The Cat That Wasn't There Page 5

  “Gertie is rather a tight-wad, as you Americans would say,” said Doc Dyer. “That’s what makes her a good committee chairman.”

  “You say you went all the way up to the top, Fay?” said David. “What did you notice?”

  “The rail seemed sturdy enough. It wasn’t loose or broken. I walked right around to test it. But I can see why they don’t let the general public up there. It’s not exactly safe. The rail is low and the drop to the ground is very high.”

  “High enough to kill a person instantly, as we’ve seen.”

  “Exactly. I’d certainly hate to see small children up there. But I still can’t quite picture what happened to Tabitha Trott.”

  “Could she have fainted or been overcome by vertigo?” asked David.

  “I suppose it’s possible. That’s the line that Colonel Trengove was pushing. He thinks she was frail and shaky on her legs, and also becoming forgetful. He thinks it was an accident.”

  “The last time I saw her, she seemed unwell,” said Doc Dyer. “Someone speculated that she might have the flu, but she refused to let me examine her. You don’t sound convinced about the accident theory.”

  “How tall was Tabitha Trott, would you say?”

  “About five-foot-two,” said David.

  “Then that’s the thing. The rail would have come up to her waist. It’s not that easy to tip over a barrier that comes up to your waist. Your center of gravity would keep you from toppling over. If she had fainted, I would have expected to find her lying in a heap on the platform.”

  “She had no other injuries,” said David. “There was a bruise on her right shin which seemed to be a few days old. There was no head injury and no indication that she struck anything else on the way down.”

  “That’s the other thing I noticed when I was up there. The lighthouse is considerably wider at the base than at the top. If someone fell straight down, I would expect them to hit the side of the lighthouse on the way down, or at least land very close to the base.”

  “Whereas poor Tabitha Trott cleared the base by several feet.” Doc Dyer helped himself to more carrots. “Yes, I see what you mean. It’s more consistent with jumping than with falling, isn’t it?”

  “Or with being pushed,” said Fay. “A good, hard shove between the shoulder blades would also carry you beyond the base of the lighthouse.”

  Father and son looked dubious.

  “Who would have wanted to do that to a nice old lady like Tabitha?” asked David. “She had no money apart from her pension, which would stop with her death. Unless she had some secret assets that I’m not aware of, I can’t see money as the motivation.”

  “A crime of passion, perhaps?” suggested Doc Dyer.

  Fay thought about this. “I suppose passion can strike at any age, but that’s not coming into focus for me.”

  “Picture this,” said David. “Colonel Trengove – late of Her Majesty’s armed forces – is torn between Betsy McCloud and Tabitha Trott. He decides to eliminate one of them to end his torment.”

  Fay laughed. “Still not coming into focus.”

  Doc shrugged. “When you get to be Tabitha’s age, irritation can be as powerful a motivator as passion. She was about seventy-five, right? That’s the age at which little things can start to bother you a lot. Noisy neighbors, barking dogs, a chatty friend. Those things can drive you crazy. Maybe someone got so annoyed with Tabitha that they acted impulsively and pushed her off the platform.”

  Fay considered this. “Well, the motive certainly wasn’t robbery. The cash box was standing there unlocked with about three hundred pounds in it.” She turned to David. “Can you tell from the autopsy whether she fainted before she hit the ground? And also what her mental condition was?”

  “I can’t tell whether she was unconscious or not. It’s quite common for people to faint when they’re falling to their deaths. As for her mental condition, what exactly do you mean?”

  “Colonel Trengove seemed to be suggesting that Tabitha was going senile. He said she was forgetful and making mistakes and that she should have been removed from the committee months earlier. Betsy dismissed what he was saying, but not very convincingly. It was almost as though she didn’t want to face the truth.”

  “She certainly didn’t consult me about any memory problems,” said David. “What about you, Dad?”

  “No, but I’d heard rumors, even though I sometimes don’t manage to attend all the committee meetings. There was some mix-up with the filing system at the lighthouse museum. Betsy tried to cover for her, but it all came out in the end. Tabitha was very distressed about that. She said she couldn’t understand how it had happened.”

  “Advanced dementia can show up in the brain,” said David. “Especially on magnetic resonance imaging. You can see signs of multiple infarct syndrome, or atrophy of the hippocampus, or vascular white matter hyperintensities, or whatever the case may be. But these are difficult to spot in the early stages of dementia. I didn’t see any signs when I did the autopsy, but that doesn’t mean much if it wasn’t advanced yet. In another few years, her brain might well have been showing signs.”

  Fay digested this in silence. Lunchtime was nearly over, and she had only slightly more information than she’d had earlier. Her hand bumped against her jacket that was hanging over the back of her chair. She felt something solid hit her arm and remembered the journal she had tucked into her pocket that morning.

  She drew it out and laid it on the table between them. “Take a look at this. It arrived in the mail for me this morning. There was no note or explanation, but the envelope was addressed to me personally.”

  “Well, it’s clearly a diary.” David paged through it carefully, tilting it so that his father could also see. “Dating from the beginning of this year until two days ago. Each entry is signed with a capital T.”

  “I was wondering if it might have come from Tabitha. I know it sounds far-fetched, but why would someone send me an anonymous diary? Is there any way we can confirm whether it came from her?”

  Doc Dyer stood up. “Excuse me a moment.” He left the table without explanation.

  “Fascinating.” David was absorbed by the diary. “There’s no indication if it’s a man or a woman, but I’m leaning towards woman. Each day is so detailed, but mainly with her own thoughts and emotions. And she refers to people by their initials rather than their names, so that’s a guessing game too. It would take hours to figure out what’s going on here.”

  “And why me? I’m new to the island. I haven’t even been here a full year. Why would someone address this specifically to me?”

  David thought about this. “The diary is a mystery, isn’t it? It’s a puzzle to be solved. And you have gained a reputation for being good at puzzles. Maybe this person wants you to get to the bottom of something.”

  They looked up as Doc Dyer came back into the dining room.

  “I’m so glad I kept this.” He looked pleased with himself. “It’s the Articles of Association of the Museums and Heritage Sites committee. Gertie has the original, but I kept my copy. It outlines the duties and responsibilities of each member of the committee, and we all signed and dated it. This is from a few years ago, but people’s handwriting doesn’t change. This should tell us whether that diary was written by Tabitha or any other member of the committee.”

  He opened the document to its last page where the signatures appeared. Fay knew immediately that they had hit the jackpot.

  “Yes! Look at that. She used a fountain pen back then too. This is clearly her handwriting. The capital ‘T’ for ‘Tabitha’ and ‘Trott’ is exactly the same.”

  “I agree,” said David. “This journal was clearly written by the same person who signed the Articles of Association. She might even have used the same pen.”

  “It’s pretty compelling,” agreed his father. “But this is what we used to call copperplate writing in the old days. It was a standardized form of writing. It was also a way of disguising your own handwrit
ing. It was the 19th Century equivalent of writing in block capitals. But there are very few people who can still write in copperplate these days, so I think it’s fairly conclusive that this diary was written by Tabitha.”

  “And look here,” said Fay, who had been Googling copperplate on her phone as he spoke. “The capital T in copperplate is quite different. Tabitha’s T is unique. And see this little flourish she adds at the bottom? That seems pretty distinctive to me.”

  Father and son compared the image on her screen with the journal and the signature on the Articles of Association. They nodded. It was a unique flourish.

  “Now the question remains why,” said Doc. “Why would she send this to you the day before her death? And without a word of explanation?”

  “Maybe she meant to add a note but forgot,” suggested David. “Or maybe she intended to call round to Penrose House the next day, but never made it.”

  “Or,” said Fay. “She knew her life was in danger and wanted to get this to me before anyone could stop her.” She knew her explanation sounded far-fetched, but the fact remained that Tabitha was dead.

  “You’ll figure it out, Fay love.” Doc Dyer patted her arm. You’re good at this kind of thing.”

  “What I should really do is hand it over to the police without loss of time,” said Fay. “Especially now that I’m almost sure it came from Tabitha.”

  Both Dyers pulled a face.

  “Only if you never want to see it again,” said David.

  “That’s right,” said Doc. “It will get locked up in that Aladdin’s cave they call an evidence room and never be seen again. Tabitha wanted you to have this, Fay. I think you should respect her last wishes.”

  The police officer in Fay remembered how she would have felt about a civilian withholding evidence. She made up her mind.

  “No. I can’t keep this. I’m going to give it to Sergeant Jones.”

  Chapter 8

  The Dyers weren’t taking this lying down.

  “This is how I see it,” said David. “If Tabitha had wanted her private diary to be in the hands of the police, she would have sent it to them. Instead, she sent it to you. I think you should ask yourself why.”

  “That’s right,” said his father. “And besides, this was sent to you before Tabitha’s death. It might have nothing to do with what happened to her. It’s not necessarily direct evidence in her death.”

  Fay could feel herself weakening. It went against the grain to turn over the biggest clue they had to Sergeant Jones, knowing that it would probably be consigned to a dusty evidence room.

  “Oh, all right then,” she said. “You’re a bad influence – both of you. Soon you’ll have me lying to the authorities too.”

  Doc smiled. “If Sergeant Jones asks you directly for that diary, you can give it to him. In the meantime, you should read it and find out as much as you can about Tabitha’s last days.”

  David stood up. “And we should get back for afternoon surgery.”

  Fay spent the afternoon catching up on paperwork and admin.

  There was a lot to be done. Checking items off her to-do list as she went, she ordered supplies, paid salaries, answered emails, and updated her blog.

  She had promised Betsy McCloud and Colonel Trengove that she would give their gift shop some publicity, so she did. She included it in a blog on island gift shops and illustrated it with photographs of some of the useful and attractive items one could buy on Bluebell Island, including the book entitled The Legend of Bluff Lighthouse. It wasn’t easy to photograph the cover in a way that concealed how shop-soiled it as, but Fay made a creditable attempt.

  So far, the book was mostly a history of lighthouse keeping on the island. It contained tantalizingly little about the legend mentioned in the title, and nothing at all to explain why there was a cat with lamp-like eyes on the cover. Fay would read further before bed that evening in the hope of discovering more.

  When she had finished the blog, she posted the link across all her social media. The Cat’s Paw B&B had its own Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest accounts.

  It was nearly four o’clock when she had finished, so she went downstairs to help Morwen set up for tea.

  The two meals that were served at the Cat’s Paw on a daily basis were breakfast and afternoon tea. Whenever possible, Fay tried to put in an appearance at both. It was a good way to get to know her guests personally and to listen to any complaints they might have. They liked knowing they were getting personal attention from the owner and that she had baked their teatime treats herself. It was one of the personal touches that made the Cat’s Paw special.

  As Fay carried platters of her chocolate brownies with their white chocolate drizzle up to the residents’ lounge, Morwen followed with the tea tray. The coffee maker was warmed up and ready to go, and the hot water urn bubbled away.

  Within minutes, the guests started trickling in and Fay put her game face on. It was time to be the perfect hostess. With Morwen’s help, she worked the room like pro.

  At five o’clock, she slipped out of the lounge to get ready for Mrs. Binnie’s visit. Maggie’s mother was coming to meet the kittens. Maggie appeared from the kitchen where she had been helping to load the dishwasher.

  “Mum just texted me. She’s on her way. She is super excited. It’s been four months since our old cat Tiddles died. Mum misses her dreadfully and is really excited at the idea of getting a kitten.”

  “And I’m excited that one of them will be going to such a good home.”

  Fay had already done a home inspection. Maggie’s family lived on a plot of land where they grew organic fruits and vegetables. It was set way back from any busy roads. There was already a cat flap installed in the kitchen door, so the cat could have the run of the house and gardens.

  Tiddles had lived a long and happy life there before dying of old age at eighteen. She had also been a Penrose House rescue kitten – one of Fay’s grandmother’s strays.

  They heard a car pull up in the driveway and went down to meet her.

  “Mrs. Binnie,” said Fay. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Hello, Fay love. And Mags too. Take my coat and bag, Maggie. There’s a love. I want my hands free to play with these kittens.”

  Fay led Mrs. Binnie up to her bedroom where the kittens were wide awake and chasing each other up and down the cat-trees.

  “Oh, aren’t they sweet? Aren’t they darling? Look at that one with the dark brown coat – so unusual.”

  “That’s Cinnamon. I called her that because she is exactly the color of cinnamon and has a spicy personality to match.” Fay hoped this didn’t sound like a hard sell.

  “And who’s the little black-and-white one she’s chasing?”

  “That’s Freddie. I gave him his name because something about his face reminded me of Freddie Mercury.”

  Fay bent and picked up Cinnamon as she hurtled past. “Would you like to hold her?”

  “I certainly would.” Mrs. Binnie held out her hands eagerly.

  Fay was pleased to see that Cinnamon relaxed in her arms and started to purr. She had worked hard to make sure that the kittens were as affectionate and well socialized to humans as possible.

  “Isn’t she lovely? I was thinking of getting another female. In memory of my Tiddles, you know.”

  “Sure. The girls are adorable. So sweet and gentle.”

  But Mrs. Binnie was also looking longingly at Freddie. He had sat down next to her foot, wondering where his playmate had disappeared to.

  Mrs. Binnie sighed. “I was only going to get one, but Maggie’s dad said what about two.”

  Maggie picked up Freddie and turned him to face her mother. “They’d be company for each other, Mum.”

  Freddie stretched his neck and began to lick Cinnamon behind her ears.

  “Those two have always had a special bond,” said Fay. “I’d love to see them go together.”

  Mrs. Binnie’s eyes were shining. “I’ll take them. I’ll take the
m both. Dad is going to be so pleased, Maggie.”

  Maggie dropped a kiss on Freddie’s head. “Me too. I just wish we could take them home with us right now.”

  Now that it was a done deal, Fay could relax.

  “You’ll be getting them soon, I promise. I’ll take them to be vaccinated, and then keep them for a couple of days to make sure there’s no reaction. After that, they’re all yours. I’ll let you have the two of them for a hundred and fifty pounds. That’s a discount of fifty pounds because you’re taking two.”

  Mrs. Binnie nodded. Fay was continuing her grandmother’s policy of selling her cats rather than giving them away for free. Mrs. Penrose always said that people didn’t appreciate anything they got for free.

  “The kittens will come with a prepaid voucher to have them sterilized at the vet. I’ll call you when they’re about five and a half months old to remind you to take them.”

  Mrs. Binnie nodded. “It’ll be done. The last thing we want is a litter of unwanted kittens.”

  Fay felt rather pleased with herself.

  Her first attempt at homing kittens had been successful. Now she just had to find homes for Tigger and Zorro, and she would be batting a thousand. She already had some ideas about that. She would just have to be strategic in her approach.

  But right now, Tabitha’s diary was calling her. Somewhere in that mass of obscure detail there lay a clue that would help Fay figure out what had happened to her.

  She went back into the now-empty residents’ lounge and opened the sliding doors leading onto a balcony that stretched across the length of the house. The wind had finally dropped. It was quite pleasant out there. From her vantage point, Fay could see Bluff Lighthouse to the north and Penhale Lighthouse to the south. Together, they had the job of guiding ships safely around the island.