Free A Bedlam of Bones by Suzette Hill Page B

get far, as there was a sudden rap on the window accompanied by the lowering face of the organist. I stood up reluctantly, draping a napkin over my breakfast things. If Tapsell imagined he was going to be offered coffee and bacon he had another think coming!
    I opened the window. ‘Good morning, Tapsell,’ I said affably. ‘You’re up early, aren’t you?’
    ‘Just as well,’ he snapped. ‘We’ve got mice in the organ pipes and they’re all fighting! What are you going to do about it?’
    ‘Shoot the buggers,’ I said, and closed the window.

12
     

The Cat’s Memoir
     
     
    It had been an entertaining morning really. First, anguished roars from the infant next door having been foolish enough to plunge into the water butt (I had been watching its approach with interest, guessing that something dramatic might happen); then squabbles among the pigeons over a rather disagreeable piece of cake – which naturally I appropriated, leaving them gaping and furious; and then the arrival of the postman with a letter from the vicar’s sister. How did I know it was from her? Well I didn’t really, but I was assured by Bouncer that that was the case. And how did the dog know? Precisely the question I asked him.
    ‘Oh yes,’ he announced airily, ‘definitely from the Prim.’
    ‘Since your only reading material is the dog-Latin in the crypt,’ I pointed out, ‘I don’t see how you can possibly tell.’
    ‘Huh, you don’t have to read – smelling’s enough.’
    ‘Smelling what?’
    He sighed (almost as if I were defective!) ‘That Sussex air and her skin, of course. Envelope’s smothered in spoor of both. Obvious.’
    ‘Really?’ I said doubtfully. ‘Unusual sensitivity, Bouncer.’
    ‘Nothing unusual about it,’ he replied, ‘just bred in the bone. It’s what us dogs have. Cats don’t.’ He spoke with nonchalant authority and I thought it best not to pursue the matter.
    ‘But rather rare for her to write a whole letter, isn’t it?’ I suggested. ‘Normally it’s the telephone or those little yellow envelopes delivered by the red-headed boy. Must be something special.’
    ‘Could be,’ answered the dog. ‘Why don’t you go and take a look and see what he’s doing? If he’s grinding those humbugs and twitching his ankle it’s bound to be bad, but if he’s just smoking and blowing rings it’s probably okay.’ Thus, still feeling moderately cooperative, I did precisely that.
    I perched on the window ledge, peering in, but with the subject of my scrutiny largely obscured by a haze of smoke, it was difficult to see much. So I slipped into the room and up on to his lap. Although immersed in the letter he had the good grace to pause and say a few words of welcome which I duly acknowledged. There was no sign of the peppermints or twitching ankle so it would seem all was normal.
    I ducked my head under his wrist to see if anything intelligible could be gleaned from the paper in his hand. Alas, despite my several skills I have yet to master the art of deciphering human hieroglyphics (particularly when so carelessly scrawled). So all I could discern was that the writing was copious, which might mean that Primrose had something important to say – though if human speech is anything to go by, volume is no guarantee of interest.
    Feeling it polite to tarry a little longer, I toyed briefly with the crumpled envelope, gave a playful yank of his tie, and then suddenly glimpsing my woollen mouse lurking in a corner, disengaged myself and leapt in pursuit.
    I was just giving the creature a few prods with my paw when there was a gasp from the vicar followed by the exclamation, ‘Good grief, not that Felter, it couldn’t be!’ I glanced up and saw a startled look on his face, but then calming down again he resumed reading. Nothing more was said, and losing interest I picked up the mouse and went into the hall where I met the dog bounding in from the garden wanting its breakfast.
    ‘Things all right?’