Authors: Marian Babson

The Cat Who Wasn't a Dog (20 page)

To be fair, perhaps he loved Frella, too â difficult though that might be to imagine. He kept looking from one to the other, his eyes filled with tears.

âI won't give her to Soroya,' he said weakly.

âYou don't have to.' I put in my bid quickly. âShe's a little darling â anyone would be glad to have her.'

âTo let her go away â¦ never to see her again â¦' His voice shook. Frella waited.

âYou can have visiting privileges,' I bargained recklessly. âDrop in any time.' I moved forward eagerly.

âWell â¦' He was giving Cho-Cho a few final loving parting strokes. She purred unheedingly.

âThat's settled then!' Dame Cecile reached him before I did and swept Cho-Cho into her arms. âYou must feel absolutely free to come and visit her any time you like.'

âNow, just a min â ' Evangeline's hand closed on my arm, pulling me back.

âThe revelation came to me when I held her on my lap a few minutes ago.' Dame Cecile faced us raptly. âI remembered the story of Sir Henry Irving and his faithful dog. Like Fleur, the dog always sat in its favourite chair in his dressing room, watching him make up for the performance, greeting him when he came offstage. When the dog died, Sir Henry was distraught and heartbroken. When next he went to his dressing room in the Lyceum, it was with a sad and aching heart, dreading to face that empty chair.

âBut it wasn't empty. The theatre cat, who had never gone near the dressing room while the dog was alive, strolled in and leaped up on the empty cushion, taking
over the dog's guardian angelship. Sir Henry promptly sent his dresser out for fish for the cat and it became his pampered pet, watching over him as the dog had done. And when Sir Henry retired from the stage, he took the cat home with him.

âAnd I know, I just
know
â ' Dame Cecile looked around at our stunned faces, defying any of us to gainsay her â âthat my dear little Fleur, wherever she may be, has arranged for this cat to come to me in her place and solace me in my grief!'

âBut â ' I tried again. Evangeline's grasp tightened.

âWe're all tired,' Evangeline said smoothly. âI think it's time we were all on our way.'

âI'll see you to the door.' Frella moved forward eagerly to speed the parting guests, ready for the big reconciliation scene as soon as we were out of the way. Teddy looked ready to collapse.

Chapter Twenty-One

I could only consider it poetic justice. As Matilda turned the key in the lock and swung the front door open, Soroya swooped on us.

âThere you are at last!' she accused. âI've been waiting up for you!'

âThat makes a change,' Matilda said wearily. She walked past Soroya and up the stairs. âThen you can lock up for the night, too.'

âAnd you!' Soroya whirled on Cecile. âWhat are you doing with my cat? I've been looking for her everywhere!' She snatched Cho-Cho from Cecile and followed Matilda up the stairs.

âBut that's my â ' It was Dame Cecile's turn for a futile protest. She started after Soroya indignantly, but Evangeline stopped her.

âShe's got a good case for ownership,' Evangeline warned. âLet it be for tonight.'

âI shall complain to Teddy in the morning!'

âYou do that,' I said. I locked the door myself and turned out the lights. They took the hint and let me lead them up the stairs.

The only good thing about it, I consoled myself, was that at least Cho-Cho was under the same roof with me. Furthermore, she had escaped from Soroya before â and she knew where my room was. I went to bed feeling rather more cheerful than I had been earlier in the evening.

I couldn't believe it when I got up in the morning. Evangeline was already up and had gone out. Where? And why?

âAn errand of some importance, I believe.' Dame Cecile was seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and some toast. âIt must be â to get her out of the house at this hour!'

âRight.' I poured my own coffee and slumped into a chair. I'd think about something to eat with the second cup. âI don't suppose you have any idea when she might be back?' I feared the worst: if Nigel was involved, it was going to be the worst possible start to the day.

âShe didn't say â ' Something in the doorway caught Cecile's attention and I turned to see what it was.

âCho-Cho!' I cried joyously. âYou got away!'

âShe knows where she belongs,' Dame Cecile said complacently. âHere, Cho-Cho! Over here!'

Cho-Cho stopped and looked around.

âShe needs a bit of training.' Dame Cecile stood and went over to her. âOne must be firm. Kind, but firm. Come, Cho-Cho, heel!'

âI don't think it works like that with cats, Cecile.' She was the one who needed training. I made affectionate noises. âCome over here, Cho-Cho. Come to Trixie.'

âHeel, Cho-Cho!' Dame Cecile ordered, striding back to the table. âHeel!'

Cho-Cho gave her a contemptuous look, sent me a friendly one, and made her choice. She marched straight to the fridge and pawed at the door.

âGive her some fish!' Dame Cecile ordered, obviously with the example of Sir Henry Irving in mind.

âWe don't have any.'

âWhat do we have?'

Cho-Cho gave an impatient meow, the matter was obviously one of some urgency.

âI don't know. Look for yourself.'

âFaaugh!' Disgusted at my non-cooperation, Dame Cecile went to the fridge and opened it. âThere doesn't
seem to be much here,' she complained. âNot for man nor beast.' She rootled farther into its depths and surfaced with a small bowl. âDo you think she'd eat green beans?'

âDepends on how hungry she is. Try her and see.'

âAll right.' Dame Cecile selected a large bean and held it above Cho-Cho's head. âSit up!' she ordered. âSit! Beg!'

âCats are different, Cecile. It doesn't work that way, either.' I was cheering up by the minute. It wasn't going to take Dame Cecile long to discover that she and Cho-Cho were incompatible, no matter what her dear Fleur had decided.

Cho-Cho looked unbelievingly at the limp vegetable being held over her head and stalked away. She leaped to the table and sniffed at my coffee.

âYou won't like that,' I warned her, âbut have your own drink.' I emptied the cream jug into my saucer and pushed it towards her. âIt will keep you going until we find something else.'

âShe's very fussy.' Dame Cecile resumed her seat and regarded us both with dissatisfaction. âFleur would have eaten those beans happily.'

âCats have a palate,' I explained, âdogs haven't. It's the difference between a gourmet and a glutton.'

âFleur was not a glutton!'

âI didn't say she was.'

âYou implied it!' The choked sob was back in her voice. âMy poor, dear little â¦'

âWhere's Eddie?' It was time to distract her. âHe's usually here by now.'

âEvangeline intercepted him. He's driving her somewhere. You didn't think she was going to catch a bus, did you?'

âNo, I'd never think that.' I
had
thought her destination might be within walking distance. If she'd commandeered the taxi, she could be going anywhere.

The telephone rang and I waited a few more rings until it became clear that Matilda was not going to answer it herself. I picked up the kitchen extension. âHello?'

âOh, Mother, I'm so glad I've got you. I tried your other number but â '

âI wish you wouldn't, dear. That's Evangeline's mobile. It upsets her to have my calls â '

âSo she informed me. At least, I think that's what she was saying. There was so much background noise it was hard to hear.'

âBackground noise? Where was she?'

âI don't know.' Martha's tone was bitter. âBut, wherever she was, she sounded right at home!'

âDidn't she â ?'

âNever mind her, Mother. I called you for a consultation. We've had a rather weird recipe submitted and I wanted to run it past you.'

âAll right, dear.' I carried the phone back to the table and made myself comfortable. As usual, Martha's voice was so loud and clear that Dame Cecile was able to eavesdrop effortlessly. âWhat is it?'

âIt's called “When You Bet Your Hat and Lose” and it's a recipe for eating your hat.'

âIt must be an old one,' Dame Cecile said. âNo one has worn a hat for decades.'

âYou mean a recipe for a hat-shaped cake or cookie, dear?'

âNo, an actual hat. For when someone says they'll eat their hat if they're not right â and they're wrong.'

âI can't remember when I last heard that expression.' Dame Cecile was making it a three-way conversation.

âProbably because no one wears hats any more.' I agreed with her on that. âAt least, not that sort of hat. Does it specify any particular sort of hat, dear? Fedora? Bowler? Pork pie? Straw hat? Top hat?'

âBaseball caps are all you see these days,' Dame Cecile put in. âAnd the idiots wear those backwards. They'd be better off eating them.'

âAny kind of hat. It doesn't matter. The point is, you burn it down to ashes and then stir the ashes into some
food. The recipe recommends oatmeal mixed with maple syrup, but Jocasta thinks â '

âDon't do it, Martha!' Dame Cecile grabbed the phone from me. âYou don't know what they're making hats out of these days. All sorts of synthetic materials are around. Even the fumes might be deadly if you burn them, never mind eating them!'

âAnd old-fashioned hats probably weren't any better.' I reclaimed the phone to add my caveat. âThey used something terribly nasty to block them. That's where the terms Mad Hatter and Mad as a Hatter originated. The fumes they inhaled all day at their job literally made them insane.'

âDon't even think of using that recipe, Martha!' Dame Cecile took the phone again. âNot even as a joke. Some fool would be bound to try it â just to show off â and the consequences could be disastrous!'

âShe's right, dear.' The tug-of-war with the phone was exasperating, but it had distracted Cecile's attention from her own problems. âMuch safer to leave it out.'

âYes, I will. I'm so glad I talked this over with you â and Jocasta will be, too. To tell the truth â ' a little giggle escaped her â âneither of us wanted to be the one to test that recipe!'

âOne has to be so careful,' Dame Cecile said as I returned the phone to its shelf. âI always remember my mother telling me about the World War I cookbook one of the Ministries issued. Naturally, they got some Civil Service type who didn't know anything about cooking to compile it. The emphasis was on not wasting food, so he advised everyone not to waste the leftover rhubarb leaves when they made their pies and desserts from the stalks, but to boil up the leaves and serve them like cabbage.'

âBut they're deadly poison!' I gasped.

âFortunately, someone realized that before the book was distributed too widely. It had to be called back and pulped.'

âThank goodness for that!'

âYes.' There was a far-away look in her eyes. âBut I always thought how very useful it might be to know that one could get one's hands on a deadly poison so easily. Just think of it â¦ no lies to the doctor to get the right prescription â¦ no poison book to sign at the chemist's. Just a quiet stroll down the garden path â¦'

For a blinding instant, I wondered if giving Cecile the role of an eccentric poisoner had been type-casting.

No, no, it couldn't be. She had been with us when Eddie discovered Mr Stuff Yours' body and she could have had no reason to want to dispose of Matilda's new housekeeper. Besides, neither of them had been poisoned. Just the same, I found myself eyeing her warily.

It was with relief that I heard the back door open and turned to see Evangeline and Eddie entering. Evangeline was carrying what looked like a large cardboard cake box â except that it had holes in it and she was struggling to keep a jouncing lid in place. Strange little noises were coming from it.

Cho-Cho pricked up her ears and stalked forward stiff-legged to investigate, almost as suspicious as I was.

âThere!' Evangeline set the box down on the table, keeping one hand firmly on the lid.

âWhat have you got there?' Dame Cecile was also suspicious. âI don't like the look of that.'

âDon't you?' The box was beginning to rock from side to side now. Evangeline used her other hand to steady it. âThat's too bad, it's for you. I mean, what's inside it is.'

There was a distinct yelp from inside the box.

âNo!' Dame Cecile froze. âYou didn't! I can't bear it! No other Peke could possibly replace Fleur!'

âThat's just what I thought!' Evangeline upended the box over Cecile's lap, the lid flew off and the contents tumbled out. It looked like several small black balls of knitting wool â¦ wriggling knitting wool.

âWhat on earth â¦ ?' Dame Cecile flinched and stared down at it incredulously. âWhat is it?'

It shook itself out and pushed itself up on spindly pompommed
legs, waving the pom-pom on the end of its tail. Cho-Cho, who had retreated to the safety of my lap, stretched her neck for a closer look, obviously unable to believe her eyes. She turned to blink up at me, twitching her ears.

â
She
,' Evangeline said, âis a miniature French poodle, with a lineage better than your own. I have her Kennel Club papers in my bag.'

âAnd you can keep them there!' Dame Cecile fended off the boisterous puppy, who had decided it wanted to lick her nose. âI'll have nothing to do with this â this
travesty
of a noble animal!

âThey said the fur will grow back out,' Eddie told Cecile. âYou can give 'er a different clip then, maybe one of them lion ones. Might make âer look more reasonable.'

âSo that's where you were this morning,' I said. âAt the kennels.' Suddenly, Martha's comment was explained.

âI spent hours choosing the right puppy for Cecile.' Evangeline sighed as Cecile repulsed yet another advance from the pup. âI thought it was right. Perhaps I should have gone for a Scottish terrier, it might have looked more like a Peke.'

âOh!' Matilda came into the kitchen. âAm I the last one up?'

âProbably not,' I told her. âThere's been no sign of Soroya yet.'

âGood!' She moved slowly and unsteadily to a chair. Eddie took one look at her haggard face and rushed to bring her a cup of coffee.

âMatilda, are you all right?' I was concerned.

âI didn't sleep much last night,' she admitted. âThank you, Eddie.'

âToast?' he inquired anxiously. âCereal?'

âNothing, thanks â oh!' The puppy had frisked over to check her out. âWhere did that come from?'