Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [15]
I stepped back. ‘So you think we could trap him in there?’
The Major gave another loud harrumph as he thrust the door closed. ‘Your idea, laddie, not mine.’
I persisted. ‘Do you put food out for Leo?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘Then perhaps we could crush some pills in it.’ I reached into my black bag and pulled out a vial of yellow tablets, extracting three to offer to the Major.
He took them and rolled them round in his palm. ‘What are they? Knock-out pills?’
‘Tranquillisers.’
The Major snorted. ‘Still say it would be better to dart him.’
‘Let’s just give this a try,’ I said, my voice as firm as I could make it. ‘If nothing else it should make Leo drowsy.’
‘Doubt if he’ll take them. He’s a cunning devil. Very sharp.’
‘Whatever. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’ Fingers crossed? What was I saying? I’d thought I wasn’t superstitious. I left promising to return the next day providing Leo was then inside the greenhouse and had been given the doctored food. Touch wood, he would have eaten it. Touch wood? I was at it again.
My mood wasn’t too good when I returned to Prospect House. Beryl’s choice of words was unfortunate. ‘Any luck?’ she asked.
‘Just the opposite … a complete waste of time. Didn’t even see the creature.’
Beryl lowered her good eye and discretely re-booked the visit for the following day. Major Fitzherbert phoned that afternoon to insist I made it 11.30am on the dot as he’d have bagged the lion by then.
‘Sorry, Paul,’ she apologised. ‘I did try to explain you might have other visits booked as well but he hung up on me.’
I reassured her that’d I do my best to get there on time and, no, I wasn’t going to treat a real lion.
When I arrived the following morning, the Major was dead-heading roses, a battalion of which were planted in formal ranks round the edge of the front lawn. I could picture him parading up and down, inspecting each one for the merest suspicion of black spot, the slightest touch of mildew. He swung his arm out and twisted his wrist to give an exaggerated look at his watch as I climbed out of the car. I’d already noted the time – 11.35am.
‘I’ve just phoned the surgery,’ he said snapping his secateurs in the air. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ The glare from the hooded eyes and the waving secateurs suggested I could be next in line for dead-heading.
I wasn’t going to apologise for being five minutes late and, with my black bag in one hand, cat catcher and leather gauntlets in the other, I walked up the path and said, ‘You’ve got the cat then?’
‘It’s all going according to plan. Leo’s in the greenhouse.’ The Major winced as he picked up his stick and proceeded to hobble towards the building. ‘Damned leg’s playing up today. ’Fraid I won’t be of much help.’
Beryl had told me about his leg. Apparently, the Major liked people to think it was the result of having been gored by a rhino. But her receptionist friend from the health centre had let it slip that he’d damaged a ligament having tripped over a loose paving stone in town.
As we rounded the corner of the cottage, I noticed a trail of string hanging from the kitchen window and fastened to the door of the greenhouse.
Major Fitzherbert stopped to explain. ‘When I was sure Leo was inside the greenhouse, I pulled the door shut from the kitchen. Clever eh?’
‘Er, good idea but …’ I’d just side-stepped a large plate of congealing chicken casserole and looked down at it.
The Major butted in. ‘You can forget that malarkey. I guess Leo could smell the tablets in it.’ There was a hint of pride in his voice.
‘You mean to say … ’
‘He didn’t take them.’
He saw my mouth drop open. ‘Nope. Not one scrap,’ he added, giving me one of his penetrating stares. ‘It doesn’t bother you, does it? With that contraption of yours you can still catch him.’ He waved at my cat catcher.
‘Well