“That was the very thing that put me onto Rose Moss as the other party in this whole thing. It’s funny, or vain, but I thought Rose Moss rather fancied me. Wrong. She went out with me to find out how much I knew. She wasn’t turned on to me at all. Rose isn’t interested in men; she’s a lesbian. She thought Mariah was, too. And she isn’t like you, Chris. She hasn’t your nerve; she hasn’t your acting ability; she’ll cave in an eyeblink; she’ll give you up in a second if it means saving herself.

“Before she left me in that club, she said, ‘You mean you don’t think I ran over to Chesham in my Manolo Blahniks and shot her?’ Very careless of her. That supposed Manolo Blahnik heel print was never mentioned in the media. The only way she could have heard that was from you or police. And she certainly didn’t hear it from David or me. So it was down to you, Chris. It’s pretty much all down to you.”

In the only out-of-control moment she’d ever had around Jury, Chris Cummins picked up the teapot and threw it at the cubbyholes full of shoes, where it shattered.

62

Not terribly refreshed by his night at Boring’s, Melrose pulled up (yet again) in the Black Cat’s car park. He felt his life to be pretty much circumscribed by Chesham-London, London-Chesham, Chesham-London, et cetera, et cetera. He might as well buy some hovel here in Chesham and settle down.

Melrose got out of the car and trudged wearily round the corner of the pub, when he heard the cat yowling. He stopped and trudged back and opened the rear door. The cat, Morris Two, electrified by its stint in the car and its overnight stay at Boring’s, streaked out and around back to who knew where. Melrose’s life seemed to be nothing but waiting on animals. Instead of settling down in Chesham, why didn’t he get a job at the London Zoo? He pulled the cat carrier out of the backseat and plodded back.

At the side entrance he looked through the window, where Mungo and Morris stared out at him, as if he were the troublemaker here and not them. Wearily, he opened the door, wondering how in hell he was going to get Mungo in the car and back to London.

Oh, well. He went up to the bar, greeted Sally Hawkins, and asked for a double Balmenach.

“Oh, now,” she said cheekily, “a bit early in the day for a double, isn’t it, love?”

“You’re right, so give me two singles.”

She laughed and slid the glass under the optics.

Whiskey in hand, he walked over to the table by the window, peering as he did so at elderly Johnny Boy and, under the table, his dog, Horace. He sat down at the table and glared at Mungo, who wasn’t interested.

Here came Dora to slide in beside him and ask, “Did you get the cat back all right?” He could tell from her tone that the prospect of failure excited her more than that of success.

Melrose nodded. “Now, all I have to do is get you-know-who to London.”

He wasn’t fooling Mungo, who slid off the chair and trotted to the bar.

Melrose looked after him. “Maybe I could fob off Horace on Mungo’s owner.”

“Horace and Mungo don’t look a bit alike.”

“They’re both dogs, aren’t they?”

“Listen,” whispered Dora. “Mungo’s behind the bar-”

“Knifing the foam from those glasses of Guinness, is he?”

Two fresh pints sat beneath the beer pulls, settling.

“I think Sally’s put down food for him,” whispered Dora as if Mungo might hear her. “We can get him if we’re careful. His back’s turned. I’ll go over and you come with the carrier. But you keep out of sight.”

Dora started over, and after slugging back his whiskey, Melrose picked up the carrier and went toward the bar, skirting the tables. Dora must have grabbed Mungo, for he heard an uncustomary “yip!” and he quickly opened the top of the carrier so that Dora could shovel Mungo in. “Good work, Dora!”

But Dora was looking toward the front of the pub and in a raging whisper said, “Your friend’s just come in!”

Melrose turned and saw Jury. “Sit on it!” he whispered back.

Dora flopped down on the carrier and nearly squashed Mungo. It wasn’t substantial enough to sit. Quickly, she rose and stood in front of it.

Melrose picked up the two pints of unclaimed Guinness, cried out, “Richard!” and walked toward him.

Johnny Boy tried to stop him, saying, “’Ere now, that’s my beer.”

Melrose ignored him. “Have a drink!” he said to Jury. “Let’s sit. There’s Morris! Told you I did it.”

But Morris was more interested in Mungo’s fate than in Jury. She was sitting staunchly before the carrier.

Jury drank some beer and watched this.

Dora slewed around and was petting Morris, making it appear that this was the reason for Morris’s move. It wasn’t. Morris wanted to talk to Mungo.

Can’t you get out?

Probably. I haven’t really put my mind to it.

The Spotter just came in.

Mungo was alert and sat up and tried to look back at the table, but of course he couldn’t turn around in the carrier to see out in that direction.

If you wanted to, you could get him over here. Just bark.

I only bark as a last resort.

Oh. Isn’t this?

I don’t know yet.

“What’s in the carrier?” asked Jury. He gave Melrose a level look. “It’s not Schrödinger, is it?”

“What? What? Of course not. I told you I took Schrödinger back to Belgravia. It was rather slick, if I do say-”

“You could be lying.” Jury started up.

Melrose yanked him down. “Well, ta very much. All the trouble I went to. It’s just Karl.”

“Karl? Who’s Karl?”

“The other black cat. If you remember, there were three.”

“Karl. My Lord, don’t people name their animals Boots or Princess or Spot anymore?”

“Guess not.” Change the subject. “How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s close to the end, I think.” Jury started up again. “Right now-”

Melrose pulled him down again.

“What’s the matter with you? I’ve got to get back to London. This is still an ongoing investigation and I’ve got to interview someone.”

“Oh, London! Yes, by all means. Remember, you’re coming to Ardry End after.”

“When I get done with this, yes.” He took another swallow of beer. “Thanks for the drink.”

Dora waved from the carrier, and Jury sketched her a salute just as his mobile went into its performance of “Three Blind Mice.” He was out the door.

Melrose rushed to the carrier, picked it up, and moved to the door that led to the car park.

“He’s back!” cried Dora.

Melrose dumped the carrier and turned. There was Jury again.

“Guess who that was on the phone? Harry Johnson, if you can believe it. He wants to know what in hell happened to his dog.”

Melrose squinted. “What dog?”

63

Mungo was having none of it.

Well, some of it, perhaps. There’s not much you can do against four hands stuffing you into a box and then sitting on you. It’s always a battle between cleverness and brute force, isn’t it? Then into the car, heave-ho, and the Duck into the driver’s seat, and they were off.

He wished he could have got free of the carrier before the car left the Black Cat car park so that he could have pressed his face against the rear window and waved good-bye, good-bye, as was always done in films.

But he could still send the message to Morris: Good-bye, I’ll see you soon. Morris had very nearly jumped in the car but had been torn between leaving and staying and had made the wrong choice, of course, and stayed.

Cats. How much fun could a cat have sitting on a table in the sun for endless hours without going stark raving mad with boredom? Never mind, he would see Morris again.

But at the moment, he was intent upon working his way out of this carrier. It wouldn’t be too difficult as long as someone wasn’t sitting on it. It was closed only by a couple of stuck-together flaps, and the Duck hadn’t even done them up properly. He’d been all in a hurry to get Mungo out the door of the pub. What Mungo couldn’t understand was why the Spotter hadn’t twigged it.