Death on a Silver Tray by Rosemary Stevens

silent strength, its regal beauty, and its practical worth. Will you not agree to keep the chair for a week with my compliments?”
    With his compliments? Well, I could hardly be rude enough to say no to this, could I?
    As if in answer, an eardrum-piercing, angry shriek rent the air. Startled, everyone looked to see the source.
    “ ‘Tis the very devil!” Mr. Griffin’s lackey shouted, jumping back from the parcel he held, allowing it to drop to the floor.
    No one moved.
    Then, out of the parcel, which I now saw to be a lidded wicker basket, an animal emerged. The creature sprang to the black and white tiled floor with the agility of one of Freddie’s monkeys.
    However it was not a monkey. It was the most singular feline I had ever seen in my life.
    The cat’s face, ears, paws and tail gleamed a rich, dark brown. The rest of his body was a pale fawn color which was slightly more deeply shaded on his back. He was smaller and more compactly built than the felines of my experience, with exceptionally elegant long legs. His body appeared lean and muscular.
    But his large eyes were his most startling feature. A brilliant blue, they brimmed with intelligence. He stood proudly, lashing his whip-like tail and looking down his white whiskers at the company in haughty disdain.
    “Reeoow!” he pronounced in a loud, commanding tone.
    Robinson fainted.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Chaos reigned in the hall. Mr. Griffin stood in front of the sedan-chair, arms spread wide as if to protect his creation from an onslaught of Napoleon’s army.
    His lackey swooped down in an attempt to capture the cat. In a lightning fast move, and with seemingly little effort, the feline avoided his grasp. Instead the cat reached out a paw and drew a red line across the man’s hand.
     The servant howled, clutching the back of his hand. “The thing ain’t natural, I tell you! ‘Tis some demon from hell!”
    Fangs bared, the cat hissed at him. I would too if someone called me a demon from hell.
    Not wishing to look anything less than in full command of my household, I said, “Mr. Griffin, have your men carry Robinson into the bookroom. There is a sofa in there upon which you can rest him. I am certain he will recover presently. He has fainted before on occasion.” Once when I had a sky-blue coat and matching sky-blue breeches made, Robinson had swooned at the sight.
    At a nod from Mr. Griffin, the two men gave the cat a wide berth and lifted the unconscious valet. I led the way into the bookroom. I spared a backward glance for the feline, who was calmly licking the paw he had used to scratch the servant, as if the act of touching such an ill-bred fellow disgusted him.
    Inside the bookroom, Robinson moaned when placed on the long sofa across from the desk. I walked to a side table and poured him a glass of brandy.
    Once the valet was sufficiently revived and could hold the glass and partake of the contents, I turned to Mr. Griffin, who stood anxiously in the doorway. “I have the situation under control. You may leave the sedan-chair with me. I shall let you know my decision regarding it in a week’s time.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Brummell. Are you certain I cannot assist you where the, er, animal is concerned?”
    “No, thank you. I can handle him. One of my friends’ idea of a joke, no doubt.”
    They departed, being careful to walk far around the cat, who had now progressed to cleaning his face with a well-licked paw.
    I stood over Robinson. His supine form rested on my carved and gilt-wood sofa. It is adorned with lion’s head uprights and lion’s paw feet, and is cushioned with handsome gold brocade. At almost seven feet, the sofa more than accommodated Robinson, whom I could see was revitalized by the brandy. “Are you all right?” I inquired.
    His pale countenance told me he was shaken. “Sir, a—a feline in your house! We must be rid of it at once,” he gasped.
    I glanced speculatively out into the hall. The cat held his tail between two