Murder on Show by Marian Babson

her hand, I wouldn’t have taken any bets on Helena’s continued survival. As it was, she contented herself with the show of umbrage traditional to the affronted Englishwoman.
    â€˜Well!’ she said explosively, and marched away.
    I watched her huff down the aisle and pause at Pandora’s cage. She appeared to be doing something there. Casually, I strolled in that direction, hoping she was doing something to improve Pandora’s morale. Any fool could see that the poor little beast was nervous and needed some reassurance.
    She moved away from the cage before I reached it. Pandora was at the bars, staring wistfully after the retreating back. I saw something new had been added. A sign was attached to the cage. It read, ‘Please Do Not Touch The Exhibit.’
    The Exhibit moved forward as I approached and rubbed her head invitingly against the bars. Glaring after the fast-disappearing Rose Chesne-Malvern, I defiantly scratched The Exhibit’s head.
    At the end of the aisle, Rose Chesne-Malvern faltered and slowed, turning to gaze at the draperies shrouding the Whittington Cat with more warmth and approval than I had ever noticed her expend on any living thing. Whether it was because the statue behind the draperies was by Hugo, or whether it was because it was of 18-carat gold, I couldn’t say – and wouldn’t like to guess.
    Then she frowned abruptly, as though recalling herself to duty, wheeled about and marched firmly on her way. Which reminded me that I had work to do. Automatically, I latched the door of Pandora’s cage. The Exhibit blinked at me in complacent amusement.
    â€˜Be a sport,’ I said. ‘Stay put, like a normal animal. I’ve got to go shower and shave. I won’t be long.’ Suddenly, I heard myself – carrying on a conversation with a cat. I glanced about me guiltily before I remembered where I was. None of these nuts would think there was anything at all unusual in that. It was the rule, rather than the exception. Without even trying, I tuned in to conversations up and down the aisle.
    â€˜Pretty girl,’ Betty Lington was crooning. ‘Her’s the prettiest girl in the Show, and she has a new contract, and she’ll get liver for din-dins ...’
    My eyes met Pandora’s and we exchanged a mutual glance of revulsion. But it was hardly any better directly across the aisle.
    â€˜You can lick any cat in the place,’ Kellington was assuring his moody tom, ‘with three paws tied behind your back. And you wouldn’t stoop to bothering with any of these tabbies – nothing but a pack of overbred snobs. Just like perfumed, brainless debutantes.’
    That one amused us. But Pandora’s ears flicked and her tail twitched uneasily, as another fragment drifted to us.
    â€˜Eat it up, my Precious. For Daddy’s sake. It’s good for you. You must eat ...’ Precious Black Jade laid back his ears and snarled.
    â€˜Look,’ I said, ‘this is all very fascinating, but I must go. You just relax and –’
    Suddenly, a great challenging roar sounded from the cage at the head of the aisle. Either Pyramus or Thisbe was feeling his or her oats. I’d like to see Pearlie King tangle with one of those, I thought, even without three paws tied behind him. Then I changed my mind. I wouldn’t like to see it. I wouldn’t like to see it at all.
    But, once again, I noticed that the jungle cats had performed their usual trick – they had stopped the show. There was a moment of utter silence in the hall. The eyes of both owners and pets had turned towards the big cage, with varying degrees of wariness.
    Pandora, I was glad to see, was the first to recover from the spell. She flicked her ears, blinked her eyes, then settled down on her haunches and seemed prepared to snatch a cat nap.
    â€˜Good girl,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ She closed her eyes, and didn’t bother to