BEGIN CHAPTER 2
Bruce accessed his cell phone, and his own holofield unfolded into existence. "These are the highlights of what I have accessed. You all have the imagery and detailed reports in your inboxes, as of twenty minutes ago." Two driver's licenses faded in, and the photographs enlarged. "Farmstead 23 – that is the only name it has ever had, since the land was first registered and the first maps of the area drawn - is owned by George and Marjorie Blundt, nee Armiger, aged 42 and 40 respectively; they are the eleventh generation of the same family to own the farm. No criminal records. We will have more complete dossiers on them by this evening. Finances are in attachment one; there is relevance concerning the motive for the burdock they are growing and the situation with their youngest. They have six children, four of which are adults and have left the farm; they are not relevant to the current case. The two remaining children live on the farm."
A yearbook photograph appeared of a teenaged girl on the cusp of womanhood, wearing a small Egyptian pendant. "Mary Anne Blundt, owner of Tom o'Felis. Tom has been missing for six days, according to Miss Blundt's WholeLife posts. She is eighteen, graduated from high school but not yet gone on to college."
"That amulet is Bastet," Selina noted. "Egyptian Goddess of Protection, Motherhood, Fertility, Medicine, and (ahem) Cats."
Bruce coughed and continued. "You all should review the last few months of her blog; she documents the systematic disappearances of nine named cats from the farm, and several litters of kittens."
Selina stopped smiling. "Bet they have no idea who's on the case now…"
Bruce glanced at her, the distinct frown accompanied by the stiffening of his neck muscles that always accompanied the Batman's staunch disapproval of magic.
"Read her latest blog entry; dated 0400 this morning." he graveled as it came up.
From Mary Anne's blog posts
Dad's worried. I am too, but oddly enough I'm not worried about Tommie anymore.
I don't think there's a single cat left on the farm except for Missie and her kittens – and they're hiding under my bed. Mom and Dad know they're there, and Michael, too – I don't care what anyone says, he'd never hurt a cat, he loves cats. When he's having a bad day, he would hold and stroke Tommie or Sandy… he keeps Missie and me company in my room, but she won't come to his lap, so he lets her be. I told him it's just the kittens, and that she will love on him one day soon. He just smiles and agrees, and strokes the kittens...
I should be afraid to death for Tommie, but I'm not anymore. I had this dream, I can't remember most of it, but the Batsignal was shining strong from the City – and then it changed to the Cat's Eye, the Eye of Re, like I wear! And then I woke up, and remembered I hadn't changed out my shirt, so I grabbed it from the laundry and went to the porch. I keep changing them out to keep my scent going, to guide any of the cats out there home – and I saw this purple supercar just racing down the highway away from the City. It's weird, but it calmed me… And then I just went back to bed.
I still wish Tommie would come home. He's never been gone so long…
An awkward moment of silence descended as everyone digested the potential implications of the posting… and then Dick choked an expletive. "Dammit… she's told the entire world where the last cats on the farm are. Babs…?"
Oracle gestured in the positive as she keyed in a surveillance detail of Little Brown Bats, then leaned back in her chair. "Best we can do is keep an eye and ear for strangers or alarms…"
Bruce agreed. "Her posts are set to Friends and Family only; the list is less than forty members, none of whom have easy access to the farm. I've already made an initial sweep of them, and they all appear to be low priority. I've entered them all into the workup roster, as a precaution, though."
Tommie turned suddenly, chuffed, and farted. Everyone glanced over as Whiskers and Nutmeg wrinkled their noses, and smiles and chuckles ringed the table. No scent materialized at the table, and Bruce moved on.
Another picture formed, a family portrait taken at Christmas, and the image expanded and centered on a boy of about twelve or thirteen, with ginger hair and freckles. "Michael Blundt, now age thirteen. He has been homeschooled since fourth grade, following a very serious altercation between himself and two teenagers." Bruce's voice flattened just a touch, unnoticeable to anyone who did not know him very well indeed. "The sealed documents are incomplete. They have the boy Blundt - age nine at the time - accosting a pair of high school juniors for no reason with a broken pool cue, putting both in the hospital. Blundt was surrendered to the authorities by his parents at his home without incident; then there was another extremely violent incident at the Juvenile Detention Facility that night, this one involving Blundt's roommate and a proctor. In the midst of all this, the boy's original intake interview was overlooked – and then apparently omitted. Blundt was segregated and then transferred to the juvenile inpatient unit at Arkham. The details are likely on the rebuilt Arkham's new computer system – which is stand-alone. It has no external connections of any kind outside of its' facility."
Batman's voice rolled from Bruce's visage, and his expression was stone. "His parents have nearly bankrupted themselves to extract him and maintain him free of that - situation; he has been under court-ordered home arrest – with an ankle monitor - and court-ordered outpatient psychiatric care ever since he was released to their care. He has seen a total of four psychiatrists in the forty-two months since his release - I believe." A moment of silence ensued, as Bruce took a bite of scone and a sip of tea. His voice had the slightest tinge of frustration at his next statement. "I have not been able to gain more information concerning him – yet."
Cassandra gestured a query. "Why burdock on the farm? Not common, surely low market value?"
Alfred cleared his throat and spoke up. "Most all parts of the young burdock plant may be harvested and eaten, after preparation in a number of ways. Young burdock root is very crisp and has a mild, somewhat sweet flavour, or if taken later in its' cycle, a somewhat more pungent savor… I use it sometimes in soups and stews. Historically, it was most common in parts of Asia, but it is growing in popularity worldwide. In the United States it is an up and coming delicacy..." Nods around the table followed as everyone understood why the farm might be growing such a plant.
Barbara sipped tea and addressed Bruce's frustration. "You were on the WatchTower, Bruce. That place is the worst security risk for clandestine investigations, we all know it; while its' own computers are Kryptonian /Amazonian /Thanagarian tech, the comms systemry still has to access the World Wide Web… which is not. Every security agency on the planet, legitimate and otherwise, is constantly trying to monitor the WatchTower's accesses - and absolutely tearing into any site they find out the WatchTower does access. Every communication in and out… not surprised you couldn't get as much research done as usual. Not to mention the admin pile you had waiting up there."
Bruce continued; his voice remained flat. "There are a number of matters that need to be worked up. The identities and histories of the migrant workers is necessary but not high priority, as Barbara will explain. The identities and histories of the current and near-term released farm workers is necessary, and is priority, particularly to determine if there is a specific individual associated with the youngest Blundt. However, obtaining the entire recorded history of Michael Blundt is our highest priority."
Another awkward moment of silence glacially settled on the group. After a moment, Alfred offered the teapot, and spoke. "I take it, Master Bruce, that the boy is the primary suspect at this time?"
Bruce declined more tea. "Nine named cats missing. Six had kittens, all of which are also missing. And the father's journal reporting significant bloodstains found on the property on multiple occasions, always by the fenceline abutting the river. My concern is a nascent serial killer, possibly with a mentor. So yes, the boy is a suspect. But we also have fourteen migrant workers, whose identities are complete blanks at this moment, and at least seven farm hands. We need to close this case out before the Blundts lose more than just pets."
On that note, attention focused on Barbara again, who had her next set of files ready to run. A tap of her active keys, and the wireform model expanded and focused on a square of fields, two irregular squares in violet by the river, and two larger fields in dull yellow.
"These violet fields are the fields Bruce is talking about, the ones where blood stains were found by George Blundt. He reports a total of four, all 'in the burdock, by the river', but beyond that, we have no idea precisely where... and the burdock is currently in full leaf. The Little Brown Bats can't get good views of the ground in those fields, even with side-scanning capabilities, not without leaving clear damage trails in the crop. But -" seven red points of evil import lit in the yellow fields " - these fields have been harvested, but not yet ploughed over. Skeletal evidence doesn't go away that quickly in dry soil, especially when you're looking at significant amounts in an area of less than one cubic foot… and our UNSUB was stupid enough to bury the kills shallow enough the Little Brown Bats could find them w ground scanning radar." Oracle's voice was deeply satisfied, and at the same time, predatory, even as her immaculately professional nature avoided assigning a sex to their unknown. "These points are all several weeks to several months old… but they all are remains of felis catus, mostly kittens. Whoever this is, they are literally breaking the necks of their kills, and then gutting and skinning them before burying the remains. At least, I hope and pray things have been happening in that order. I assume they were dead before they began their harvesting; these sites are, after all, all less than two hundred yards from the main house. What our UNSUB is doing with the skins et al I have no idea."
Selina softly hissed, then stopped as she looked over at Tommie, who remained asleep. Both Whiskers and Nutmeg were looking at her sharply – and then they relaxed, seeing she was not suiting actions to the sound she had made. "You said the kills were weeks to months old? How long have the migrant workers been onsite?"
"Two weeks, and expected to be here for another two weeks." Was Oracle's prompt response. "This is why they are not the top tier suspects. But we all know better than to leave that undone, even if only for when we package this all and turn it over to the DA."
Dick spoke up. "How does this come back to Tommie?"
Another point of red lit up, this one pulsing outside the fence and close to the river. Then a still photo expanded, showing a patch of fully mature burdock, dried out and broken down, two stalks of the patch leaning over the edge of the river and broken short. "That patch of burdock has a ballistic angle, and multiple tufts of fur that matches Tommie. He was thrown, hit and flew through this patch of dried out, fully grown plants from last year, and fetched up in the plants, a couple of feet in the air, just short of the river. He struggled out, losing more fur, picking up more burrs – see where there just aren't any in this streak in the middle of the patch? – and, I believe, finished up standing on those two stalks over the river. Then they broke, and into the drink he went. Bastet must've gone to Tefnut to keep him safe – he went more than nine miles downstream without drowning, all the while absolutely covered in burrs."
The Next Night
Catwoman lay on the roof of the New Arkham Asylum High Security wing, directly under one of the PTZ (Pan/Tilt/Zoom) cameras, and gently eased the access plate on the post aside to expose the wiring connecting the camera to the security system it served. The tiny little remote Oracle was calling a Mouse slid off her fingers, and settled into the conduit before embracing the braided cable – and that quickly, the picture in picture option of Catwoman's HUD (Heads Up Display) lit, and she began capturing the feed from the camera. No severing required, Catwoman thought with satisfaction, feeding the antenna line in so she could retain access to the Mouse after she buttoned up the post. Then the Mouse piggybacked into the general camera datastream, and began capturing the feeds of all the other cameras, one at a time.
From there, it was just a matter of patience while the Mouse built her a library of what the cameras all reported, and how they did so – automated visual field panning, automated infrared panning, motion capture, whatever. In a bare fifteen minutes, she was satisfied that she could see everything the security detail inside could see, in real time, and she could begin properly planning phase two. In another fifteen minutes, she had her route and timing set, and she could begin the actual payday work, by moving unseen to the HVAC (Heating, Ventilating, Air Conditioning) system at the center of the roof, physically accessing and entering the service space within it, with twenty-seven seconds to spare on the number seven camera, thank you, enough time for coffee and to compose a haiku! Their camera patterns are ridiculous… and delivering several more Mouse units into the building proper, via the air ducts.
The ventilation ductwork was relatively high pressure, since it was all a mere three inches square, but for the Mouse units it all might as well have been highways. This is too easy Catwoman thought as she remotely steered the lead Mouse via UV laser, following the plans Oracle had downloaded for her. The other Mouse units automatically followed, and whenever there was a turn, the tail end unit stopped and began relaying, maintaining the line of sight required. With three units to spare, the lead unit found itself directly over the central server room immediately adjacent to the ridiculously over-secured access terminal chamber. Catwoman looked with satisfaction upon a plan well-executing so far, and thought back to the start of the caper.
Oracle waved at the holofields showing the airducts in blue superimposed over the computer wiring, shown in yellow, all within the physical plant in tones of grey. "The entire place is designed with preventing physical intrusions and/or escapes in mind, and it shows – horribly. Notice all the doors? The locksets are Kinwood Three maglocks, Selina, throughout the entire site, with the biotag sensors, thank you – but no on-board ID data, they all hardwire to the servers thru the hinges. Likewise, computer terminals at each nurses station, and also here, here, and here… but they are all dumbware access points only, requiring access card interaction, crosschecks, with camera and access coverage out the wazoo, al ad absurdia et ad nauseam to get anything done. They all are hardwired into the server room, located here… which is the actual security node; the Security Office is just another access point. The cameras are likewise dumbware units, unhackable… but the HVAC unit on the roof is not, it's just a padlock, because there's no people-sized physical access to the building from it, and the SVG (smoke/vapor/gas) sensors in the vents will trip if anything chemical is introduced. So, if all you're trying for is a datasteal, as we are… this is the way to go.
Selina grinned. "You have a spare Atom suit for me to use, Barbara? By your diagrams, those airducts are just three inches square in cross-section."
Barbara smiled in triumph, and offered Selina a ring-sized jewelry case in a not-Batman matte grey. "Catwoman… meet the Mouse."
The case contained a mirror smooth lozenge perhaps an inch and a quarter long by half an inch wide and high, closed access plates only hinting what might be mounted inside. At either end, a pair of ebon lenses rode center, with a ring of smaller lenses and sensor nodes around them in oval arrangement. Underneath, four miniature legs with jeweled bearing 'feet' were folded in, gimballed to provide near-universal access angles. Nearly microscopic fiberoptics laid in etched grooves in the legs.
Selina sighed in aesthetic appreciation. "This is your design style… but this isn't Wayne Enterprises tech. Victor Stone did the work, didn't he? Has to be titanium, from the weight…"
Barbara smiled in glee and spun her chair in a happy dance. "Yep! And multiple system access tips! Did you know that literally every computer manufacturer on the planet leaves super-user access code in every unit they send out, so they can get access in case of service needs?"
The lead Mouse dropped to the actual top of the server stack, and slid over to the cabling sheafs. A few moments of sorting things out, and placing itself appropriately, and it plugged itself into an open access port. Oracle's access codes were accepted by the system without hesitation. Four seconds later, it began uploading the entire content of the site to Catwoman's ancillary pouch, which contained a one point five petabyte portable reception drive. Two hundred eighty seven seconds later, the upload was complete, and Catwoman was free to leave. The Mouse units powered down, robotically content to remain onsite, providing future access as needed…
At approximately the same time Catwoman was entering the Arkham Asylum outer area security cordon, Orphan was beginning her infiltration of the bunkhouse. Confirmation by the onsite Little Brown Bat drones were that all the men were in their beds and presumably asleep; they could be meditating deeply, but Orphan thought that unlikely. Nonetheless she thought as she oiled the hinges of the bunkhouse screen door, caution is indicated. Any of the men could be a light sleeper.
As she opened the north door to the bunkhouse, she was greeted by the mingled scents of two dozen clean but hard working men at rest, and an orchestra of snores. The first man was clearly in the horns section, something low, baritone, and powerful. It took but a moment to sever three hairs from his head, and but a moment more to ever so gently soak up a sample of the moisture at the corner of his mouth where he drooled slightly, using a length of thread-like sampling filament from her equipment belt. These were secured in sampling baggies, suitably tagged by the specialty equipment in her auxiliary garter belt when they were inserted for processing. Those tasks completed, she turned her attention to his cellphone where it lay charging on the nightstand, first scanning the screen to gather his fingerprints, and then cloning his phone's entire operating system and datafiles to her own portable reception drive. Silently, she turned to the second man (winds, alto, much less volume) and began the cloning process on his phone. While that proceeded, she repeated the sampling process, collecting hair and nasal mucous instead of saliva. Then she stepped across to the next pair of beds, taking care not to touch the one man's boots where he had left them laying in the open, and began again. As she did so, she noted that every bed had a red-beaded string dangling off one of the bed posts. Very similar… what is the significance? she thought absently as she worked.
In all, it took over half an hour to complete the task. One man had woken as she had approached him, and she had simply eased aside and stood in the shadows as he stumbled down the length of the bunkhouse to the toilets and took care of business. She had taken her quota of hairs from his pillow and his hat, and then left him next to the last to collect her sample of fluids, in order to allow him to get back to sleep. Another had not had a cellphone, at least not where she could find it, so she risked scanning his fingers. One man she had sampled his tears as he slept; she found herself hoping he was not grieving for anyone. And one very young man had talked in his sleep in Spanish, first telling his mother that he loved her, and then asking if she needed him; Orphan had softly responded likewise, telling him no, not at the moment, that he was loved, and that he should sleep. He had softly sighed, rolled over, and done just that.
And at the southern end of the building, she found that not everyone was asleep.
There was a small room arranged as a private bedroom, just beyond the perpetually lit washroom. The man in the room was much older that the rest; he was late sixties at a guess, thin, wiry, and with the slightness of build that spoke of hunger in his earliest years. His hands spoke volumes concerning arthritis. But for all of that, his eyes were clear, as he eased himself up to sit on the side of his bed. He gestured for Orphan to approach in American Sign Language (ASL), as she drew near.
"Your skills are near unto perfect, child… but I have some small capabilities, and I do not leave my people unwatched." He verbally murmured. "I wondered, at first, what you were doing… and then I wondered why you would do such things, because we have done nothing wrong, not even immigration violations." He sipped from a bottle of water and continued in ASL. "I do not wish to wake the boys. You must be here because of the cats." He chuckled all but silently."Heh heh…" Then continued in ASL. "She still has his ear, at need, even if she has married another man." He pointed at her, and chuckled again. "Tell the truth, and shame the Devil, child. You are here at the will of the Catwoman, not Batman."
Orphan's hands also rose into the gestures of ASL. You are correct… and not correct. We fear murder is brewing here. We know the cats have been disappearing for months… and that you and yours have only been here two weeks. Thus, we identify you all, verify that, and rule you out. We must find the culprit, before whoever moves on to bigger game. She came close, and her hands once more wove thru the air. I need your samples, as well, señor. But I have not been taking blood. She held up another length of sampling filament. Your saliva will do, on this. She then laid a razor 'rang onto the bed. And with this, three of your hairs, if you would…? Then I will ask for your cell phone for a moment.
And while Orphan was in the bunkhouse, and Catwoman was infiltrating the New Arkham Asylum grounds and network, Whiskers and Nutmeg showed Tommie around their causa venandi.
Alfred had found Tommie plaintively yowing and pawing at the kitchen door he had first entered the mansion thru. Ah, of course Alfred thought, and let Tommie outside to do what he needed to do. It wasn't until Tommie came back in, very properly closing the door behind himself, that Alfred realized he had not for even a moment wondered if Tommie might not bolt instead. Then even that thought faded, and Alfred busied himself with seeing Tommie received the balance of the beef meats, minus the portion offered to Whiskers. Nutmeg had demonstrated, the night before, her disdain for cold raw meat, no matter how fresh; Whiskers had taken it upon himself to see to it that her share had not gone to waste. Nutmeg had flirted her tail at his obviously uncultured tastes, and graciously accepted a generous taste of fresh cream…
Nutmeg met Tommie's eyes as he turned from his empty bowl; she sat like the queen she was, and looked upon him. We have three different litter pans for that. She said, not ungraciously, but certainly with little amusement. Are they not to your liking?
No self-respecting cat allows another to put them off their step, and Tommie rose to the question with direct honesty. Not really. I have one at home, but I only use it when it is storming, especially sleet. After all, I have - had – and he could no longer meet Nutmeg's eyes as the depth of his failure and loss came over him again. I used to look over all the other cats on the farm… they were my pard! But they are all dead. I tried to stop him – I bit him, I clawed him, once, but his hide was too thick – and then he got a grip on me and threw me away – away from it all. And so I am now here… and I cannot get home.
Nutmeg stroked past Tommie, then about faced and headbutted him behind the shoulder. What happened you could not prevent – or else you would have. You will recover, Standing Softpaws will see to that. Whiskers has demanded that Two-Foots in Boots find who did this to you; next time you face your enemy – and there will be a next time – you will do better. But until you go to do so, you are here. Now come with us; we want to show you our home.
Nutmeg proceeded to lead Tommie out of the kitchen into the Great Hall. This is a total waste of space, most of the time, and nothing of interest to it… except these. The these in question were the drapes for the nearly floor to ceiling windows, drawn back and tied. In the spring and summer, often there are interesting munchies crawling or alighting on these, and if the doors are open, sometimes a mouse! Nutmeg was quite indignant at the thought of such rodent intrusions, and Tommie sniffed the closest curtain edge to see if any had been by lately. He was drawn away from this by Nutmeg's continued docentry. At night, they cover the windows and can hide us quite well from the rest of the room. We climb them sometimes, but there is dust as you go higher. Not nice to have to clean off when you come back down.
At the other end of the Great Hall Whiskers joined them. These are the Great Stairs, that we all use to go up. But if you go over here… he led them around the stairs, and to a small, inconspicuous door. Any mice that we don't catch, mostly end up here. The door eased open at Whisker's touch, showing a small storage area with shelves on the vertical wall, and a number of folded chairs. Tommie cautiously poked his nose on, immediately noticing the cobwebs… and the desiccated remains wrapped in cocoons on the floor under the stairs. His gaze snapped up to the brown and ebon spider with the brilliant yellow slashes on her tennis ball sized abdomen tucked away under the stairs in her web.
Nutmeg eased the door shut as Tommie withdrew. She's been in there longer than we've been here; Standing Softpaws knows all about her, and leaves her be, and so we do too. She returns the favor, and there is peace here in the house. Unless you're a mouse. If Standing Softpaws finds one like her elsewhere, they are escorted outside, except in winter; then they are taken below and I suppose released down there.
From there, the three cats formed up, Nutmeg and Whiskers in the lead and Tommie a pace or two behind them, as they made their way into the other wing of the manor, and the mirror of the Great Hall that was the Library. Tommie looked (and inhaled the myriad of intriguing aromas of ) in sheer amazement. The towering book cases were double-sided, almost fifteen feet across at the base by fifteen feet wide, and arced upwards to a height that Tommie simply couldn't judge. The open centers of each bookcase might have been arranged as a reading nook, with comfortable wingback chairs and tables, and recessed lights above them for reading by, but all Tommie saw was all the shadowy undersides and recessed nooks one could hunt and hide in. The tomes arranged in these bookcases were all leather-bound, the jewel tones of much more recent acquisitions resting comfortable with their confreres in more sober and traditional shades of brown and black – and the scents of the genuine leathers, and the incredible variety of inks and pigments, was enchanting. Rolling ladders rose to comfortable access platforms that had their own rolling ladders to allow readers to reach the topmost shelves… or to allow inquisitive felines to try the heights of the room.
The top levels are surprisingly easy to get to, but not so easy to get down. Nutmeg commented. The easiest is actually to jump down to the platform, and then to the floor.
Whiskers chimed in. And the very top of them – boring! You can't see much from all the way up there, the smells are all muddled because the drafts are drawn up, you can't jump from one to another, and the dust is thick enough to leave pawprints in! He licked a paw at the memory. There are a surprising number of dead things up there, but they all have died of thirst, and just smell of the dust. Want to go see?
Nutmeg aborted that thought before it could grow legs. The last time you went up there, you rolled around in all of that, and then Selina-Cat bathed you when she saw how you were. Tommie received the image of Whiskers pleased as punch with himself, three shades lighter and leaving pawprints on the carpet… and then Selina-Cat scooped him up and marched at speed back up the hall.
With feline indifference for the obviously utterly irrelevant image so received, Whiskers turned from the bookcase he had been about to jump onto, and they made their way to the far end of the Library. There a very prosaic Librarian's desk awaited, complete with a pen and a check-out logbook. Beside it was a dumbwaiter door, with a shelf just below it in the wall. This Whiskers jumped onto before he pushed open the door with a paw, opening the way into darkness. Nutmeg entered without hesitation, turned to her left, and jumped up out of sight. Tommie entered cautiously, and immediately noted the series of ledges alternating on the sides of the shaft up into the dimness.
At night, this is absolutely dark, and I wouldn't do this. Nutmeg said from above. But during the day, there's light enough, and the way up is easy. After eight leaps to and fro across the shaft, Tommie noted the ledge he had jumped to was adjacent to another dumbwaiter door, but Nutmeg was still going up. Then another dumbwaiter door slid open above, and Tommie worked his way up, as countless cats had done so before him, he was sure. Then he stopped dead, for a translucent tabby looked down at him from the ledge above the third floor dumbwaiter.
You're new… he heard. Welcome to the Manor. And then the spirit of the many years dead feline jumped up and out of sight.
Nutmeg and Whiskers received Tommie's report with feline aplomb after he exited the shift. What, you thought we were the first here? Whiskers said with amusement. Surely your home has some of those who have passed on and yet stay near? Chases-The-Sun is one of the eldest, it's good she accepts you.
The hallway Tommie found himself in was lined with doors – and paintings. Every two doors per side there was a small table holding some sort of objet d'art, but the entire area smelled – empty. Unused. Tommie looked enquiringly at his guides.
These are all unused bedrooms. Whiskers said as he took lead down the hallway. Every now and then someone uses one for a few days, and Standing Softpaws goes into a few of them each day. He changes one of these suites every season. But usually they stay vacant.
I've had to move my collection twice! Nutmeg added with mild indignation. Tommie cocked his head in feline puzzlement, and Nutmeg was quick to explain, even as Whiskers performed I'm-not-part-of-this as only a cat could. I have dozens of Bat-Bruce's used socks. Only the right ones; the others aren't as interesting, and besides, the name alone tells why they are the ones I didn't take.
Tommie was still puzzled. But what is wrong with the ones you – Ah. I see now. He moved into formation, trailing Whiskers and Nutmeg as they stopped at another door. And this is the way to the garden. Nutmeg said, as it slid open, allowing them to walk in.
Once again, Tommie was assaulted, this time by the myriad of flowers and plants. It was perceptibly warmer and more humid, and the riotous perfusion of flowers took a few moments to process. Then he started to associate aromas with specific plants, and things went from there.
There were dozens of plants, but only a dozen or so were actually flowering. Tommie didn't recognize any of them, and he was, to Nutmeg and Whisker's mutual opinion, inordinately cautious as he eased into the space of the first one. One never knows what a new plant might do… He offered as he continued to do so. His first time sniffing Clompy-Foot's flowering purple-hot pepper plant stuck vividly in his mind, and he wordlessly shared the experience with his hosts, to their sudden and total understanding. But whatever the plant was, (besides green, fleshy, and softly thorned) it seemed … sedate, reasonably safe as long as it was respected, and he moved onto the next one. Nutmeg and Whiskers completely endorsed his desire to take his time with his actions, and were proceeding to give him his space while they each went to their favorite spots in the large room – and suddenly he locked up, opened his mouth and inhaled so profoundly he actually hissed a touch on the inhale. Nutmeg and Whiskers spun and went on alert, even as Tommie boldly leaped up onto the table, arrowing down between the plants like the alpha predator he was. Something small and dark frantically dove off the table – and Tommie pounced, making his kill with surgical precision in mid-air. A moment to make sure of things, and he proudly stepped forth from under the table, the undeniable form of a rat limp in his mouth.
Alfred let no trace of his consternation show as their guest proudly laid the kill between his feet, allowing only "My word…" to find the air. Alfred then went to one knee and lavished his praise upon Tommie for the skill and thoughtfulness in ridding the Manor of such a pest, even as he undoubtedly did on his farm. It was the work of but a couple of minutes to rough-clean the carcass, and not-coincidentally secure samples for Master Bruce's inquest afterwards, and Alfred offered the hunter the only appropriate reward for his endeavour. Tommie, for his part, demonstrated that he ate his kills with etiquette and cleanliness, leaving nothing for later. When he was done, he made use of the catbox inconspicuously placed in a corner behind the waste bins, with Nutmeg's regal approval, and then settled on his pad by the warming oven. For their part, still impressed by and discussing the skills of their guest, Nutmeg and Whiskers proceeded to the bedroom suite Bat-Bruce and Selina-Cat shared, and settled for naps and to await Selina's return.