”

  “That seems hardly conclusive,” Inspector Hewitt said.

  “No,” I agreed, “but as I’ve said, it was only the beginning.”

  “Pray continue,” he said. Was he twitting me? I couldn’t tell.

  “Well, when I met Hilary Inchbald at Lillian Trench’s—sorry, I mean Louisa Congreve’s—cottage, I knew at once by the way Thomas More snuggled that the cat was his.”

  “Are you saying that Hilary and his cat were living with Miss Congreve?”

  “Yes. At least for a time. I suspect he was keeping a room at the Thirteen Drakes for the sake of appearance.”

  “Hmmm,” the inspector said, but it was an agreeable “Hmmm,” and not at all the kind with a sniff of condescension in it.

  “Louisa was like a mother to him,” I said. “She took his side against his father’s bullying. When I first began to suspect that Lillian Trench was actually Louisa Congreve—”

  “Hold on,” Inspector Hewitt said, writing furiously. Could all of this be news to him? There was no way of knowing.

  Having caught up, the inspector nodded, and I continued.

  “Well, if Oliver Inchbald could vanish, so could she. She did him the favor of identifying his ‘body,’ and now it was her turn. Compared with helping a world-famous author to disappear, a convenient diving accident in the Mediterranean must have been a piece of cake.”

  “So that the two of them could live happily ever after at Stowe Pontefract,” Inspector Hewitt said.

  “Exactly! He grew a beard and became an ecclesiastical wood-carver, and she—”