The Tale of Castle Cottage (22 page)

And that, the captain saw, was the end of that, and there was no point in asking any more questions—at least, at this moment. As he left, however, he did take Mr. Biddle’s suggestion and stepped around the back of the house to the kitchen, where Mrs. Framley was kind enough to show him three smallish brown trout, very fresh, laid out to keep cool on the marble slab in the dairy room, awaiting their appointment with the frying pan. According to Mrs. Framley, the fish had been there when she arrived back from her old dad’s, who was better today, thank you verra much, and even better yet for enjoying an unexpected visit from his daughter that morning. And wa’n’t it sweet of Mr. Biddle to suggest that she go?

But as the captain remarked to himself, getting into his motorcar and driving down the lane, one fresh brown trout looked pretty much like another. There was no telling whether these three had been caught in Moss Eccles Tarn this morning or purchased from the fish vendor’s boy, who always drove his blue-painted cart through the village at eleven on Monday and Thursday mornings.

And if the captain doesn’t know, I’m sure I don’t, either.

14

Crumpet Takes Command

At the same hour that Bertram Potter was on his way back to the ferry and his date with destiny at Lindeth Howe, and Captain Woodcock was investigating the three brown trout in Mr. Biddle’s kitchen, Crumpet was marshalling her forces. Or rather, she was attempting to, but without a great deal of success.

Throughout the afternoon, the gray cat had continued her survey of the village, gathering more reports of mysterious break-ins, petty kitchen and dairy thievery, and even a case of grand larceny. (Mr. Leach’s grandfather’s gold watch and fob was missing from its hook on the walnut bureau mirror in the bedroom at Buckle Yeat Cottage, where it hung when Mr. Leach wasn’t wearing it.) And Sarah Barwick was still tearing her hair out over her bakery accounts. When she finally got them unscrambled (which might not be for another week or two), it would be seen that she was missing at least twelve bob from her cash box.

Well. When all these misdemeanors and felonies were tallied up, they made for a frighteningly long list. Crumpet felt that she did not need a Sherlock Holmes to tell her that the village had been inundated by a crime wave of unprecedented proportions, and that she—as president of the Village Cat Council—should most assuredly have to do something about it. And since she was the
new
president, and this was her first significant challenge, whatever she did should be exceptionally fine and outstanding. (If you are thinking that this is an abrupt departure from the more . . . shall we say, sedentary style of her predecessor, Tabitha Twitchit, you are correct. Crumpet is out to make her mark on the world.)

So she had called an unusual meeting of the Executive Committee of the Council in the shed at the foot of the Rose Cottage garden. It had proved rather difficult to get the committee together, since Tabitha Twitchit (who still served on the Executive Committee) had to come all the way from the Vicarage, and Treacle—a motherly orange tabby who lived just across the lane at the Llewellyns’—had to ask Felicity Frummety to mind her kittens. This small group obviously wasn’t the police force Crumpet knew she needed, but perhaps it could function as a decision-making body.

“Well, then,”
Tabitha Twitchit said cattily. Tabitha was a plump, elderly calico with an orange and white bib, who—even though she was no longer president—still fancied herself in charge of things.
“What’s it all about, eh?”
She scowled.
“I should like to remind you, Crumpet, that during my tenure as president, I never, ever called a meeting of the Executive Committee before teatime. It just isn’t
done.
”
With a resigned sigh, she examined a paw.
“Although, of course, you’re new to the presidency, so allowances must be made. Do remember, though, for future reference. No meetings before teatime.”

Yes, indeed: sedentary. The older Tabitha got, the lazier she became. I daresay that both you and I have been acquainted with a great many such cats. There is such a one sitting on my foot as I write these very words.

Crumpet narrowed her eyes.
“I do not believe, Tabitha,”
she retorted,
“that during your tenure as president, the Council ever faced such a dire and dangerous dilemma as the one that confronts the village now. We have to come up with a workable solution, and quick, before we are completely overwhelmed!”

“I sincerely hope,”
Treacle put in plaintively,
“that this won’t be a very long meeting. I need to get home as quickly as I can. Felicity was the only minder I could get on such short notice, and I’m not at all sure I trust her with those kittens. She means well, but she’s never been a mother and has no idea of the mischief a kitten can get up to when nobody’s looking. What’s the problem, Crumpet?”

“Don’t worry, Treacle,”
Tabitha said in a comforting tone
. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it isn’t nearly as ‘dire and dangerous’ a dilemma as Crumpet is making it out to be.”
She gave a scoffing meow.
“ ‘Overwhelmed,’ indeed. Our friend has always been prone to exaggeration, you know. The worse a thing looks, the better she likes it. A regular kitty Cassandra.”

“Cassandra?”
Treacle looked around, puzzled.
“Cassandra? Who’s she? I don’t believe I’ve met her.”

“I have never understood this personality quirk myself,”
Tabitha went on reflectively.
“Personally, I am very much a realist. I like to see a thing entirely as it is, without any exaggeration. I make it a rule never to cry wolf unless I myself have seen the paw prints and smelt the horrid creature. I am speaking metaphorically, of course,”
she added with a superior sniff.
“We have not had wolves here in my lifetime. And in the absence of proof, I should have to say that our Crumpet is making a ‘dire and dangerous’ mountain out of an innocent little molehill.”

This did not sit well with Crumpet.
“Well, as far as metaphorical wolves are concerned,”
she replied hotly,
“I will tell you that—”

But whatever Crumpet was about to say was drowned out by the deafening rattle and clatter and pot-banging at the back door of Rose Cottage, to the accompaniment of shrill female shrieks. It was young Mrs. Pemberton, who with her husband and infant daughter had recently moved into Rose Cottage. (You may remember that this was the cottage where Grace Lythecoe had lived with Caruso the canary before she married Vicar Sackett and moved to the Vicarage.)

Hearing the racket, all three cats rushed to the shed door, to see brave little Mrs. Pemberton on her back stoop with a broom in her hand.

“Out!” she cried, swinging the broom so hard that it nearly pulled her off her pretty feet. “Get out of here, you dirty, nasty, wicked creature! Out!”

And across the garden, with a perfectly calibrated insouciance, sauntered the largest rat Crumpet had ever seen. He was very nearly as large as herself, with a sleek gray coat and neat paws, and a long, proud tail. He was carrying a cheese over one shoulder. A string of dried peppers was draped like a scarf around his neck. Balanced on his head, like a rakish brown hat, was a raisin-studded scone.

Now, the cats could not have known what this rat portended, but I am sure that you do. For this was no other than Jumpin’ Jemmy, one of Rooker’s boys, and the fastest rat in the pack.

Crumpet stared at the rat. The rat stared back. And then, incredibly, the filthy fellow gave her a broad, tantalizing wink and a seductive grin that showed crooked yellow teeth.

“Ah, kittee, my leetle love,”
he crooned in a phony French accent.
“Come, my sweet, let us rrrun away together. I’ll even show you where old Rooker’s rat gang lives!”

At that moment, Mrs. Pemberton looked up and saw the three cats sitting in the shed doorway, staring with stunned amazement at the rat.

“Get him!” she shrieked. “You lazy, good-for-nothing cats, get t’ wretched beast! Kill him!”

Perhaps you have been in a similar situation. You have opened the kitchen door and seen a mouse, or even large rat, helping himself to a cupcake or chewing open the corner of a package of pasta. And nearby, washing her paw or looking up at the ceiling or humming a little tune, sits your cat. Your lazy, good-for-nothing cat. So I am sure that you know exactly how Mrs. Pemberton felt about the members of the Executive Committee of the Village Cat Council.

But Crumpet was made of sterner stuff than her colleagues. Stung by the words “lazy” and “good-for-nothing” and infuriated by the rat’s bold wink and insulting taunt, she snarled, unsheathed her claws, and leapt into action. The rat glanced casually over his shoulder without a trace of fear. Then, at a speed that Crumpet found utterly astonishing, he ran straight for a gap between two boards in the back fence and darted through, still carrying his ill-gotten gains. Crumpet, chagrined, flung herself at the top of the fence but could not quite scale it. With an ignominious
whump!
she thudded to the ground.

In the backyard of the village shop next door, Lydia Dowling had been pinning up damp tea towels on her clothesline. Now, hearing her neighbor’s lamentations, she rushed to the fence.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Pemberton? What’s happened?”

“It’s a rat!” Mrs. Pemberton cried. “A huge, horrendous, hideous rat! He’s been into my cheeses, an’ he’s made off with t’ very best one! And a scone an’ my peppers, too.” Her voice rose even higher. “And just look at those worthless cats—three of them! They sat there like dunces an’ let t’ beast get away! They’re not worth t’ food we feed ’em.”

“We were taken by surprise,”
Crumpet replied defensively, as she limped back to the shed.
“I don’t think you understand what we’re up against, Mrs. Pemberton. This is going to require a concerted effort. Effort and planning. And troops, as well. Troops who are a match for the enemy.”
Her right shoulder hurt horribly and she was sure she had sprained it, attempting to leap that fence.
“But at least I tried,”
she added, glaring at Tabitha and Treacle.
“You lot didn’t even budge. I call that cowardly, I do.”

“He was HUGE,”
Treacle retorted with a shudder.
“Revolting! Disgusting! And I have to put my kittens first, don’t I, Crumpet? If I had been injured or killed going after that rat, who would take care of my babies?”

Tabitha smiled a lazy, Cheshire-cat grin.
“You were frightfully brave, Crumpet. But I’m sure you don’t expect a dowager cat of my years to actually chase a rat. You are so much younger and faster on your feet than I am, and you obviously gave that filthy fellow a run for his money. But fleet as you are, even
you
couldn’t catch him, now, could you? So you can’t expect me to do it for you.”

“I am so sorry,” Lydia Dowling condoled, leaning her forearms on the fence. “I wonder if it’s t’ same filthy rat that stole t’ sausages from t’ shop last night. And marrows, too—half a bin of ’em!”

“And Hannah Braithwaite told me this morning,” Mrs. Pemberton said, “that something pulled the lid off her pickle crock during t’ night an’ stole every last one of t’ little cucumbers she was savin’ to make sweet pickles with.”

“It’s an invasion,” Lydia said darkly. “That’s wot it is. They probably came in on a lorry or in the back of t’ brewer’s cart.” She shook her head. “Rats are bad trouble. And our village cats’re all too fat an’ lazy to do anything about ’em.”

“Well, something’s got to be done, Mrs. Dowling,” Mrs. Pemberton replied in a determined voice, “or us woan’t have a single cheese left. Nor pickles nor scones, neither.” She raised her broom and pointed it at the cats. “An’ you fat, lazy beasts doan’t need to look for any treats from me,” she cried. “Not until you take charge of those rats. An’ that’s a fact, that is! A pure fact.”

“Wot a grand idea, Mrs. Pemberton,” Lydia said approvingly. “We must all stop feeding t’ cats. When they get hungry enough, they’ll kill t’ rats an’ eat ’em. We’ll tell everybody in t’ village. No food for cats ’til t’ rats are gone.”

“No food?”
Treacle cried.
“I’m a nursing mother. If I don’t eat, how will I feed my babies?”

“Let them eat rats,”
Crumpet growled.
“And you, too.”

“My goodness,”
Tabitha muttered under her breath.
“No supper? I certainly hope they don’t hear of this at the Vicarage.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to miss a meal or two,”
Crumpet retorted sharply. Tabitha had gained several pounds since she’d resigned the Council presidency and moved to the Vicarage.

“No food,” Lydia said in a definitive tone, and left the fence.

“No food,” Mrs. Pemberton agreed heartily, and went back inside and shut her door.

“Oh, dear,”
Tabitha cried.

“Yes,”
Treacle meowed piteously.
“My babies will starve!”

“Can’t you see?”
Crumpet shrilled.
“Forget food! Food is a minor consideration! That rat is the proof you were asking for, Tabitha. I am no Cassandra. I did not exaggerate. Those rats have broken into nearly every cottage in the village, taking food, valuables, even money—anything that the beasts can carry off.”

Tabitha cleared her throat.
“I suppose we do have a problem,”
she said reluctantly.

“Indeed we do,”
Crumpet replied.
“We must recommend a plan to the Council. But we have to take our resources into account. The village cats are in no position to take action. They are simply too weak and untrained. And lazy.”
She did not add “Like the two of you,” but the accusation could be read in her manner. She looked from one to the other.
“Well? I’m open to suggestions. What sort of plan do you think we should recommend? If we need a police force—it looks to me like we do—who should we recruit?”

There was a long silence, during which nothing could be heard except for the loud buzzing of a fly trapped against the window. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.