Crime Writers and Other Animals (23 page)

As the Mr Whiffles mysteries began to roll off the production line, the summonings of George from his shed grew less and less frequent. While Seraphina was struggling with the first book, the intercom buzzer sounded every ten minutes, and her husband spent most of his life traversing the garden between shed and house. With the second, however, the calls were down to about one a day, and for the third – except to unravel a couple of vital plot points – Seraphina's husband was hardly disturbed at all.

The reason for this was that George had made the first book such an ingenious template, writing the rest was merely a matter of doing a bit of research and applying the same formula to some new setting. Seraphina, needless to say, would never have admitted this, and had indeed by the third book convinced herself that the entire creative process was hers alone.

As George became marginalized from his wife's professional life, so she moved him further away from her personal life. As soon as the international royalties for the Mr Whiffles books started to roll in, Seraphina organized the demolition of George's working shed in the garden, and its replacement with a brand-new self-contained bungalow. There her husband was at liberty to lead his own life. Whether that life involved further experimentation with the novel form or a quicker descent into alcoholic befuddlement, Seraphina Fellowes neither knew nor cared.

She didn't divorce George, though. His Catholicism put him against the idea, but also Seraphina needed him around to see that Mr Whiffles got fed during her increasingly frequent absences on promotional tours or at foreign mystery conventions. Then again, there was always the distant possibility that she might get stuck again on one of the books and need George to sort out the plot for her.

Besides, having a shadowy husband figure in the background had other uses. When asked about him in interviews, she always implied that he was ill and that she unobtrusively devoted her life to his care. This did her image no harm at all. He was also very useful when over-sexed crime writers or critics came on to her at mystery conventions. Her assertion, accompanied by a martyred expression of divided loyalties, that ‘it wouldn't be fair to George' was a much better excuse than the truth that she didn't in fact like sex.

As the royalties mounted, Seraphina had both herself and her house made over. Her mousy hair became a jet-black helmet assiduously maintained by costly hairdressing; her face was an unchanging mask of expertly applied make-up; and she patronized ever more expensive couturiers for her clothes. The house was extended and interior designed; the garden elegantly landscaped to include a fishpond with elaborate fountain and cascade features.

And Seraphina always had the latest computer technology on which to write her money-spinning books. After taking delivery of each new state-of-the-art machine, her first ritual action was to programme the ‘M' key to print on the screen ‘Mr Whiffles'.

So, twelve years on from the momentous evening that changed her life, Seraphina Fellowes had good cause to feel very pleased with herself. The previous day she had achieved a lifetime ambition. She had rung through an order for the latest model Ferrari. There was a year-and-a-half's waiting list for delivery, but it had given Seraphina enormous satisfaction to write a cheque for the full purchase price without batting an eyelid.

She looked complacently around the large study she had had built on to the house. It was decorated in pastel pinks and greens, flowery wallpapers and hanging swathes of curtain. The walls were covered with framed Mr Whiffles memorabilia: book jackets, publicity photographs of the author cuddling her hero's namesake, newspaper best-sellers listings, mystery organizations' citations and awards. On her mantelpiece, amongst lesser plaques and figurines, stood her proudest possession – the highest accolade so far accorded to the Mr Whiffles industry: an Edgar statuette from the Mystery Writers of America. Yes, Seraphina Fellowes did feel very pleased with herself.

But even as she had this thought, a sliver of unease was driven into her mind. She heard once again the ominous sound that increasingly threatened her wellbeing and complacency. It was the clatter of a letterbox and the solid thud of her elastic-band-wrapped mail landing on the doormat. She went through into the hall with some trepidation to see what new threat the postman had brought that day.

Seraphina divided the letters into two piles on her desk. The left-hand pile comprised those addressed to ‘Seraphina Fellowes, Author of the Mr Whiffles Books'; the right-hand one was made up of letters addressed to ‘Mr Whiffles' himself. A lot of those, she knew, would be whimsically written by their owners as if they came from other cats. In fact, that morning over half of Mr Whiffles' letters had paw-prints on the back of the envelopes.

But that wasn't what worried Seraphina Fellowes. What really disturbed her – no, more than disturbed – what really twisted the icy dagger of jealousy in her heart was the fact that the right-hand pile was much higher than the left-hand one. This was the worst incident yet, and it confirmed an appalling trend that had been building for the last couple of years.

Mr Whiffles was getting more fan mail than she was!

The object of her jealousy, with the instinct for timing which had so far preserved intact all nine of his lives, chose that moment to enter Seraphina Fellowes' study. He wasn't, strictly speaking, welcome in her house – he spent most of his time over in George's bungalow – but Seraphina had had cat-flaps inserted in all her doors to demonstrate her house's cat-friendliness when journalists came to interview her, and Mr Whiffles did put in the occasional appearance. To get to the study he'd had to negotiate four cat-flaps: from the garden into a passage, from the passage into the kitchen, kitchen to hall and hall to study.

He looked up at his mistress with that insolence cats don't just reserve for kings, and Seraphina Fellowes felt another twist of the dagger in her heart. She stared dispassionately down at the animal. He'd never been very beautiful, just a tabby neutered tom like a million others. Seraphina looked up at one of the publicity shots on the wall and compared the cat photographed five years previously with the current reality.

Time hadn't been kind. Mr Whiffles really was looking in bad shape. He was fourteen, after all. He was thinner, his coat more scruffy, he was a bit scummy round the mouth, and he might even have a patch of mange at the base of his tail.

‘You poor old boy,' Seraphina Fellowes cooed. ‘You're no spring chicken any more, are you? I'm rather afraid it's time for you and me to pay a visit to the vet.'

And she went off to fetch the cat-basket.

At the surgery, everyone made a great fuss of Mr Whiffles. Though he'd enjoyed generally good health, there had been occasional visits to the vet for all the usual minor feline ailments and, as the fame of the books grew, he was treated there increasingly like a minor royal.

Seraphina didn't take much notice of the attention he was getting. She was preoccupied with planning the press conference at which the sad news of Mr Whiffles' demise would be communicated to the media. She would employ the pained expression she had perfected for speaking about her invalid husband. And yes, the line ‘It was a terrible wrench, but I felt the time had come to prevent him further suffering' must come in somewhere.

‘How incontinent?' asked the vet, once they were inside the surgery and Mr Whiffles was standing on the bench to be examined.

‘Oh, I'm afraid it's getting worse and worse,' said Seraphina mournfully. ‘I mean, at first I didn't worry about it, thought it was only a phase, but there's no way we can ignore the situation any longer. It's causing poor Mr Whiffles so much pain, apart from anything else.'

‘If it's causing him pain, then it's probably just some kind of urinary infection,' said the vet unhelpfully.

‘I'm afraid it's worse than that.' Seraphina Fellowes choked back a little sob. ‘It's a terrible decision to make, but I'm afraid he'll have to be put down.'

The vet's reaction to this was even worse. He burst out laughing. ‘Good heavens, we're not at that stage.' He stroked Mr Whiffles, who reached up appealingly and rubbed his whiskers against the vet's face. ‘No, this old boy's got another good five years in him, I'd say.'

‘Really?' Seraphina realized she'd let too much pique show in that one, and repeated a softer, more relieved, more tentative, ‘Really?'

‘Oh yes. I'll put him on antibiotics, and that'll sort out the urinary infection in no time.' The vet looked at her with concern. ‘But you shouldn't be letting worries about him prey on your mind like this. You mustn't get things out of proportion, you know.'

‘I am not getting things out of proportion!' Seraphina Fellowes snapped with considerable asperity.

‘Maybe you should go and see your doctor,' the vet suggested gently. ‘It might be something to do with your age.'

Seraphina was still seething at that last remark as she drove back home. Her mood was not improved by the way Mr Whiffles looked up at her through the grille of the cat-basket. His expression seemed almost triumphant.

Seraphina Fellowes set her mouth in a hard line. The situation wasn't irreversible. There were more ways to kill a cat than enlisting the help of the vet.

2. Fighting Like Cats and Dogs

‘Are you sure you don't mind my bringing Ghengis, Seraphina?'

‘No, no.'

‘But I thought, what with you being a cat person, you wouldn't want a great big dog tramping all over your house.'

A great big dog Ghengis certainly was. He must have weighed about the same as the average nightclub bouncer, and the similarities didn't stop there. His teeth appeared too big for his mouth, with the result that he was incapable of any expression other than slavering.

‘It's no problem,' Seraphina Fellowes reassured her guest.

‘But he doesn't like cats.' Seraphina knew this; it was the sole reason for her guest's invitation. ‘I'd hate to think of him doing any harm to the famous Mr Whiffles,' her guest continued.

‘Don't worry. Mr Whiffles is safely ensconced with George.' The mastiff growled the low growl of a flesh addict whose fix is overdue. ‘Maybe Ghengis would like to have a run around the garden . . . to let off some steam?'

As she opened the back door and Ghengis rocketed out, Seraphina looked with complacency towards the tree under which a cat lay serenely asleep. ‘No, no!' her guest screamed. ‘There's Mr Whiffles!'

‘Oh dear,' said Seraphina Fellowes with minimal sincerity. Then she closed the back door and went through the passage into the kitchen to watch the unequal contest through a window.

The huge slavering jaws were nearly around the cat before Mr Whiffles suddenly became aware and jumped sideways. The chase thereafter was furious, but there was no doubt who was calling the shots. Mr Whiffles didn't chose the easy option of flying up a tree out of Ghengis's reach. Instead, he played on his greater mobility, weaved and curvetted across the grass, driving the thundering mastiff to ever more frenzied pitches of frustration.

Finally, Mr Whiffles seemed to tire. He slowed, gave up evasive action and started to move in a defeated straight line towards the house. Ghengis pounded greedily after him, slavering more than ever.

Mr Whiffles put on a sudden burst of acceleration. Ghengis did likewise, and he had the more powerful engine. He ate up the ground that separated them.

At the second when it seemed nothing could stop the jaws from closing around his thin body, Mr Whiffles took off through the air and threaded himself neatly through the outer cat-flap into the passage, and the next one into the kitchen.

Seraphina Fellowes just had time to look down at the cat on the tiled floor before she heard the splintering crunch of Ghengis hitting the outside door at full speed.

Mr Whiffles looked up at his mistress with an expression which seemed to say, ‘You'll have to do better than that, sweetie.'

As Seraphina Fellowes was seeing her guest and bloody-faced dog off on their way to the vet's, the postman arrived with the day's second post. The usual thick rubber-banded wodge of letters.

That day two-thirds of the envelopes had paw-prints on the back.

3. Letting the Cat Out of the Bag

It was sad that George's mother died. Sad for George, that is. Seraphina had never cared for the old woman.

And it did mean that George would have to go to Ireland for the funeral. What with seeing solicitors, tidying his mother's house prior to putting it on the market, and other family duties, he would be away a whole week.

How awkward that this coincided with Seraphina's recollection that she needed to go to New York for a meeting with her American agent. Awkward because it meant for a whole week neither of them would be able to feed Mr Whiffles.

Not to worry, Seraphina had reassured George, there's a local girl who'll come in and put food down for him morning and evening. Not a very bright local girl, thought Seraphina gleefully, though she didn't mention that detail to George.

‘Now, Mr Whiffles is a very fussy eater,' she explained when she was briefing the local girl, ‘and sometimes he's just not interested in his food. But don't you worry about that. If he hasn't touched one plateful, just throw it away and put down a fresh one – OK?'

Seraphina waited until the cab taking George to the station was out of sight. Then she picked up a somewhat suspicious Mr Whiffles with a cooing, ‘Who's a lovely boy then?' and opened the trap door to the cellar.

She placed the confused cat on the second step, and while Mr Whiffles was uneasily sniffing out his new environment, slammed the trap down and bolted it.

Then she got into her BMW – she couldn't wait till it was a Ferrari – and drove to the executive parking near Heathrow which she always used when she Concorded to the States.