The Wolff Legacy

By CJ Butler

I'm going to tell you a story. It should come out, now that I am dying. And you look like just the person to blow the lid off an unsolved crime. A case which has been shelved for years . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: CJ Butler
• Release date: Feb 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228841661

CJ Butler

Catherine has been an avid writer for years, writing her first novel with her younger brother when she was eleven years old. The UK publishers who saw it were enthusiastic with their feedback, which spurred more and more writing; from novels, occasional poetry, thoughts and feelings, to satirical accounts of life events (usually howling with laughter as she did it).Catherine lives in Canada, in Kemptville, Ontario with her daughter and quirky quarter horse. She emigrated from England in 2009, where she lived in Kent and worked in London as a project manager. She grew up in the beautiful county of Sussex, which inspired the setting for Catherine’s first published novel, The Japson Club.The novel was started while her daughter, just a baby at the time, took naps. Catherine, still missing the rolling comfort of the Sussex Downs and their endless bridleways and footpaths, and the cosy country pubs, poured her memories of them onto the pages.Nowadays Catherine works in Canada’s capital city of Ottawa, still as a project manager, and possibly slightly grisled from her years in the construction industry; she knows the corporate game, as well as the hard face of being on site in the midst of the dust and rubble. In her downtime she can either be found hanging out with her daughter, writing late into the night, practicing yoga, or of course, riding her horse.The inspiration for the lead character’s horse in The Japson Club is drawn from an enigmatic equine belonging to a dear friend. He was a characterful, kind, and sometimes volatile thoroughbred, and did not exclude Catherine from unceremonious unloading on the odd occasion!Catherine has begun work on her next novel, the sequel, following the characters as they get to their feet after the shocks and dramas of the climax of The Japson Club, and life is changing again, but is the danger over?

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Copyright © 2021 by CJ Butler

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

www.cjbutler.net

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-4165-4 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-4166-1 (eBook)

For my Dad.

Your enthusiasm and studious research for this novel forever fills me with love and gratitude.

And though you never got to read it, I know you’re still with me.

A bit of my heart and spirit remains with yours,

on the beautiful island you showed me,

and where you left me.

All my love.

The Wolff Legacy

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them,

but not for love."

- William Shakespeare, As You Like It.

Contents

1 - Night Terrors

2 - Opportunity

3 - Marie

4 - Catwoman

5 - Andrew

6 - Sleep Deprivation

7 - Restlessness

8 - Unanswered Questions

9 - The Damien Factor

10 - Sheena

11 - Guernsey Landing

12 - Nightlife

13 - Damien & Caroline

14 - Day One

15 - Absence

16 - Peter McAllister: The Beginning

17 - Life Without Horses

18 - Peter McAllister: Part II

19 - Peter McAllister: The End

20 - Island Tribe

21 - Heebie Jeebies

22 - The Tourist

23 - New Homes

24 - Living with Wolves

25 - A New Friend

26 - Friday Night

27 - Bonding

28 - Spooks

29 - Los Angeles

30 - The Mainland

31 - Farewell Rosemount

32 - Flotsam & Japson

33 - Unexpected Visitation

34 - Ken Desmeries

35 - The Japson Family

36 - Horror Stories

37 - Church

38 - The Chemist

39 - Izzy

40 - Aryan

41 - The Way Home

42 - Solicitations

43 - Invitation

44 - Izzy’s Past

45 - London

46 - Brunch

47 - Slipping the Leash

48 - Mother Love

49 - Goodbye

50 - Human Remains

51 - Love Lives

52 - Forensics

53 - Lab Rat

54 - Fermain Bay

55 - More Than Meditation

56 - Beginning of the End

57 - Andrew Uninvited

58 - The Mutilation

59 - The End of the Memory Stick

60 - Death Bed

61 - Yin Class

62 - The Violent End of Lester Hargreaves

63 - Tantric Drama

64 - Last Rites

65 - Resistance

66 - Proof

67 - The Son

68 - Prophetic Dreams

69 - The Warning

70 - Proposition

71 - The Thief

72 - Supper Invitation

73 - The Fourth Dinner Guest

74 - The Cousin

75 - Mateus’s Secret

76 - Andrew’s Departure

77 - Mindless Fun

78 - Free Spirit

79 - Mission

80 - The Why

81 - The Wolff Legacy

82 - Decision

83 - Nightmare

84 - ID

85 - Regret

86 - Revelations

87 - Living Nightmare

88 - Necessary Secrets

89 - Reason to Run

90 - Faith

91 - Buried at Sea

92 - No Coincidence

1

Night Terrors

The darkness was absolute.

Water dripped steadily, the sound echoing off unseen walls, and the chill air smelled musty, with the earthy tang of a cellar. But no cellar ever echoed as this one did; this place was vast. And dank, like cold sweat.

Somehow she knew she wasn’t alone; there was a silent and invisible presence, and she called out desperately into the enveloping black.

Who are you? What do you want?

There was the shuffle of feet, but no answering voice. The back of her neck prickled, and her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. Drawing a shaky breath, she tried again:

Why am I here?

A beat, then, You’ll be safe here, came a man’s whisper.

There was the sound of quietly retreating feet, disturbing grit on the floor. She tried to follow, stumbling and reaching out blindly into the dark, but her groping hands met only the coldness of a stone wall. Then the footsteps were behind her and she lurched, panicking, in a full circle. The sound came from all around, but was receding inexorably.

Safe from what? she yelled, her words echoing back at her from all sides, frightening and disorientating, then fading in the darkness. "How is this safe?"

In a sudden frenzy she rushed forward, fists flailing – then gasped, recoiling as her knuckles scraped on something cold and sharply abrasive. Swallowing the pain, she reached out tentatively, feeling cold metal… Bars?

Suddenly remembering her phone, she pulled it from her pocket. Its dim blue light flooded out to reveal rusty rungs fixed to the wall, leading upwards. She tipped her head back, trying to see beyond the pathetic wash of pale light into the blackness above, but it was no use. There was only the sense of being at the edge of a small reality, encompassed by nothingness.

Swaying dizzily on her feet, she looked behind her. Two tunnels led off in different directions, their concrete walls glimmering wetly, but as she took a step forward the light from her phone began to dim. The darkness yawned threateningly all around as the red battery warning winked wearily, and then the screen died.

Plunged back into pitch darkness, she pressed herself to the frigid wall, her nerves screaming.

She had to get OUT!

Chest tight and breath rasping, Anna jumped awake then lay prone, listening to her thumping heart begin to slow. That dream again; how she hated it. Why did it keep coming back?

Sighing, she sat up and reached for her phone.

04:12am.

Low battery, it warned.

She groaned at the irony, slumping back onto the pillow.

Ah well, at least she hadn’t been pinned to the ground by The Cleaner (her other recurring dream - about the man who in real life, had tried to murder her), his black eyes boring into her and his fingers pressing down on her throat; it was a close-run thing, but pitch-black dripping tunnels were slightly preferable to that. Even so, she could do without the chronic night horrors.

She yawned and closed her eyes, but immediately the dank walls of the tunnel closed around her again, the cold terror returning in an instant. Her eyes flew open, and she drew a sobbing breath before grumpily throwing back the covers and sitting up; if her imagination wouldn’t sleep then neither would she.

But this had to stop. Every night for last few weeks she had been wracked by persistent nightmares; either The Cleaner was attacking her or she was trapped in the underground tunnels. The first was easily explained – the man was still at large and a tangible threat – but the second was more obscure; where was this place? And what did it mean? Whatever the tunnels and the ladder and the blackness were about, they surely couldn’t be good omens.

Resignedly, she padded to the shower.

The train was mostly empty and Anna gazed out of the window at the passing countryside, shrouded in pre-dawn gloom. She turned to the emails on her phone and scrolled through them aimlessly.

Her current assignment was thankfully almost done, but she had no idea where she was heading next. She had been home from Tresco for three weeks, and being at the cottage was freaking her out; she desperately needed an assignment in another part of the country so she could move away and make a fresh start. So far, though, HQ had found nowhere to put her outside of London. Something had to come her way soon; the trauma of the last month was messing with her mental health. Much more of it, and she’d go completely off the rails, and lose her job, and then where would she be?

Her phone buzzed, making her jump. She sighed, seeing only one of the company’s automatic systems notifications flash across the screen. Her mind’s constant neurosis was exhausting.

At least she hadn’t run into Damien, her brief but intense affair of the last year – there was that to be thankful for. It was bad enough having nightmares every night and feeling spooked whenever she caught sight of the church, scuttling from her car to the cottage until she was safely indoors; seeing Damien again would just be too much. He still, no doubt had the power to cause her to lose all self-possession, and was another reason to move herself away. But aside from the nightmares, and Damien, the real threat - far worse than any other - was that of the very real possibility, The Cleaner would return to finish the job of killing her. She couldn’t look out of the window after dark anymore. If he knew she still had the stolen memory stick, surely he would be back; it was just a matter of time.

Suddenly she realised her knuckles were white and hands shaking as she clutched at the bag on her lap, and she looked around furtively, to ensure no-one was looking at her.

This was crazy; she needed help! But how could she talk to anyone? She couldn’t tell a soul about what happened, or she’d land both Andrew and Mateus in prison. No. PTSD was hers to own for the time being.

Pulling in a deep breath, she turned to her phone again. Work was her distraction, and she scanned her emails once again, pausing over one from Tony, the Executive Director she had worked with in New York on the subway project, now back in London.

Had an idea, read the subject line.

Opening the email, she saw he had sent it Saturday morning. Come see me at HQ, read the message. Nothing else.

Anna smiled at the Americanism; obviously a remnant of New York. On Friday she had confided in him about her desperation to move away, citing the break-up of her relationship with Damien as the reason. Had he come up trumps already?

What time are you in? she keyed swiftly. Her train was due into Victoria at 6:30am, and she knew he was an early starter. If this was an opportunity, she was going to leap at it.

Even as she hit ‘Send’, she made up her mind. She’d head straight to the head office in Holborn and work from there for the day. As soon as Tony showed up she’d snag him.

2

Opportunity

Holborn: 07:20am.

Anna! And I thought I was an early bird! exclaimed Tony as the glass doors swung shut behind him.

So did I, Anna grinned, looking up from her laptop screen, from where she was perched at a hot desk.

Well, it is Monday, he protested smilingly.

I know, I’m just pulling your leg. I couldn’t sleep so I was up early. I saw your email and wanted to dash in and see you before we both got swamped by the week.

Wise! he agreed. Come on, let’s grab a coffee.

He walked towards the kitchen, and Anna closed her laptop and followed.

Were you working on Saturday? asked Anna, as she ripped open a sachet of sugar and poured it into her coffee, feeling the need for the calories after her ridiculously early start.

Yes, just for a few hours, answered Tony as he offered her the milk. I try not to email on weekends, but I’d met up with an old friend on Friday night – a few hours after you and I had been talking – and a thought occurred. It’s just an idea but I thought I’d run it by you.

He paused to take a sip of coffee, then continued.

He’s involved in the construction of a new apartment building. It’s pretty high end, over on Guernsey, and he’s been looking for someone who can be on site to keep the thing on schedule and manage day to day. You know, the trade progress billings, manage changes etcetera. I thought it might appeal to you. It’d be great hands-on experience.

Anna looked thoughtful and he smiled.

You said you wanted out of London for a while, and I thought off-shore might appeal. If you were interested I daresay you could do it as a sabbatical, as we don’t want to lose you.

Anna was suddenly aware of a flicker of excitement. She remembered the stimulation of working in New York last summer. And this was an island; she knew she loved island living, and Guernsey was reputedly a beautiful place. Feelings of adventure began to stir.

That does sound interesting, she said carefully. What’s the timescale?

He needs someone there within the next couple of weeks ideally, and says he needs a PM on site until winter, but I suspect it won’t be that long. You’d definitely be home before Christmas.

It seemed like a long time, and two weeks was fast. What about Tom? What about the cottage? It would be a huge change. Thoughts scrambled over one another and she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to quieten the sudden internal clamour.

He can’t find anyone for the role? she asked, feeling like she was stalling.

Well, he’s only recently lost the last person, who quit suddenly. And he can’t find the right person locally. You don’t need to make a decision on the spot, but at the same time he’s only in London for the week. So if you are interested we’ll need to jump on this in the next few days.

Anna’s mind was racing as she sat down at the desk and brought Guernsey up on Google Earth. She stared at the jagged rocky coast, grey against jade-coloured sea, the sweeps of white sand outlining the turquoise water of the bays, and the patchwork of vibrant fields inland. It was beautiful, the coastline’s wild beauty recalling Tresco, and again she felt that tug of adventure.

She leant back in her chair and took a deep breath; she had to calm down and refocus. She wanted a change, and Guernsey was certainly that, but the need to make a decision so quickly was unnerving. Best to set it to one side for now, and get her project closed out as fast as possible.

By 3pm Anna was flagging as she slumped into her chair, looking over the final billing from the construction manager. Lazily she checked her phone; there was a message.

Meet for a drink?

She sat up straight, blinking at the screen. It was Andrew Japson. The last time she had seen him was on Tresco, when he and Mateus had stayed only a day before heading off again in their ramshackle boat, and she hadn’t heard from either of them since. She assumed Andrew had wisely gone into hiding.

Where are you? she typed.

The response was immediate: Close by.

What? How did he know where she was? Staring at the words she decided against questioning him now. She could do that when they met.

She typed again. When and where?

Now, at Ye Olde Mitre.

Where’s that?

Nearby. Google it.

Quickly Anna ran a search; it was just off Hatton Garden. Nearby, as he said. Yes, that was doable.

But even as she pulled on her coat, she was speculating uneasily. How did he know where she was? Was she being followed?

The thought chilled her.

3

Marie

In the editor’s office of the Buxton Chronicle, Marie was shaking her head at the man lounging like a beached seal on his battered faux leather chair.

Cats? she repeated, pushing her rectangular glasses back up her nose. She’s planning on leaving the whole lot to cats?

Yep. Here’s the address, confirmed Martin, her editor, nonchalantly, handing her a scrap of paper torn from the corner of a notepad. She’s a weird old bat who lives in the sticks with a bunch of…cats, of course.

Marie glared at him. She had wanted to cover the trial of the local lads who had been arrested for armed robbery of a Stockport bank; people were gossiping like mad and it would be front page news. She did not want to go and sit with an old lady who had decided to leave her fortune to a houseful of cats. Who cared anyway? The woman could do what she wanted with her money and no-one would give a damn. What’s more, the house would reek of cat pee and the old bag would have no teeth so Marie would only understand one word in three (and have to spend ages filling in the gaps later); and all the while she’d be watched by vicious pointy-eared monsters poised to pounce from their perches on the bureau, the dining table, the fridge…

Don’t look at me like that. Lots of people care about this stuff! People leaving vast fortunes to their pets gets their goat! he huffed.

Clearly he was one of them.

Only haters, she responded pointedly.

She’s got a son who’s not getting a bean, if that helps.

Not really. Maybe he’s a bastard. Or maybe it’s all bollocks – a bunch of hearsay, like a lot of other stuff in this town.

Bloody hell, Marie. Just go and cover it. Or maybe you think you’re too good for this job? he snarled.

He didn’t like the way she looked at him. Uppity bitch seemed to think she was a peg above the rest of them. He studied her with dislike as she turned away in exasperation, and stared moodily out of the window. Just because she’d been to Oxford and was wearing an expensive suit (which didn’t go with the thumb-ring and Armani glasses, by the way) she thought she was the big I am. And talking of which, she was too big for a woman. Women should be small and unthreatening, not strapping Amazons with sharp angular faces and aggressive dark eyebrows. And that hair! Normal on one side, cut neatly along her jawline, but she’d gone and shaved the other side! Seriously, what was that about? Plus her head seemed too small for the rest of her, like a golf ball on those ugly broad shoulders. Looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger, except Arnie would never have a stupid haircut like that. Probably she played some butch female sport like lacrosse or hockey, or oh god even rugby… She was probably gay, dammit!

Huh. Well, whatever her deal was, she would have to be patient and follow the hard path just like he had, to reach his perch as editor of the Buxton Chronicle. He watched her turn from the window and stride across the room.

Go and do London if it’d make you feel better, he jeered. You’ll be on even lower down dross there.

He laughed bitterly as the door closed behind her with a snap.

Marie accelerated hard down the narrow lane flanked by higgledy-piggledy drystone walls, the occasional gateway allowing a momentary glimpse of the valley below.

The obnoxious man was right, of course; until she had more experience under her belt, she couldn’t move anywhere, least of all London. It was all Lisa’s fault she was trapped here; she had only taken the job to be close to her, and then of course she had upped and left. So she was stranded in Buxton working for the Chronicle, her career on hold, and today she was saddled with crazy cat woman. She scowled. Why the hell was she sticking around? The stories she covered entertained only her friends, who had cried with laughter over dinner last week as they read aloud her piece about the largest turnip at the local agricultural show.

And now her editor was sneering at her. It was enough to make her hand in her resignation right now.

Loathsome bastard! she spat.

How she hated him; his crassness, his stupidity, his fat greedy hands and leering, jowly face, his ghastly cheap clothes and his broad local accent that sounded as if he’d got a mouthful of rocks and permanent sinusitis… Hell, the man was more like that bloody turnip than anything resembling a human being!

She huffed. Aside from it being a waste-of-time story, given how far out the woman lived, she would never make it back in time for yoga that evening, and right now she really needed to find her zen.

Dammit! Where the hell is this place? she hissed crossly, ramming the gear into reverse again, preparing to turn round in the tiny lane.

Driveway - acute angle from rd. Big stone at entrance, read the editor’s scrawl on the scrap of paper she held pinched between finger and thumb.

She peered around. What big stone?

Then she caught sight of a large rock next to a tiny gap in the woodland beside the road, exposing a barely visible track. Turning carefully, she squeezed her car between the overhanging foliage, hearing the leaves and twigs scraping against the windows and bodywork. Slowly she eased up the muddy track, still puddled with the rain of two days ago.

It was dim and dank beneath the trees. Dense greenery, untamed and unmanaged, grew in all directions, its roots distorting the track so that the car rocked and juddered on cracks, mounds and deep ruts filled with inky black water.

What the hell, she exclaimed under her breath, slowing to a halt. She rolled down the window and looked around. This can’t be it, she muttered doubtfully.

But there was no space to turn round so she continued, the trees and undergrowth jostling closer, like curious residents unused to visitors.

Finally emerging from the wood, she saw open fields rolling away to the left, and heathery moors beyond, rising to a stony ridge. The track led straight on to an arched gap in an enormous unkempt hedge. As Marie drove closer she saw it was a gateway, dark in the shade of the encroaching leaves, with a weed-strewn sweep of driveway dimly discernible beyond.

She slowed the car, feeling slightly daunted, and oddly disinclined to drive any closer. Pulling up on the grass, she stopped the engine and climbed out. Perhaps walking into the property would feed her inspiration, helping her to add drama to the article - which no doubt the editor would scratch out anyway as fancifully over-lurid. Kicking moodily at a rock, she glared at the fields and the rising hills beyond. To the left across a small meadow, where sheep nibbled vigorously at the grass, an iron footbridge stretched over a river, which she could just about hear as it smoothly rippled on its way. The bridge curved pleasingly between the two banks and suddenly, for no apparent reason, she felt the urge to go and stand on it.

The water slipped by quietly, more viscous than the brooks which clattered down the rocky hillsides, and dark with peat. Marie gathered her thoughts as she watched the current swirl round the plants fringing the banks.

The backdrop certainly set the scene for a nice creepy story about a reclusive cat lady. Shame she probably wasn’t as sinister as the surroundings suggested; the setting was perfect for weird rituals, wicca, maybe sacrificial worshipping of demonic idols…

She rolled her eyes at herself. Her fascination with the occult hadn’t changed since she was nine years old, but this wasn’t getting the job done, was it? She had to get her brain in gear and deliver the story her editor wanted.

4

Catwoman

Marie stood in the green shadow of the tangled archway, surveying the broad overgrown sweep of driveway and the house beyond. She smirked; there was at least one cat in every single window she could see, staring down at her with luminescent eyes. More eyes glowed accusingly from under the shrubbery and the top of the outhouse.

An oversized tabby lazed on the doorstep, lashing with one fuzzy paw at a fly which was circling its head. Seeing Marie as she approached, it leapt up in alarm and, with flattened-back ears and tail tucked low, streaked for the nearest clump of bushes.

The house was large and imposing, built of stone and surprisingly well kept in comparison with the grounds, which, like the perimeter hedges, grew rampant. The woodwork looked to have been recently painted, and the door appeared relatively new, with a stained-glass panel in the centre. The large windows were evidently original, the old glass showing the tiniest of ripples in the evening light.

So. It wasn’t the eerie, dilapidated mansion of her imagination, which was a bit of a shame. However, there was an air of otherworldliness, reinforced by the surrounding twisted fortress of wild hedges. The house sat unknown and unseen at the end of the anonymous track, shielded from civilisation by dense woodland and creeping vegetation, its outlook the moors and rocky outcrops of the Pennines receding into the distance. For all its outward graciousness it was bleak. And lonely.

She crunched over the gravel drive, noting that the damp lawn to either side was strewn with rotting leaves and thick with couch grass, the odd motley clump poking its blades through the mess. The air carried with it a faint composty whiff of unkempt foliage.

Reaching the front door, she knocked and waited.

Nothing happened.

As she raised her hand to knock again, something pushed up against her leg and she looked down to see a large ginger cat rubbing its head around her ankle. She bent to fondle its ears, which it tolerated briefly before twisting its head away and pushing against the door, which opened easily. Hesitantly, Marie pushed it wider.

Hello? she called, stepping in after the cat, who had scuttled across the hall into what was evidently the kitchen, and was now settled in front of a large bowl on the floor piled with meat scraps. Closing the door behind her and then following, she saw that the kitchen was large and spacious, with granite worktops, under-lit white cabinetry finished with gleaming brass hardware, and a pale lino floor with a floral-patterned perimeter in a delicious shade of peach. Glassware sparkled under the counter lights, terracotta jugs bristling with utensils stood by the immaculate hob, and a huge Moroccan platter piled with colourful fruit sat on the central island. The whole effect was clean and fresh, and the air smelt faintly of citrus and not, as she had expected, of essence of cat. In fact, if it weren’t for the numerous feline inhabitants watching her approach, Marie would have suspected she were in the wrong place.

Hello? called Marie again, louder this time.

Yes? answered a woman’s voice. Come in. I’m in the lounge. The voice had a slightly throaty quality, like it came from a person who needed to cough.

Waving goodbye to the cat, who ignored her, Marie crossed the hallway once again, following the voice, through a doorway and into a wide room decorated in muted tones of beige and pink. Two aged sofas were placed at right angles to one another, and there was a squashy armchair with large faded roses embroidered on the covering. Here were all the other cats; some snoozing, some languid, and some staring at her with alarm and bottle-brush tails.

Beyond the seating area, bookshelves lined the back wall of the room and there was a large world globe on a stand. At the far end next to a window was an antique polished table where a blonde-haired woman wearing a pink cardigan sat peering studiously through thin-rimmed spectacles at a tray in front of her.

Hello, Ms Wolff? I’m Marie. You spoke with my editor’s secretary earlier today.

Yes, absolutely, agreed the woman, bending lower over the tray. There was a pause, then her attention sharpened. Ah! There it is! she exclaimed. Marie walked closer and saw the tray was covered with small bones.

Is that a…

Cat. Yes, confirmed Ms Wolff, as she slid what appeared to be a tiny vertebra into place at what must have been the base of the tail. I’m wiring it together for an exhibit over in Buxton.

Marie could not imagine what exhibit in Buxton would call for a cat skeleton. Had the woman dug it up like an archaeologist, on her hands and knees with a trowel and a little dust brush? Still, she was not what Marie had expected. Even on first appearance, she had the air of an intellectual, with something smart, alert and independent about her.

Tea, announced Ms Wolff, removing her glasses and allowing them to hang from the silver necklace she wore. Would you like some? I need a break.

Marie noted her voice again; the timbre had not changed. It had what she could only think of as a ‘textured’ quality, not unpleasant but odd.

Following her hostess back into the kitchen, Marie’s interest deepened; that brisk walk seemed incongruous in someone who was apparently dying. What was the story here?

Drinking tea and chatting, all Marie’s stereotypical preconceptions vanished. This was not a dotty old bag who thought of nothing but cats. Instead she was talking to a well-educated woman with evident breadth of knowledge and varied life experience who was, moreover, very attractive. The dark blonde hair (surely dyed) was clipped up behind her head, accentuating high cheekbones in a strong, well-structured face and clear grey eyes that gleamed with intelligence. The conversation, far from concentrating on cat-related matters, centred on Ms Wolff’s work history. Having qualified as a chemist, she had worked for a time in the industry and in mortuaries, before taking on lecturing at universities, writing articles for science journals, and finally working as an archivist for the police. She was interesting, incisive and witty, and felines were not mentioned once.

She was so engaging, in fact, that Marie was reluctant to steer the conversation to the four-legged inhabitants of the household and begin interrogating her hostess as to why they were to be the benefactors of her allegedly vast fortune. It seemed a travesty; nothing short of insulting. She shifted on her stool, wondering how handle it.

A calico cat slinking purposefully across the kitchen caught her eye; she watched it pull a piece of chicken skin from the meat scrap bowl and drag it across the floor before chewing on it enthusiastically with one side of its mouth.

Ali! Must you? exclaimed Ms Wolff, following Marie’s gaze.

She crossed the kitchen to physically shuffle the cat back to the place