Alonzo settled into a casual position atop a rusty washing machine that stood roughly at the centre of the junkyard, and scanned his surroundings. Spring had kicked into third gear by now, and it was impossible to do anything without those thoughts forcing themselves into his mind. Not that he minded – times like these provided a wonderful boost to his confidence: in terms of female popularity, he was second only to the Rum Tum Tugger. And he enjoyed it while he could. If he was ever going to be a Jellicle Leader, he'd have to start behaving in a more responsible way sooner or later; self-control, keeping a clear mind and all that. But not just yet.
Once more, he scanned the scene before him, assessing each face critically. Etcetera? Cute, OK, but still way too young, really. Victoria? Oh, she'd have to be properly seduced; that would take far too long. Rumpelteazer? The Cockney Rebel – now that would be a challenge. Indeed, he'd given it a try a few days before, and if it hadn't been for Mungojerrie, defending his sister's honour with a vigour that was at times truly frightening, he might have got through to her, too. Ah well, more fishes in the sea. He continued his assessment. Demeter? She'd go for Munkustrap; perhaps later. Cassandra? He grinned. Again? Nah…
But why restrict himself to fellow Jellicles when out there was a whole city to choose from? He got down from the washer and gave the junkyard one last scrutinising look before trotting off into the night. Before long, within the oilfactory kaleidoscope that was London by night, he could discern the scent of a lone female feline. Turning into a broad lane bound by ancient chestnut trees, he soon found her, sitting majestically on a wooden park bench, grooming her shiny grey coat with fastidious but immensely elegant gestures. Alonzo shuddered. She was perfect. He'd always had a weakness for unicoloured queens, and this young lady in particular exuded a kind of childish enthusiasm and mature sensibility intermingled that intrigued him. And she smelled divine.
Circling the bench, he tried to think of the best way to approach her. She must have noticed him by now, yet she appeared to be ignoring him. He stepped forward.
"My lady…" He bowed. She responded with a reserved nod. Going to play hard to get, was she? Well, she was going to be his one way or another. He always got what he wanted – most of the time, anyway. He crouched to leap onto the bench…
"Remember, Zebra: when a queen says no, she means no."
Startled out of his fur and feeling extremely, well, caught, Alonzo turned to find Skimbleshanks – protector of the innocent – sitting at the roots of a chestnut tree. Now how could he have got there unnoticed? It was just plain unnerving – ever since his dis-, and subsequent reappearance about a fortnight before, a change seemed to have come over Skimble. Alonzo sneered. Old Jock goes suave. Well, well. Pouncival and the squirt would love this one.
He sniggered, then redirected his attention towards the grey queen. But before he could even flick his tail, Skimbleshanks had planted himself in front of him, and stated in a low, matter-of-fact voice, "I dae no want tae hurt ye, lad. Do no make me."
Alonzo felt absolutely flabbergasted. For Heaviside's sake, who did this cat think he was? The Rum Tum Tugger? It was just ridiculous! Hesitantly taking a step backwards, he looked up at the grey queen. She was watching the two tomcats with interest, her eyes half closed in an amused little smile. He looked back at the Railway Cat. The whole situation was as unfamiliar as it was bizarre. He wasn't used to having to fight for mates, and as he stood there, gazing at Skimbleshanks' stoic but determined expression, he remembered accounts of the latter's actions on the Day of Dread, realising that he couldn't be sure just what Skimble would turn out to be capable of.
"Come oan, Zebra, where are ye manners? Why doan't ye let the lady choose?" Skimble bowed to the young queen, still perched high upon the park bench, and held out a paw in invitation. Alonzo looked on, his incredulity mounting. This couldn't be happening. The cat had to be old enough to be her father – admittedly, in cats that meant an age difference of only about two years, but still…
The grey queen daintily stepped off the bench and sauntered over to Skimble, affectionately brushing past his flank. Skimbleshanks gave his fellow Jellicle one final nod before trotting off, the young queen following closely with long, elegant strides, and leaving behind a flustered and somewhat dazed Alonzo.
Once out of sight, the grey queen burst out laughing in a most unladylike manner. "Skimble, that was absolutely brilliant! The cat was just utterly shocked out of his fur!" Skimbleshanks grinned widely. It was glorious. He'd been dreaming about this for over a year now, a way of getting back at Alonzo for getting him 'nipped at last year's spring celebration. He stifled a purr. "Ye weren't sae bad yerself, Carrie."
"What did you call him?" Carmelea inquired, tilting her head and frowning slightly – her usual signs of interest. "Zebra?"
"Alonzo, actually." The Railway Cat gave her a knowing look. "Cute?"
"Weeeell…" Carmelea sat down thoughtfully and began grooming a front paw. "Let's just say that he might've got through if he hadn't looked so insufferably smug."
Skimbleshanks nodded. He understood fully. Nobody could blame a queen for feeling attracted to someone like Alonzo. "Ye ought tae thank me, then," he remarked dryly. "Ye kin be sure he'll come after ye, noo." Carmelea let out a chuckle, then looked up mischievously.
"Not tonight, though…" She got up and took a few steps before halting to see what was keeping him. "Are you coming along or what?"
"You'll ne'er cease tae amaze me, Carrie…" Skimbleshanks sighed as he darted after her.
Etcetera sighed inwardly. How could anyone ever have any true respect for someone named "And So On"? Oh yeah, right, in some fancy foreign language, OK, but come on! She could just imagine her mother during the naming of her litter: "Right, so we have… James, Flint, Katiana, Pagliacci… and so on." It was so ridiculous! No – things would have to change. Drastically.
Little tingles of exhilaration ran up and down her spine as she pushed aside the cat flap and stepped out into the dark. No going left along the rail to check on Skimble tonight. No crossing Hyde Park on her way to the junkyard. Tonight, she'd go straight on, along Adventure Street, down Independence Lane, to a place where they'd let her be who she wanted to be. She halted. Not without supper, though, she added as she hurried back to the kitchen.
As she popped her head out through the cat flap once more, she was greeted by a cheery mew from a dark brown kitten. Electra. Bummer. Not that she disliked seeing who she usually considered to be her best friend; it was just that right now, she had other things to do. Although…
"Cetra? Hey, where are you going?" Electra's tail formed a furry question mark as she skipped after her kitty friend, who had trotted off in a direction roughly opposite that which they usually went. Etcetera halted and crinkled her nose into what she hoped was an expression of general weightiness.
"I'm going off to find myself," she stated haughtily. Electra opened her mouth, but closed it again as she tried to digest this.
"You mean like Skimble did?" she finally suggested. Skimble's disappearance had been the talk of the junkyard for weeks now, and Etcetera played a considerable part in the whole matter, having been the one to find the body everyone had assumed to be his. Perhaps some of the mystery had now rubbed off onto her. "When are you coming back?"
Etcetera crinkled her nose some more. "How am I supposed to know? Maybe I won't find myself till I'm in…" She paused, searching her mind for someplace sounding sufficiently remote. "… Bodmin. Or Dundee. And that could take a while. Maybe," she added dreamily, "Maybe I'll have to go as far as America…"
Electra's shocked features screwed up into a grimace of panic. Cetra wasn't going to leave the Jellicles, was she? Just like that? She could get cast out!
"Don't worry, I can take care of myself," Etcetera declared, slightly misreading her friend's expression. "But you can come along if you like." She got up and trotted off once more. "You don't have to, of course, but don't tell anyone, OK? They wouldn't understand."
Electra had to admit that she herself wasn't entirely sure she understood. Nevertheless, she darted after her kitty friend. She couldn't let her go out there all on her own – not Etcetera. Knowing her, she'd grow tired of this whole thing soon enough, and then they'd think of a way to sneak back together without reprimand or loss of face, and everything would be alright.
"Where do we start?" she panted as she caught up. Etcetera slowed her pace.
"Hampstead."
"We haven't made any real progress since last week." Munkustrap frowned. "If we don't get a break real soon, we might have to let the whole thing go unresolved." He turned away. He knew he couldn't blame himself, and everybody kept telling him. But he'd put himself in charge of the investigations, taken it upon him to unravel the mystery of this cat's unfortunate death. He didn't know what would be worse, should he fail – leaving the matter unresolved, having to let go of the victim and watch him sink into a mire of anonymity, or the question whether the investigation might have succeeded, had he delegated it to another cat. Because there was no way he could have done any better himself. He'd made full use of his knowledge regarding fellow Jellicles and any special abilities they might have.
Skimbleshanks had been put in charge of olfactory matters the night after his return, and a smell scan of the site had been carried out immediately. This had provided them with a starting point, allowing them to narrow down possibilities and focus on what was most likely.
Hay. Somerset hay. Skimble had been very specific about that. He'd insisted that Somerset hay had certain fruity overtones not found in any other region, so strong that they lingered even then on the sand where the victim had hit the ground. "Mind you, he must've rolled aroond in et tae have had et cling tae his fur like this."
So what did this leave them with? Either the victim had come from Somerset, or had extensive contact with hay from the region. Hay transports from Somerset hadn't been recorded for months, so the most logical course of action would be to start tracing warehouses and enterprises with special interests in hay – pet stores, riding schools, along those lines. And that might take a while, even when making optimal use of Mungojerrie's numerous connections around the Metropolis.
Everything had been set in motion, and now all that remained was standing back and letting things take their course. Either there'd be a break, his assumptions turning out to have been accurate, and his actions appropriate, or the case would drag on ceaselessly, and it would be too late to start anew and take an alternative course. Munkustrap wouldn't usually consider himself to be a pessimistic cat, but as time passed, he came to dread the outcome of the case more and more.
As he stood there worrying, staring at the sand, Jenny slunk around to face him. She had to get him away from there; it had been hard enough to keep his mind off the investigation back at the junkyard. She felt sorry she'd brought it up; she'd have to make up for it some time. But first things first.
"I'm going down to the junkyard. Are you coming along, dear?" Munkustrap nodded. He knew what she was thinking, and he agreed. As the two cats trudged past site huts onto the pavement, the wind tugged, inconsequentially, at the bunch of flowers anchored in the sand.
