Chapter 1
Spring 1945
Mrs Megalith stared down at the body and sighed heavily. What an unsavoury sight first thing in the morning. It was rigid and cold and looked like something one of her grandchildren might have made at school out of papier-mâché, except this wasn’t a silly prank. She clicked her tongue at the inconvenience and struggled into her dressing gown. Grabbing her stick, she proceeded to prod the corpse. It was little more than a decaying carcass of flesh and bones and fur, rather mangy fur at that. She looked at death and thought how unattractive the body was, even the body of a cat, once the spirit had departed. She felt little, just annoyance. She had so many cats she had lost count. They kept on appearing, though, in spite of the fact that she gave them little attention and certainly knew none of them by name. From where they came and why she hadn’t a clue, but they were drawn to her by a mysterious force. As Mrs Megalith was a gifted clairvoyant, this was commendable indeed.
She picked up the cat, wondering why it had chosen to die in her bedroom of all places, and limped down the corridor towards the staircase. It was an omen, a bad omen, of that she had no doubt. She found Max in the kitchen making himself a cup of Ovaltine.
‘Dear boy, what on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ It was six in the morning and Max rarely emerged before eight-thirty.
‘There was a dead cat in my bedroom,’ he replied casually. He still spoke with a Viennese accent and if it hadn’t been for the Jewish blood that careered through his veins Hitler would have considered him the epitome of Aryan man: thick blond hair, sodalite blue eyes, a noble though sensitive expression on a wide, intelligent face. In spite of his nonchalant air, he was a pensive young man whose heart was far more complex than anyone would have imagined, with dark corners and deep crevices where shadows lingered. He showed little of the emotions that simmered there, for his father wouldn’t have wanted him to bare his fear or pain; he would have wanted him to be strong for his sister, Ruth. Max owed him that.
He chuckled at the sight of Mrs Megalith dangling the dead cat from her fingertips. He was used to the cats and considered them part of the furniture. When he had first arrived at Elvestree House in 1938 as a ten-year-old refugee he had been quite afraid of the solitary creatures that inhabited the place and watched him suspiciously from every windowsill and tabletop, but Mrs Megalith had given him and Ruth a kitten as a present. Although he hadn’t known that he would never see his parents again, he missed the familiar smell of home. The kitten had given him comfort.
‘You too? Oh dear.’ Mrs Megalith shook her head. ‘One dead cat is bad enough but two is very worrying indeed. It does not bode well. But what are they trying to tell me? We’ve won the war for God’s sake.’ She narrowed her eyes, the same milky grey as the moonstone that always nestled on the ledge of her large bosom, and clicked her tongue. Max took the dead cat from her and placed it outside the back door with the other one. When he returned she was sitting in the armchair beside the Aga.
‘You are always reading meaning into everything, Primrose,’ he said. ‘Surely it is nothing but a coincidence that two cats die on the same night. Perhaps they ate rat poison.’
Mrs Megalith pursed her lips. ‘Absolutely not. The omen is as clear as quartz.’
‘The war is over,’ said Max. ‘Hitler isn’t coming back.’
‘Thank the Lord! And I’ve already had one near miss so it can’t be me!’ she said, recalling a night during the Blitz when she had stayed with her sister in London. A cat had died then too. But Mrs Megalith was irrepressible; a limp and a grudge but more alive than ever. ‘No, the omen has nothing to do with the war. It’s much closer to home,’ she continued, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.
‘George comes home today from France,’ said Max, thinking of Rita and hoping the bad omen didn’t have anything to do with her. George was another matter entirely.
‘By God, you’re right!’ Mrs Megalith exclaimed. ‘Old age is a humiliating thing. I once had a good memory. Now it’s no better than anyone else’s.’ She huffed. ‘Young George Bolton, it’s nothing short of a miracle that that boy survived in those flying tin cans. It’s because of young men like him that we’re not all having to learn German and that I’m not having to hide you in my attic. Not very comfortable my attic. Though, you would have had an advantage over the rest of us, speaking the language as you do.’ She turned her attention to her granddaughter. ‘Rita hasn’t seen George for three years.’