Mr Edmund Whittle was a retired gentleman who lived alone in Wysteria Cottage on the edge of Widdershin Green in the wolds. It was a small stone building with wisteria climbing up the face of the house, and in early May, it was alive with delicate lilac-coloured flowers. The wall surrounding the garden was covered in aubretia, which turned a vibrant shade of purple in early summer, attracting bees and butterflies.
The garden was well tended, as Mr Whittle was out most days, mowing the lawn, deadheading the roses, or looking for weeds that might poke up between the flagstones of the pathway. Weeds knew better than to grow on the grounds of Wisteria Cottage, and it was said that even the slugs and snails worked their way around the property in search of luscious plants, leaving the cold frames where Mr Whittle grew his lettuces entirely untouched.
Mr Whittle had been retired for several years before he was widowed, and that was some ten years before our story begins. No one was sure what he did before that. He was just the old man living alone at the village’s edge with his cat. Mr Tibbins was a well-fed, white Persian cat who would walk about the cottage grounds as if he owned the place, his diamante collar sparking in the sun. Other times, he would sleep on the shed roof or watch from his vantage point on the wall. Nothing would happen in the village that bypassed Mr Tibbins’ eagle eye. There was gossip in the village that Mr Edmund Whittle was so devoted to his cat that he had left the cottage to him in his will. This rumour was neither confirmed nor denied.
Mr Whittle was a quiet, reserved man who kept himself to himself. He was often seen on his bicycle—picking up a loaf from the bakery or, come Thursday, collecting his pension, eschewing the modern ideas of Internet banking and direct payment, preferring cash that he could manage and spend until it ran out. There, he would amicably pass the time of day with others, without letting on too much about his own affairs, causing ever more curiosity in those of a gossipy nature such as Mrs Violet Langley, a widow of similar years who was positively bursting to find out what went on in Wisteria Cottage and if, indeed, Mr Tibbins was actually the beneficiary of Mr Whittle’s will.
As the years passed, Mr Tibbins would bring in acquaintances who needed shelter and food. These strays would become referred to by Mr Whittle as the irregulars as he took no ownership of these various hangers-on, merely providing some food and shelter as they so chose. It was not unusual to travel along the small lane that passed by the house to see several cats of varying hue stretched out on the shed roof, absorbing the summer sun or sitting by the gate, watching the traffic go by, such as it was. Little by little, the tribe grew to the point where the other villagers became concerned about Mr Whittle’s ability to manage so many cats.
One day, while in the Post Office collecting her pension, Mrs Violet Langley happened to mention to the postmistress, Miss Agnes Thimble, that she hadn’t seen Mr Whittle lately.
“Have you seen him?” she asked.
Mr Basil Crutch, sitting in the back office, overheard the conversation and said, “I’ve not seen the hide or hair of the fellow. Has he been in for his pension this week, Agnes?”
“No, Mr Crutch. I did think that odd. He is usually here on the dot every Thursday.”
Mrs Langley frowned. “But the cat was there looking good when I went past yesterday morning. A haughty creature that. I can’t say I like the look of it, but Edmund does seem to dote on the animal. If I had my way, it would be down that cats’ home pretty sharp. Just you see if I don’t.”
Mr Crutch and Miss Thimble exchanged glances and suppressed smiles. It was no secret that Mrs Violet Langley had convinced herself that she was in a romantic relationship with Mr Edmund Whittle despite there being no inclination upon the latter’s part, who remained implacably polite but distant with the woman who, from his perspective, spoke too often about too much.
“Well, I expect he has been distracted by something,” Mr Crutch said. “He will be along shortly. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Mr Edmund Whittle didn’t come along later that day. Indeed, not the following day, nor the day after. It was several weeks before people started to ask questions.
Villagers noticed that the lawns of Wisteria Cottage hadn’t seen a lawnmower for some time and weeds had started to grow in the flagstones of the pathway. Upon passing by early one morning, one villager noticed slugs moving along Mr Whittle’s pathway, heading for the cold frames. And bindweed shoots were starting to climb the bushes that had up to then been so carefully manicured.
Yet, outside, on the wall, Mr Tibbins sat, washing his paws, watching the world go by and looking remarkably well cared for.
Eventually, Mrs Violet Langley could no longer contain her curiosity and decided to satisfy her curiosity about Mr Whittle’s absence. She rode her bicycle to the edge of the village and walked it through the gate, propping it up against the side of the cottage. The bindweed had taken over the bush by the front gate, and the grass was so high that it was flowering, and the once-proud lettuces had gone to seed. Yes, she said to herself—the garden was in decline. The bindweed had taken over the bush by the front gate, and the grass was so high that it was flowering. The lettuces in the cold frames hadn’t gone to seed, had succumbed to the slugs, leaving sad little green stumps. There were slime trails across the flagstones where the slugs and snails had made their nocturnal journeys to feed off the untended plants. They had eaten the pansies and made a feast of the delphiniums that were little more than denuded stalks in the flower beds.
Mr Tibbins sat by the front door watching her. She scowled at him and shushed him, and he got up and waddled around the back of the house, followed by a few of the irregulars.
Mrs Violet Langley dusted imaginary cat fur off her coat, breathed deeply and knocked on the door. “Mr Whittle, are you in there?”
There was no answer. She rattled the knocker again. “Mr Whittle, it’s me, Violet.”
Still, nothing. She tried the door handle, and it moved. Smiling, she opened the door and pushed it open.
***
“It’s very unusual, I must say,” Miss Agnes Thimble said.
“What is?” Mr Crutch said.
“Well, have you seen Mrs Violet Langley lately?”
Mr Crutch frowned. “Now that you mention it, I can’t say I have.”
“Well, let me think,” Miss Thimble ran a hand through her hair. “She was in here when, exactly? Two, maybe three weeks ago?”
“Will have been about then, yes. She was asking after Mr Whittle.”
“And he hasn’t been in either.”
Mr Crutch smiled. “You don’t think? No, they wouldn’t, would they?”
Agnes Thimble laughed. “Well, she always said she planned to have her way with him. She always said that he was husband material and needed a good woman to look after him.”
“Well, her car hasn’t moved for a while. She usually drives into town at least once a week to visit her sister.”
“Maybe she is tucked up with Mr Whittle all along. Has anyone seen his cat?”
They looked up as the bell rang and the postman, Monty Partridge, came in through the shop door. “I saw it sitting on the wall as I passed this morning,” he said.
“What of Mrs Langley?”
“Not a sign, Mr Crutch,” Monty said, scratching his chin. “She normally comes out when I deliver her mail to tell me that she is expecting an important letter. An excuse to talk, I always says, and I’m happy to oblige, passing the time of day with the old dear. But I reckon someone needs to do something about all those cats at Mr Whittle’s place. They will be inbreeding if nothing is done. That’s my opinion, anyway.”
He walked across to the table and started sorting the mail he had collected from the post-box. “Oh, and while I think about it, someone ought to call environmental health about that place.”
“What place?”
“Wisteria cottage. I saw a bloody great rat. Them cats just sat and watched it. Health hazard, I reckon.
“You may be right there, Monty. I’ll get right on it and give the council a call. Get someone to take a look.”
***
It was a few days later that Mr Clive Marchbank, the Environmental Health officer, drove his van through the village and parked in a layby just down the lane from Wisteria Cottage. He adjusted his coat as he stepped from the council van. Clutching his briefcase and clipboard, he made his way up to the front door of the cottage. He wrinkled his nose at the odour. He paused and looked around. On the lawn, among the tall grass, were several cats. On the roof of the shed, several more were grooming themselves. He was aware of movement and stepped back sharply as a large rat ran through the grass and over his feet, disappearing into the grass on the other side of the path. A white Persian cat wearing a red diamante collar was on the wall by the gate, watching him intently. He reached for a handkerchief and sneezed.
Cats, he thought, stifling another sneeze. He sneezed again as the allergy kicked in. Still sneezing, he walked to the door and rapped the knocker. There was no answer, but the odour was stronger here. Cloying, sweet, sickly.
“Mr Whittle,” he called out. “Mr Whittle, I am from the council…”
There was no answer, so he rapped again. As he did so, the door swung ajar. Shrugging, he pushed it further and walked inside.
***
“Has anyone heard from Mr Marchbank?” Jayne Purdey asked as she put down her telephone. One or two of the council workers looked up disinterestedly. “Isn’t he on leave? I’ve not seen him for a few days. I assumed he was on leave,” one of them said, pleased to have some relief from the boredom of the drudgery of her work.
“No,” Jayne said. “He was supposed to be going to a complaint of a health hazard in Widdershin Green.” She paused and shuffled through some papers on her desk. “That was nearly a week ago. And no one has seen him since?”
She looked across the room at dull, disinterested faces, shaking their heads before returning to whatever mundane tasks they had before them. No one knew, and no one cared.
Except for Jayne. She called the police.
***
Police constable Michael Lane and his colleague, Police constable Maureen Graves, arrived outside Wisteria Cottage the following afternoon.
“Likely to be a false alarm,” Lane said. “Nothing ever happens out here. I mean, look at it. Hardly the Midsomer murders, is it? Someone leaving the bins out too long is the biggest crime they get here.”
Graves laughed as he pulled the patrol car into the layby behind a van that was already parked. “Isn’t that the missing van?” she said, frowning. She checked her notebook and the registration number on the council van. “Yes, it is. So he must be around here somewhere.”
“Wisteria Cottage, just over there,” Lane said. “Come on, let’s see where our man is.”
They got out of the car, put on their hats, and walked up to the gate. Graves reached out to stroke the white Persian cat that sat on the wall, watching them approach. Mr Tibbins purred gently and rubbed against her. He continued to wrap himself around her legs as they walked along the path. On the shed roof, several tabby cats looked up disinterestedly, and in the bushes, they could see more cats resting in the warmth of the afternoon shade, sleeping or grooming. All looked well fed and cared for.
“Bit of a whiff,” Lane said.
“Yes, I can smell it, too. I know that smell.”
They exchanged glances. This wasn’t the bins being out too long. This was serious.
“Yeah, so do I,” Lane sighed.
The door was slightly ajar, so Lane waked in, followed by Graves.
“Jesus!” Lane breathed. The stench hit them like a wave. Graves stumbled back outside and threw up on the path. She leaned over, retching for a while until her stomach stopped spasming.
“You alright?” Lane said.
“Yeah, just be a moment.”
She wiped her mouth and walked back inside.
On the floor were decomposing human remains. Some bones were clean, and in places, there was still rotting flesh that had been torn from the bones and gnawed, the bulk of the meat now gone. Lane was crouched down by what appeared to be a more recent body, or what was left of it. He held up a council identity card. “Well, we’ve found Mr Clive Marchbank. What the Hell happened here?”
As they moved through the house, they found more remains. Graves bent down and picked up a handbag and rummaged through the contents. “Looks like this is Mrs Violet Langley,” Graves said, holding up the bag.
Eventually, they found a partially complete skeleton in the front room.
“This, I suppose, is Mr Edmund Whittle,” Lane said.
He looked around. There were claw marks on the walls and a congealed pool of blood on the carpet, and behind the odour of decomposing flesh, he caught a hint of cat urine. As they looked about, they became aware that they were not alone. The room was full of cats. The purring became louder as Mr Tibbins came in, sat in the centre of the room, and looked up at them.
Several of the cats were kneading the sofa, ripping the fabric. On the shelves, the chairs, the mantelpiece, and the windowsill, there were cats—black ones, tabby ones, ginger ones, white ones, and black and white Jellicle ones with their little bow tie markings and something dark dripping from their teeth.
Graves and Lane looked about them.
“It looks as if they are smiling,” Graves said.
***
Anyone walking along the lane towards Wisteria Cottage will still see the police cordon tapes. But as no one goes that way these days, it is of little matter. If they did, though, Mr Tibbins waits patiently on the wall, his diamante collar catching the sunlight.. He would welcome a rub on his head and be happy to let anyone enter. Should they choose.