Cat Out of Hell (11 page)

Few of the locals had ever seen Seeward, though. He kept himself to himself, especially after a scandal in 1952 involving a local schoolgirl. The case was never proved, but unsurprisingly, the hoo-ha did nothing to make him less unpopular with his suspicious neighbours. For the last twelve years of his life, he never left the grounds of Harville, and he allowed very few visitors inside. It was believed that he concentrated on reading and curating his impressive collection of arcana, and he also wrote the majority of his books in this period – books that he published privately and circulated secretly.

I checked back on my notes. When was
Nine Lives
written? It was published in 1960. I had to find it. More than that, I had to make sure it never got into the hands (or paws) of the Captain. But why should I be taking sides with Roger? Roger was an evil cat who not only deliberately ignored the sound of a woman dying in a cellar, but also fiendishly urinated on people’s mobile phones as a matter of course to electrocute their insides and destroy incriminating evidence! What should I do? I kept thinking of poor Mary, caught up in this thing purely because she was clever and helpful and organised, and soft-hearted enough to take pity on someone like Winterton. And all this time, while I was trying to think, Watson was being incredibly tiresome, scratching at the study door, and whining to be let out.

“All
right
!” I said, impatiently.

I let him out, and he raced to the kitchen, barking. I went straight back to the computer.

I had decided to have one last trawl on Seeward, and then go to bed. It was midnight by now, but it couldn’t be helped.
When I had finished my research, Watson would have his bedtime chicken treat and we would go upstairs together as we had done every night since Mary died. But before we did that, there was something on YouTube I hadn’t looked at yet, and I had a feeling I shouldn’t overlook it. It had come up when I was looking under “John Seeward, cat mastery,” and it turned out to be a five-minute black-and-white silent film, shot at Harville Manor in the 1930s.

It started with a make-shift stage curtain rigged up in the garden on a sunny day. Seeward, smoking, entered from the left of the screen, and addressed the camera directly. Dressed very smartly in tweed, he had a slim figure and a light step; he might have been about to break into dance. There being no soundtrack, one could only guess at what he was saying. He indicated the curtain, and smiled. A breeze caught the curtain and Seeward waited for everything to settle before continuing. He evidently asked the cameraman if he was ready, then he walked to the right-hand side of the frame, and ceremoniously (with cigarette clamped between his teeth) used both hands to pull a cord to open the makeshift curtain.

Watson was now barking frantically in the kitchen. He was getting quite annoying. I paused the film and called to him. “Watson, stop it! I’m doing something!”

Seeward came forward again to explain, indicating what the curtain had revealed: a covered table with a cage on it. Inside the cage was a rabbit, cheerfully nibbling some lettuce. Seeward opened the cage, gently lifted the rabbit out, and placed it on the table, while putting the cage on the ground. Then he looked to the right, and a large tabby cat jumped up. Seeward beamed at him, and spoke to him. He fondled the cat’s ears, and stroked his fur. The cat pressed its face against Seeward’s chest. All this time, the rabbit (sensibly) backed off; but it didn’t have the requisite athletic skill to jump to the ground
and run away. Seeward placed the rabbit facing the cat – about two feet away. And then, in the blinking of an eye, three things happened. The cat looked up at Seeward, who nodded. The cat made the slightest dart forward with his head, as if hissing. And the rabbit fell back, dead.

Seeward then approached the camera, and went behind it; there was a wobble as the camera was handed over to him; then a second figure – presumably the cameraman, relieved of his duties – walked to the table, to examine the body. He was a pale young lad in agricultural attire, nothing like the sort of person normally seen at Seeward’s house parties.

He looked astonished. He held the rabbit up by the leg. “It’s dead,” he mouthed, looking towards the camera. He pulled a face. Then three things happened very quickly again. The cat looked quickly in the direction of the camera, then made the same small hissing motion as before, and the farmer boy instantly dropped to the ground.

It was the end of the footage. I switched off the computer. There was a buzzing in my head, but otherwise it was quiet. I rubbed my temples and sighed.

It was only then that I realised Watson wasn’t barking any more.

“Watson?” I called. “Watson, where are you? Are you all right?”

There was no response. The house was silent. I stood up and went to the hallway. “Watson? Watson, where are you?” I went to the kitchen – and he wasn’t there. I tried the back door; it was locked. Where had he gone? Why wouldn’t he come when I called him?

“Watson!”

Not a sound. No pitter-pat of claws on the floorboards; no woof; nothing. I shiver of dread went through me. Oh no. Oh no, not Watson. He’s all I have.

“Watson, where are you?”

I stopped breathing and closed my eyes. In all my resolutions about finding Seeward’s book, keeping it from the Captain, and not trusting Roger further than I could throw him, I’d forgotten the most important thing of all: protect Watson. Protect Watson from everything: from evil cats using the hinges of heavy gates as a kind of nutcracking device; from evil cats who could cause instant death with a single application of overpowering malevolence. To lose my dog would be beyond endurance. What had he been barking at, just now? Why hadn’t I paid attention to him?
What had he been barking at?

“Watson!” I called, from the hallway. “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you’re not hurt!”

I stood still and listened. I could barely keep myself from weeping. How Mary had loved him. How we had both loved that little dog. How I needed him now, more than ever.

“Watson?” I tried to say it calmly. And at last I got a response.

“Alec, in here.”

I jumped in the air.

“Alec, in the living room. Don’t turn the light on.”

It was a male voice, with a clipped, authoritative, unflappable tone. I stopped breathing. Who was it? Who was in my house? How had he got in? What had he done with Watson? He was telling me to go into the living room, but I wasn’t obeying. Not because I was brave or defiant, but because in this situation I just couldn’t move my legs.

I forced myself to take a deep breath. “Where’s Watson?” I demanded. “What have you done with him?”

“Listen, we have to get out of here, and I’ve got a plan. Pack enough chicken treats for a fortnight.”

What can I say? It was Watson. And believe it or not, he sounded exactly like Daniel Craig.

PART THREE

CORRESPONDENCE

Email from Alec Charlesworth to William Caton-Pines

Sent:
Thursday, January 15, 4:25 PM

Subject:
Roger

Attachments:
Beside the sea (folder) and HOME (file)

Dear William Caton-Pines,

This is a very difficult email to write. The long and short of it is that I have heard of what happened at Lighthouse Cottage, and much as I have resisted becoming involved in the story of the two individuals known as Roger and the Captain, I find that I am now in it absolutely up to my neck. I have had to leave my house! I’ve had to move into a B & B near the station! It’s really disgusting, too – a big damp patch on the wall above the bed, and an air-freshener on the landing so toxic that I have to carry Watson quickly to our room, for fear the smell will kill him. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there. At least they let me check in after midnight, and have turned a blind eye to the dog. But you don’t want to hear about that. Good God, I’m beginning like Winterton! You don’t even know who I am yet! Rather than explain everything here, I have attached
a folder and a file for you to read – some of which you will be familiar with, as it was written by you in the first place. I think it will make clear everything that’s happened so far. When you have read it all, you will know everything that I know. Which means you will also be aware of many unanswered questions, and many frustrating gaps.

Before you read the attached, I feel I should apologise for some of my “editorialising” in my account of the material in the folder “Beside the Sea” – especially any observations detrimental to yourself. I believe I call you an “idiot” on several regrettable occasions. I had no right to do this. “Staggering stupidity” is a rather inflammatory phrase that leapt out when I was preparing the material to attach with this. On top of this, I noticed an unfounded and speculative reference to “floppy hair” (you might be bald, for all I know), and also remarks such as, “
He really is out of his intellectual depth with Roger
” and “
For once, he makes an intelligent decision
.” I hope you can overlook such uncalled-for slurs. The plain fact is that I did find myself quite captivated by Roger. I can’t help admiring him, even now. I think it was something to do with his educated love of Tennyson’s earlier poetry and his profound aesthetic response to ancient cultural sites. Such intellectual elegance doesn’t come along very often.

I send you all this with a particular purpose. I have a large favour to ask. Since my life is evidently in danger from talking cats with lethal powers who can penetrate academic libraries and engineer the cruel deaths of inoffensive terrier dogs, and since there is no one else in the world with whom I would dare even raise the subject of talking cats – could I persuade you to act as my archivist? I realise I don’t know your current feelings on what happened at the cottage, but please believe that I am appalled and horrified by everything that happened at Lighthouse Cottage to Jo and to the
J-Dog – and to you, too, Wiggy (if I may). I intend that nothing like it shall ever happen again. If I could just feel that the record was being kept somewhere – by you – it would help me face all that has yet to be done. In short, will you be my friend?

Yours sincerely,

Alec Charlesworth, FCLIP

(Fellow of the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals)

Email from Wiggy [Caton-Pines] to Alec Charlesworth

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 10:45 AM

Subject:
Blimey

Dear Alec Charlesworth,

Blimey. How the hell did you get my email address?

Wiggy

Email from Alec to Wiggy

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 11:30 AM

Subject:
Blimey

Dear Wiggy,

I’m afraid a certain cat leaked it to Dr Winterton.

Email from Wiggy to Alec

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 11:37 AM

Subject:
Blimey, Jesus

Alec,

I need to think about this. Jesus. Bit of a bloody shock. Raking it all up again. Wiggy x

Email from Alec to Wiggy

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 11:40 AM

Subject:
Blimey

If you would just read the files, Wiggy. Please.

Alec

Email from Wiggy to Alec

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 6:34 PM

Subject:
All right

All right, sorry that took me a while. I’ve read them, and I have a question.

Email from Alec to Wiggy

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 6:36 PM

Subject:
All right

Go ahead. Anything.

Email from Wiggy to Alec

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 6:39 PM

Subject:
All right

Can your dog really talk, or did you make that up?

Email from Alec to Wiggy

Sent:
Friday, January 16, 6:52 PM

Subject:
Thank you

Dear Wiggy,

Thank you very much for reading the files. It means a lot to me. In answer to your question, no, I didn’t make anything up. However, it might be significant that Watson hasn’t uttered another word since we left the house on Monday night.
Perhaps it was some sort of hallucination brought on by terror. If Watson did have a plan, he hasn’t shared it with me. I’ve had to do all the thinking for both of us – and quite a strain it’s been, I can tell you. It was just the way he said, “Pack enough chicken treats for a fortnight.” If that
wasn’t
Watson, it certainly sounded like the sort of thing he’d say.

I do so hope you decide to help, Wiggy. It took me the best part of two days to write the file entitled HOME, and it was only when I’d finished that I realised how alone I was with this story; how it
wasn’t
a story, really, unless it had someone to read it. Tomorrow night Dr Winterton and I will attempt to purloin the Seeward pamphlet after the library closes. I am sure it contains the answer – otherwise why would the Captain go to such lengths to recover (or destroy) it?