His Majesty's Hope (41 page)

“What’s your type?”

“Type? Tall, dark, and damaged. Or tall, fair, and damaged. And really, Charles, you’re not nearly tall or damaged enough to be considered.”

Charles clapped her on the back and grinned. Maggie could see how he could easily be a matinee idol. Still, with the black dog so close and ready to leap at any moment, romance was out of the question. “Then we shall get along very well,” he said.

Maggie shot him a warning look. “First, don’t do that.”

He removed his hand.

“Second, don’t
ever
do that again.”

He had the grace to redden.

“And third”—she pushed back her sleeve to take a look at her watch—“start running.”

Charles straightened, crushed out his cigarette in a mound of slippery seaweed, and then gave a crisp salute. “Yes, ma’am!”

When he trotted off, Maggie took a few more moments to look out over the water. Then she spotted something by the shore, where the waves gently lapped. A gray seal? A large stone? Driftwood?

Curious, she walked closer. It was a sheep. Or rather the carcass of a sheep, dead some time, from the look of the body.
Poor thing must have gotten away from the flock and fallen into the water
.… Maggie examined the body more closely. She saw the clips in its ears, two notches not one, and a dyed red dot on its rump, indicating it didn’t belong to the local farmer’s flock, whose sheep had just one ear notch and a blue stripe on the shoulders.

Maggie also noted that the corpse was encrusted with open, oozing black sores.

After the day’s training sessions were completed, Maggie washed, changed into clean clothes, and bicycled in the dark to the small village of Arisaig to see the town veterinarian, Angus McNeil. It was still early evening, but overhead, the stars burned blue.

The doctor was an older man, tall—well over six feet—with a tuft of white hair sprouting from each ear. He might have started out the day with what was left of his hair neatly combed, but now the red and white strands—pink, almost—were standing straight up, like prawn antennae. His features were large and blunt, like an ancient Lewis chess piece. While his long legs were thin, his midsection was full, and he moved like a great circus bear on its hind legs.

“What do you want, lass?” he said, scowling, as she entered the office. His words were spoken with a thick burr, his voice low and rumbling.

“I found a dead sheep on the beach near Arisaig House—” she began.

“If it’s dead, you don’t need a veterinarian.”

Score one for the ginger-haired brute from Barra
. “At first I thought it was one of the neighboring flock that had somehow gotten through a fence and accidentally fallen in and drowned, but it’s from a different flock.”

“So? Could have fallen in somewhere else, then washed ashore near Arisaig House.”

“Then I noticed it was covered in black sores.”

The vet’s face creased. “What kind of black sores?”

“About an inch or two across, looked like blisters.”

“And this sheep—did it have any other markings on it?”

I’m a bloody spy, you addlepated giant
, she thought impatiently.
I’ve been trained not just to see, but to observe. All this idiot sees is a
woman
. “I noticed two triangular-shaped notches in his right ear, and a dot of red paint on his rump.”

“That sheep belongs to Archie MacDonald, then.” The vet rubbed his head, further disturbing his hair. “But his flock doesn’t graze anywhere near the coast.…”

“I just thought someone should know.”

“Yes, yes …” growled the vet, lost in thought. “You didn’t touch the beast, did ye, Doreen?”

“No, I most assuredly did not. And my name’s not Doreen.”

“
Doreen
’s Gaelic for a sourpuss—and your puss is most definitely a sour one.”

From the back room came a mewing sound. “What’s that?”

Maggie asked.

“Stray cat.”

“Is he all right?”

“It’s a cat, miss. I’m a vet—I deal with sheep and cows and horses.
Not
cats.”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

“Pub owner brought him in, didn’t want him hanging around, begging for food. He’s an older cat, not a great mouser. I’d guess he was an indoor cat for most of his life—maybe when his owner died, no one wanted him, so they dumped him in the country. He probably doesn’t have much time left anyway.”

“But why is he here? Are you taking him in?”

The doctor looked down at her from his immense height with a mixture of annoyance and pity. “I’m going to euthanize him, miss. Can’t fend for himself, since he’s a pampered indoor cat. It’s kinder this way, really.”

“What?” Maggie exclaimed. “No!” She pushed past the doctor and opened the door to his office. Two eyes glowed phosphorescent in the darkness. Maggie switched on the light. There, on the vet’s pinewood desk, sat a reddish tabby cat. He was painfully thin,
with rough fur and bald patches and a torn ear. He looked up at Maggie with emerald eyes, pupils narrowing to slits.
Goodness gracious, you look as bad as I feel
, she thought.

“Meh,”
the red tabby proclaimed. The disdainful sound was expressed in a peculiar and irritating nasal tone.

“Meh?”
Maggie looked up at the doctor, who’d followed her in. “I thought cats said
meow.
”

The vet shrugged. “He’s a talker, that one is. Talk your ear off. I think whoever he belonged to lived alone and talked to him. Talked to him day and night, and fed him from her plate. That’s why the old boy’s no good as a mouser. Thinks he’s human, he does.”

Maggie went up to the cat and held out her hand for him to sniff. She knew cats from the Prime Minister’s office, where they roamed freely, along with a few of the Churchills’ dogs.

The cat acquiesced to sniff her hand, then walked close to her. Raising himself on his haunches, he put one paw on her left shoulder and one paw on her right, holding her in place as he looked into her eyes with laser-like intensity. Maggie looked back, slightly disconcerted by the scrutiny.

“Meh,”
he said finally, then dropped back down to all fours and rubbed against her, beginning to purr. Something passed between them; she had passed the test. Although no words had been spoken, Maggie knew, as clear as she knew her name or the day of the week, that she and this cat belonged together. Or, at least, he had chosen her, for whatever reason, and she was powerless to say no.

“Bold as brass, that one,” Dr. McNeil said. “Looks like he’s decided on you. Whether you fancy him or no.”

“I’ll take him,” Maggie said impulsively, scooping him up in her arms. “My little Schrödinger.”

“Don’t know his name, lass.” The cat settled in, purring loudly and glaring at Dr. McNeil.
“Meh!”
the cat spat at him.

“I just meant—” Maggie wasn’t up to explaining the paradox of Schrödinger’s cat.

“Suit yourself, miss,” the vet said, as Maggie turned to leave, cat in her arms. “But don’t think he’ll be catching any mice for you.”

“Come on,” she whispered to the cat, unbuttoning her coat and slipping him inside, where he clung to her, simultaneously purring loudly and glaring at the vet. “We’re going home.”

After she was well out of earshot, Dr. McNeil reached for the telephone. “Put me through to Archie MacDonald’s farm. It’s
urgent.
”