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the logistics that concern me,’ I exclaimed angrily. ‘It’s the principle … the whole suggestion is disgraceful!’
    ‘Perhaps,’ he said sweetly, ‘but not quite as disgraceful as murder …’
    I stared helplessly, dumb with fear and outrage. Eventually I muttered something to the effect that I thought it a bit much being subjected to that kind of manipulative blackmail and that I had expected better of him. (I hadn’t really, but it sounded suitably pained.)
    He was quite unruffled, and observed suavely that in view of the delicacy of my situation and the perilous nature of his own involvement in it, I could hardly begrudge him a little favour. Deep down I acknowledged that he had a point, but instinctually I was furious. However, there was little that I could do, and, having nothing else to say, I weakly offered him some more cold coffee. He accepted.
    * See Bones in the Belfry

The Cat’s Memoir
     
     
    It was quite obvious that something of moment was afoot. Not long after Samson’s visit the vicar made a frantic telephone call to Brighton; the result being that two days later the questionable friend arrived – the Gaza fellow – replete with suitcase and unctuous goodwill. At first F.O. seemed pleased to see him, but by the end of the evening it was apparent that he was working himself up into ‘a right lather’, as the dog would say. In fact I rather got the impression that the vicar had foolishly divulged details of the murder business – a typical blunder, though I suppose it was only a matter of time!
    Thus the following morning, curious to learn what had transpired from the night before, I settled myself discreetly under the kitchen table and lent ear to the proceedings above. At one point the visitor had the grace to address a few words to me. I responded cordially and kept my ears primed. He then embarked on some elaborate tale involving, of all things, a bone pig. Since I have an aversion to both pigs and bones I did not find this especially edifying; but in the interests of intelligence-gathering remained at my post, where listening carefully I was able to grasp the gist of his discourse – and its purpose.
    As feared, the Gaza person was intent on persuading F.O. to participate in some madcap scheme which wouldinevitably line his own pockets but do little for the vicar. This worried me somewhat as our master is not noted for keeping a cool head in times of crisis – and being under pressure both from the Molehill police and from his visitor could well be regarded as such.
    Thus I summoned Bouncer and told him I had been listening in on their breakfast conversation and there was something he ought to know. ‘From what I could ascertain,’ I said, ‘the type from Brighton was launching a plan which would involve F.O. raiding a flat in London and stealing some bone ornament.’
    ‘Likes bones, does he?’ asked the dog with interest.
    I sighed. ‘No, but he likes money, and this bone thing costs a lot, and the Brighton type wants to get his paws on it. Thinks he can use the vicar to do his dirty work.’
    ‘And will he?’
    ‘If he’s desperate enough. At the moment there is much huffing and puffing and crunching of humbugs, but I think he is snared so he’ll probably have to in the end.’
    ‘Just as long as we’re all right.’
    ‘Yes, Bouncer, but that is the whole point – we may not be all right! It is bound to be more than F.O. can cope with, and coming on top of this latest development in the Fotherington affair it could make him crack under the strain.’
    ‘Shall I savage the Brighton type?’
    ‘Certainly not! That would do untold harm to all of us.’
    ‘Just a thought … Anyway, whereabouts in London? Any place I know?’ he asked with a casual air.
    ‘Of course not,’ I laughed, ‘you are hardly familiar with the Great Metropolis!’ I rather like the sound of that phrase and can trip it neatly off my tongue, but it was wasted on Bouncer.
    ‘The great