Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 106, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 648 & 649, October 1995

A Witch and Her Cats by Antonia Fraser

© 1995 by Antonia Fraser

Antonia Fraser had already earned a reputation as an historian before she started writing the Jemima Shore mysteries with which most crime readers associate her name. She is a prize-winning biographer and the editor of a series of books about the kings and queens of England. Yet in Jemima Shore she’s created a heroine who’s thoroughly up-to-date, especially when it comes to dealing with witches.

At first Jemima Shore thought that the elderly woman was shaking due to the frailty of age. It was bakingly hot outside. For a moment Jemima wondered if the woman, a stranger, was ill, faint, needing water. Then Jemima realised that she was trembling with anger. The woman — seventy-something? Eighty? — was standing on the doorstep, very close to the door itself, when Jemima answered the bell.

“Mine, mine,” she was saying, or rather gasping, as if the strength of her anger was robbing her of breath. “How dare you... evil, wicked... How dare you? Mine, mine.” The torrent of words, some of which Jemima could hardly make out, continued for a while. Then, when she was apparently exhausted, the woman shook her fist in Jemima’s face.

Amid her general astonishment, Jemima had time to reflect that this was something that had never happened to her before. Fist-shaking belonged to the world of melodrama: Outside the opera, Jemima did not think she had ever seen the gesture performed seriously before. She certainly did not expect to open the door of a London house and encounter such a histrionic denunciation.

Part of Jemima’s shock was due to the fact that the woman, quite apart from her imprecations, did have a distinctly witchlike appearance. And she was certainly behaving in a traditional witch’s fashion: that is to say, cursing. In principle, Jemima was dead against labeling older women as witches simply because they had become skinny and wrinkled with age, had started maybe to mutter aloud aggressively, due to loneliness or disappointment. That was misogynist stereotyping at its worst and quite intolerable. On the other hand, when you were confronted with a shaken fist and a stream of invective issuing from an elderly female, bowed and scraggy in her black dress, with sparse grey hair in a bun and two long prominent front teeth, it was difficult to suppress the instant reaction buried in childhood memories of fairy stories: This was a witch.

At this point Jemima suddenly realised who her caller must be. This was Miss Pollard. Jemima had had that very conversation about the cruelty of describing elderly ladies as witches only a week ago. She had ticked off her goddaughter Claudia for referring to their neighbour as “that old witch” only to have Claudia mutter rebelliously: “Old bat, then.” But still, Jemima was confident that her point had been made. And now the old witch/bat was gibbering in front of her (as Claudia would have put it). For the invective had started again and what was more, the voice was growing stronger...

It was the emergence of the words “cats... my cats! Mine, mine... my cats” which gave Jemima at last her clue to what this was all about. Rosy and Rusty, the adorable young marmalade cats — not much more than kittens, really — to whom Claudia had taken such a fancy.

Jemima did not actually own the house in Edwardes Terrace, West London, in which she was currently living, a tall, narrow house, with a long thin garden at the back. Recently there had been an insidious unchecked flood in her own mansion flat while Jemima was away. The result had been not only the ruin of carpets and furniture but also the destruction of floors. The only thing to do was to move out entirely while builders wrestled with the damage. And the Edwardes Terrace house — although larger than Jemima wanted — had been available for instant rental.

It was at this point that Claudia Farrow had come to join Jemima. The Farrow parents’ ever-troubled marriage was finally coming to an end, and the fallout was considerable. Alexa Farrow did not wish her daughter to witness it. So Jemima, as a gesture of godmotherly solidarity, offered to have Claudia to stay until times were calmer. With Claudia came her nanny/au pair, Maureen. And with Maureen, a good deal of the time, came her boyfriend Johnnie. After that, Jemima reflected drily, the house did not seem in any way too large.

Maureen herself was quite a withdrawn character. She had the kind of ample — not exactly fat — figure which Jemima presumed must give a sense of security to a child; but she certainly could not be described as a jolly, comfortable person. Her hair, brownish and not very thick, was scraped back into a severe ponytail; her face was pale and rather square.

Johnnie the boyfriend was undoubtedly far better looking for a man than Maureen for a woman. He also sported a ponytail, but his was a macho masculine ponytail, which set off his neat, slightly wolfish features. Johnnie’s only flaw in terms of appearance was in fact that very neatness: He was a little shorter than the lavish Maureen. At the same time, Johnnie was extremely muscular, as Jemima could not help noticing from the skimpy clothes, vest and shorts, he generally wore in the hot weather. Either Johnnie’s building job had done that for him or else he worked out. Any six-foot man would have been proud of Johnnie’s biceps.

If Maureen was inclined to be silent, Johnnie was immensely voluble. The roar of Johnnie’s exuberant chatter, pitched to be heard above the television which was also blaring away in the kitchen, caused Jemima much secret annoyance. So this was the way the world had gone: How was she to know that children nowadays had a double escort of nanny and boyfriend? She was herself childless, and Claudia was the nearest she had to a surrogate child. But having made her generous offer to Alexa Farrow, she could hardly start upsetting her domestic arrangements.

“Maureen is a bit glum,” was how Alexa had put it. “And not wildly intelligent. But you won’t have any trouble with her. Claudia is used to her,” Alexa had summed up. “And that’s important in this situation, isn’t it?” The topic of Maureen was dismissed. Alexa had not mentioned Johnnie at all. “Oh Jem,” she rattled on, “I’m so grateful to you. You see, I can just about cope with all my future ex-husband’s vindictiveness by myself, but having to cope with Claudia—” Alexa was right back into the impossibility of life with Claudia’s lying, cheating father.

Claudia was thin, over-thin perhaps for an eight-year-old, although once again Jemima was not certain exactly what an eight-year-old should look like. She had an anxious face and dark hair inclined to droop over her forehead. There was something touching about her: Indeed, her very anxiety moved Jemima.

The saving grace of the situation in Edwardes Terrace was Claudia’s great love of the little golden cats. Jemima, a cat lover, guessed them to be about four months old (she realised that at thirty-something she knew rather more about cats and their ways than she did about children). Rosy and Rusty still retained all the grace and playfulness of kittenhood, yet were large and lithe enough to go adventuring over the walls of the terrace gardens. From the top floor of the house where Claudia and Maureen slept (and perhaps Johnnie too, though Jemima hoped not) she could sometimes trace the cats’ progress over this wall and that. There would be a flash of golden fur, a gleam of white (one cat had a white face, front, and paws), and then another yellow streak as the second cat followed the first. They were always together.

The first time the two cats appeared on the narrow lawn of Jemima’s house and began to gambol with each other, Claudia gave such a piercing scream that Jemima thought she had hurt herself and came running down from her study. But it was a scream of pleasure. Even Maureen allowed herself one of her rare smiles at the enchanting sight of the cat-kittens rolling over and over, biting, cuffing, licking, hugging, pawing each other.

Perhaps Claudia’s first words to Jemima should have warned her of possible troubles ahead: “Oh Jemima, can I keep them? I’ve always wanted to have a kitten, Mum said that one day I would have a kitten, and now there are two kittens—” Claudia was hugging now one cat, now the other. Her pinched little face was flushed with happiness.

“Darling,” said Jemima gently, “I think we’d better find out where they come from. Look, they’ve got collars.” She took the cat with the white face from Claudia and checked the inscription on the medallion which hung, together with a small bell, from the red collar. Rosy, together with her all-gold brother Rusty. Names but no telephone numbers or address.

“Some milk,” Claudia was saying importantly. She cradled both cats together in her arms and headed for the kitchen, which had a glass extension built out into the garden. Jemima hesitated, and decided it would do no harm. Claudia played happily with the cats for the rest of the afternoon and refused to go for a walk in Holland Park. Once again Jemima decided that would do no harm.

She did, however, ban Claudia from having the cats to sleep in her bedroom. When Claudia went to bed, just about the time that Johnnie came round for his evening session of chat ’n television, Rosy and Rusty were put firmly back into the garden.

“Jolly little fellows,” said Johnnie approvingly. “Although I’m a dog man myself. Something big. Man-sized. You know, it’s an odd thing, but big dogs are much more affectionate than small ones. When I get another job,” — he was currently unemployed — “I’ll get a dog.” Jemima wondered nervously if Johnnie might be referring to a pit bull.

The next morning, quite early, Jemima looked out of her second-floor bedroom window and saw the small figure of Claudia, still in her pink pyjamas, skipping about in the garden.

“Rosy, Rusty,” she was calling. Jemima rather thought that Claudia had something in her hand, food perhaps. There was no sign of Maureen. Jemima turned away, wondering what to do — she had to go to the studio early to do some dubbings for her new television series and would not be back until late. She decided to rouse Maureen, who was both sleepy and surprised — but finally quite sensible.

“She’s that excited about the little cats. And you said she would see them again in the morning. So I suppose that when she woke up... but don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

It didn’t happen again. At least not exactly like that. But Claudia’s obsession with the cats grew and grew. Jemima really believed the little girl thought about nothing else. The drawings she did, at Maureen’s suggestion, for Jemima’s return from work were entirely of cats, bright yellow cats, since the delicate gold of their fur was impossible to reproduce by crayon. Claudia’s letters to her parents, also at Maureen’s suggestion, were also concentrated on the same topic. And that was how the argument about the term “the old witch” came about.

One of Claudia’s unfinished letters was lying on the kitchen table when Jemima got home. The weather was still so stifling and humid that Jemima’s first instinct on her return was to fling open the glass doors of the kitchen-conservatory and breathe deeply in the night air. She had planted some tobacco plants in the decaying tubs by the glass doors — rented houses never had very thrilling gardens — and Jemima stood enjoying their subtle nocturnal scent.

There were various night sounds to be heard in the semidarkness: In the heat, most of the back windows of the houses along the terrace were open. There was at least one television set on, but the noise was low enough not to be a real annoyance. That was fortunate, since the terraced houses were all so narrow as to be really close together: From an upper window the various gardens looked like one big green area, punctuated by moderatesized brick walls. There were about twenty-five houses all told. A few of the houses right at the end of the row backed into some kind of mews. But most of them, including Jemima’s own centrally placed house, faced a large, high brick building with a flat roof. It looked as if it had been erected in the sixties. There were no windows facing into the gardens, no doubt due to some planning rule or other. Although some of the residents over the years had grown creepers up the blank wall, the effect was still rather prisonlike. Jemima’s end wall, for example, simply had a flight of stone steps leading nowhere, and another decrepit tub, into which she had injected some white geraniums, at the top of them.

If the effect was slightly daunting, you could also say that Edwardes Terrace was extemely private — secure even, so far as a house in London could ever be really secure. An interloper seeking to enter Jemima’s house from the back would have to cross a great many walls to do so. Like the golden cats, in fact... Jemima looked speculatively into the darkness. But no cat slithered down to join her. Where were the cats now? How many walls did they cross to get to her garden? For that matter, who did they belong to?

The answer to Jemima’s questions was contained, in a manner of speaking, in Claudia’s unfinished letter on the kitchen table.

“The old wich (sic) got cross with me again today about the cats,” she read. “She’s so scarry (sic). She lives at No. 18.”

At that moment, as if on cue, Jemima heard a thin, reedy voice calling somewhere outside. “Rosy, Rusty, where are you? Ros-ee, Rust-ee.” A witch calling for her cats. (She would of course have to speak to Claudia about her letter in the morning.) At least the inhabitants of No. 16 were not guilty this time. The conservatory doors had been firmly closed, according to instructions, when Jemima returned. She could listen to the old witch — woman — calling without feeling embarrassed. She could also feel without shame that there was something distinctly querulous about the persistent, nagging calling.

Jemima’s complacency was shattered about five minutes later when the all-gold cat streaked out from beneath the kitchen counter and headed for the open doors: The white-faced cat followed.

Oh my God! thought Jemima. Wicked Claudia. Or should it be wicked Maureen? Tones of ecstasy, mixed with wails of reproach, echoed across the garden as the cats and their owner were reunited.

“Naughty cats! Where have you been? Did the horrid little girl get you?” At least, reflected Jemima, the cats had no language in which to answer that question: They could not give away the guilty inhabitants of No. 16. The next morning Jemima happened to be working at home. She took the opportunity to give Claudia that mild little lecture about the word “witch.” Furthermore, the cats from No. 18 were never, ever to be locked into No. 16.

Maureen stood impassively by while this scene was being enacted in the kitchen. And as it happened, Johnnie was there too. At the time, Jemima felt some annoyance at his presence. But then she thought that Johnnie too might benefit from listening. Perhaps it had been Johnnie who, out of unthinking good nature, had helped Claudia, as he saw it, to “adopt” the cats.

Jemima forgot about Rosy and Rusty. Work at the office became, all of a sudden, extremely demanding. At the same time, her builders wanted a series of decisions. Claudia and Maureen appeared to enjoy an innocuous school-holidays routine of shopping, walks, trips for ice cream and other expeditions, hiring suitable videos mainly made by Walt Disney, all cosily based on Edwardes Terrace. So far as Jemima could establish, Johnnie was slightly less in evidence. Maybe he had a job? Or maybe something of Jemima’s inner irritation had conveyed itself to Maureen.

And now there she was, all of a sudden, facing Claudia’s scary witch on her own doorstep. In pursuit of her cats. The ghastly thing was that Jemima could not honestly promise that the cats were not in the house. Her visible irresolution had the effect of encouraging Miss Pollard. She stepped into the hall of the house and gave a series of eldritch shrieks up the stairs.

“Rosy, Rusty, where are you? Come to your mother.” Jemima found herself praying that no answer would follow from upstairs. It was quite late: something after nine o’clock, and Maureen (and Johnnie) were watching television in the kitchen. She devoutly hoped that Claudia was asleep upstairs — alone and catless. Her prayer was not answered. Almost immediately, to her horror, Claudia’s bedroom door opened. There was a light skittering sound, followed by the characteristic small tinkle which always indicated the arrival of the cats. Rosy and Rusty streaked down the stairs, there was a series of sharp mews, and Miss Pollard gathered both cats up into her arms.

A wail came from above her head. Claudia, once more in those pink pyjamas, was standing on the landing, rubbing her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” she began. The sight did not move Miss Pollard.

“You wicked little girl! You will indeed be sorry for this, I can assure you of that. Just wait and see. I’m going to curse you. Bad things are going to happen to you because of what you’ve done. You’ll see.”

It was an extraordinary scene; for some reason, despite her good sense, Jemima found it quite menacing. She stood frozen, listening to the child crying and looking, as if mesmerised, at the woman clutching her cats. Then, as Claudia’s cries became hysterical, Jemima realised she must leap into action.

“Miss Pollard, she’s only a child.” Jemima spoke as politely as possible, although she did not feel particularly polite. “I apologise on her behalf now, and she will write you a note tomorrow, and so will I, and so, I expect, will her mother. Claudia will not touch the cats again, I promise you that. But as for now, I can’t help feeling you must be longing to get home with your cats.”

Miss Pollard ignored Jemima. She continued to stare up at the retreating little girl in that disconcerting and rather horrible fashion. After a moment she transferred her gaze to Jemima. Jemima had an impression of a deep malevolence.

“I curse you too,” said Miss Pollard in a quieter voice. “I know who you are from television. I curse you too.”

Miss Pollard left and Jemima rushed upstairs. When she got to Claudia’s room, she could see nothing but a dark head huddled under the duvet. And Claudia, beneath her duvet, was shuddering with sobs.

“Claudia, dear, don’t cry. I’ll talk to Mum. You’ll get a kitten — two kittens if you like — for Christmas, when everything at home is sorted out.”

“I’m frightened,” Claudia whispered. She finally fell asleep holding Jemima’s hand. Later Jemima went rather thoughtfully down into the kitchen and found Maureen and Johnnie still watching the television, the sound having masked all outside noises. Jemima related what had happened — leaving out the curse — and emphasised that on no account were the cats to be allowed into the house or garden of No. 16.

“You must shoo them away.”

Maureen said nothing. It was Johnnie who promised ardently: “Oh, we will, we will.” Jemima walked past them into the hot, dark garden, closing the glass doors behind her. She walked to the end, mounted the steps, and leaned against the blank wall. There were no lights, none at all, to be seen in No. 18. Had Miss Pollard simply gone to bed with her cats? The garden windows — big french windows — were firmly shut. A flicker of light caught Jemima’s eye. Jemima realised that whatever Miss Pollard was up to in No. 18, she was up to it by candlelight. Jemima could just make her out sitting at a table. For some reason, she found that whole scene even more disquieting.

It was shortly after that evening that everything in Jemima’s life started to go wrong. It was as though — but that was perfectly ridiculous — some curse really had been put upon her. For example, there was a problem with the sound on one of the programs in her new series and no one could fix it, which left everyone blaming everyone else in an edgy way for what looked like being an expensive mistake. No sooner was that crisis surmounted, at some cost, than Cherry, Jemima’s longtime assistant and now partner in her production company, broke her wrist playing tennis and was forbidden even to raise her right hand. Given Cherry’s mastery of their new computer, this was another disaster.

Jemima herself completely forgot to turn up for an important lunch date of a professional nature, something which had never happened to her before. To cap it all, on the very same day, Jemima’s builders mixed up their instructions and painted the bathroom the rich sombre colour intended for the hall. It was not a day to remember. Jemima finally reached Edwardes Terrace having visited Cherry, sent flowers and apologies to her lunch date, and sorted out the builders.

She found herself confronted by both Maureen and Johnnie — not exactly the relaxing welcome Jemima actually wanted. She then understood Maureen to say: “Oh, it’s been murder here today.” Had Claudia been mischievous? Had there been yet another incident with the cats?

It took a moment for Jemima to understand, let alone take in, what Maureen was actually saying: “We’ve had a murder here today,” were Maureen’s words. This horrifying message finally sank in.

“The old witch, Miss Pollard.” Was it Jemima’s imagination, or was Johnnie giving one of his wolfish grins? If so, what extraordinary taste he was displaying. “Found dead, she was. In her own kitchen. Like ours. You can see into it from the garden. I saw her in the morning, pitched forward onto the table. There was a candle burning. Thought she was asleep, drunk, some of these old ladies take to the bottle, you know. The unmarried sort. Watch out, Jemima—” Johnnie gestured cheekily in the direction of the empty wine bottles (not a few, it had to be said) which were lined up by the sink, awaiting delivery to the bottle bank.

Jemima was not to be diverted, although she did give Johnnie — who was incidentally clutching a can of lager — a frosty glance.

“Go on.”

“Like this. It’s me that called the police. Me and Maureen. In the evening. You were still out. Didn’t know when you’d be back. Because she hadn’t moved. The candle was right down. Had gone out. And I could see the cats running, jumping everywhere in that kitchen. They were going mad. And that didn’t seem right. So—” He hesitated and looked at Maureen — “So we talked about it, didn’t we, Maureen, and I called the police.”

Johnnie’s neighbourly solicitude for Miss Pollard did him credit; so did his concern for the cats. The trouble was that Jemima did not believe him. That is to say, she believed parts of his story, including the candle burning on the table, something which she had seen for herself. But the overall story had an odd ring to it. Jemima’s instinct — that famous instinct, feminine or gender-free, on which she prided herself — told her that Johnnie was lying.

Her suspicions increased half an hour later when the police, in the person of Detective Inspector Gary Harwood from the local station, called round. Detective Inspector Harwood was young, pink-cheeked, very clean looking, and had a professionally easy manner on which he evidently prided himself. It did not take Jemima long — after all, she also had a professionally easy manner on which she prided herself — to discover the main facts of the case. These were roughly as Johnnie had reported, with one significant exception. Miss Pollard was indeed dead. But the house at No. 18 had also been burgled.

“Robbery with violence!” exclaimed Jemima.

“We haven’t established the cause of death yet. But yes, robbery. We want to have another word with your Mr. Johnnie Johnson as a result. An old friend of ours, by the way.”

“My Mr. Johnnie Johnson? You mean—”

“Recognised him at once. Makes a habit of it. Stupidly he tends to concentrate on this area. Makes life easier for us poor overworked policemen.” The detective inspector flashed Jemima a smile: His teeth were amazingly regular and very white in contrast to the ruddy cheeks.

Jemima’s mind reeled. Johnnie a burglar? A burglar who, as Detective Inspector Harwood now jauntily told her, made a speciality of getting to know young nannies or au pairs, and then robbing the house next-door or thereabouts.

“It gets him access, you see,” the policeman added. “It’s amazing what latitude you career women will allow your nannies. You take up the references about the nannies, and never ask about the boyfriends.”

The moment to disabuse the detective inspector as to Claudia’s parentage — and Maureen’s real employer — was fast approaching. Nevertheless, Jemima took the point. She had simply taken the egregious Johnnie for granted, only too happy that the sullen Maureen had company. Jemima hardly looked forward to breaking this news to Alexa Farrow: It was going to be difficult not to speak in tones of reproach, just as Harwood was speaking to her now. How feckless Alexa had been! Or had she simply succumbed to modem customs? Being too busy, fraught, and unhappy herself to pay close attention to the most vital aspect of her private life. Jemima, being childless, simply didn’t know.

She decided to concentrate on the immediate present.

“Murder!” cried Jemima. “He’s a killer. What’s he doing free? You say he’s done this before—” With all her liberal principles, Jemima found herself seized with total indignation at the idea of such a situation.

“No, no, wait a minute. Don’t misunderstand me. Johnnie Johnson is not a killer, he’s a thief, if you like, a minor thief. But no killings involved, no muggings. Not even a very bright burglar. The kitchen was covered in his prints. But nothing even near the body. He’s a chancer, sees the opportunity, can’t resist taking it. But then he goes and telephones us! Thinking that makes him innocent. Johnnie Johnson!” The detective inspector shook his well-brushed head with something approaching tenderness.

So part of Johnnie’s story was true. Jemima had a mental image of Johnnie, lithe and athletic, scaling the wall as the cats had done so often.

“The cats!” she exclaimed. “What’s to happen to them?” Detective Inspector Harwood — it became clear that he was not a cat lover — did not seem to think that the cats were all that important. He murmured something about the R.S.P.C.A.

“We’ll take them.” Jemima took the decision without thinking. That is, she did not think about the reaction of Alexa: She did think of Claudia. At this, Detective Inspector Harwood began to look quite definitely irritated at having to concentrate on the issue of cats.

“What have cats got to do with a death?” he asked plaintively. “They’re not important.”

It was only when the cause of Miss Pollard’s death was established that he was obliged to change his mind. The cats were important, very important.

Miss Pollard had not been murdered by anyone, let alone done to death by Johnnie Johnson. (His stash of stolen goods was discovered without difficulty, neatly stowed under the bed of Claudia.) Miss Pollard had taken a large cocktail of pills and brandy. She had done so deliberately. She had stated that in a note found in her escritoire — forced open by Johnnie in search of plunder.

Coolly, Miss Pollard gave her reasons for taking her own life. It was not worth living, she wrote, without the company of her beloved cats, Rosy and Rusty. Yet her cats wanted to desert her for the company of younger people, like the little girl at No. 16. She had tried to make a home for them but they spent the day trying to escape... Miss Pollard could see no way out but to take her own life. She put her cats’ happiness above her own.

“Whoever cares for my cats after my death,” Miss Pollard ended, “gets my blessing not my curse.”

Jemima did not tell any of this to Claudia. She merely put her arms round her.

“You see now that Miss Pollard wasn’t a witch,” Jemima said gently. “She wanted you to care for her cats. She specially said so.” Jemima edited the will to her own satisfaction.

“She was a witch, Jemima.” Claudia spoke firmly, with new assurance. “I know she was. But there are good witches as well as bad, aren’t there? And in the end she was a good witch.”

To Jemima, it seemed as good a verdict as any on the sad, lonely death of Miss Pollard. She watched Claudia playing with the two golden cats, all her childish tension apparently gone. It was, in a way — wasn’t it? — a happy ending.