Touch Not the Cat, Page 3

  ‘Oh,’ Walther smiled. ‘A good one?’

  ‘How would I know? I never got much beyond Yeats and Walter de la Mare. Didn’t want to, considering the sort of thing that gets printed now. I can’t understand a word Francis writes, but I like Francis, so let’s say he is a good one.’

  The sun twinkled on the gold-rimmed glasses. ‘He’s not married, is he?’

  ‘No.’ I met his eyes. ‘And nor are the twins, Dr Gothard. At least, they weren’t when I last saw them. We’re not wildly good correspondents, my cousins and I.’ (Except for you, Ashley my lover. Emory? James? Francis?) I raised my brows at Walther. ‘You’ve been listening to Daddy, haven’t you? That was his plan, too. Get me back to Ashley somehow . . . But Francis would be no good, obviously. It would have to be the eldest, and that’s Emory.’

  He smiled. ‘Something of the sort was in my mind, I confess. It is such an obvious solution. You stay at Ashley, and so do your children. I am sure your father had some sort of hope that it might happen. I think he saw you staying on there.’

  ‘He didn’t say who with?’ I was looking down at the paper in my hand. ‘This thing I can feel. Perhaps the boy knows.’ And then, later. ‘I told Bryony’s’ – Bryony’s what? Bryony’s lover? I wondered sharply, but with a kind of certainty about it, whether my father had known, or guessed, enough about my secret love to bank, entail or no, on my lifelong connection with Ashely Court.

  ‘No,’ said Walther. ‘He didn’t.’ My thoughts had gone on from my own question with such speed that for a moment I couldn’t make out what he was referring to. He saw this; he was very quick, was Herr Doktor Gothard. He nodded to the paper in my hands. ‘You were studying that. Have you worked some of it out?’

  ‘Not really. It sounds as if there’s some paper, perhaps the letter he speaks of, where he’s written something important to me, and perhaps to Cousin Howard.’

  ‘And James.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But why James? I mean if Daddy had told Howard, then Howard could have told the boys, whatever it was. It sounds as if it was a family matter. So why just James?’ (Like a treaure-hunt, I was thinking, the mystification of papers and letters and maps. It wasn’t like him. Jon Ashley was sane and direct. So what did it mean? And why James?) I added, aloud: ‘This paper or map or whatever, he says it’s “in William’s brook”. Well, that simply does not make sense.’

  ‘I know. A brook’s another word for a stream, is it not? I thought it was, and I looked it up to make sure. It cannot mean anything else. I thought you might know what he meant.’

  ‘No idea. You said you were sure the words were right.’

  ‘Those, yes. To begin with he was pretty clear. I thought there might be a stream at Ashley, something with a local name, perhaps.’

  ‘Not that I know of. There was a William Ashley, certainly, early last century. “Scholar Ashley” they called him; he was a bit of a Shakespeare scholar, in a strictly private and amateur way. He was a poet, too. But the only brook in the place, apart from the river, is the overflow channel that helps to control the level of the moat. It’s never been called anything but the Overflow.’ I stopped, struck by an idea. ‘It might have been made by William, I suppose. There’s a maze at Ashley, and he built a pavilion in the middle, where he used to retire to write. The stream runs past the maze.’

  ‘“The map”?’ suggested Walther. ‘A map of the maze?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t see why it should matter. I’ve known the way in all my life, and so have my cousins.’ I shrugged. ‘In any case, it’s nonsense. How could a paper – a map, whatever you like – how could it be in a stream?’

  ‘I agree. But the next bit is surely more sensible. This paper could be in the library, of which perhaps Mr Emerson has the keys? Does he keep keys to the Court?’

  ‘I suppose he must have a set. One complete set was handed over to the tenants. They live in the south wing, and normally all the rest of the house is locked up, except for cleaning, and when the place is open to the public, but the Underhills have to have the keys to the locked rooms, because of fire regulations.’

  He merely nodded, and I didn’t elaborate. I assumed that Daddy had told him about our latest tenants. The Underhills were wealthy Americans with permanent homes in Los Angeles and New York, and temporary ones, one gathered, here and there all over the world. Jeffrey Underhill was President of Sacco International, a heavy construction firm which carried out government contracts in every part of the globe. The family had been living in Los Angeles while the daughter, Cathy, was at school there, but now they had come to England for a year’s stay, to be near Mrs Underhill’s sister, whose husband was stationed at the USAF base near Bristol. As far as Mr Underhill was concerned, it didn’t seem to matter where he was based; I gathered he managed to struggle home most weekends, but spent his weeks shuttling between Paris, London, Mexico, and Teheran, where the company’s current major operations were. He had told Mr Emerson that it didn’t make a bit of difference where he was actually domiciled as long as he got ‘back home’ to Houston, Texas, for board meetings, and that his wife was keen to live for a while in a ‘real old English home’, and that it would do Cathy a world of good to have a taste of country peace and quiet. Myself, I wondered about that; I had never been to Los Angeles, but one could imagine that Ashley, in contrast, might possibly not have much to offer to an eighteen-year-old girl with all the money in the world to burn. But they had stayed, and liked it, and I gathered that Cathy was still there with them.

  ‘The bit about the cat,’ I said. ‘Do you think the car might have swerved to avoid a cat, or something, and was going too fast at the bend, and mounted the pavement and hit him?’

  ‘It is possible. That’s the way the police see it. There actually is no pavement on that section of the road, but there is a kind of footway worn in the verge of the wood, and, heaven knows, Jon might have been speaking loosely when he talks of a “pavement”. That was where he had to stop talking and rest for a while.’

  ‘But this last bit, Dr Gothard. He wasn’t speaking loosely there. He says I have to be careful, and there’s some danger.’

  ‘Indeed.’ His eyes were troubled. ‘When he speaks of this “thing I can feel”, he seems to mean danger of some kind. It could hardly be pain; he was under sedation.’

  ‘He wouldn’t mean that.’ I took a breath and met the kind pale eyes above the glinting half-moons of glass. ‘You’re a doctor, so I don’t expect you to believe me, but some of us – the Ashleys, I mean – have a sort of . . . I can only call it a kind of telepathy. Empathy, perhaps? Er, do you have that word?’

  ‘Certainly. We say “mit fühlen”. The power of entering imaginatively into someone else’s feelings or experience.’

  ‘Yes, except that in our case it’s not just imaginative, it’s real. I’ve only known it work between members of the family, and it’s kind of spasmodic, but if someone you love is hurt, you know.’

  ‘Why should I not believe you?’ he asked calmly. ‘It’s reasonably common.’

  ‘I know, but you’d be surprised – or perhaps you wouldn’t – what people don’t believe, or don’t want to believe. The Ashleys have had this thing in one degree or another as far back as about the sixteen-hundreds when the Jacobean Ashley married a gorgeous girl called Bess Smith, who was half gipsy. She was burned for witchcraft in the end. After that it seems to have cropped up every so often, but we kept quiet about it. Anyway, it isn’t the kind of thing you tell people. Nobody likes being laughed at.’

  ‘You really think this is what your father meant?’

  ‘It might be. I’ve sometimes wondered. We never spoke about it, but I’m pretty sure he had it to some extent. I know once when I was at school and fell out of a tree and broke my leg, he telephoned about ten minutes later to ask if I was all right. And last night in Madeira . . . Well, I felt something, and I think some of it came from him. And on the way here in the plane this morning, at ten o’clock, I knew.’


  He said nothing for a while. An early bee zoomed in through the open window, circled droning in the sunlight, then homed in on the hyacinths and crawled up them, its wings quiet. Walther stirred. ‘I see. But at the end, as you see, he states that he “told” someone, presumably meaning that he told him about this important paper, and about this danger to you. If it is so very important, no doubt “he” will tell you. And if “the boy” knows, then perhaps “the boy” may tell you, too?’

  I watched the bee. I wasn’t prepared to meet those kind, clever eyes. I still had this one to think about, myself. ‘I did tell Bryony’s . . . Perhaps the boy knows.’ ‘Bryony’s lover?’ It would take a bit of adjustment to come to terms with the fact that my father had known. And if he had told my lover something that mattered urgently to me, then my lover could tell me, and the mystery was no mystery.

  The bee, abandoning the hyacinths, shot straight for the window like a bullet, achieved the open pane by a beewing’s breadth, and was gone.

  Walther straightened in the big chair. ‘Well, we shall leave it, I think. Yes? You must try to forget it for the moment. When you have rested, and when the next few days are over, then you may find your mind fresher, and you will see. It is very possible that Mr Emerson may have the answers already, or whoever of your family comes over on Friday. One of them surely will, and will take you home? It may be “Bryony’s cousin”, the one who knows it all.’

  ‘So it may. Dr Gothard, will you tell me something truly?’

  ‘If I can.’

  I knew from his eyes that from a doctor that meant ‘If I may’, but that was fair enough. I said: ‘If the driver of that car had brought Daddy straight up to you here, could, you have saved him?’

  I saw the wariness relax into relief. That meant he would tell me the truth. ‘No. If he had been brought straight in he might have lived a little longer, but I could not have saved him.’

  ‘Not even till I got here?’

  ‘I think not. It was a matter of hours only.’

  I drew a breath. He looked at me curiously. I shook my head. ‘No, I wasn’t thinking of anything as dramatic and useless as revenge. That’s a kind of self-defeat, I always feel. But if you had said “Yes” I’d never have slept until the police found the driver who did it. As it is, he ran away out of fear and stupidity, and maybe he’s being punished enough already. If the police ever do find him—’ I paused.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  I said flatly: ‘I don’t want to know. I mean, I don’t want to be told who it is. I won’t burden myself with a useless hate. Daddy’s gone, and I’m here, with a life to live. Those are the facts.’

  I didn’t add what I was thinking; that he might not be quite gone, not from me, not from such as me. I would go back to Ashley, and there, perhaps . . . But I wasn’t sure where that path would lead, and anyway that was another secret that was not for daylight. Walther said something about its being a sensible attitude, and something more about my being very like my father, and then we talked about the arrangements for the cremation on Friday, and for the day after that, when nothing would remain for me but to take my father’s ashes home.

  Ashley, 1835.

  The wind moved in the boughs outside. Creepers shifted and tapped against the walls of the pavilion. Since the old man had been ill, the place had been neglected – mercifully, he thought, with a wryness that made the young mouth look soured and wary.

  He strained his eyes against the darkness. Still no movement, no sign. He pushed the casement open a fraction, and listened. Nothing, except the rush of the overflow conduit past the maze, and the wind in the beeches. Sudden gusts combed the crests of the yew hedges towards him, as if something were flying past, invisible. A soul on its way home, he thought, and the shudder took him again.

  At least let us have some light. He shut the window, and the night sounds died. He pulled the shutters close, and fastened them, then drew the heavy curtains across.

  A candle stood on the writing-table. He found a lucifer and lit it. At once the room flowered with light; golden curtains, rose-wreathed carpet, the bed’s rich covering, the glittering sconces on the walls.

  If he ever came here again, he would light those, too.

  3

  Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives.

  Romeo and Juliet, III, i

  I didn’t go straight home when I got to England. The first priority was a visit to Mr Emerson, our solicitor, to find out if he had had a letter from my father, and if he could throw any light on the jumble of words on Walther’s paper.

  No one had come to the cremation. Emory had telephoned from England, not to me but to Walther, to say that Cousin Howard was still very ill, and that since Francis was away on leave, James was tied to the Jerez office. Emory himself could not be free on Friday, but would come to Ashley as soon as possible. He had no idea where Francis was; walking somewhere, he thought, in the Peak District. Presumably the news had not got to him yet. No doubt he would call me as soon as he came back. Meanwhile, said Emory, love to Bryony . . .

  So much for Bryony’s cousin who would tell me what Daddy had meant, and take me home. And so much for Bryony’s lover, who said nothing, either by day or night.

  When I arrived in London I took the train straight to Worcester and booked in at a small hotel where no one knew me. Next morning I telephoned Mr Emerson, and went to see him.

  He was a youngish man, somewhere (I guessed) in his upper thirties, of medium height and running a bit to flesh, with a round, good-tempered face and hair cut fashionably long. He had a small shrewd mouth, and small shrewd brown eyes camouflaged behind modishly huge, tinted spectacles, like a television spy. Otherwise he was correctly dressed and almost over-conventionally mannered; but I had seen him fishing the Wye in stained old tweeds and a snagged sweater, up to the crotch in the river and swearing in the far-from-legal sense of the word as he slipped and splashed over the boulders, trying to land a big salmon single-handed. I liked him, and Daddy, I knew, had trusted him completely.

  It was almost a week now since my father’s death, but Mr Emerson did not make the mistake of being too kind. We got the first civilities over, then he cleared his throat, shifted a paper or two, and said: ‘Well now, Miss Ashley, you do know that you may call on me to help you in any way . . . It will take a fair amount of time to sort out your father’s affairs, as you know. None of that need trouble you, as long as you find yourself quite clear about the way the house and property are left.’

  I nodded. I had practically been brought up with the terms of the Ashley Trust, as it was called, which had been designed by an ancestor of mine, one James Christian Ashley, who had inherited the property in 1850. He was a far-sighted man, who had seen, even in the spacious days of Victoria, that there might come a time when the incumbent of a place like Ashley might find it hard to protect what he, James Christian, thought of as a national treasure, and might even seek to disperse it. This, James Christian was determined to prevent. He created a trust whereby, though the Court itself must go outright to the nearest male heir, no part of the ‘said messuages’, might be sold or disposed of unless with the consent in writing of all adult Ashley descendants existing at the time of the proposed disposal. My grandfather James Emory had managed, with the connivance of his brothers and one distant cousin, to sell a couple of outlying farms which edged the main road, and to make a tidy sum out of some meadow-land earnestly desired by the Midland Railway, and the proceeds had kept the place in good heart until the cold winds finally sharpened to the killing frosts of the Second World War. Since then, apart from the family silver, which had been sold with his cousin’s consent, all the articles my father had sold had been things bought since 1850 or brought in by marriage, and consequently uncontrolled by the trust. If my cousins had been in need of funds they would, I knew, have found themselves fairly well down to the scrapings.

  Mr Emerson was going on. ‘There’s no immediate hurry over that. We can perhaps have an
other meeting when you are less, er, pressed.’ I knew that Walther had told him what my first business was at the Court. He shied delicately away from that, and went on: ‘Then there is your father’s Will. He told me you have seen a copy, and know all about its contents. It covers everything not included in the entail, or embraced by the trust. The most important item is of course the cottage which is now your home. This, with the orchard and garden, and the strip of land running along the lake as far as the main road, was purchased after the creation of the trust, and comes, in consequence, outside its terms. It is left to you in its entirety. The Will is quite straightforward. There may be things that you wish to discuss at a later stage, but for the moment, would you like me just to take everything over for you? Settle what bills there are, and sort your father’s correspondence? Or perhaps you would rather go through his letters yourself?’

  ‘The personal ones, yes, I think so, please. I’d be glad if you’d deal with any business. Mr Emerson—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has Daddy written to you recently? I mean, in the last few days?’

  ‘No.’ He looked down at his fingernails for a moment, then back at me. ‘I was talking to Dr Gothard on the telephone yesterday, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh. Did he ask you about a letter, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And tell you about the paper?’

  ‘Paper?’

  ‘The notes he took about what Daddy said before he died.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Of course he did not tell me what had been said. This—’ with a sudden, dry primness ‘—was on the telephone.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about that, too. Most of it Herr Gothard and I couldn’t make out at all, but there is one reference to you, which we thought you’d be able to clear up for us. I made a copy for you. Here.’