Murder on Show (17 page)

‘Yes, she is, isn't she?' He turned her towards me eagerly. ‘Look!' There was a distinct depression at the base of her spine, even deeper than the usual obligatory dent. It was somehow decisive, it seemed to give promise that no kittens of hers would ever be born with vestigial tails.

‘Of course, one can never be sure.' Marcus ran his index finger into and out of the depression lovingly. ‘But it seems a good sign. A
very
good sign.'

‘She's very good stock.' The owner closed in with the hard sell. ‘I've bred her parents four times now – and there's never been a Stumpie in a litter yet.'

‘Yes, quite a nice little thing.' Marcus was trying to play it cool, but his arms tightened around the cat. ‘It will all depend, of course, on what Precious thinks of her. If I could take her over and introduce them ... slowly. You see ... Precious is rather high-strung. I'd like to give him time to get used to her – then we can tell if it would work out if I bought her.'

The owner didn't look too happy, but she saw his point. She looked vaguely familiar – I realized I'd seen her wandering up and down our aisle several times, always lingering near Precious's pen. So she had had her doubts about compatibility too.

‘I'm exhibiting other cats,' she said reluctantly, ‘so –'

‘I'll take her over myself,' Marcus said, ‘now. You can come round later and see how she's doing. I'll take good care of her, I promise you.'

‘I'm sure you will.' She came to a decision. ‘If you'll just take her bowl, and her chopped liver, her milk, her brush –' Marcus had the cat, so she loaded me down with the clobber – ‘she can have the afternoon with your Precious. I'm sure he'll love her.'

I'd read somewhere that, in nature, the male doesn't attack the female. I'd have felt better if I thought Precious had read the same thing. Then I remembered how well he got on with Pandora, so perhaps it was true. I hoped so, because the little cat seemed even more defenceless than Pandora – perhaps because she had no tail. I knew that a tail is of practically no use to a cat in a fight, but the way they lash it around when they're preparing to fight gives the impression that, like kangaroos, they could swing a nasty haymaker across the chops with it if the opportunity arose.

‘Of course, I'll have to change her name,' Marcus was musing, as I followed him back to our aisle. ‘Precious Amber? Precious Topaz? Precious Canary Diamond?'

‘I like Topaz,' I said, juggling her bits and pieces. Over Marcus's shoulder, she blinked her great topaz eyes at me.

I couldn't resist. I fished a chunk of chopped liver out of her dish and fed it to her while we walked along. A few crumbs sifted down on to Marcus's shoulder as she nibbled daintily, but he didn't seem to notice.

That was more than could be said for Pandora. We were just abreast of her pen, and she flung a snarling curse at me.

It was surprising how guilty that cat could make me feel. Nose up against the mesh of her pen, tail lashing, she left me in no doubt about her feelings. Every time she turned round, she caught me two-timing her with another cat! Furthermore – her nose twitched furiously – I had never given
her
chopped liver!

I was in no position to argue. With a glance of apology to the little Manx, I scooped a dollop of chopped Liver out of her bowl and dropped it in front of Pandora's pen. Then I followed Marcus into his stall and unloaded the clobber on to his table.

Precious peered out of his pen suspiciously, his attention about equally divided between me and the little female. Still firmly entrenched in Marcus's arms, she looked around with amiable interest.

‘How about sharing the wealth?' I asked her. She was a sweet-natured little cat and seemed undisturbed as she watched me dish some of her chopped liver into Precious's bowl. ‘Courtesy of the little lady,' I told him, unlatching the door and pushing the bowl inside.

He asked me his usual question before beginning to eat. I shook my head, wondering what made him so different from the usual run of cat. Are some of them throwbacks to the wild? I might have thought it a Manx trait, were not the little female nestled placidly in Marcus's arms, accepting his admiration as her due, giving every indication that she thought he was just fine. So it was not that Marcus had some unfortunate defect, unnoticeable to humans, which rendered him unacceptable to cats. No, whatever the problem was, it seemed to be peculiar to Precious.

Marcus was edging closer to the pen, holding the little female away from him slightly, aware that his proximity might make Precious take a dislike to her. Poor Marcus – why he was so fond of that damned ungrateful cat, none of us would ever be able to understand.

‘Shall I?' I took her from him and set her down in front of the pen. Precious looked up briefly from his bowl, then went back to polishing it. Topaz watched him with calm assurance, a female who was prepared to bide her time, if ever I saw one. She settled down on the ledge outside the pen and concentrated on ignoring Precious. I felt she had the situation well in hand.

It was time to make my peace with Pandora. Gerry had let her out of her pen so that she could get at the chopped liver, and waved me to keep an eye on her while he and Penny went over to the pub for their late lunch.

She didn't look up as I approached, although I could see that she had finished her sample of chopped liver. ‘All right,' I said. ‘So I'm a louse. Don't worry, Gerry will remember to bring back something tasty for you. You females have him all broken in.' I stretched out my hand to scratch her head.

She caught me by surprise. Her claws slashed at me, leaving a trail of bleeding welts across the back of my hand. Automatically I lifted it to my mouth to lick away the blood. I hadn't thought she was
that
annoyed with me.

‘No, really.' Helena Keswick had been watching, and crossed the aisle to stand beside me. ‘You mustn't allow her to get away with that. They're lovely creatures, I know, but if they aren't disciplined occasionally, they'll make your life miserable. You have to show her who's in charge. You're going to have to discipline her.'

‘Silver Fir has
never
been any trouble to me,' Betty Lington said complacently. She had been shaking yet more talcum powder into Silly's fleece (which must have been standing straight out from it all – if the beast ever got caught in the rain, she'd be a plaster statue in three minutes). ‘I wouldn't even know
how
to discipline her.'

Well, I was with her part of the way. I raised my tingling hand. I knew how, but I didn't know where.

Where
do
you spank a cat?

Pandora bristled, presenting an unfamiliarly fuzzy surface. Her eyes dared me to make a move. But I agreed with Helena – I would, if I could. I made a couple of feints towards the upraised bush of her tail, thick and bushy as a fox's brush. She sneered at me, defying me.

‘No, no,' Helena Keswick said sharply, ‘not there. Haven't you ever seen a mother cat disciplining her kittens?'

I shook my head. The whole thing was out of my line. Helena was most at home in this territory. From the next stall, I saw Marcus nod to me sympathetically –
he
knew all about vindictive cats.

‘The mother cat,' Helena explained kindly, and clearly, ‘always aims at the ears. Just lightly
– very
lightly. But it seems to get through to them, as nothing else does. You can forget all about folded newspapers and that sort of thing – it may work with dogs, but not cats.'

She advanced upon Pandora, who backed away slightly, as though recognizing that she was meeting her match. Then Helena's hand flashed out, as quick as Pandora's paw, and flicked Pandora twice across the ears, lightly but firmly.

Pandora retreated, shaking her head. ‘Now, you,' Helena turned to me. ‘So that site gets the full message. But remember –
lightly
.'

Pandora, still watching Helena, wasn't expecting an attack from my quarter. I felt a swine, but it was a question of survival. ‘No,' I said, flicking her other ear with my fingertip. ‘
Naughty
girl.
Bad
Pandora.'

Helena beamed at me approvingly, as Pandora swore softly. ‘Now put her back in her pen,' she directed me.

Hesitantly, I opened the cage and waved Pandora inside. Ears laid back against her head, a nasty look in her eyes, she obeyed, nevertheless. I felt a new sense of power.

‘
That's
right,' Helena Keswick approved. ‘You've got to show them who's boss – it's for their own good, after all.'

Pandora curled up in a corner of her cage and closed her eyes, as though recent events had had nothing whatever to do with her. I frowned slightly.

‘Don't worry,' Helena said. ‘She's all right. And she'll be a lot better when she wakes up. You'll see.'

In the next stall, I saw Marcus Opal flex his fingers and swing his hand experimentally. Then he met the molten yellow eyes of Precious and his hand fell back by his side. He smiled placatingly. There was no doubt who was in charge there. Precious had Marcus firmly under his tyrannical paw. It was too bad, but that was the way it was.

‘Silver Fir never needed any treatment like that,' Betty Lington said righteously, before returning to her stall across the aisle.

Silver Fir was too stupid ever to let rebellion cross those vacant spaces where other cats lodged a brain. But there was no use telling Betty Lington that. She wasn't, I felt uneasily, all that much brighter herself.

There didn't seem to be much else for me to do at the moment, so I left Pandora sulking and went off on another patrol of the Exhibition.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Smiling evasively, I sidled past a group of unsuccessful pet-owners who were having an indignation meeting about the nepotism, favouritism and plain incompetence of the Judges who had failed to award rosettes to their Little Darlings.

Other exhibitors were beginning to pack things back into hampers, already looking forward to the time when they would be leaving for home. The Judges moved about, weary but still cheerful, coming down the home stretch now. A couple more hours and the Exhibition would be officially closed. I wondered how much longer it would take to clear up all the odds and ends, so that we could all go home.

I waved to the kids. They were huddled at the end of one of the aisles, in deep conference about something. Only the little girl noticed me and waved back; but she, too, was deadly serious, intent on whatever fate of the world they were deciding. I was rather relieved. I didn't feel up to childish conversation.

I turned into the Main Aisle again, giving wide berth to the cage with Pyramus and Thisbe. One of them – I had never sorted them out; in terms of colouring, nasty disposition and evil intent, they seemed about the same – was reclining at the back of the cage, growling. The other prowled just behind the bars, now and again raking a claw out through the bars in its winsome way. Carlotta was nowhere to be seen. I wondered what arrangements she had made for shifting her pets, perhaps she was seeing to that now.

Pandora still appeared to be sleeping as I walked past, so I thought I'd drop in and pay my respects to Mother Brown. A faint trace of pipe tobacco cut through the strong scent of cats. Automatically, I glanced back at Hugo Verrier's stall, but it was empty.

Just short of the stall, I saw them. Helena Keswick and Roger Chesne-Malvern, sitting side by side, a cigarette glowing in her hand, a pipe in his. They didn't notice me, they were talking together with that air of intimacy which can seldom be faked – or mistaken.

Abruptly, I turned into the stall before I got to them. Betty Lington looked up at me in pleased surprise. She was dusting Silver Fir with talcum powder again – it appeared to be a kind of occupational therapy for her.

‘Look, Silver,' she said, ‘here's Uncle Douglas come to see you. Isn't that sweet of him?'

She swept the animal into my arms, as though that were the highest accolade she could bestow. Although not expecting it, I managed to catch the cat as it collided with my midriff, a cloud of white powder arising from it as it hit.

Coughing in the smog of talcum, I managed a sickly smile. Limp as an old fur stole, Silver Fir slumped in my arms. Betty Lington beamed on us both. ‘We
do
love visitors,' she announced. ‘And we were just beginning to feel a
weensy
bit neglected. We haven't seen anyone in hours, except the old police – and one didn't feel that they were
simpatico.
'

‘I had that feeling about them myself,' I agreed, and she beamed.

‘I wonder if I could ask you a very great favour,' she said. ‘Could you look after Silver Fir for me for a few minutes, while I go to the Little Girls' Room?'

‘Of course,' I said, ‘delighted.' I'd been wondering how I was going to carry on some inane conversation with her, when all I really wanted to do was to think over the implications of the scene in the next booth.

‘Oh, thank you.' She dashed away, and I stood there, the limp hank of fur that was Silver Fir in my arms, and glanced casually at the next stall. They were still immersed in conversation, completely unmindful of the world around them.

This, then, was the scene – or close to it – that I had stumbled on that first night in the darkened Press Gallery. Not Rose Chesne-Malvern and Hugo Verrier, as I had assumed, but Helena Keswick and Roger Chesne-Malvern.

No wonder Roger was taking booster shots to try to cure his allergy. With his hay fever, playing with Helena Keswick was playing with fire, indeed. And no wonder Helena had been so pleased with his progress – and so interested in keeping it a secret from Rose.

It was none of my business, of course. Whether it might be the Inspector's business, I wasn't sure. As the subject had never come up in the course of our conversation, I didn't feel it was up to me to mention it to him. Quite probably, it had nothing to do with what had happened. A man can find another woman more agreeable than his wife without feeding that wife to the tigers. Divorce gets easier every day – and it's so much more civilized. Whatever else he was, I had the feeling that Roger Chesne-Malvern was an extremely civilized man.