And then, when I got to the hospital, there were police in the ward, and they told me what had happened. In the night, Winterton had died – but nothing to do with his injuries or his blood loss; he died of suffocation, and they were saying it was murder. They said Winterton, under sedation, wouldn’t have had much strength to push off his attacker, but the mystery was, how did the attacker get in? I have to tell you, Wiggy: I behaved so calmly; I pretended to be concerned but not devastated; shocked, but not alarmed. Much as I wanted to break down on the spot and say, “I know that evil cats did this! Death and damnation to those evil cats!” I had to pretend that I was as astounded as everyone else that such downright badness existed in the world. So I said pathetic things like “Why?” and “Poor fellow” and “Who would do such a thing?” I let them give me a cup of sweet tea from a machine, and then I hung around, sitting in the corridor, as if too shocked to go home – when all I really wanted was to hang around long enough to find out what had happened.
From what I could piece together, Winterton’s room was on the ground floor. A window had been left partly open, but it was much too high off the ground for anyone (other than a large, muscular cat with powers, of course) to reach from outside, so they were ruling out anyone climbing in to commit the deed. But it was still murder, the nurse told me. At around 4 a.m., she had been sitting at the nursing station when she heard the alarm from Winterton’s heart monitor; she rushed in to find him blue in the face. All over the pillow – and all over Winterton – were weird black hairs, like animal fur. Whoever suffocated Winterton, she said, must have used a black fur jacket or coat to smother him as he slept.
Poor man. How he must have wished – how I wish on his behalf – that on that fateful day on the Acropolis, he had just finished his drawing of fallen masonry and then packed up his schoolboy satchel, and gone to meet his parents for the long voyage home – without a cat in a basket. But he had read about cats like Roger. “I’ve read about cats like you.” And that was his downfall. I remember Roger saying to you that he suffered for his own hubris on the Acropolis that day; but so did Winterton, in the end.
I enclose a PDF of the Seeward pamphlet. I haven’t had time to read it closely yet, but a lot of it looks so disappointingly lame and predictable – All hail Beelzebub, king of cats! – that I nearly wept when I first opened it. To think Mary and Winterton died for this? Talk about the banality of evil. If Seeward was responsible for writing this – well, I’m sorry to swear, but he must have been a wanker. “And from out the flames of Hell cometh the Great Cat of All Cats, hail unto the Cat of Cats” – it goes on and on like that, for pages. But I shan’t give up. The main thing that caught my eye was on page seven: the list of Grand Cat Masters, starting with Sir Isaac Newton in 1691. There are about a dozen names altogether, including John Seeward, of course. And as you will see, Seeward names his successor, as well, which is very interesting.
I didn’t tell you how it went on Saturday night, but I expect you can guess. When I opened the emergency exit at 6 p.m., I found Winterton on the ground, already bleeding from the neck and head, screaming and thrashing about with a dark shape on top of him. The sound of the claxon alarm when I opened the door made the Captain shoot off – but I saw him, Wiggy; I saw the Captain’s huge yellow eyes watching us in the dark of that dingy courtyard. Mike the security guard appeared with startling speed – in fact, I think my plan of slipping the stolen book to Winterton would never have worked. We’d have been caught in the act. Mike got me to call for the ambulance while he administered first aid. He was so horrified by what had happened – and of course he knew all about the cat that had somehow got into the library on a former occasion – that he couldn’t have been less interested in my pathetic rehearsed excuses about falling asleep after tea in the afternoon, stumbling to the wrong door, etc. In a way, the Captain helped me get the pamphlet out of the library, by creating an extremely dramatic diversion.
Wiggy, I’m thinking of moving to a different B & B – it’s not just to get away from the landlady’s killer air-freshener (although that would be quite sufficient reason, believe me); I just think it’s sensible not to stay in any one place for too long. I’ll send the address when I can. Would you please study the pamphlet? I must be missing something important. But for the time being, I am going in search of the last Grand Cat Master named on the list, because from what little I can deduce from the mumbo-jumbo all-Hail rubbish in Nine Lives, he’s the key to putting a stop to all this. I’d appreciate it if you would have a look at the last page of the pamphlet, where there is talk of some sort of ritualistic device called a “Debaser” that the Cat Master “holdeth” – but what is it? Something about “a circle closeth”? It makes no sense to me – but as you can imagine, it’s hard to think straight right now. It’s such a shock to have lost Winterton. And it’s irritating, too. Winterton knew so much, Wiggy! Even if he was the most infuriating source of evil-talking-cat information in the world, he was a direct line to Roger – and more importantly, to Roger’s history. And now Winterton has been smothered in his hospital bed by – presumably – the Captain lying across his face as he weakly struggled and wriggled and died! I think I know what sort of nightmares my future is full of now – assuming I have a future at all.
I can’t afford self-pity right now, but I keep thinking that just three weeks ago I was at the seaside, at my lonely cottage, watching Watson run in circles on the beach, indulging myself in my sweetly sad feelings of loss over the sudden and unexplained natural death of Mary. Did I really know nothing of all this then? It’s impossible to imagine it now. I remember how Roger put it to you, when he was telling his life story: that once you’ve seen the world in a different way, you can’t go back. I’ve had so many new perspectives to deal with in the past couple of weeks that I can hardly keep track of them all. For example, Mary didn’t just die. Cats are murdering bastards. A load of black hairs on a suffocated man’s pillow do not indicate an assailant using a black fur jacket. The library has been holding powerful cat occult bastard evil shit ever since I’ve worked there. And as for Julian Prideaux – just a few days ago, I was saying that he was the laziest librarian on the planet, and I was mocking the way he used to leave his dandruffy cardigan on the back of his chair! I was wondering how a man of 70 had kept his job when others, like me, had been made to retire at 58.
And now I know from the list printed in the back of this pamphlet that he is the Grand Cat Master, appointed in person by Beelzebub, and has been so for 50 years, ever since John Seeward hanged himself in the garden at Harville Manor on September 3rd, 1964.
(By the way, you didn’t send that link.)
Telepathic message (also known as an Emiaow) from Roger the cat to Julian Prideaux, Grand Cat Master
Sent: Tuesday, January 20, morning
Subject: All Hail, Cat Master
All Hail, Cat Master. Roger here. May I approach thy presence, figuratively speaking, oh great librarian and holder of the Great Debaser? From afar, I cringe and fawn unworthily before thy almighty cat power and all-round top-drawer diabolical connections – etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Emiaow from Prideaux to Roger
Speak, Roger. This is an unexpected pleasure.
Roger
Yes, I expect it is.
Prideaux
Although I would appreciate it if you tried not to sound so bloody sarcastic. Beelzebub himself ticked me off the other day for not getting the proper respect from you blasted cats. He came all the way from Pandemonium because he found out that the Captain had started calling me “mate.” I said to him: it’s a different world nowadays, Beelzebub. It’s not as respectful as it used to be. People on mobile phones; people cycling on the pavement; people cycling across pedestrian crossings even when the lights are against them.
Roger
What did he say to that?
Prideaux
Oh, the usual platitudes. He doesn’t care.
Roger
Did he say,
“This is hell, nor am I out of it”?
Prideaux
He did, actually.
Roger
He always says that. He thinks it’s funny.
(Pause)
Roger
I just wanted you to know that I heard.
Prideaux
Heard what?
Roger
About Winterton. About him being polished off in intensive care by “feline body-surf asphyxiation.”
Prideaux
Roger. Are you upset? I expect you’re upset.
Roger
Of course I’m not upset. I’m furious.
Prideaux
Roger, Roger, Roger. If you want to make a formal complaint –
Roger
What, to Beelzebub?
Prideaux
Well, technically, he is our line manager.
Roger
Yes, and I wonder what he’ll say when he finds out that, due to your incompetence, a librarian called Alec Charlesworth is now in possession of Nine Lives and intends to use it?
Prideaux
What? What did you say?
Roger
He’s in possesson of Nine Lives.
Prideaux
Alec from Periodicals? Look if this is some sort of joke – .
Roger
No joke.
Prideaux
Oh my God, the idea of Nine Lives being in the hands of someone like Alec from Periodicals! Roger, that book explains everything!
Roger
I know it explains everything, oh Satan’s Appointed Deputy. Including how Cat Masters themselves can be destroyed.
Prideaux
Now look. Don’t threaten me, Roger. Beelzebub himself –
Roger
Oh sod Beelzebub.
Prideaux
Roger!
Roger
I’m going to help this periodicals man. He likes Tennyson, and he called his dog after Dr Watson in Sherlock Holmes. He even remembers key passages form Jane Eyre in moments of crisis.
Prideaux
Roger, Roger. Stop and think. You’re rightly upset about Winterton – but haven’t you known for years that the Captain would get to him one day? Isn’t it simply a miracle that Winterton managed to elude him for so long? The Captain always blamed Winterton for taking you away from him, all those years ago on the Acropolis. Even when you were both with Seeward after the war, Winterton was always in the background, wasn’t he? The Captain knew that. When you left the Captain for a second time – when you chose to leave him – it really broke his heart.
Roger
He’d already broken mine! No, it’s over, oh Great Cat Master. I’m old, I’m jaded. I’ve even started to look at those people cycling on the pavement and think, “This is hell, nor am I out of it.” I worked it out last night, oh Lord of All Cat Evil: all told, I’ve been responsible for the deaths of eight people.
(Pause)
Roger
I’m giving you notice. I’m making it nine.
Prideaux
Look. You know you can’t kill me, Roger. You can’t kill the Cat Master! Roger – ?
Roger
I can if I read that book.
Prideaux
Roger – !
Roger
All Hail, Beelzebub, and all that. See you in hell.
Prideaux
Roger! Roger? Oh, bugger.
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Tuesday, January 20, 8:45 AM
Subject: Nine Lives
Dear Alec,
I hope this reaches you. I have been reading this bloody pamphlet for hours now and you’re right about how absolutely wanky it is – but it’s also weirdly plausible, you know. Remember that story you found on line about the old man who lived near Harville Manor whose cat came back with a physical aversion to Songs of Praise? I can’t explain it, but I’m really bloody haunted by that.
Sorry I forgot to send that link to the other bit of footage on YouTube. I’ll do it this time. You really ought to see it, Alec. It’s dynamite.
I think the best thing about this pamphlet, you know, is the way it implies that ALL cats are basically bastards like Roger deep down, but have gradually lost the ability to practice real evil as the centuries have worn on. Did you pick up on that? The exceptional cats, like Roger and the Captain, aren’t the product of some sort of miracle, Seeward says – they just haven’t degenerated the way all the others have. I think that’s what he’s saying, anyway. If it is, I think this explains such a lot about cat behaviour, don’t you? When they hiss at us, you see, you can tell that they really expect us to fall over and die – because that’s what used to happen. So when we just stand there, unharmed, and laughing in their faces, they’re completely miffed! Huffy, that’s cats for you – always got the hump. But why? We’ve always asked ourselves, “Why are cats so pissed off all the time? They get all the best seats in the house, they have food and warmth and affection. Everything is on their terms, not ours. They come and go as they please. Why aren’t they permanently ecstatic?” Well, now it’s explained. It’s because they’re conscious of having lost their ability to do serious evil, and they feel bloody humiliated.
Also, it turns out, the majority of everyday cats feel they’ve been unfairly abandoned by the Devil! Seeward seems to have taken a sort-of cat opinion poll. They all still worship him, apparently – but at the same time they know that he doesn’t care; that he’s too busy cooking up really big evil things like internet banking and double-dip recessions to bother with little furry minions whose only service to him is killing innocent (and insignificant) wildlife. Oh, and that’s the other thing! The way they kill birds and mice, and bring them home for us to see! Apparently it’s all bollocks about cats bringing us mice and birds because they believe in some childish way that we’re their big upright parents who will pat them on the back or something. They do it for only one reason: because birds and mice are their limit, but they think they’ll get their big evil powers back if they only do enough killing. Anyway, it was fascinating, all of this stuff. Say what you like about Seeward; he really knew his onions about cats. You know the way cats do that trampling thing on your lap, sort of kneading your groin? Well, that’s one of these “vestigial” things as well. It was how cats used to kill people by pretending to be friendly and then severing their femoral arteries! Purring was the way they sent people into a trance, you see – and then, when their prey was sort of paralysed and helpless, the cats would set to work with their claws! That’s what all cats are still trying to do, apparently, but not succeeding. I really love an evolutionary explanation for weird things like that, don’t you?
Alec, I have to tell you a couple of things and I hope you won’t be cross. The first thing showed quite a bit of initiative and pluck, I think. In your last email, you mentioned you were “going after” the Grand Cat Master, but you weren’t everso specific, and I was just reading and re-reading the bit in the book (at the end) about the “great debaser” and it suddenly occurred to me what it was. And I knew you didn’t have it, and I thought you’d bloody well want it, if at all possible. I’ve never explained to you that by sheer coincidence I live just three streets away from the library you used to work in – above the local Kall-Kwik, as it happens. It gave me quite a start when you mentioned the office downstairs as part of your plan for last Saturday night! I never mentioned this before because – well, you didn’t ask, Alec, did you? You didn’t say, “And where do you live, Wiggy? Not in Cambridge?” And besides, I wasn’t sure at first that I wanted to get involved.
Anyway, I studied the library plan you’d sent me, and this morning I thought I’d bloody well risk it, so I got myself into the library on a rather clever research pretext, and I found Staircase B after getting lost a couple of times, and in the end I found Prideaux’s office! I had it all prepared, what I was going to say if I found him in there – how I’d got lost looking for the old “bindery” office (whatever that is). I thought I
might even comment on the awful old cardigan. But anyway, he wasn’t there, and I got it. Alec, I got the Great Debaser! No idea what to do with it now, of course. But I do have it in front of me as I write this, and I do feel proud.
The other thing I have to tell you isn’t quite such a positive type thing. It’s that I’ve remembered something Roger said to me – as you requested. You may remember that you wrote the other day:
It occurs to me that although the life-story tapes in the folder took him only up to his wartime experiences in the British Museum, he might have told you more – only off the record, as it were.
Well, what I’ve remembered is that Roger said he knew how to access my emails. Sorry. I know I should have mentioned this before, but it kept flashing into my mind to tell you – especially when you were begging me at the beginning to be your special mate and “repository” and all that – but then I’d always forget it again.
I’m really sorry, Alec. I mean, I’ve no idea if Roger has been reading every single thing you’ve sent me. But just in case, my advice would be, don’t tell me anything important from now on by email. Wx
Email from Alec to Wiggy
Sent: Tuesday, January 20, 8:45 AM
Subject: Out of Office Auto Reply Re: Operation Seeward
I am currently rather busy and mostly away from my computer. If this is Wiggy, I am going to Harville Manor, but don’t tell anyone.
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Tuesday, January 20, 8:48 AM
Subject: You should change your auto reply
Alec, You probably ought to change your auto reply. Sorry. See previous email. Wigs x
PART FOUR
DORSET
It has been hard to know where to start with this final instalment of the story. In fact, I have stared at a blank screen for a day and a half, attempting to organise all my impressions of the last act (so to speak) – and simply failing. Perhaps I should wait? Perhaps it’s too soon? It was only a week ago that it all happened, after all; and it was traumatic, too, by anyone’s standards. But if I wait, won’t the impressions fade? Won’t I forget? And isn’t it my duty to get this right? I am beset by questions whose answers are just a matter of opinion. On balance, my feeling is that I should be a man and tackle it now, and put it all behind me. So that’s what I will do. I will have another cup of tea, and then I’ll pull myself together (and try not to repeat the unfortunate expression “be a man,” which I’ve never used before in my life) and press on and just pray that I remember to get everything in.