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‘What?’ I feigned confusion. Not too difficult to do as, despite the coldness emanating from Lucy, the warm sun was making me feel quite mellow – almost as mushy as the rotting apples. Certainly not waspish.

‘That creature.’

‘Creature. What creature?’ Were we talking more wasps here? Or a bee perhaps – the one in Lucy’s bonnet.

A finger was pointed at a spot below me. ‘Under your lounger.’

I rolled to one side and looked under. A pair of yellow eyes belonging to a small tortoiseshell cat looked up. She cringed back as I shifted my weight. ‘Why, it’s a cat.’

Lucy’s sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose. She peered over them, her hazel eyes hard as nuts. ‘You don’t have to be a vet to see that.’

Ouch. I was stung – and the wasp was nowhere in sight. This really wasn’t the Lucy I’d fallen in love with. Just what was wrong with her?

‘Well?’ By the tone of her voice, winter had definitely arrived early. ‘What’s it doing there?’

I could have been facetious and said ‘Having a cat nap’ or ‘Having kittens – like me’. But such witticisms are best handled by the likes of Noël Coward and, as I was feeling more coward than Noël, I decided to keep the catty comments to myself. Instead, in the best traditions of the British in times of crises, I asked Lucy if she’d like a cup of tea. It didn’t work. The cat, rather than the cuppa, was uppermost in her mind.

‘Is it one you’ve sneaked home from the surgery without telling me?’

I began to bridle. ‘Sneaked home? Why on earth should I do that? We’ve enough of a menagerie here as it is with all your lot.’ Whoops. That was the wrong thing to say – even if true. Nelson the deaf Jack Russell, the three cats, the assortment of guinea pigs, rabbits, pheasants and ferrets had all been acquired by Lucy – Gertie the goose was the only exception.

I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the lounger. ‘Look, Lucy. I had a hectic surgery this morning. A chock-ablock appointments’ list. The last thing I’d have felt like doing was bringing a cat home with me. OK?’ I peered under the lounger again. The tortoiseshell had shrunk back even further, frightened by my raised voice. ‘Perhaps it’s come from next door.’ That was hardly likely as Doug Spencer had told me that, although he was fond of cats, his wife wouldn’t tolerate them in the house. Joan did upholstery and was afraid a cat would damage her fabrics.

‘I’m sorry, puss, but you’re not wanted,’ I went on. ‘So I suggest you bugger off and find somewhere else.’ The cat remained crouched, back arched, with no indication of moving on. ‘Well, it’s your choice,’ I muttered, flopping back on the lounger. ‘But don’t expect any sympathy. It’s in short supply round here at the moment.’

There was the click of sunglasses as Lucy snatched hers off, folded them and jumped up to storm indoors. I was hoping it was just a storm in a teacup, and that she’d return with just tea in a cup, but somehow I knew more than tea was brewing. If only she’d discuss what was troubling her instead of letting things stew.

‘Right, the coast’s clear, mate,’ I said, tapping the side of the lounger. The cat slunk out and padded slowly across the patio, pausing to look back at me. She was a pretty little thing – short-haired, her coat a patchwork of golden brown, black and white with an appealing black patch over one eye and four white socks. ‘Shouldn’t hang around if I were you. More than your life’s worth … even if you have got nine of them. Go on, scram.’ I clapped my hands and the little cat shot over the wall into the Spencer’s garden. Oh dear, not the best of moves. No warm welcome there I feared.

It was Beryl who gave me some inkling of what was troubling Lucy. ‘It’s to do with Mandy,’ she informed me. We were sitting by the back door of Prospect House, making the most of the continuing good weather – a bonus for Beryl as it made it easier for her to smoke out in the open. On wet days, she had to keep the door ajar and flick the ash out into the rain.

‘Yes,