They found Kit Rexroth on her own, Tip, the husband, absent in the City, performing whatever financial wizardry had made them rich.
Wiggins produced his warrant card, holding it close enough to Kit’s face that she could have kissed it.
“Something else, Superintendent? I can’t imagine anything we didn’t tell you the other night. Will you sit down? Will you take tea?”
The question barely had time to leave her mouth before Wiggins stepped on it, saying, yes, they would.
“Not if it’s any trouble,” Jury tacked on, loving the accusatory look he got from his sergeant. Traitor.
“Not for me, it isn’t. I’m not fixing it.” From the table between them, she raised a tinkly little bell.
Jury thought the summoning bell was a fairy story, but apparently not. A maid entered as if she’d been at the door just waiting. Kit asked for tea and some of “those little cakes the cook is hoarding.”
A slight bow. An exit.
The myth of the English country house and its workings seemed to be right here in the flesh. But of course it didn’t really exist. Staff should hide their dissatisfaction, unlike the maid, who looked as if she were sucking a lemon. Would she spit in the tea?
“What is it, then, Superintendent?”
There was no hostility in the tone, just honest curiosity.
“Your party, Mrs. Rexroth…”
She looked off, bemused. “You mean the night of the murder? Whether I saw that young woman? Whether she was here?”
“No. You’ve answered that. This is about another guest: Harry Johnson.”
“Harry Johnson.” She again looked bemused. “I don’t believe… well, there were a lot of people here, as you know, friends of my husband or even friends of friends.”
“Still, you claim the dead woman wasn’t.”
“No. What I claim is I would have known her had she been. A very striking woman. But this Harry Johnson-”
“He was on your guest list. He’s tall, about my height, very blond hair, very blue eyes. He said that your husband often lunched in a pub in the City called the Old Wine Shades.”
She rubbed the tips of her fingers against her chin, eyes narrowed. “I can ask Tip.”
“Johnson said he was here, that he knew you, albeit slightly.” Why would he lie about something so easy to check up on? Perhaps because it wasn’t really that easy. He’d been here only an hour, Harry had said. Given the large number of guests, it would have been possible that his hosts hadn’t seen him. They were an easygoing couple to the point of being vague. Well, if Kit was vague, Harry could always be vaguer.
Tea arrived and was drunk, heartily by Wiggins, despite his earlier three cups. Following this, they left.
“Was he at that party or not?” Jury said, more to himself than to Wiggins. They were sitting in the Black Cat, eating pub food.
“He was invited, that’s clear. But Harry Johnson likes to play games.”
Jury let out a half-laugh. “You’re right there. He certainly likes to tell stories.” He called to mind that Gothic tale of Winterhaus, that story within a story within a story. It was Melrose Plant who had pointed out all of those concentric rings moving away from the center each time a fresh stone was skipped in the widening water of Harry’s story.
“Plant wonders if Harry Johnson’s elaborate story really had anything to do with the murder of Rosa Paston.”
Wiggins was having fish and chips. He stopped a limp chip on its way to his mouth. He thought for a moment, said with a shrug, “Maybe he’s right.”
Jury dropped his knife on his plate. “Don’t be daft, Wiggins!” He went back to his bread and cheese and Branston pickle.
“If he wasn’t at that party, why would he say he was? Does he want you to suspect him?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s winding me up. He wants to see how I’d work it out.”
“So much that he’d have you think he had something to do with Mariah Cox’s murder?” Wiggins shook his head. “The man must be barmy.”
Jury smiled. “Right. That point’s already been settled, Wiggins.”
Mungo trotted out to the kitchen and trotted back to the music room. She’s out of the kitchen, so let’s eat dinner; we have a lot to do.
Morris was slow to follow him; Morris did not want to do a lot, especially his, as Mungo’s “lots” were so complicated.
“Come on, Mrs. Tobias could be back in a minute.”
Morris moved quicker.
In the kitchen, across the granite countertop, a profusion of white packages and little white tubs were lined up and open. A stool stood conveniently placed before this cold collation. There were herring, two kinds of cheese, wafer-thin slices of Westphalia ham, smoked salmon, wild Alaskan salmon (or what was left of it), thinly sliced summer sausage.
Morris picked up her paws, one after the other, set them down, again and again. Where had all this food come from?
From that stuck-up deli on Sloane Street, where you drop a week’s wages just going through the door. Harry’s rich; he doesn’t care. Come on, don’t just sit there. Get up on the stool. Mungo was earnestly glad for cat-agility. He disliked bounding up to the counter.
But like a fan unfolding, Morris went from floor to counter in a single shake. Amazing how cats could do things-fold their paws in, spring from floor to table.
Go on, toss some food down. I’ll have a piece of sausage and some ham and some of that salmon.
Almost on tiptoe, Morris went down the line, here and there stopping to sniff. Umm! Which? Smoked or plain?
Either, I’m not fussy. Don’t bother with the white tubs, they’re mostly salads.
This one’s chopped liver. She slid in her paw and spooned out a bite. Um-um!
Sausage? My sausage?
Oh. Sorry. She slid two summer sausage slices from the paper to the counter’s edge.
Mungo caught both pieces, together, in his mouth.
That was brilliant!
He thought so, too. He chewed and thought about his plan for the evening before them. It should work.
This is really good herring. Here-A piece went over the counter and sailed through the air; Mungo swatted it down.
They ate in silence for a minute. Then Mungo’s ears perked up. We’d better get out; I think I hear her… What’re you doing?
Straightening up so she won’t suspect-
Never mind, she’ll blame it on Schrödinger.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase, and Mungo said, Out! Morris slid from counter to floor like water spilling. Didn’t even bother with the stool, thought Mungo wonderingly.
They sped from the kitchen and through the dining room just before Mrs. Tobias hove into view.
And right on her heels was the cat Schrödinger.
The kitchen door closed behind them.
“Look what you’ve gone and done!” came shrieking from the other side of the kitchen door.
Mungo, lying under the living room sofa with Morris, enjoyed the sight of a screeching Schrödinger hurled out of the kitchen. It was almost as much fun as watching Jasper land on his arse.
Then he got down to business:
Harry will be back soon. He’ll take the car tonight to go to the Old Wine Shades. The idea is to get you into the car-
Why?
You’ll see. The window’s stuck on the passenger side, stuck about halfway up. Once you’re through the window, just climb over into the back and lie down on the floor. When we come to the car, he’ll never notice.
You haven’t said why we’re going there, said Morris.
Because the Spotter might be there.
How am I going to get out of the house without Harry seeing me?
Simple. When he comes in, I’ll bark and bounce around as if I’m really glad to see him-that’d make a change-and he’ll have all his attention on me. All you need to do is stay close to the wall behind the door, then when he opens it, you slither round the edge and out. Even if he sees you, he’ll think you’re Schrödinger. She’s always running outside.
They had managed to work the blue collar off by pushing at its Velcro tabs so that Mrs. Tobias couldn’t tell the difference between the two cats. The only way Harry could tell the difference (and Harry didn’t pay much attention, anyway) was when Schrödinger was with her kittens. That meant the extra cat was Morris. Harry put the collar back on, puzzled as to why it didn’t stay.
Mungo had pulled it off again. No one around here really took a blind bit of notice; Morris could have been sporting the Union Jack and no one would see. That’s what happened when you were too caught up in yourself-Mrs. Tobias with her pies and poached salmon; Harry with, well, Harry.
For another hour they waited side by side on a window seat behind Harry’s desk in the living room.
Finally, the Jaguar pulled up at the curb. It was not yet dark, but getting there, the light softer, bluer, diminished.
Come on! Positions! said Mungo.
They bounded off the window seat, ran toward the front door with Mungo squarely in front, Morris against the wall. When the door opened, Mungo barked up a storm and Morris flat-bellied herself around the edge of the door. All she saw was a foot shod in cordovan brown calf leather.
Bark. Bark.
Harry frowned. “What?”
Wouldn’t you like to know? Harry couldn’t pick up this message, of course, he being human (although Mungo thought that far from settled). Mungo then rushed to the living room and hopped up on the window seat to watch Morris, who was not yet in the car but trying. One try-Whoa! Cat didn’t make it. Another-Oops! Almost, but not quite. Then he saw Morris gather herself in that way cats do, every little muscle concentrated, focused… There! Morris got her paws hitched over the window and she was in. Mungo wanted to applaud.
Harry was back with the ridiculous lead that Mungo allowed to be snapped onto his collar. Ho-hum. As if he needed one. As if it controlled him. But Mungo tried to “scamper” off the seat, thinking scampering more befitting Harry’s idea of dogdom. He stopped short of tail wagging. He wouldn’t lower himself.
Off they went out the door, down the white steps to the car. Back door opened, Mungo hopped up to the seat and looked down at Morris lying placidly on the floor, paws tucked in.
All the work. All the work falls to me, thought Mungo. He sent a message to Morris:
When we get there, just repeat what you did in reverse-wait for us to get out of the car, ease yourself out the window, and follow.
No answer came from Morris.
Was the cat asleep?
The Old Wine Shades was in the City, but Harry treated it as his local, despite its being a bit of a drive. It took Harry less than fifteen minutes given the hairsbreadth distance he allowed between his car and the rest of the world: hairsbreadth from other cars, people, curbs, cats, and dogs. Mungo was glad just to get there alive. Harry wound between Embankment and the river as if the car were a zipper, then funneled off into King William Street and then into Arthur.
The Jaguar stopped in a no-parking area right beside the pub, Harry thinking it was his God-given right to park anywhere he chose.
Mungo sent Morris the message to wait, wait until they were out.
You already told me that.
The tone was truculent. Mungo could have done with some appreciation.
Inside, seated at the bar in his favorite place, Harry engaged in one of his winey talks with Trevor.
Mungo stared at the door, wondering where Morris was; Morris must have missed the opening of the door and was stuck outside. For heaven’s sakes.
Trevor had gone off somewhere and returned with a bottle, and the two men spent more valuable minutes talking about it.
O Boredom, I salute you!
Where was the Spotter? Mungo knew he was-There! Coming through the door, followed by Morris. The Spotter didn’t see her. My God! Couldn’t even detectives suss out they were being followed by a cat? Mungo hoped his faith wasn’t misplaced.
“Hullo, Harry. Mungo.” Jury tossed his coat on a stool and reached down to give Mungo’s head a rub. Then he saw Morris. “What the hell’s your cat doing here, Harry?” Jury laughed.
Harry looked down. Frowning deeply, he said, “Schrödinger? That’s not Schrödinger.”
Right! thought Mungo. Right! It’s not.
Harry turned and looked down, frowning. “At least I don’t think so.”
Wrong! Trust Harry not to know his own cat.
“Schrödinger,” Jury said with a laugh. “The cat’s dead; the cat’s alive.”
No! thought Mungo. NO no no no no no. Don’t go off on that quantum mechanics stuff!
Harry was nonplussed. “How the devil did you get in here, Shoe?”
No oh no oh no!
Morris stuck by Jury’s leg, staring up at him. Staring, sending him all sorts of messages, each tumbling over the one before, hoping by sheer volume to penetrate the dense mass of the human brain. I’m not Schrödinger, I’m not Shoe, I’m Morris, Morris, Morris, from the Black Cat in Chesham…
“What is this?” asked Jury, drinking the wine Trevor had just poured. “It’s good.”
Trevor, wine expert, rolled his eyes. “Surprise, surprise, Superintendent.”
Mungo sat hard by Morris and joined in: Look, look, this isn’t Schrödinger, this isn’t Shoe, no no, not Shoe, it’s Morris, Mor-risss, MORRIS, M-O-R-R-I-S…
Harry, cat completely forgotten, was winding up one of his interminable paeans to the good grape and saying, “So, are you getting anywhere with these two murders?”
Standing on his hind legs, Mungo placed his front paws on the edge of Jury’s chair. It’s not Shoe-Listen! The Black Cat, the Black Cat, the pub the Black Cat…
Morris joined in: Black Cat Black Cat Dora Dora’s cat…
Jury frowned. “What’s with Mungo? He seems distracted.” He rubbed the dog’s head.
A woman on the other side of Harry bent down to look at the cat and cooed, “What a pretty kitty. What’s his name?”
“Schrödinger. It’s a she.”
Not Schrödinger, she’s Morris. Morris. Mungo kept it up.
The woman frowned. “That’s a funny name. Whatever does it mean?”
Jury could hear Harry testing the point of each word before he flung them at her like a handful of darts.
“It means ‘cat’ in quantum physics,” he said this without looking at her.
“Well. We’re not very friendly, are we?” She sniffed and moved from the stool to a table.
Free of her, Harry went back to the subject. “Be careful, or you’ll have another Ripper on your hands. Was she, as they say, ‘interfered with’?”
“You think I’m going to give you the details?”
Mungo turned in circles at his feet, while Morris was close to clawing her way up his leg. Mungo thought in a minute he might even bark. Why couldn’t the Spotter sort it?
“I don’t see why not,” said Harry. “The tabloids will dish up details.”
Mungo wondered how to spell “Black Cat.” Morris was supposed to be staring, staring at the Spotter. It looked as if she were sleeping on her feet. That better hadn’t be so.
Jury was looking down at Morris, looking from Morris to Mungo. Mungo watched his face, his expression of real consternation. The dog could almost see the tumblers of the lock clicking: Something about this black cat-and Mungo, Mungo trying to tell me something?… Click. Wait. The Black Cat, that pub… Click. Dora. Dora’s cat… Click, click, click. My God! Could this be Dora’s-?
Yes yes yes yes. The Spotter was thinking hard, even if Mungo had to make up his thoughts. Mungo waited for the words that would get Morris back to Dora-
Jury said, “Is a dog a lot of trouble?”
Mungo crawled under the bar stool, went down with his paws over his eyes.
Is a dog a lot of trouble?