The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(12)

The office was small, with a low ceiling and a yellowing print of a Cameron landscape tacked up on the wall. The veterinarian was an older man, tall—well over six feet—with a tuft of white hair sprouting from each ear. He might have started out the day with what was left of his hair neatly combed, but now the red and white strands—pink, almost—were standing up straight, like prawn antennae. His features were large, like an ancient Lewis chess piece. Where his long legs were thin, his midsection was full, and he moved like a great circus bear on its hind legs.

“What do you want, lass?” he demanded, scowling, as Maggie entered the office dripping wet, her large black umbrella no help. His words were spoken with a thick burr, his voice low and rumbling.

“I found a dead sheep on the beach near Arisaig House—” she began, folding her umbrella.

“Well, if it’s dead, lass—you don’t need a veterinarian.”

Score one for the ginger-haired brute from Barra. “At first I thought it was one of the neighboring flock that had somehow slipped through a fence and accidentally fallen in and drowned,” Maggie continued, undeterred, “but it’s from a different flock.”

“So? Could have fallen in somewhere else, then washed ashore near Arisaig House.”

“Then I noticed it was covered with sores.”

The vet’s face creased. “What kind of sores?”

“About an inch or two across, looked like blisters. They were black.”

“And this sheep—you didn’t happen to notice any other markings on it?”

I’m a bloody spy, you addlepated giant, she thought. Of course I noticed everything. “There were two triangular-shaped notches in his right ear, and a dot of red paint on his rump.”

The vet ran his hands through his hair. “That sheep belongs to Fergus Macnab, then.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But his flock doesn’t graze anywhere near the coast …”

“I just thought someone should know.”

“Yes, yes …” growled the vet, lost in thought. “You didn’t touch the beast, did ye, Doreen?”

“No, I most assuredly did not.” Maggie was cold and wet. And her feet in heavy, muddy boots were numb. “And my name’s not Doreen.”

“Doreen’s Gaelic for a sourpuss—and your puss is a sour one. Sour and sallow.”

From the back room came a mewing sound. “What’s that?” Maggie asked.

“Stray cat.”

“Is he all right?”

“It’s a cat, Miss.” The vet’s voice betrayed annoyance. “I’m a vet—I deal with sheep and cows and horses. Farm animals. Great beasts of the field. Not cats. Especially cats that won’t quiet down.”

The mewing continued. “What’s he doing here, then?”

“Pub owner brought him in, didn’t want him hanging around, beggin’ for food. He’s an older cat, not a great mouser. I’d guess he was an indoor cat for most of his life—maybe when his owner died, no one wanted him, so they dumped him in the country. Probably doesn’t have much time left anyway.”

“But why’s he here then? Are you taking him in?”

The doctor looked down at her from his immense height with a mixture of annoyance and pity. “I’m going to euthanize him, Miss. Can’t fend for himself, since he’s a pampered indoor cat. It’s kinder this way.”

“What?” Maggie exclaimed. “No!” She pushed past the doctor and opened the door to his office. Two eyes glowed phosphorescent in the darkness. Maggie switched on the light. There, on the vet’s pinewood desk, sat a tabby cat. He was painfully thin, with rough reddish fur and bald patches and a torn ear. He looked up at Maggie with green eyes, pupils narrowing to slits. Goodness gracious, you look as bad as I feel, she thought.

“Meh,” the tabby proclaimed. The disdainful sound was expressed in a peculiar nasal tone.

“ ‘Meh’?” Maggie looked up at the doctor, who’d followed her in. “I thought cats said meow.”

The vet shrugged. “He’s a talker, that one is. Talk your ear off. I think whoever he belonged to lived alone and talked to him. Talked to him day and night, and fed him from her plate. That’s why he’s no good as a mouser. Thinks he’s human, he does. A wee man in a cat suit.”

Maggie went up to the cat and held out her hand. She knew cats from the Prime Minister’s office, where they roamed freely, along with a few of the Churchills’ dogs.

The cat acquiesced to sniff her hand, then stepped closer. Raising himself on his haunches, he put one paw on her left shoulder and one paw on her right, holding her in place as he looked into her eyes with laser-like intensity. Maggie looked back, disconcerted by the scrutiny.