frowning, for the name had rung a bell, though which one I wasn’t sure yet.
“Odd name for a girl, don’t you think?”
Then it struck me. Not only had Zack mentioned the name Bluebell earlier that evening, but it had also occurred in the last will and testament of the ghost of Lucy Knicx as read to me, Dana and Stevie. In my excitement I almost knocked over the entire bag of cat food. “It’s a clue!” I vociferated.
“That’s what I keep telling you,” said Stevie with mild reproach. “Sam’s gone and gotten himself entangled with some dreadful female listening to the name Bluebell. And let me tell you, Tom—can I call you Tommy?—that this spells nothing but woe, wretchedness and—”
“No, listen—”
“—worry for all involved. For once a woman enters Sam’s life he won’t be the Brookridge priest much longer. He’ll resign or quit or whatever it is that priests do, and he’ll move away from Brookridge for he won’t be able to stand the disgrace and the gossip and the—”
“No, but listen—”
“—fingerpointing. We’ll probably move to some ghastly back alley in some ghastly town and the new lady of the house won’t like me and will kick me out of the house and I’ll be forced to roam the streets where I’ll suffer and struggle and die.”
“But Bluebell is not a girl!” I finally managed to say.
“It’s not?”
“No! Jesus, I’ve never met any cat who can talk so much.” Apart from myself, perhaps.
“Thank you,” said Stevie, and he seemed genuinely touched. “I aim to please,” he added modestly.
“That’s not what I meant,” I started to say, then decided this wasn’t an avenue I wanted to pursue with Stevie, and dropped the subject. “Zack was talking about Bluebell before—”
“Then it’s definitely a girl,” said Stevie. “You know what Zack is like.”
I knew very well what Zack was like. In fact I think it’s safe to say I’m the number one authority on all things Zack. My master, for lack of a better word, is what I would call a serial infatuator. He falls in love fast and very frequently, and whenever he starts dropping names around the house with a strange cow-like look in his eyes, I know it’s that time of the month again. But this time there were extenuating circumstances.
“I do know what Zack is like, and if not for Lucy Knicx mentioning the same name in her farewell speech, I’d say you were right on the money.”
There was a pause, as Stevie processed this information. I could see from the way he screwed up his face that his brain was working overtime. “Lucy Knicx?” he said finally. “Lucy Knicx mentioned the word ‘Bluebell’?”
I nodded, and started striding away from the pantry. Fond though as I am of any place where the food is plenty and there simply for the taking, I thought the time had come to investigate further into this matter of Bluebell, and what better place to start than right here in Sam’s place.
16
The Bluebell Sermon
“ S how me Sam’s study , Watson,” I said, for though I knew the Sherlock-Watson simile wasn’t as pertinent as I should have liked, it still had a nice ring to it.
“So Bluebell isn’t a girl, then, is she?” said Stevie, who came tripping in my wake.
“At this point in our investigation, Bluebell could be anything,” I said, as we traversed the presbytery corridor. We had arrived at a sturdy oak door barring entrance into Sam’s inner sanctum: his study. It was here that the great man wrote his sermons, pieces of eloquent prose that inspired the Brookridge masses week on week, or so they tell me. I must admit never having been present during Mass, cats not being allowed in Church as a rule. Not that I mind. Though Jesus was a fisherman, I have it from authoritative sources no actual fish is ever served there.
“Now what?” I said, as I gently pawed the closed door. One of the disadvantages of being a cat is that we have a hard time handling doors. Then again, one
“Odd name for a girl, don’t you think?”
Then it struck me. Not only had Zack mentioned the name Bluebell earlier that evening, but it had also occurred in the last will and testament of the ghost of Lucy Knicx as read to me, Dana and Stevie. In my excitement I almost knocked over the entire bag of cat food. “It’s a clue!” I vociferated.
“That’s what I keep telling you,” said Stevie with mild reproach. “Sam’s gone and gotten himself entangled with some dreadful female listening to the name Bluebell. And let me tell you, Tom—can I call you Tommy?—that this spells nothing but woe, wretchedness and—”
“No, listen—”
“—worry for all involved. For once a woman enters Sam’s life he won’t be the Brookridge priest much longer. He’ll resign or quit or whatever it is that priests do, and he’ll move away from Brookridge for he won’t be able to stand the disgrace and the gossip and the—”
“No, but listen—”
“—fingerpointing. We’ll probably move to some ghastly back alley in some ghastly town and the new lady of the house won’t like me and will kick me out of the house and I’ll be forced to roam the streets where I’ll suffer and struggle and die.”
“But Bluebell is not a girl!” I finally managed to say.
“It’s not?”
“No! Jesus, I’ve never met any cat who can talk so much.” Apart from myself, perhaps.
“Thank you,” said Stevie, and he seemed genuinely touched. “I aim to please,” he added modestly.
“That’s not what I meant,” I started to say, then decided this wasn’t an avenue I wanted to pursue with Stevie, and dropped the subject. “Zack was talking about Bluebell before—”
“Then it’s definitely a girl,” said Stevie. “You know what Zack is like.”
I knew very well what Zack was like. In fact I think it’s safe to say I’m the number one authority on all things Zack. My master, for lack of a better word, is what I would call a serial infatuator. He falls in love fast and very frequently, and whenever he starts dropping names around the house with a strange cow-like look in his eyes, I know it’s that time of the month again. But this time there were extenuating circumstances.
“I do know what Zack is like, and if not for Lucy Knicx mentioning the same name in her farewell speech, I’d say you were right on the money.”
There was a pause, as Stevie processed this information. I could see from the way he screwed up his face that his brain was working overtime. “Lucy Knicx?” he said finally. “Lucy Knicx mentioned the word ‘Bluebell’?”
I nodded, and started striding away from the pantry. Fond though as I am of any place where the food is plenty and there simply for the taking, I thought the time had come to investigate further into this matter of Bluebell, and what better place to start than right here in Sam’s place.
16
The Bluebell Sermon
“ S how me Sam’s study , Watson,” I said, for though I knew the Sherlock-Watson simile wasn’t as pertinent as I should have liked, it still had a nice ring to it.
“So Bluebell isn’t a girl, then, is she?” said Stevie, who came tripping in my wake.
“At this point in our investigation, Bluebell could be anything,” I said, as we traversed the presbytery corridor. We had arrived at a sturdy oak door barring entrance into Sam’s inner sanctum: his study. It was here that the great man wrote his sermons, pieces of eloquent prose that inspired the Brookridge masses week on week, or so they tell me. I must admit never having been present during Mass, cats not being allowed in Church as a rule. Not that I mind. Though Jesus was a fisherman, I have it from authoritative sources no actual fish is ever served there.
“Now what?” I said, as I gently pawed the closed door. One of the disadvantages of being a cat is that we have a hard time handling doors. Then again, one
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