James the Conniosseur Cat Page 15

  James nodded and went on playing.

  I got up. “I’m off for now,” I said. “You’ve got a table full of work here and I’ve got to look in at the Victorian paintings coming up for sale soon. Come by Baron’s Chambers about five for a sip or two of the water-of-life, as the Scotch would say.”

  “Love to,” said Peter.

  “Want to come with me?” I asked James. He likes to wander in the great room of Thwaites and sometimes sees something he fancies. He is beginning to develop as a collector. He owns three pieces: a Staffordshire porcelain cat, a copy of the Egyptian cat Bastet who wears gold earrings, and a pair of his own gold earrings for which he had his ears pierced some time ago.

  This time James shook his head. Then he waved his paw at a line of bluish stamps on one edge of the worktable. James has extremely acute vision and can detect tiny differences between the printing on different stamps in a much shorter time than can the normal human being. He spends part of his week working with Peter or with Marilyn, sorting for forgeries, reentries and plate flaws. In this case he would look at the stamps lined up for him and very gently move the forgeries out of line with his paw.

  James lives around the corner at Baron’s Chambers, a building containing small furnished apartments that can be rented for as short a time as a week. He ostensibly belongs to Mrs. March, who manages the building from her apartment on the fifth floor, but he really belongs to the world. When I am in London I stay at Baron’s. When James is not working for Peter Hightower, he sits on a small table at the entrance to Baron’s and subjects possible tenants to careful scrutiny.

  “I’m on the fourth floor in flat twelve,” I said to James and Peter as I left. “Come anytime after four.”

  James gave me his I-know-where-you-are look and then relented and winked and grinned, and I knew my old friend was ready for any adventures we could find.

  By four in the afternoon I was back in flat twelve, which has a charming sitting room with a big overstuffed sofa and one overstuffed chair, a glass-topped table that seats four easily and six in a pinch, and six straight chairs in case there is a pinch. There is a comfortable bedroom, a bath, and a tiny kitchen now stocked with bottles of Laphroaig single-malt whiskey, La Iña sherry, Strasbourg goose liver pâté from Fortnum and Mason’s just down the street, Stilton cheese from Paxton’s up Jermyn Street.

  I had just settled down in the easy chair when I heard a scratch at the door. There was James. He gave me a nod, walked purposefully into the bedroom and patted my suitcases in approval. James likes tweed suitcases bound in leather—none of your plastic stuff for him. After assuring himself all was well in the bedroom he hurried into the kitchen, where he began opening the cupboard doors. He is good at this. He has had lots of practice. He patted the can of pâté and grinned at the Laphroaig.

  “Very good choice,” I said. I opened the pâté, put out some crackers, set out two glasses and a saucer and the food on a tray, and at that moment the downstairs bell rang. It was Peter. James and I stood in the hall, watching the tiny elevator rise in its elaborate gilded exterior cage in the center of the stairwell. The lift itself is made of mahogany with windows of bevelled glass cut in it. It moves slowly but with certainty and can hold four moderate-size people with only a little discomfort.

  James greeted Peter ebulliently and led him to the sitting room, where Peter settled comfortably in the easy chair. I followed with the pâté and crackers.

  “Laphroaig or La Iña?” I asked.

  “I’ll have La Iña, please,” said Peter. He is especially fond of good, dry sherry.

  I did not have to ask James. I went back to the kitchen for a glass of sherry for Peter, a glass of Laphroaig for me and a saucer of the same for James. I put the saucer on the coffee table. James sat next to the saucer, scattered a few drops on the table as a libation and lapped, while Peter and I clinked glasses.

  We three friends sat for a moment in silence, relishing the delight of being together again after a long separation.

  Then my telephone rang.

  “Helena,” I cried, delighted to hear her voice.

  James was galvanized. He nearly knocked the phone out of my hand as he meowed into it. At the other end I could hear Helena making kissing noises while James purred his loudest.

  Helena, Lady Haverstock, a tall, beautiful woman, about thirty, with golden hair and laughing blue eyes, is the wife of Henry Stepton, the 24th earl of Haverstock. Both Lord Henry and Helena are intimate friends of James’s. In fact, it was James who brought them together when Helena was a struggling artist in London and Lord Henry a lonely widower. Lord Henry and Helena are also close friends of mine. Helena was calling to welcome me to England and invite James, Peter and myself for the weekend at Haverstock Hall, their estate, which was about an hour’s drive from London. I relayed the message to Peter, who thought it a wonderful idea. James was lying on his back and patting his paws together with delight at the prospect.

  “We’d all love to come,” I told Helena.

  “Fine,” she said. “Weatherby will be in London Friday with the station wagon and he will pick you three up at Baron’s about four if that is convenient.”

  “That will be super,” I said. “We all send love.”

  I hung up the phone and considered. That left the following day in which to get started on my project.

  “James,” I said. He was back on the coffee table eating pâté. He always leaves the crackers. “How would you like to come to Westminster Abbey with me tomorrow?”

  James looked at Peter.

  “Go ahead,” said Peter. “I have to spend time on the German correspondence and Marilyn is calling an auction so there is no work for you.”

  James turned to me and nodded. He loves expeditions around London.

  A little later the three of us went around the corner and down the street to Colombino’s Restaurant, where James is welcome. Peter and I had cannelloni and salad while James had a dish of clam sauce. James does not like pasta. The three of us split a bottle of good red wine. Outside the restaurant James and I said good night to Peter and walked back to flat twelve in time to watch the late evening news. As we sat before the TV there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Mrs. March, the charming manager of Baron’s Chambers.

  “Is James here by any chance?” she asked.

  I was about to call, but James was too fast for me. He had streaked out the door and was standing on the stairs leading up to the fifth floor. He somehow gave the impression that he had come to get Mrs. March rather than the other way around.

  “He seems to be right there,” I said, laughing.

  “Silly cat,” she said affectionately. “I hope he wasn’t bothering you.”

  “Indeed not,” I said. “In fact I should like to borrow him for the weekend. He has been invited to go with me to Haverstock Hall, if you agree.”

  “Of course he may go if you are sure he won’t be any trouble.”

  I heard James snort. The descendant of the favorite cat of the Stuart kings, the boon companion of the earl of Haverstock be any trouble? Ridiculous!

  The next morning when I opened my door to get the Telegraph, there was James sitting on the paper and in his mouth was his carry-bag. Last year Lord Henry commissioned Asprey’s, one of London’s finer shops, to make a bag specifically designed to allow James to travel on the underground, or go to Fortnum and Mason to pick out delicious items for the larder. The bag was made of parachute nylon with a sturdy leather bottom. Around the base of the bag, convenient to a paw, is a series of leather-bound holes, which permit James to reach out. Around the top of the bag is another set of holes at the right height to permit James to look out in all directions. The bag has a flap to cover the top and longish handles so it can be carried over my shoulder. James has taken many trips in it. It has his initial on it in gothic script.

  I held the bag upright, James hopped in and I closed the top. He waggled a bit to get settled and we were off to the Green Park station
. We changed trains at Victoria and finally arrived at the Westminster stop, walked up to street level and on to the Abbey. James loves to travel on the underground. Occasionally he has been known to scratch a pickpocket he caught in the act, but generally he remains invisible. However, I have to be careful to carry him at shoulder level. If I forget and rest the carry-bag on the floor, James will scratch me, or any leg he can reach.

  It was a grey, misty May 7, not quite drizzling, but cold. It was a day to discourage tourists and the Abbey was not overrun with crowds. In a building like the Abbey, James can run free. He disappears in the shadows as soon as I let him out of the carry-bag and I cannot see him. He can, however, see me, so he follows where I am going, at the same time making little forays of his own.

  Westminster Abbey is a place of worship and also a shrine to many of the heroes of the nation. Writers, artists, statesmen, military leaders and important clergymen are buried here, as well as kings and queens. For some of the great a simple plaque on the wall is sufficient, but for others great monuments, including many carved figures in marble, have been erected. The Abbey is a vast place and even these monuments are dwarfed in the gloom. I wandered happily, letting my imagination follow where time took me, past sixteenth- and seventeenth-century tombs but always looking for a mid-eighteenth-century monument designed by L-F. Roubiliac, which I knew was there.

  I turned a corner and came upon a school group consisting of about fifteen ten-year-old children and a teacher. The teacher was standing facing the children in front of a large monument that consisted of a dying General Wolfe leaning on the arm of an aide and looking off into the infinite. Below him with expressions of grief and gratitude huddled a crowd of men and women wearing the dress of the Puritans, and two or three American Indians with feathers in their hair, also looking gloomy. The monument had been given about 1745 by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to honor the British general who saved the colony from the French. The monument was very dirty and it was not easy to distinguish details in the dim light.

  I stopped to watch because the children seemed so interested.

  “This memorial piece,” the teacher was saying in a droning voice, “has representatives of all the various people in the colony at the time.”

  I heard a small snuffly sneeze.

  “There it is again,” said a boy in the front row.

  “Where?” asked his neighbor.

  “Just there, on that Indian or whatever he is.”

  “What is it?” asked another.

  “Look, that Indian’s feather moved.”

  I looked too and sure enough, above the tip of a dirty grey marble feather waved for just a moment a grey fur plume.

  The teacher, sensing he had lost his audience, changed his direction. “Who can tell me where Massachusetts is?” he asked.

  “Look, there it goes again,” said one boy.

  “I wonder how they do it?” said another.

  The plume was waving quite excitedly now and little puffs of dust were rising in the air.

  “Batteries, stupid,” said a boy from the back of the group.

  “Doesn’t anyone know where Massachusetts is?” asked the teacher.

  “Look,” said the first boy, pointing. “It’s getting bigger.”

  “What is getting bigger?” asked the teacher.

  “The feather,” said the boy. “Just there.”

  The teacher turned around at last and looked at the monument.

  “Aw, it’s gone,” said one of the boys.

  “If we stand still and wait, maybe it will come back,” said another.

  “You see, there was this extra feather waving back and forth over that Indian’s head,” a small boy in front explained to the teacher, “but it’s gone now.”

  “He’s right,” said four or five others together.

  “We will move on,” said the teacher firmly, and herded his charges down another aisle with some difficulty as boys kept turning back to see if the moving feather would reappear.

  “James,” I said when they were out of earshot, “that was a childish trick.”

  From behind the Indian’s feather a grey tail twirled in the air, and I heard a muffled meow.

  “Come on,” I said with a laugh. “We’re almost there. We’re looking for the tomb of Colonel Hargrave, done about the same time as this piece but quite different.”

  James appeared on the aisle and walked beside me, rubbing my leg occasionally, and together we shortly came upon a most unusual monument. Here was Colonel Hargrave. Unlike almost every other hero and heroine who are buried here, whose tombs feature weeping angels or mourning relatives, the marble colonel was leaping out of his grave with an exultant grin on his face. One arm was raised over his head, pulling aside his shroud, and one leg was protruding from his coffin. Here was the colonel resurrected. James and I stood and stared. Then James disappeared. The monument, in once-white marble, was beautifully executed by a very skillful artist.

  As I watched, puffs of dust rose from the back of the statue and shortly a grey cat appeared, lying on the marble drapery of the shroud which the colonel’s arm was pushing away. He waved a paw at me. I waved back.

  “Look it over very carefully,” I said. “I will try to take a picture, but the light is terrible here and a flash will make odd shadows.”

  James appeared and disappeared, dust puffs rose in the damp air and from time to time a pair of golden eyes gleamed at me. I took some pictures and made notes in my notebook. I wondered if there might be a terra-cotta model of this exuberant vision of the resurrection.

  James was sitting on the colonel’s shoulder gently patting his naked marble chest when I heard footsteps behind me.

  “I’ve had enough,” I said in a loud voice apparently to the air as James slipped up beside me and we left the Abbey.

  On the way back I dropped off the film I had taken to be developed, and James and I parted company until the afternoon when Peter Hightower came by, suitcase in hand. At four o’clock a station wagon drew up at the entrance to Baron’s and we waved from our window at Weatherby, the Haverstock chauffeur, a rangy man who drives with great skill, has great personal dignity and only barely tolerates James, because James tries to show him how to drive by putting a paw on his arm when the speed of the car is not to his liking. However, once we were all on our way, Peter in the back and James and I in the front, James curled up in my lap and went to sleep.

  Haverstock Hall, the seat of the earls of Haverstock since sometime in the sixteenth century, is surrounded by extensive grounds, some parts of which have been left wild. It is next to the village of Haverstock, a pleasant place with one small hotel, shops, a post office and a small but choice old church where Helena and Lord Henry were married a little over a year ago. The Hall itself has been added to and subtracted from and rearranged to suit the fantasies of each particular earl in turn since the original building was started in 1543. It is approached by car up a drive of about a quarter of a mile from the main road, and as we came up this drive, I woke James. He peered out the window as Weatherby made a flourishing stop in front of the broad stone steps that led to the massive front door, which was open. There to greet us with open arms was Lord Henry Haverstock, a short greying man of about fifty-five, with a stocky, vigorous body and lively grey eyes. He was dressed as usual in an old tweed jacket and a pair of baggy pants. Beside him was Helena, who is an accomplished artist. Today, as usual, she was wearing a grey smock and white duck pants. At this time in their lives, Lord Henry and Helena were particularly happy with each other and the world, and they radiated this happiness to all their friends.

  James jumped out of the car as soon as I opened the door and streaked to Helena’s open arms. While James regards Lord Henry as his peer and friend, he is totally in love with Helena. She cuddled him happily, greeted us all and we were ushered into the house while Wilson, the Haverstock butler, supervised our bags and Weatherby took the car away.

  Lord Henry, Helena, Peter and I
repaired to the library, the favorite room in the house. It is not too big, it has a just-right fireplace, French doors onto a terrace, plenty of bookshelves and big, leather-covered furniture. Lord Henry has his desk here. Helena has a drawing table across the room from the desk. All the mementos that are particularly important to Lord Henry and Helena have found their way here. Over the fireplace is a portrait drawing of James, which Lord Henry bought at Helena’s first important show. There are books and magazines around and an air of comfort and contentment. The house has a great many other public rooms. There is the main drawing room, which once held uncomfortably formal French antique furniture. This furniture, much loved by Lord Henry’s older sister, Etheria, is now in her castle in Scotland. It has been replaced by somewhat more comfortable and less formal furnishings, but the room is still vast and is used only for large receptions. The state dining room is also used only on special occasions, and a much smaller room, which at one time was a morning room, has been turned into the family dining room, as it is near the kitchen and pantries. There are numerous bedrooms, small sitting rooms, nurseries, and even attics. There is also a great hall at the entrance with a grand stairway curving up to the second floor.

  James had left us once we were in the hall because he loves the house, and each time we come he rushes off on a tour of the premises to see what changes have been made since his last visit.

  So the four of us sat happily in the library, glad of a fire, even in May. Wilson appeared with a tray on which were all our favorite tipples. Behind him came a footman pushing a trolley with various concoctions Cook thought might tempt us before dinner. A saucer was provided for James, who joined us shortly. He curled up next to Helena and grinned at her.

  It was time to catch up.

  “Well,” Peter chuckled, looking happily at Helena. “When is the big event?”

  James looked puzzled. Helena and Lord Henry laughed together.

  “So you noticed,” said Lord Henry. “I thought the smock covered her pretty well.”