And Then They All Claimed the Cat

How it begins

The seventh owner arrived while Hazel Finch was still trying to count the first six.

The cat sat on lot forty-three, a mahogany writing desk, and cleaned one paw with no apparent concern for provenance.

'His name is Napoleon,' said a woman in a green coat.

'Her name is Biscuit,' said the man beside her.

Doris Lane closed the auction-room door behind the new arrival.

'This gentleman says the cat is called Brian.'

Hazel put down her catalogue. She had expected disputes over silver, not pronouns.

The country house's contents went on sale at eleven. At ten fifteen, every visitor had seemed ordinary enough: a dealer, two former neighbors, a retired solicitor, a gardener and a woman who wanted only the kitchen scales. Now all seven claimed to have come for the same animal.

The cat yawned.

Doris placed a saucer of water beneath the desk.

'Has anyone a photograph?' Hazel asked.

Seven telephones appeared.

Each image showed the same cat in a different home. Each owner looked newly offended by the others' furniture.

'They aren't proof of ownership,' Hazel said. 'They prove the cat has a busy social life.'

Nobody laughed except Doris.

Hazel examined the pictures. The cat's white chin, crooked ear and deeply unimpressed expression were consistent. So was something else. In every room, somewhere behind the animal, stood a small blue vase.

She turned to lot forty-three. On the desk lay a pale circle in the dust where a vase had recently stood.

Doris followed her gaze. She had worked in the house for twenty-four years and knew what belonged where.

'That wasn't in the catalogue,' she said.

The cat stepped down, walked past all seven owners and scratched at a locked cupboard behind the desk.

For the first time that morning, somebody seemed prepared to identify exactly what they had come to claim.