Death on a Silver Tray by Rosemary Stevens Page A

paws and washed the length of it. “Why? You know I favor animals. This cat is different from any other I have seen. He intrigues me.”
    Robinson struggled to sit up, his expression indignant. His voice regained its strength. “Only think of the cat hairs on our clothing!”
    I patted his arm. “Oh, I have more faith in you than that, my good man. You would never permit such a thing.”
    Robinson rose slowly to his feet and faced me. “Sir, we have no idea where the cat came from. He may carry disease. And cats can be destructive. His claws will shred your furniture. He will knock over your Sèvres porcelain, sending it crashing to the floor!”
    I raised an eyebrow at these ominous prognostications. “You are correct in that we do not know where he came from. Let me see that basket he arrived in.”
    Robinson’s lips pursed. He stood his ground, refusing to go back into the hall where the invader was. I sighed and braved the front lines. The cat barely spared me a glance as I walked past him to retrieve the wicker basket. It appeared the feline had decided his entire body needed a wash and was concentrating on the task. I approved of his fastidiousness.
    Back in the bookroom, I sat behind my desk and opened the basket. “Ah, success is at hand. Here is a note.”
    Robinson stood, arms folded across his chest, while I read the letter aloud.
     
    Dear Mr. Brummell,
    I am pleased that you so wisely decided not to bid against me for the Perronneau painting. You must have realized that such a prize belongs to a king. As a reward for your good judgment, I send you this gift.
    In my country, we have been breeding special felines, fit for royalty. My connections with the palace in Bangkok enabled me to bring a female cat with me to England for companionship while away from home. I did not know when I left Siam that the cat was already pregnant. She gave birth to five kittens ten months ago, not long after my arrival in England.
    I shall return to Siam with only four of her litter, and my ruler will not know the difference. I do this out of gratitude to you for your respect for my country. Because these cats are distinctive and unique to Siam, I have taken measures to see that this one is unable to breed. You will be the only person in England to own a Siamese cat.
    The cat I have chosen for you, Mr. Brummell, I chose because his personality reminds me of yours in a great many ways. Over time, perhaps you will see this for yourself.
    His name is Chakkri, after one of our great generals.
     
    The letter was signed by Mr. Kiang.
    “Good God,” I muttered. “First an imported wood, now an imported cat. I thought the purpose of the English Channel was to keep unwanted foreign objects away.”
    “Precisely, sir. You must find Mr. Kiang and return his ‘gift’ at once.”
    I sat back in my chair and considered this. Through the open door to the bookroom, I saw Chakkri moving cautiously and with stealth through the hall toward us. His dark nose sniffed close to the floor. When he reached the doorway to the room he stopped.
     After stretching his neck and peering into the room, he did an odd thing. Instead of simply walking across the threshold into the room, he crouched down, then leaped across the threshold. He then resumed his slow, suspicious inspection of the premises. Suddenly, he froze in front of the sofa, rose up on his hind legs, and stared into the eyes of the gilt lion’s head. A moment passed. Chakkri touched his nose to the lion’s nose. He pulled away swiftly, shook his rear leg in disdain, and continued his exploration.
    Robinson watched the process with a curled lip. “As I said, the feline must return to Mr. Kiang.”
    My indecision must have shown on my face, prompting Robinson to say in a lofty tone, “Lord Petersham has oftentimes indicated that a place for me in his household would always be open. His lordship is a viscount , you know, and has a strong sense of fashion. He confided in me recently that