The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“Kitty, stop that!” my guide scolded. “It’s not proper! Go and watch a mousehole . . . . To continue: the fourth generation established the fine library across the hall—thousands of rare books and first editions. Philip the Philanthropist, we named him. He and his charming wife, Margaret, deeded this house to the Historical Society when they disinherited their son. A tragic situation! He was their only child. Dennis the Disappointment, our custodian calls him. Dennis is in prison now, and we all feel more comfortable knowing he’s behind bars. Please don’t print that, however.”

I had given up trying to ask questions and was following the guide dumbly.

She was breathing normally now, and she went on with apparent relish: “Dennis was a student of mine when I was teaching elementary, and I knew he would never amount to anything. His father believed children should attend public school like anyone else, but things got so bad that they had to take him out. Later he was expelled from three colleges—not even good ones. He got into despicable kinds of trouble. Finally he was arrested in a . . . drug bust, I believe it’s called . . . . Marmalade! Leave the visitor alone!”

The cat was getting chummy now, rubbing against my ankles and taking friendly nips at my nylons.

“Dennis broke his mother’s heart,” Ms. Finney said. “Upstairs you’ll see her personal suite, all done in tones of peach. I’ll not go with you because my knees rebel at those twenty-two stairs, but you’ll find it well worth the climb. Be sure to see the glass cases with Margaret’s collection of Fabergé eggs. She also had priceless jewels that had been in the family for four generations. After they were stolen she went into a decline and died shortly after. Be sure to see her bathroom, all done in black onyx. Philip died quite recently in a plane crash in Europe. All very sad.”

We had reached the paneled dining room that could seat twenty-four, and my guide was extolling the boiserie, when Marmalade suddenly appeared with a dead mouse, which he dropped on my shoe. I shook it off ever so gently to avoid hurting his feelings or throwing him into a rage. He was a very peculiar animal.

“How very sweet!” Ms. Finney exclaimed. “He has brought you a present—to apologize for his rude behavior. Nice kitty!”

At this point there were sounds of activity in the rear of the house, and eventually a lanky old man approached us. He seemed vigorous for his age, but his arms and legs moved in a disjointed way, like a robot’s. Although it was summer he wore a dark business suit, rusty with age and dusty around the knees. Without preliminaries he announced in a high-pitched, reedy voice: “The fingerprint people are coming this afternoon, so we can’t open the museum—maybe not for several days. It depends how the investigation goes.”

Ms. Finney said: “This is Mr. Tibbitt, our beloved custodian. He was my principal when I was teaching elementary . . . . Now that you’re here, Mr. T, I’d like to run over to the hospital to see how Mrs. Sheffield is doing.”

“She’s all right. She’s in intensive care,” he said in his hooting voice. “But you never know. At her age she could go off like that.” He looked at Ms. Finney’s left hand. “Better tell them to put something on your scratches, Rhoda. How’s Marmalade? Is he feeling better?”

“He’s getting less antisocial,” I volunteered. “He brought me a mouse a few minutes ago.”

“He was mad as a hornet when I got here this morning,” Mr. Tibbitt said. “Growling and spitting and pacing the floor like a tiger in a cage. Too bad he can’t tell us what happened last night. I’ve just come from the police station. Gave them what information I could. This town used to have a one-man police force. All he had to do was help the children cross Main Street and drive the heavy tipplers home on Saturday night. Then the tourists started coming up here and we had to buy three police cars.”

The garrulous Rhoda Finney departed, leaving me with the garrulous Mr. Tibbitt. Now, I hoped, I could ask questions and receive answers. “Do you think the vandals were vacationers?”

“No, this is one thing we can’t blame on the tourists. There’s something I didn’t mention in front of Rhoda; didn’t want to have to call the ambulance again. Did you hear about the three convicts that escaped yesterday?”

I vaguely remembered an item on a radio newscast.

“One of them was a member of the Lockmaster family,” Mr. Tibbitt said.

“Dennis the Disappointment?”

“I see Rhoda has been telling family secrets. Yes, they caught the other two in a swamp, but Dennis is still at large. He won’t get far. He’s not smart enough.”

“Do you think it was Dennis who wrecked the drawing room?”

“No doubt about it. He knew how to get into the house—through the chute where they used to deliver coal in the old days.”

“Was it retaliation for being disinherited? Why did he concentrate on the drawing room? Why didn’t he just burn the house down?”