The Cat That Wasn't There Read online

  Colonel Trengove stood rigidly to attention as three tourists trooped down the stairs and out of the museum, with nods of farewell.

  “You can’t say things like that, Betsy,” he said as their footsteps receded. “What if those tourists had heard? I agree that the railing should have been made secure, but who knows if that would even have helped. You seem to want to blame Gertie for this, but the blame lies with Tabitha herself. She should have known better than to go prancing around up there at her age and in her state of health. One can’t even talk meaningfully of blame when someone is becoming as vague and forgetful as Tabitha was. Let’s call it an unfortunate accident, nothing more.”

  “Have the police been around this morning?” Fay asked.

  “They were here earlier,” said the Colonel. “They got Gertie to open up for them. Apparently, they spent nearly an hour going over the whole place before giving the keys back to her.”

  “They didn’t ask her to close the museum for the day or anything like that?”

  “Apparently not. Gertie thought they might, but they said they had everything they needed, and she could open up at ten o’clock as usual.”

  “Is it normal for a volunteer to lock up at two o’clock to keep the public out while she is still inside?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Betsy.

  “Last night when we discovered the body, the lighthouse was locked. Sergeant Jones tried to get in but couldn’t. That suggests that Tabitha either locked the door from the inside while she was alone here, or there was someone else with her who locked the door from the outside when they left.”

  Fay could see them putting two and two together and coming up with four. But the Colonel shook his head.

  “Tabitha could easily have locked herself in from the inside when the last visitor left. I’m not saying that was a usual thing to do, but she was in such a state of confusion that I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “It is an interesting point, though,” said Betsy. “I didn’t think of it like that. I wonder if Tabitha had a set of keys on her when she fell. I haven’t found any lying around here this morning.”

  “I hate to ask this, but it’s what’s being whispered around the village anyway,” Fay began.

  Colonel Trengove cut her off. “You’re wondering if Tabitha could have been suicidal - if she could have jumped deliberately.” When Fay nodded, he continued. “I’m not saying it’s impossible. If she were aware of her deteriorating mental state, it might have caused her to become depressed. But I don’t think it’s likely. She was such a cheerful woman. A real coper.”

  “She seemed distressed recently,” said Betsy. “I don’t know when last you saw her, Harry, but something was definitely troubling her. Not that I believe the suicide theory because I emphatically don’t.”

  “I suppose we’ll never know. An accident or suicide? It makes no odds, really.”

  “Is there a coroner around these parts?” asked Fay.

  “Not really. I believe we fall under St. Ives for such matters, but Sergeant Jones and young Dr. Dyer are usually the ones to make determinations about a cause of death on the island.”

  Betsy gave a dreamy sigh. “Oh, that Dr. Dyer. He looks just like a young George Clooney.”

  Fay swallowed a laugh. Nothing embarrassed David more than being swooned over by the ladies of the island.

  “Do you mind if I take a look upstairs?” she asked. “I like to keep my guests up to date on any new exhibits.”

  “There’s the little gift shop in the top bedroom,” said Betsy. “That’s new.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention it in my blog.”

  Fay wandered up the stairs to the first bedroom. It looked much as she remembered it, with three old-fashioned truckle beds set up for small children, along with a battered old bureau and a porcelain chamber pot. A pitcher and basin had been set up on the bureau for washing. Children’s clothes from the eighteen-fifties had been hung up on a rail.

  The room was basically round, as befitted the interior of a lighthouse.

  Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, so Fay went up to the next bedroom.

  It was more elaborately furnished than the children’s room, but still very sparse. The iron bed with its sagging mattress seemed barely the size of a modern double bed. The lighthouse keeper and his wife would have slept rolled together in a heap in the middle of that mattress. Fay hoped they had been fond of each other.

  She took note of the window Betsy had mentioned. It did indeed provide a view of the sea, but she couldn’t blame Tabitha for wanting to experience the real thing. You practically had to press your nose against the glass to see the ocean.

  The tiny gift shop was more of a gift corner. It included a couple of coffee table books featuring photographs of the island, as well as a paperback history of the lighthouse. There were tea towels with pictures of the lighthouse, and a set of placemats with scenes from Bluebell Island.

  Fay was about to turn away when something caught her eye. She bent to have a closer look.

  It was a small, paperback book in terrible condition - so shop-soiled and battered that the Museums committee would have a hard time convincing anyone to buy it. It was the cover that caught Fay’s attention. She picked it up and stared at a picture of a cat with yellow, lamp-like eyes.

  Chapter 6

  It was a coincidence. It had to be.

  The cat Fay had seen from her car the night before couldn’t possibly be this one. This book had to be twenty years old. Everyone else on the sunset tour had seen the cat too. Its eyes had only glowed because it turned its head to look directly into her headlights. All animals’ eyes glowed if you shone a light at them. It was called eye shine, and it was used by trackers to spot game on nighttime safaris. Fay knew that cats demonstrated a dramatic amount of eye shine because of the reflective layer of tissue behind their retinas that enabled them to see so well in the dark.

  She glanced at the title of the book. “The Legend of Bluff Lighthouse. How dramatic.”

  When Fay and Morwen took tourists around the island, they always played up the idea that Bluff Lighthouse was haunted. It made a good story. It thrilled the children and amused the adults, making the tour more memorable. No one wanted to hear the boring, dry-as-dust facts about lighthouse keeping. They wanted to hear about pirates and shipwrecks and ghosts. Luckily, Bluebell Island had no shortage of those.

  This didn’t mean that Fay believed in ghosts herself. She definitely did not. The cat she had seen the night before had been real. It was either someone’s pet – although the lighthouse was far away from the nearest house – or it was a stray. The fact that it looked exactly like the cat on the cover of this book was pure coincidence.

  Fay stared at the book. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to put it back on the shelf. Perhaps she would buy it just to educate herself about the local legend.

  Keeping the book in hand, Fay walked up the last flight of stairs to the top of the lighthouse.

  The first thing she came across was the historical display showing the old lighting mechanism that had operated for centuries. It had been a manual system, which was why a lighthouse keeper had needed to be in residence all year round. Now it was under the supervision of the harbormaster’s office down by the docks. Still, the light had to be constantly serviced and maintained. Fay wondered who was responsible for that.

  She stepped onto the narrow platform that ran all the way around the great light. It seemed solid enough underfoot. The railing also seemed to be secure, despite Betsy McCloud’s concerns. It was approximately the height of Fay’s hip. At five-foot-seven, she was a medium-to-tall woman. Unless she was mistaken, Tabitha Trott had been a couple of inches shorter than her.

  Was it possible for a frail, old lady with impaired balance – possibly suffering from the flu - to fall over the railing?

  “Hmm.” Fay pushed hard against the railing, feeling its resistance. She tried to imagine herself tripping and falling against it or faint
ing onto it.

  Yes, it was possible, but it wasn’t particularly likely.

  If Tabitha had fallen by accident, Fay would expect to see some damage to the railing – a place where it was loose or insecure, perhaps. She walked all the way around the platform testing the rail and could find no weaknesses.

  It wasn’t the safest construction she had ever seen. She would never bring her guests up here, for example. The possibility of an accident would keep her awake at night.

  Fay peered over the railing to the spot where Tabitha’s body had been found. Like most lighthouses, this one was wider at the base than at the top. Someone who had fallen over the railing would probably have landed right at the base of the lighthouse. Her body might even have struck the side of the lighthouse on the way down. Fay shuddered. It was a horrible thought.

  But Tabitha’s body had been found a few feet away from the base. That was more in keeping with a jumper, or someone who had been pushed. Fay also remembered the pair of eyeglasses that had been found quite a distance from the body.

  “Hmm.”

  She could see what had attracted Tabitha to this platform. It was closed to the general public, but museum volunteers had keys that allowed them to step out here.

  The view was glorious. It must have been one of the best on the island – a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama of the village, the sea, the bay, and the rocky island itself, with its highest peak, Tintagel Mountain, clearly visible in the distance. Even now in June, Tintagel Mountain had snow on its apex. That snowy cap never melted completely – not even on the hottest day.

  Being at the top of Bluff Lighthouse made you feel as if you were on top of the world. Fay wanted to fling out her arms and shout that she was the queen of the world, like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic.

  Laughing at her own fancifulness, she went back inside.

  “I love the little gift shop you’ve started,” she told Betsy when she was back on ground level. “I’ll be sure to mention it in my blog. In the meantime, can I buy this book? It was the only copy I could find.”

  Betsy looked dubious. “You don’t want that old thing. Look how dirty and dog-eared it is. Why don’t you choose a nice set of place-mats instead?”

  “No, thanks. I particularly want this book. I know it’s not in good condition, but it’s the contents I’m interested in, not the appearance.”

  Betsy turned it over to look at the price. “Ten pounds! They must be joking. I’ll tell you what – if you pop two pounds into the collection box, we’ll call it quits.”

  “Thanks.” Fay leaned across to do just that.

  “I’ll get you a paper bag to slip that into.” Betsy stood up. Fay was surprised to see how tall she was. With her round face and halo of white hair, she had seemed much smaller.

  “By the way, the door to the upper platform is standing open. I know the museum committee prefers to keep it locked.”

  Betsy tutted. “That Sergeant Jones is so careless. I specifically warned him to lock it behind him when he and Constable Chegwin went up this morning. Now I’ll have to go up and lock it, and I really don’t like heights.”

  Fay offered to do it for her, but Betsy wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I’ll lock the door quickly without looking down. It won’t take me a moment.”

  Fay got to the doctors’ surgery shortly before one o’clock.

  “Hi, Isobel.” She greeted the receptionist.

  “Fay, love. We’re about to close for lunch. If you want an appointment, I can squeeze you in this afternoon.”

  “No, I’m good thanks. Doc Dyer invited me for lunch.”

  “Ah, that’s lovely. It’s nice that he has taken you under his wing, what with your mum and dad living so far away. Vermont, is it?”

  “Connecticut. And it is nice. He’s been very kind to me.”

  Isobel checked the time. “They should be out in ten minutes or so. Do you want to go into the house and wait for them?”

  “No. Here’s fine, thanks.” Fay sat down in the waiting room. A couple of minutes later, Doc Dyer’s door opened, and he ushered a visibly pregnant woman out.

  “So, I’m not to get on the ferry when I go into labor, Doc?” she asked.

  “Not this time, Mrs. Norris. You can come and have your baby right here. I’ll deliver it just as I’ve delivered hundreds of others, and if there’s any need for a surgical intervention, my David will be on hand to do it, with me assisting him. The days of island women having to endure a ferry ride when they’re in labor are over. We’re bringing this village into the twenty-first century.”

  Mrs. Norris went away looking pleased. Doc Dyer wrote a long instruction in her file. Then another door opened, and David came out, accompanied by a young mother and her toddler son. The mother had her child on one hip and her phone in her other hand. She seemed to be scrolling through Instagram.

  She glanced up at David. “This is the third time he’s done it, Doctor. Why does he keep pushing beads up his nose?”

  “Since you ask, Mrs. Blaise, I think he’s doing it for attention.”

  “Attention? How could he need any more attention? I’m already with him twenty-four hours a day.”

  “He can sense that you’re distracted, Mrs. Blaise. I know it’s hard, but children of his age need a lot of intensive focus. They like to know they have their caregiver’s full attention.”

  Mrs. Blaise’s thumb scrolled busily through her feed. She paused only to tap LIKE on certain posts.

  “I’m a full-time mum, Doctor. I don’t see how I could be giving him any more attention.”

  “You could put your phone down for a start.”

  His tone made her look up. “What’s that?”

  “You barely looked up the whole time I was busy with your son, extracting the bead from his nose. You were too busy scrolling through Facebook. If I find that incongruous, how do you think little Jim here feels about it? He’s hungry for his mother’s attention. That’s why he keeps putting beads up his nose. It’s the only thing that makes you put your phone down and focus on him.”

  “How dare …”

  “And another thing – a child of that age should not have access to tiny objects. Until he turns three, he shouldn’t be playing with anything smaller than a tennis ball. You need to make your home safe for Jimmy, Mrs. Blaise, or you’ll be getting a visit from the social worker.”

  She drew in her breath, her phone forgotten. “You are the rudest man I have ever …”

  “Good day, Mrs. Blaise.” David gave her a nod and turned to his father. “Ready for lunch, Dad?”

  “I am indeed. And here’s Fay to keep us company. I invited her last night. I thought you could share the autopsy results on Mrs. Trott with her.”

  David’s eyes landed on Fay and his face relaxed into a smile. “With pleasure.”

  As Isobel slipped out the front door to go home for lunch, Fay and the Dyers went through to the dining room where the cook had already put their food on the table.

  “You were a little harsh on Mrs. Blaise, weren’t you?” asked Doc Dyer.

  David’s face descended into a frown. “Dreadful woman. I’ve tried being nice to her and she just ignores me. She’s a menace to that poor little boy of hers. I can’t tell you how many times she has brought him in here because he has done something dangerous, supposedly under her supervision. And if she thinks I wasn’t serious about sending a social worker around on a surprise visit, she’ll soon find out that I was.”

  It had always been Fay’s philosophy that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, but she couldn’t help feeling sympathy for David’s point of view. Mrs. Blaise sounded like the kind of person who was overdue for a fright - preferably before her son got seriously hurt.

  David served lamb chops, potatoes, and carrots for everyone and handed the plates around. One taste was enough to convince Fay that Doc Dyer had been right. His cook did have a marvelous way with lamb chops. They were crispy on the outside, and pink a
nd tender on the inside.

  “So, the autopsy,” said David. “What do you want to know in particular, Fay?”

  “I wanted to ask if there was any sign …” Fay broke off. “I’m sorry. It’s awful to talk about this over lunch.”

  Doc Dyer waved a fork in the air. “It’s no problem, my love. We’re both medical professionals and you are a former police officer. There are no civilians present. Please, continue.”

  “Okay then. I wanted to ask if there was any sign that Mrs. Trott might have hit the side of the lighthouse as she fell? Sort of … rebounded off it?”

  David shook his head. “None that I could see. She seems to me to have fallen cleanly onto the ground, landing face first as we found her yesterday. She died instantly on impact. Cause of death was massive internal trauma and head injury.”

  “The poor lady.” Fay didn’t like to think about it. Her years with the NYPD had done nothing to blunt her sensitivity to human trauma and pain.

  “Why were you wondering about that?” asked Doc Dyer.

  “Well, I visited the lighthouse today - I went all the way up to the top. I met Betsy McCloud and Colonel Harry Trengove downstairs in the office. They’re both on the Museums committee.”

  “So is Dad.” David nodded at his father.

  This didn’t surprise Fay. Doc Dyer was on all the major village committees.

  “Let me guess,” said Doc. “Betsy tried to blame the whole thing on Gertie, right?”

  Chapter 7

  Fay couldn’t help smiling.

  “Now, how did you know that?”

  “It’s always the way between those two – Betsy and Gertie. They blame each other for everything. I think they were at school together. They probably got into the habit back then.”

  “How could Betsy McCloud possibly blame Gertie for this?” asked David. “She wasn’t even there as far as anyone knows.”

  “Apparently, Betsy complained about the condition of the safety rail that runs around the platform at the top of the lighthouse.” Fay took a sip of her barley water, a drink she had found strange on first coming to the island, but now enjoyed. “Betsy urged Gertie to have it strengthened or replaced. Gertie claimed that the committee’s budget couldn’t afford it.”