The Diamond Cat

by Marian Babson

  “Who is it now, Bettina?” her mother shouted before she had time to open the door. “This place is busier than Waterloo Station at rush hour today.”

  “Just a minute!” Bettina called, as much to the impatient visitor, who was now leaning on the doorbell, as to her mother. She paused beside the narrow window to peek out. The dark figure was male and vaguely familiar.

  “Yes?” She opened the door, leaving the guard chain in place.

  “Bettina, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.” The man stepped forward so that the light from the hallway illuminated his face. “Is Sylvia here?”

  “Graeme!” She stepped back, fumbling to release the chain. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh? What gave you that idea? I’ve been in Brussels.” He stepped into the hallway. “I just got back and I saw your lights on, so I thought I’d drop by and collect Sylvia and Pasha.”

  “You can have Pasha,” Bettina said cautiously, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. “But I’m afraid Sylvia isn’t here.”

  “Not here?” Graeme gazed at her in disbelief. “Then where is she?”

  “I thought she went to Edinburgh—with you.”

  “I haven’t been to Edinburgh.” Graeme spoke very slowly and clearly, biting off each word. “I just told you. I’ve been in Brussels.”

  “Who is it, Bettina?” her mother called again. “Bring him in here.”

  “Graeme …” Bettina caught his arm as he moved forward. “Graeme, were you out in the back garden just a few minutes ago?” It was a silly question, she knew that as soon as she asked it. Graeme’s shoes were moderately dry and polished, his trouser ends were definitely dry. If he had been in the back garden, he would have been soaked almost to the knees.

  “Back garden?” Graeme stared at her incredulously. “Whose back garden? Why should I be in any back garden?”

  “Bettina!”

  “Oh, never mind.” She released his arm. “Er, please don’t pay any attention to whatever Mother says. She’s … a little confused tonight.”

  “Really?” The flick of Graeme’s eyebrow told her that Mrs. Bilby wasn’t the only confused female around here tonight. Bettina followed him into the living room, feeling helpless in the grip of circumstances.

  “So you’re back, too,” Mrs. Bilby greeted him. “What’s the matter? Road to Edinburgh washed away?”

  “Why does everyone think I went to Edinburgh?” Graeme was beginning to look harassed.

  Pasha came pattering out of the kitchen at the sound of the familiar voice. He gave Graeme a dismissive glance and looked around for Sylvia. She was not in sight. He circled Graeme, sniffing questioningly at his shoes and trouser ends, then retreated under the card table where he sat down and brooded. It was all very unsatisfactory.

  “But”—that was obviously Graeme’s opinion, too—“where is Sylvia?”

  “I don’t know,” Bettina said. “She brought Pasha over on Friday afternoon and told me she was off to join you in Edinburgh.” Should she tell him what else Sylvia had told her? No, not with her mother and Mrs. Rome listening so avidly. Besides, there was obviously something wrong with the story Sylvia had told her. It would be better to keep silent. Sylvia might come back at any moment with a perfectly reasonable explanation of her conduct; she was also quite capable of denying that she had ever said any such thing.

  “She couldn’t have said that.” Graeme was doing his own denying. “She knew perfectly well I was in Brussels. I haven’t been to Edinburgh in months. She couldn’t have gone there. She knew I was coming home this weekend. I’d have been here yesterday, if it hadn’t been for the storm. The plane was diverted to Manchester and I had to take trains from there.” He looked around again. “Where is she?”

  “How do we know?” Mrs. Bilby leaped into the fray. “She came over here and dumped that wretched cat on us with scarcely so much as a by-your-leave and took off.” She added maliciously, “She could be anywhere by now.”

  Her mother didn’t know how true that was. If Sylvia had deliberately told such an elaborate lie about her destination, then where was she? If she had really been removing her belongings from the house for the past fortnight, did that mean she was leaving Graeme?

  If so, who was going to break the news to Graeme? Obviously, Sylvia had not left a note. Unless it was in the post. Tomorrow was Bank Holiday Monday, there would be no post delivered until Tuesday. And, if Sylvia had put a second-class stamp on it …

  “She may have gone to visit her aunt in Erith.” Graeme had been giving the matter some thought. “The old lady’s been ill, perhaps she took a turn for the worse and rang Sylvia to come to her.”

  “Much good Sylvia would be in a sickroom,” Mrs. Rome muttered under her breath to Mrs. Bilby.

  “Yes, that must be it. She’s gone to Erith,” Graeme decided to his own satisfaction, conveniently overlooking the world of difference between Erith and Edinburgh.

  “You misheard, Bettina. Sylvia has gone to Erith and she wants me to join her there.”

  “Perhaps so, but I’d telephone first, if I were you,” Mrs. Bilby warned. “You don’t want to go paddling all over the country in these floods.”

  “Thank you, I was intending to,” Graeme said coldly.

  “She might not be there,” Mrs. Rome pointed out.

  William winced and Zoe said, “Shush, Mum.”

  “Well, thank you.” Graeme ignored the women at the table and spoke to Bettina: “I’d better get along now. Sylvia may be trying to ring me. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  There was a brief commotion under the table and Pasha shot forward, skittering to a stop with his rump twitching indignantly. He glared back over his shoulder at Mrs. Bilby’s feet.

  “Aren’t you going to take your cat with you?” she demanded.

  “He’s not my cat.” Graeme and Pasha stared at each other with equal lack of enthusiasm. “He’s Sylvia’s cat—and she isn’t here just now.”

  “Sylvia dotes on that cat,” Mrs. Bilby goaded skilfully. “She always said he was worth his weight in diamonds.”

  “That was before we discovered he was firing blanks,” Graeme said bitterly.

  “Really, Graeme!” Mrs. Bilby drew herself up. “There’s no need to be coarse!”

  “Sorry,” he said unrepentantly. “You wouldn’t really mind”—he appealed to Bettina—“just looking after him for another day or so, while I get things sorted out?”

  “Well …” Bettina hesitated. If Sylvia really had left Graeme, she had visions of Pasha becoming a permanent boarder—over her mother’s dead body. Rather, more unfortunately, it would be over her mother’s live and endlessly nagging body.

  “He’s settled down nicely here,” Graeme said. “And I can’t possibly cope with him if I have to go to Erith and pick up Sylvia.”

  “Oh, I suppose another couple of days won’t make much difference.” Bettina hadn’t spoken quite softly enough. She heard her mother’s sniff and Mrs. Rome’s sotto voce rumble of sympathy.

  “That’s settled then.” Graeme made briskly for the door, ignoring the rumble of discontent behind him, although an uneasy flicker of his eyelids betrayed that he had heard it. Bettina began to suspect that Sylvia might have something to be said on her side if she had departed.

  “I do appreciate this.” Graeme paused before opening the front door and reached for his notecase. “You’ll need more cat food, I know. That thing eats like a horse. Nothing wrong with his stomach.”

  “Well …” Bettina hesitated as he thrust the money at her, but knew her mother was listening in the next room. If she refused, she would never hear the end of it. “He is running low on cod-liver oil.” No need to explain that was because he was perforce sharing it with the other cats.

  “I’ll bet he is!” Graeme’s bitterness spilled over. “The little bastard all but bathes in the stuff. His cod-liver oil bill would have kept Winston Churchill in cigars for a year!�
� He slammed the door behind him.

  “How much?” Mrs. Bilby asked avidly as Bettina returned to the living room.

  “Twenty …” Bettina glanced down at the banknotes in her hand. “Thirty pounds.”

  “That’s a lot of cat food!” Mrs. Rome exclaimed.

  “It certainly is.” William pursed his lips with concern. “Just how long does he expect you to keep the cat?”

  “Who knows?” The same thought had crossed Bettina’s mind—and William didn’t know all the circumstances.

  “We could—” Mrs. Rome’s eyes gleamed as she looked around the table. “We could ask the cards.

  Chapter 9

  “I hate it when she does this.” Zoe had followed Bettina into the kitchen. “She knows she hasn’t got the Sight. The Romany blood was all on my father’s side—and a long way back, at that.”

  “A gypsy by osmosis?” Bettina suggested.

  It wasn’t much of a joke and Zoe awarded it a very faint smile. “You can laugh,” she said. “It isn’t your mother.”

  “Mine is just as bad, in her own way.”

  They both sighed. Bettina filled the kettle and set it on the stove. The cats moved forward hopefully and formed a guard of honour to escort her to the refrigerator.

  “There!” The sudden cry from the living room startled them all. “There! What did I tell you?”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Zoe muttered. “She’s turned up the ace of spades—again.”

  “Bettina!” her mother called. “Bettina, come and look at this!”

  “I suppose we’d better humour them.” Bettina led the way.

  “Just look!” Mrs. Rome said portentously. “It’s the ace of spades! That means death!”

  “Whose?” William looked around nervously. “One of us?”

  “I thought you were going to find out how long Pasha would be staying with us,” Bettina reminded her, a bit brusquely. William was giving every indication of taking the whole thing seriously. Another invisible black mark against him.

  “I told you that cat was sick!” Mrs. Bilby declared. “We’ve got to get him out of here before he dies on our hands.”

  “Pasha is perfectly healthy, apart from being sterile,” Bettina said firmly. “He is not going to die.” She hoped she was right.

  “Then who is?” Mrs. Rome asked, as though she had produced incontrovertible evidence of an imminent demise. She stared ghoulishly at each face in turn.

  “I think it’s time we left, Mum,” Zoe said.

  “What? Before you’ve had your cup of tea?” Mrs. Bilby protested.

  “We’ll have it at home,” Zoe said. “It isn’t as though we’ve far to go.”

  “Unlike me.” William stood, taking his cue from Zoe. “This has been a very pleasant evening, thank you. I shan’t wait for tea, either. I have to allow extra time for detours with all this flooding about.” He departed with an air of relief.

  Having made what she considered her sensation, Mrs. Rome was willing to leave. Zoe gathered up Bluebell, who knew what that meant and began purring madly while the other cats regarded her enviously.

  Adolf and Enza followed them to the door and it took some fancy footwork to let the Romes out while keeping the cats in. Adolf swore and backed away as the door nearly closed on his whiskers. He stalked over to the fridge, followed by Enza, and shrieked for Dane-geld. His cries brought Pasha out from the living room. Pasha looked so dejected that Bettina gave in and distributed treats to them all.

  “You’re spoiling those cats,” her mother said.

  “The treat’s on Pasha, he can afford—”

  Zoe’s scream ripped through the night outside.

  Mrs. Bilby reached the door first and wrenched it open. The cats rushed out but, for once, Bettina didn’t care. Zoe was not the screaming kind, something must be terribly wrong. She left the back door wide open so that the light streamed out to illuminate their way.

  “Zoe?” Bettina called. “Zoe, where are you? What’s the matter?”

  “She went down to the end of the garden.” Mrs. Rome shrank against her open back door, wringing her hands. “She thought she saw something when we snapped the outdoor light on. She went down to investigate. Is she all right?”

  Zoe was stumbling towards them, dripping wet and half sobbing.

  “Zoe!” Bettina ran to meet her. “What’s happened?”

  “Oh, God! I tripped over him!” Zoe drew a shuddering breath and fought for control as Bettina led her into the brightness and warmth of the kitchen. “Call an ambulance! Hurry! Oh, God! I … I think he’s dead!”

  “Who?” Bettina asked.

  “Nine-nine-nine!” Mrs. Bilby dashed for the telephone. “I’ve always wanted to ring that.”

  “He was lying in a big pool of water. I fell into it when I tripped over him.” Zoe shuddered. “He must have drowned. Oh, God! I should have tried to pull him out. At least, turned him over … kiss of life …” She shuddered again. “I … I stopped thinking.”

  “He’ll be dead,” Mrs. Rome said with grim satisfaction. “Nothing you could do would make any difference. The cards never lie.”

  “I’ll take a look,” Bettina said. “You go and change into dry clothes.”

  “No, I’ll come with you. I want to see it again for myself.” Zoe swallowed hard. “Now that I’m prepared.”

  “Here …” Mrs. Rome offered her a towel.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll only get wetter again.” Zoe followed Bettina down the path. As the glow from the back porch light faded behind them, a dim reflection gleamed from a Day-Glo yellow striped jacket on the ground ahead of them.

  Something moved in the darkness where the figure’s boots remained above the water line. Zoe gave a small shriek and halted.

  “Adolf!” Bettina swooped and snatched him up. “Come away from there! Where are the others?” She looked into the shadows—it was easier than looking at the body in the water—but nothing else was stirring.

  “Bluebell’s in the house.” Zoe was trying to cling to normality by focusing on mundane matters. “And I don’t think Pasha went out with the others.”

  “That leaves Enza. Eeennnzzaa …” Bettina raised her voice, then realized she was falling into the same trap as Zoe. Enza wouldn’t go far on a night like this. It was the man in the pool at their feet they had to worry about.

  “Here, hold Adolf.” Bettina relinquished the warm furry body with reluctance and stooped to the cold clammy one at her feet.

  He had been lying there for a long time. Too long. The jacket was sodden and slippery, the flaccid flesh beneath it seemed to send a chill through the material and there was the disquieting suggestion of a growing rigidity she could not allow herself to think about. It took several attempts before she could get a good enough grip on the shoulders to flip him over.

  She was unprepared for the sudden wave washing over her feet as the body flopped back into the water. Zoe gave a muffled shriek and stepped back; she had been caught, too.

  “Bettina! Zoe!” Anxious parental voices called. “Are you all right?”

  Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer.

  “Let’s go back to the house,” Zoe said. “There’s nothing we can do here. The professionals will be along in a minute. Leave it to them. Mum’s right, he’s beyond our help.”

  It was true. The sightless eyes in the pale blob of a face stared up at the dark sky. It was hours too late for anyone to help him. All the ambulance could do would be to take him away.

  “Just a few hours ago”—Zoe’s voice was ragged—“I gave him a mug of coffee. And now—” Adolf gave an indignant yowl as her arms tightened suddenly.

  The noise of the sirens filled the night and then stopped abruptly. A sporadic blue light flashed on the other side of the houses.

  “They’re here,” Bettina said. “Let’s go and meet them.”

  Not even the cats could prevent them from sleeping late the next morning. Not that the cats tried; they were
exhausted, too. The night had gone on for far too long and the morning had come too early.

  When Bettina opened her eyes for the second time, her bedside clock said 10:30 and there was still no sound of anyone stirring anywhere in the house. She threw back the covers and got up slowly, still not feeling quite awake.

  She opened the bedroom curtains and recoiled involuntarily as she looked down on the back gardens and saw the circle of trodden mud in Zoe’s, marking the spot where the body had lain. The edges of the deep puddle had receded towards the centre as the saturated earth gradually reabsorbed the water. If the man had fallen face forward into that spot just twenty-four hours later, the chances were that he would have survived with nothing worse than a muddy face.

  Bettina shuddered and closed the curtains again, preferring the darkened room to the view outside. She dressed quickly and paused at her mother’s door on the way downstairs. With her hand on the knob, she hesitated, then incautiously turned it.

  “Is that you, Bettina?”

  “You’re awake,” Bettina answered, repressing the temptation to ask who else her mother thought it might be. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m not too well,” her mother said. “Last night was such a shock. I think I may stay in bed a while longer.”

  “Good idea. You do that.” The relief was overwhelming; she added guiltily, “Can I get you anything?”

  “Perhaps a cup of tea, if you’re making some anyway. And a bit of toast. And I’ll try to force down a poached egg—I’ve got to keep my strength up.”

  “That’s right,” Bettina agreed automatically. “We don’t want you to be ill.” She closed the door and continued downstairs.

  The kitchen was dark and quiet. She risked opening the curtains and found, as she had hoped, that the hedge mercifully cut off the grim view of last night’s horror.

  She put the kettle on and decanted cat food into the various bowls. Enza was a furry coil of contentment in her carrier. Pasha stirred restlessly, but did not waken as she set his bowl down. One baleful green eye squinted at her from beneath the black patch of fur, then closed again; not even Adolf could be bothered to wake up and face the day. Lucky cats, they didn’t have to.