Cat and Mouse by Christianna Brand

Auntie Blod says, trunks and cases and boxes and baskets and then of course bits of furniture and carpets and pictures and such. … But never a word about any Mrs. Carlyon has my Auntie Blod said to me; and, dotty or not dotty, you’d think she’d be interested in the lady. And nobody in the village, neither. Not a word about any Mrs. Carlyon. Dai Trouble chatting in the pubs and shops—not a word about any mistress in the house. Kids going up to ask for subscriptions to this and that—never set eyes on any lady in the house. Workmen in and out, and nobody there but the two servants and Mr. Carlyon. But you— you know there’s a lady there called Amista, y ou know there’s a Mrs. Carlyon. Oh ho! I thinks to myself, something a little bit fishy here. And being as Mr. Carlyon had asked for police protection…”
    “For police protection?”
    “He asked for a bit of protection when he came here. The village had got used to the place being empty and they’d made the path a right-of-way up the mountain. He got a bit fed up with it, and no blame to him, fair play—kids always wandering up after berries, peeping in at his windows and so on. So the Super says to me, when he hears I’m coming up to Auntie for a week or so, ‘Here, Chucky,’ he says, ‘you can keep an eye on Penderyn while you’re there… ’”
    She eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe a word of it. I believe—I believe you’re a journalist, just like me!”
    He threw back his head so that he nearly toppled back over the balcony again, and roared with laughter. “Duw, duw! A journalist! Mr. Chucky of the South Wales Evening News!” He gave her an enormous wink. “Detective Inspector Chucky, Miss Jones, that’s me; protecting Mr. Carlyon from—well, from you!”
    From her, from Miss Katinka Jones who really (as it happened) was a journalist. She said, with a flash of inspiration: “You didn’t say all this to him ?”
    “As soon as you went back into the hall,” said Mr. Chucky, comfortably. “I presented my credentials—all in order, Miss Jones!—and told him why I was a bit suspicious. I tried to make it easy for you, mind. ‘Just one of these lady journalists, Mr. Carlyon,’ I says, ‘writing up Romantic Wales or some such nonsense. Made up this story about the lady, so as to get into the house,’ I says, ‘just because it looked a bit romantical stuck up here on the old mountain.’ ‘Oh, well,’ says Mr. Carlyon, ‘no harm done if that’s all,’ and out he goes to tell you to trot along and think no more about it. And there you are in the hall, kicking up a commotion, and then off you run like a scared rabbit, down the path. I’ll go and see her off the premises, I think,’ he says. ‘I know what these women journalists are.’”
    “He found me very much on the premises, with my ankle sprained.”
    “Of course he didn’t believe it was really sprained,” explained Chucky, kindly. “He said it wasn’t swollen. We thought it was another trick to get back. But he didn’t see what else he could do about it—if he’d let you go, you might have made worse trouble. And after all, he had police protection here.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the rail of the balcony and tossed it gaily overboard.
    Police protection indeed! “You’re no more a policeman than I am,” said Tinka, indignantly. “You’re just another journalist, tricking your way into the house.” It was an unfortunate way to have put it, but she let it go.
    “Detective Inspector Chucky, Miss Jones, Swansea Police.”
    “I’ve a jolly good mind to tell Mr. Carlyon the truth.”
    “Hey, hey, honour among thieves!” said Mr. Chucky, looking alarmed.
    “Well, I won’t if you’ll help me in this business about Amista.”
    He drew in his chin with a “here, here, don’t give me that again!” gesture. “I know you don’t believe me about Amista,” said Tinka, desperately. “But… Well…” For the first time she allowed herself