cloudless Halloween. They also complained about the cats. A Mr Corbett (aged 65) alleged that there were rituals at the “big house” in which cats were sacrificed and otherwise used in devil-worship. His own cat Tina had once disappeared for three months, and he was sure she was at Harville all that time. When she came back, she was never the sameagain. For one thing, she would sit staring at him, until he felt queasy. And she would also go into fits – foaming at the mouth and writhing and spitting – whenever the church bells rang out, or Songs of Praise came on the telly.
Few of the locals had ever seen Seeward, though. He kept himself to himself, especially after a scandal in 1952 involving a local schoolgirl. The case was never proved, but unsurprisingly, the hoo-ha did nothing to make him less unpopular with his suspicious neighbours. For the last twelve years of his life, he never left the grounds of Harville, and he allowed very few visitors inside. It was believed that he concentrated on reading and curating his impressive collection of arcana, and he also wrote the majority of his books in this period – books that he published privately and circulated secretly.
I checked back on my notes. When was Nine Lives written? It was published in 1960. I had to find it. More than that, I had to make sure it never got into the hands (or paws) of the Captain. But why should I be taking sides with Roger? Roger was an evil cat who not only deliberately ignored the sound of a woman dying in a cellar, but also fiendishly urinated on people’s mobile phones as a matter of course to electrocute their insides and destroy incriminating evidence! What should I do? I kept thinking of poor Mary, caught up in this thing purely because she was clever and helpful and organised, and soft-hearted enough to take pity on someone like Winterton. And all this time, while I was trying to think, Watson was being incredibly tiresome, scratching at the study door, and whining to be let out.
“All right !” I said, impatiently.
I let him out, and he raced to the kitchen, barking. I went straight back to the computer.
I had decided to have one last trawl on Seeward, and then go to bed. It was midnight by now, but it couldn’t be helped.When I had finished my research, Watson would have his bedtime chicken treat and we would go upstairs together as we had done every night since Mary died. But before we did that, there was something on YouTube I hadn’t looked at yet, and I had a feeling I shouldn’t overlook it. It had come up when I was looking under “John Seeward, cat mastery,” and it turned out to be a five-minute black-and-white silent film, shot at Harville Manor in the 1930s.
It started with a make-shift stage curtain rigged up in the garden on a sunny day. Seeward, smoking, entered from the left of the screen, and addressed the camera directly. Dressed very smartly in tweed, he had a slim figure and a light step; he might have been about to break into dance. There being no soundtrack, one could only guess at what he was saying. He indicated the curtain, and smiled. A breeze caught the curtain and Seeward waited for everything to settle before continuing. He evidently asked the cameraman if he was ready, then he walked to the right-hand side of the frame, and ceremoniously (with cigarette clamped between his teeth) used both hands to pull a cord to open the makeshift curtain.
Watson was now barking frantically in the kitchen. He was getting quite annoying. I paused the film and called to him. “Watson, stop it! I’m doing something!”
Seeward came forward again to explain, indicating what the curtain had revealed: a covered table with a cage on it. Inside the cage was a rabbit, cheerfully nibbling some lettuce. Seeward opened the cage, gently lifted the rabbit out, and placed it on the table, while putting the cage on the ground. Then he looked to the right, and a large tabby cat jumped up. Seeward beamed at him, and
Few of the locals had ever seen Seeward, though. He kept himself to himself, especially after a scandal in 1952 involving a local schoolgirl. The case was never proved, but unsurprisingly, the hoo-ha did nothing to make him less unpopular with his suspicious neighbours. For the last twelve years of his life, he never left the grounds of Harville, and he allowed very few visitors inside. It was believed that he concentrated on reading and curating his impressive collection of arcana, and he also wrote the majority of his books in this period – books that he published privately and circulated secretly.
I checked back on my notes. When was Nine Lives written? It was published in 1960. I had to find it. More than that, I had to make sure it never got into the hands (or paws) of the Captain. But why should I be taking sides with Roger? Roger was an evil cat who not only deliberately ignored the sound of a woman dying in a cellar, but also fiendishly urinated on people’s mobile phones as a matter of course to electrocute their insides and destroy incriminating evidence! What should I do? I kept thinking of poor Mary, caught up in this thing purely because she was clever and helpful and organised, and soft-hearted enough to take pity on someone like Winterton. And all this time, while I was trying to think, Watson was being incredibly tiresome, scratching at the study door, and whining to be let out.
“All right !” I said, impatiently.
I let him out, and he raced to the kitchen, barking. I went straight back to the computer.
I had decided to have one last trawl on Seeward, and then go to bed. It was midnight by now, but it couldn’t be helped.When I had finished my research, Watson would have his bedtime chicken treat and we would go upstairs together as we had done every night since Mary died. But before we did that, there was something on YouTube I hadn’t looked at yet, and I had a feeling I shouldn’t overlook it. It had come up when I was looking under “John Seeward, cat mastery,” and it turned out to be a five-minute black-and-white silent film, shot at Harville Manor in the 1930s.
It started with a make-shift stage curtain rigged up in the garden on a sunny day. Seeward, smoking, entered from the left of the screen, and addressed the camera directly. Dressed very smartly in tweed, he had a slim figure and a light step; he might have been about to break into dance. There being no soundtrack, one could only guess at what he was saying. He indicated the curtain, and smiled. A breeze caught the curtain and Seeward waited for everything to settle before continuing. He evidently asked the cameraman if he was ready, then he walked to the right-hand side of the frame, and ceremoniously (with cigarette clamped between his teeth) used both hands to pull a cord to open the makeshift curtain.
Watson was now barking frantically in the kitchen. He was getting quite annoying. I paused the film and called to him. “Watson, stop it! I’m doing something!”
Seeward came forward again to explain, indicating what the curtain had revealed: a covered table with a cage on it. Inside the cage was a rabbit, cheerfully nibbling some lettuce. Seeward opened the cage, gently lifted the rabbit out, and placed it on the table, while putting the cage on the ground. Then he looked to the right, and a large tabby cat jumped up. Seeward beamed at him, and
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