into a chair, inspected manicured nails, and turned his attention to the knitted goods. ‘The Bishop is most impressed with your work, good ladies. He’s looking forward to the yarnbombing.’
‘He doesn't think it's inappropriate after the murder?’ Vera asked.
‘Good heavens, no. We need a happy event to encourage community spirit. Have you decided on the date?’
‘Next Wednesday,’ June boomed. ‘Which means we'll get together on Tuesday evening and work through the night, decorating the city.’
The Dean extracted a diary from his pocket and made a note. ‘Excellent. Please come to the cathedral after Evensong on Tuesday, for a short blessing.’ He turned to Libby and Angela. ‘I must apologise most sincerely to you two, on behalf of everyone at the cathedral, for your dreadful accident.’
Angela thanked him. ‘No lasting harm done. The statue missed us both. I suppose it will need repair?’
He raised a hand. ‘No need to worry. We have a contract with a firm of masons. The Bishop asked me to tell you how sorry he is for your fright.’ He’d decided the event was an accident, and there was little point in arguing.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘to the other reason I came. I bring invitations to a special lunch tomorrow. It's a small thank you for such hard work.’ He beamed at Libby. ‘My wife asked me to give a special welcome to you, Mrs Forest and Mrs Miles, after your fright. Please bring that charming dog.’
Libby gulped. ‘Do you mean Bear? He’s very big.’
Angela giggled. ‘I’m afraid ‘big’ doesn’t do him justice. The creature’s enormous.’
The Dean smiled. ‘Amelia, my wife, is exceedingly fond of dogs.’
20
Cats
With so many events crowding into the past few days, Libby had done nothing about Mrs Marchant’s missing cat. To put matters right next morning, she set off early to distribute posters. She had plenty of time before lunch with the Dean.
She walked the streets of Wells, fixing photographs of the missing cat to lamp posts. She called into almost every shop near the town centre as they opened, begging the owners to display posters. ‘Have you seen this cat?’ the text read, alongside a cute photo of Mrs Marchant’s missing Mildred. When Libby told the sad story of the anonymous elderly lady who rescued cats, most shopkeepers agreed to help.
The proprietor of one antique shop seemed inclined to talk. Her store was stacked high with brass instruments and fishing tackle, but empty of customers. ‘I think I know who you mean. Mrs Marchant, isn’t it? I feel sorry for the woman. She looks lonely and I sometimes offer her a cup of tea.’ She grew confidential. ‘She's gone downhill, you know. I met her at the school gates when our children were young. She was beautifully dressed and, well, to be honest, too posh to talk much to the likes of me. I don't know what happened in her life. How the mighty are fallen.’
The woman leaned on the counter while Libby, keen to keep the conversation going, admired a telescope. ‘Mrs Marchant has a son, I believe, but he doesn't live round here.’ Libby shuddered at the price on the telescope’s ticket and moved on to a blue glass fishing float.
The store keeper continued, ‘They quarrelled a few years ago. Her son lives a few miles away, I think, but I don’t know the address.’
Libby visited more shops, and although almost everyone was sympathetic, and several recognised her description of Mrs Marchant, none had seen the cat.
At last, feet aching, she taped the final photograph to a lamp post near the marketplace. It had all taken far longer than she’d expected, she was freezing cold, it was starting to rain, the cold drizzle sliding inside Libby’s collar, and she was beginning to doubt the efficacy of this approach to finding Mildred.
‘Excuse me.’
Libby turned. ‘Can I help you?’
A woman in a bulky purple anorak pointed to the photograph. ‘That’s my cat.’
Libby frowned. ‘Are you sure? Her name’s Mildred. She belongs to an elderly lady and she went missing a few days ago, not far from here.’
‘No. It's Jesse. She went out weeks ago and we haven't seen her since. We’ve been scouring the streets. My daughter was desperate, but then, Jesse arrived home the other day, all by herself.’
Libby swallowed. ‘How can you tell it’s Jesse?’ This was all she needed – a squabble over a cat.
The woman pointed at the poster. ‘You see that white mark on her nose?’ Libby peered. The mark was just visible. ‘That’s Jesse, all right. I can show you a photo.’ She pulled out a mobile phone and thrust it at Libby.
It was true. Mildred was, in fact, Jesse. Libby apologised. ‘I think your cat’s been rescued by mistake.’
The woman’s face remained stony. ‘Then your old lady should be ashamed of herself. It’s a disgrace, that's what it is. You tell me where she lives. I’ll go and give her a piece of my mind.’
Libby blessed the foresight that had led her to put her own contact details on the poster. A confrontation between this woman and Mrs Marchant could only end in trouble. ‘I’m afraid I can't give you that information.’ She spoke cheerfully, hoping to placate the angry cat owner, ‘It was a genuine mistake.’ She hoped she was right. ‘Your cat’s been well looked after. Mrs – er – the lady who rescued Jesse was convinced she was a stray.’
The anorak woman put her phone back in her pocket, mollified. ‘Well, I suppose it's confusing when cats arrive on your doorstep. I expect Jesse went looking for food. She’s always been greedy. She’s sometimes broken into my neighbours’ houses.’
She walked away, still talking and Libby wiped her wet face. The rain pelted down, harder than ever. I suppose I'll have to collect all the posters and confront Mrs Marchant.
Half an hour later, arms full of soggy posters, she returned to the car. She’d never imagined private investigation would be so hard on the legs.
Mrs Marchant threw the door open. ‘Have you got good news?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ Libby explained that Mildred was in fact Jesse, owned by a different family. She coughed, broaching a difficult subject. ‘Perhaps you should take your strays to the vet. She could read their microchips. You know, the cat’s details, hidden under the skin.’
Mrs Marchant looked doubtful. ‘Oh dear, I suppose I should.’
Libby bit her lip, telling herself to walk away. She’d finished the job, and this was none of her business. Before she could move, she heard herself say, ‘How often do you go out looking for stray cats?’
‘Oh, most evenings. There’s nothing else to do now my television’s broken.’
The poor woman was lonely. ‘Do you know many of your neighbours? I was here the other day and I spoke to Ruby, who lives across the road. She’s very friendly and I’m sure she’d love to meet up for tea or coffee.’
She’d made a mistake. Mrs Marchant
