As I had feared, it didn’t take long before the Brighton Type re-emerged. Ingaza must have returned from his ‘holiday’ (aka escape) at about the same time as our mistress, for it was shortly after we had been repatriated by that odd person on a motorbike that he came slithering into the hall one afternoon. The sallow features were a little browner than usual, but other than that his manner was much the same, i.e. offensive (Scrag-arse still being his preferred mode of address to me). Unlike the dog I am not given to soft-soaping humans, and like to think that I made my distaste abundantly clear. This had no noticeable effect – although in one so louche such indifference hardly surprises. However, despite my displeasure I elected to remain in situ as it is always useful to know what these lesser creatures are up to and what absurdities lurk in their fragile minds.
Despite their respective absences, I cannot say that much had changed. There was the usual downing of copious tots of that putrid amber stuff, the sitting room became increasingly smoke-laden, our mistress spoke volubly and Ingaza’s nasal responses were typically oblique.
But what was not oblique was his reluctance to get drawn into any plans she may have regarding the death of that Travers woman. Alas, the Prim’s imagination is becoming increasingly stirred by that particular event (which she is convinced is sinister), and she was clearly keen to engage her guest on the subject. But Ingaza was having none of it, for after listening to the long spiel of her suspicions, he made a few dismissive remarks and then hastily withdrew to his car pleading fatigue after the Tangier trip.
As often mentioned, I am not enamoured of the Brighton Type – but in this instance I felt a twinge of empathy. He had that look in his eye which I suspect may be seen in mine when deluged by one of Bouncer’s more idiotic vagaries: shifty alarm.
After he had gone, I could see that P.O. was none too pleased with the lack of interest, and when the dog sauntered into the room she grumbled loudly. Bouncer of course took not a blind bit of notice and fell into a snuffling stupor on the hearthrug. It was time to seek other diversions and, leaving the pair of them, I went to pursue mild sport among the rhododendrons.
Here I spent a gratifying hour unsettling the hedgehogs and practising my stalking skills. This latter game is not really essential, as having received my O.C. (Order of Cat) some time ago, such skills are well proven. But I enjoy the exercise, and as I frequently have to remind Bouncer it doesn’t do to become complacent … And besides, I think it time that I seriously began to consider the prestigious C.F.E. (Companion of the Feline Empire), thus attention to niceties of the chase is vital. Few cats in this part of Sussex can boast such an award, and I have every intention of joining their exclusive number. It is only right that the family tradition be upheld. To this end therefore I shall seek out Sir Perivale Puss-Coley, a cat of impeccable pedigree and well versed in the honours protocol. If I can elicit his aid all should be well.
Dwelling on these pleasant possibilities and with palate poised for supper, I made my way back to the house. Here I was confronted by Bouncer who insisted on pushing me into a tight corner.
‘I’ve got some news,’ he growled.
‘What news?’ I asked. ‘You’ve been fast asleep. How would you know anything?’
A crafty look came into his eyes and he said, ‘Ah, but you see, Maurice, I only slept for a bit and when I woke up I kept my eyes SHUT. The Prim thought I was sleeping, but I wasn’t: I was LISTENING.’
‘Really?’ I murmured casually. ‘And what did you hear? Little of consequence, I imagine.’
He plonked a paw on a passing beetle, and then said truculently, ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Maurice. I heard something rather important. Still, I can see you want your grub so I won’t bother to die-vulge.’ (Bouncer has only recently learnt the word ‘divulge’ and uses it widely, relevant or otherwise.)
He started to move away but, nettled by his reaction, I summoned him back. ‘Tell me immediately,’ I demanded.
‘No fear,’ he grinned, ‘you might get indigestion. She’s put a whole heap of haddock in your bowl and there’s a saucer of cream, not just that thin stuff.’ He trundled off towards his own bowl, and I was left in a state of tension – hungry for haddock, piqued by his cheek.
Hunger eclipsed pique, and I spent a happy twenty minutes savouring the excellent fare which P.O. had thoughtfully provided. Her offerings are not always so lavish and one frequently has to make do with inferior cod and silver-top milk. As with those earlier sardines, I rather suspect that this current largesse has something to do with our having been uprooted to stay with Ingaza’s friend in Brighton while she vamoosed to foreign parts. Guilt, presumably.
Anyway, having partaken of this feast I felt sufficiently mellow to smile at the dog – a rash gesture for it resulted in his bounding over, butting me in the chest and with merry chortles snatching at my tail. Mercifully the chivvying didn’t last long for it was plain he was eager to talk and, shoving his snout in my ear, he snuffled, ‘I expect you would like to hear my news now, wouldn’t you, Maurice?’
Somewhat winded by the onslaught, I merely nodded my assent.
‘Well,’ he began, sitting on his haunches with paws splayed, ‘when I woke up I heard this deep voice droning on and realized she had got another visitor. So like I said, I lay doggo for a while but then I opened just one crafty eye … and, Maurice, who do you think I saw?’
‘No idea,’ I replied, feeling a bit sleepy.
‘Guess!’ he roared.
I shrugged.
‘It was that person she can’t stand.’
‘Which of the many?’ I enquired.
After the requisite pause for dramatic effect, Bouncer told me. ‘MANUS,’ he boomed, ‘the police geezer, the one she’s got the photos of wearing a bear suit, that one playing silly beggars with the ostrich bint!’
‘So what did he want – his photographs back?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ the dog said scornfully, ‘he doesn’t know she’s got ’em … but I tell you what, Maurice, he soon may.’
‘Really? And why should that be?’
‘Ah well, you see,’ he replied smugly, ‘it’s my sixth sense.’
‘Which doesn’t exist. As I’ve told you before, it is one of those absurd figments of your imag—’
I got no further, for with a lunge and a snarl the dog had pinioned me to the floor. ‘Pax?’ he panted. ‘’Cause if not, you’re as dead as a dormouse and I shan’t tell you a sausage!’
Naturally no self-respecting cat wishes to be likened to a dormouse, whether living or dead; but what really riled me was being kept in the dark – especially by Bouncer. Like my brethren, I am insatiably curious. Thus clamped under his hulking foot, I mewed dulcetly, ‘Proceed. I am all ears!’
For a few moments the dog seemed to ponder; and then, lifting his paw from my chest, he bent his head and said, ‘Well, Manus was burbling something about our old master F.O. and Mrs Fotherington (couldn’t catch what exactly, he speaks funny – but then of course most of ’em do). Anyway, P.O. was looking pretty po-faced, like she does when she’s miffed or putting on a front, and I knew she was rattled. They rambled on for quite a bit; and then after he had drunk some of that awful brown brew they put in cups, he got up and sloped off.’
‘Hmm,’ I observed, ‘I can understand her being rattled about the reference to our late master and his tiresome victim, but what has that to do with MacManus soon learning of the photograph?’
A crafty grin appeared on Bouncer’s face. ‘It’s to do with what I saw after he left and what I sensed.’
‘Oh yes,’ I replied affably, ‘and what was that?’
‘The moment he had gone, her face went all red and angry like it does when I’ve nabbed a cake from the table. And then she rushed to her desk and pulled out those pictures, stared at them and muttered, “Huh! Any tricks and I’ll wave these under his nose. Repellent basket!”.’ The dog chuckled, and added, ‘Now those are two words that I really do understand. It’s what she often says about my bed in the kitchen … But what I learned from our old master the vicar, and since living here, is that humans also say basket when they mean bastard or rotten blighter. Isn’t that right?’
I agreed that it was and complimented him on his deduction. The tail wagged and he continued, ‘So it’s my belief that the police geezer has been doing some snooping about F.O.’s hand in the old girl’s death – sort of putting his hooter in where it’s not wanted. And what’s more, I think if he goes on like that the Prim will jolly well give him a BIG KICK and spill the beans! So how about that, Maurice?’ Bouncer gave an excited snort, scrabbled inelegantly in his nether regions, and then with fixed gaze awaited my response.
‘Hmm … on the whole,’ I mused, ‘you could be right. After all, why has she kept the photographs all this time unless for some purpose? There’s enough clutter in that desk as it is, without its being added to by images of MacManus dressed in a bear’s outfit and romping with a pantomime ostrich encased in pink sequins.’ I gave a sharp hiss and flicked my tail. ‘It just goes to show that my noble grandfather was so right in his dictum that omnes homines insanitos sunt.’
I flashed Bouncer an indulgent smile – but have to admit to being not only startled but a trifle put out when he replied solemnly, ‘Oh yes, Maurice, off their blithering rockers, they are.’
Well, really, I thought, since when did the dog understand Latin? And then of course I remembered. He had picked it up from the church crypt in Molehill, the Surrey parish where we had lived with the vicar. Bouncer had developed a liking for that dark place and would retire down its tortuous steps to gnaw his foul bones and to meditate – i.e. to brood on rabbits. He used to say that being in the dark soothed his nerves. (Nerves? The dog hasn’t a nerve in his body!) Anyway, he would spend long periods there, consorting with the ghosts and gazing at the inscriptions on ancient plaques and tombs. It was during these interludes that he had absorbed a number of Latin phrases which occasionally he would repeat. But since our coming to Lewes and living with F.O.’s sister, such classical relics had seemed to evaporate and one had heard no more.
Thus, it just goes to show how things learnt at an impressionable age never quite desert us but remain embedded in the psyche … even in the outlandish psyche of dogs.