Read Online Matricide at St. Martha's by Ruth Dudley Edwards - Free Book Online

command.’
    Plutarch in fact jumped to the Bursar’s bribe – a large sausage which she extracted from her jacket pocket.
    ‘That’s a fine red-blooded cat.’ She scooped the animal into her arms, receiving – to Amiss’s chagrin – a loud purr.
    ‘Open the basket,’ she said, as she tickled Plutarch’s ear: Amiss followed instructions. Stealthily, for a woman of such solidity, the Bursar traversed the room – distracting the cat’s attention awhile with rough endearments – reached the basket, dropped her in and slammed the lid shut.
    ‘Howzzat?’
    ‘You do realize you betrayed her trust?’
    ‘Nonsense, it’s for her own good. She needs a bit of fresh air. Now come along. Buckle up.’
    The all too familiar feline yodelling drowned all conversation as they made their way down the back staircase, out of a great oak door and into the open air. Amiss put the basket down and scratched his head. ‘What’s a medieval cloister doing in the middle of a neo-Gothic pile?’
    ‘An essential part of the vision of old Jeremiah Ridley; contemplation was to be encouraged along with sewing, knitting and daily exercises.’
    ‘You don’t mean he had anything to do with that carry-on this morning?’
    ‘Sub-section four of Clause twenty-one if I remember correctly. We have to have a quorum of half the Fellowship every morning or we’re in breach of the trust. Now stop asking tedious questions and get on with releasing that animal. A meditative stroll around the cloister will do wonders for her soul. Besides, she should have some company in a moment.’
    As Amiss looked suspiciously at the Bursar, Plutarch leaped out of the basket. Simultaneously the door opened and disgorged Francis Pusey, who was bearing in his arms a white Pekinese sporting a smart Fair Isle jumper. It was out of his arms and after Plutarch the second their eyes met.
    ‘You planned this,’ hissed Amiss at the Bursar.
    ‘Shut up and watch the action. Come on Bobsy, faster, faster. Atta girl, Plutarch, go for him Tarzan-style.’
    Plutarch accepted her coach’s advice and leaped to the top of the bench past which Bobsy was racing; from that vantage point she emitted howls of derision.
    Francis Pusey stopped squeaking and rushed over to the bench. He bent down, frantically trying to get hold of Bobsy, who was working himself into a fearful state of frustration over the inability of his tiny legs to make the necessary vault. Plutarch allowed herself to get distracted from her primary prey and leaped on Pusey’s back, digging her claws in so thoroughly that when he leaped upwards, emitting cries of pain, she was able to hold on grimly. Bobsy, seeing a trailing tail, launched himself the necessary twelve inches in the air and sank his teeth into the ginger fur. The combination of the cat’s and Pusey’s howls of pain brought the additional noise of windows being pulled up and a babble of protesting female voices filled the air.
    The Bursar shook her head. ‘Stupid cat. She had him on the run. All she had to do was wear him out and then swoop.’
    Emitting a gusty sigh of disappointment, she picked up a bucket from behind a nearby pillar, strode across the grass and emptied its contents over the three protagonists. The animals let go, Plutarch soared back to the top of the bench, Pusey grabbed his dog and dripped grimly back to where Amiss was standing helplessly. ‘Is that thing yours?’
    ‘ ’Fraid so, terribly sorry. I didn’t realize…’
    ‘I may have to sue. My jacket is irreplaceable, made for me by the only tailor who ever understood me. My shirt, my beautiful silk batik shirt, that my friend brought me from Malaysia… ’ He seemed on the verge of tears. ‘And that is even before we begin to count the cost of the damage to my psyche and my body.’ As he turned towards the door with as much dignity as he could muster, the Pekinese, now filled with blood lust, broke free and the whole pantomime started all over again.
    Amiss