I do hope the cat is all right. I am not a great fan of cats – of domestic pets in general – but I would never dream of hurting one in any way, shape or form.

Yours, in sympathy,

Franklin D. Huff

‘See zat?’ Shimmy points at the letter, accusingly. ‘Za shmendrick doesn’t even like cats.’

I take the letter back. Mr Huff has strange handwriting. Tiny. Very neat and joined up. Huge loops on the l’s and d’s. Even on the odd t. I immediately sense that this is the handwriting of an immensely inconsiderate man. A fussy but careless man, prone to self-aggrandizement. Of course I have no expertise in handwriting analysis. This is all just going on pure instinct.

‘He really is an awful man,’ I say.

‘Oi! A piste kayleh! A nishtikeit! Arrogant! Insincere! Cold-hearted! Hates animals! Hates Pett Level – our home! Our retreat! Hates life itself, bubbellah!’ Shimmy throws up his hands again.

‘An immensely vain man,’ I agree, ‘with the most horribly condescending manner. The very thought of him crashing around in beautiful Mulberry …’ I shudder.

‘You’re sure ve can’t evict him? I mean ze assault on poor Rolfie? You say he’s refusing to feed ze badgers? Genug iz genug!’

I nod.

‘Ve must seek recompense, Mizinke!’ Shimmy murmurs. ‘Vengeance!’

‘What do you suggest?’ I wonder, slightly uneasy.

Shimmy shrugs, pondering. ‘If ve didn’t own za property zen a small pebble through ze bathroom window. Dos iz alts! Maybe ve remove ze bulb in za porch. Hide his bin. Farshtaist?’

‘Let’s not stoop to his level,’ I counsel, ‘let’s just ignore him, Tatteh, and hope to God he’ll go away. Let’s just be dignified and aloof and ludicrously polite.’

‘If you vant to beat a dog you find a stick!’ Shimmy objects.

‘He’s lower than a dog,’ I grouch, ‘he’s beneath contempt. Who cares if he finds us “wispy” and “parochial”?! We’re a fair, decent, right-thinking, unpretentious people in Pett Level, Tatteh, and that’s what really counts.’

‘A nice, little potato in hiz exhaust, hah?!’ Shimmy volunteers.

Forty minutes later and I am walking Rogue on the beach (or – strictly speaking – dragging him along behind me like a giant and mutinous, heavily lactating sow) when who should I see striding towards me, at improbable speed (head down, hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets) but the man of the moment: Mr Franklin D. Huff! I observe that his footwear is completely unsuitable: black, patent-leather dress shoes clumsily kicking up giant arcs of sand and shingle! I pity him his unsuitable footwear! I do. No, no, really I do.

I stand and await his approach (while Rogue laboriously masticates a piece of sea kale), hoping that he has settled on a date for my maintenance trip. But instead of stopping when he draws abreast of me, he just storms straight on past! No acknowledgement of any kind! None! Not even so much as a cursory nod!

I turn, rather astonished, and call after him – ‘Have you worked out a time yet, Mr Huff? For the maintenance works?’ – and am shocked when he spins around on his name as if stung, stares at me, in complete amazement, then down at the dog, then back up at me again, his lean face contorting wildly, points an accusing finger at us both and virtually yells, ‘What on earth are you thinking, Miss Hahn? To feed a dog to that monstrous size? Whatever possessed you? It’s an act of the most extreme cruelty! An obscenity! A crime against nature! It’s a travesty, don’t you see? Call that care?! Call that love?! Shame on you, Miss Hahn! Shame on you for not knowing any better! Shame on you, Miss Hahn! And shame on your idiotic father!’