When the Black Cat Came to Tea

Scoffe poured the tea into mugs. The handle of one had been fashioned into a penguin and said 'Let's break the ice with a cuppa', the other was black and sported the Iron Maiden logo. Both Scoffe and Cornelius admitted the mugs jarred violently with the Victorian macabre of the teapot but the original cups had long since been broken or used to store formaldehyde and they knew better than to go to Ikea again.

'You needn't worry, old chap,' said Scoffe, taking a tentative sip. 'Three hours is plenty of time for you to get everything in order. They arrive in dribs and drabs anyhow, lord knows if the Earl will even show.'

The Black Cat, of which Scoffe and Banter are proud members, is an elite dining society established by the fourth Duchess of Piccadilly in 1840. Known for its exclusivity, the Black Cat only accepts into its membership Victorian ladies and gentlemen who exist in a blissfully anachronistic state amongst the Kit Kat wrappers of Kentish Town and the smartphones of South Ken. Above all, the Cats pride themselves not only on their lust for fine dining but the lengths they go to in order to make every meal a gastronomical, theatrical, quite sensational experience. Each month, it is the turn of a member to host the Society in their place of residence. The evening must then be themed to that residency in whatever manner the host chooses. Messrs Scoffe and Banter, therefore, were going to hold a séance.

After half an hour's rummaging through chest upon chest of brushes, pins and all such paraphernalia needed to stop a corpse from looking and acting like a corpse, Cornelius appeared in the parlour, as red and manic as his beard.

'Whatever is the matter, my dear fellow?' said Scoffe, half-glancing up from his fashion pull-out.

Cornelius huffed, his clenched fists shaking. 'I cannot find a single item for this evening; that is the matter. Why is it that whenever I organise something that might actually help us rebuild our frankly laughable reputation, you always spoil it with one of your impractical jokes? I will not stand for it, Scoffe.'

Scoffe sipped his fourth cup of tea and dispassionately continued reading the article entitled 'Colour by Jumpers: what block colour can do for your figure'. Cornelius seethed quietly by the back of the armchair, letting out the occasional barb such as 'I should have left when you murdered Houdini' (Cornelius's beloved pet rabbit who, through entirely unknown circumstances, became Scoffe's beloved pet rabbit pie, the name was a painful irony), before Scoffe said finally,

'I believe you'll find you laid your inventory on the chest of drawers yesterday morning to save you the trouble of looking for it today.'

At six o'clock the grandfather clock let out another twelve chimes, signalling the arrival of four hungry Cats, the first of whom arrived before the twelfth chime had ended. Baron von Hagerweiss was another tall thin man with a rattish face that always looked uncomfortable, disapproving, or both.

'Good evening,' was all he said.

The Baron hung his hat next to Scoffe's, taking care not to let the two touch; he would not have his effects contaminated by the lower orders.

At half past six, the door burst open to reveal what any sane pair of eyes would describe as a walking armchair. Madame Bonneheure, who embraced her name as fully as one can by completely ignoring it, was, and she herself would admit this, a woman who loved her food to the point of becoming it. She was very large and very beautiful and was adored for her 'bubbly personality'; the only person who did not love Bonneheure was the Baron, which only made Mme. Bonneheure's delight in tormenting him with her affections all the greater.

Seven o'clock came and went. Still the table was not full.

Mme. Bonneheure piped up, eyeing the kitchen, 'The rules do state that after an hour, food should be served even if not all members are present.'

'An excellent idea, Madame,' said Scoffe with a smirk, 'or at least it would be if we had any food to serve. My esteemed colleague stretched this evening's theme to its limit and carbonised the plum-cake.'

Mme. Bonneheure gasped. 'You mean I have trekked all the way here, in my tightest corset,' she slipped a hand onto the Baron's upper-inner thigh, 'for nothing more than to sit in a dingy funeral parlour? This will not do. I shall take my leave this instant.'

Everyone was too concerned with corsets, upper-inner thighs and plum-cakes to notice the dark figure standing quietly in the doorway.

'Not so fast, ma cherie,' he said, waltzing into the half-light. 'The night is still young, no? And besides, 'er Ladyship 'as been dying to see you.'

There is little to say about the Earl of Brixton, not because he is uninteresting, but because anything said about him will probably be wrong. Some know him as 'the old black guy who busks outside M&S', to others he is the stray cat you think is yours but is being fed by the whole street. He is a law unto himself and that is how he shall stay. That evening, he was Papa Legba, all top hat and dreadlocks, as menacing as any who can control the spirits of the dead, and in the crook of his arm he carried a sleek black cat.

'From both 'er Ladyship and my 'umble self, I bid you good evening.'

'Oh Earl it is so wonderful to see you,' cried Mme. Bonneheure. 'We were so afraid you would be unable to attend, weren't we Baron?'

The Baron winced as he was kicked under the table. 'Yes.'

Such a commotion had been caused by the arrival of the Earl and her Ladyship - the tenth Duchess of Piccadilly - that the guests had quite forgotten the issue of the plum-cake and, it seemed, the existence of their hosts.

Cornelius cleared his throat. 'Ehem, excuse me everyone. Please, I'd just like...'

'My dear friends,' Scoffe interrupted, 'I believe my colleague intends to begin this evening's entertainment. Your cooperation would be deeply appreciated, if only to save us all the trouble of being attacked by my associate. Now, Mr Banter, would you care to lead the evening...'

The séance had not even begun when the problems started. Cornelius returned from the kitchen not with tall white candles appropriate for such an occasion, but an assortment of festive candles because Scoffe had forgotten to buy any and the corner shop was shut. The Baron's face as he watched the foot- tall Father Christmas with first degree burns placed in front of him was enough to make Mme. Bonneheure's evening.

Anyone passing by the parlour at such a time probably would not have half-noticed a short, rotund man of unmistakably orange appearance trying to settle an altercation between a very angry Earl and the spirit of a recently deceased bailiff who had evicted the Earl from a squat in Islington last year. They might have half-missed the self-same Earl questioning the spirit of a beloved pet rabbit into the identity of its killer; though they might have half-heard the distinctive chink of crockery smashing against a wall, followed by the cry of: 'Rabbit murderer!'

To this very day, if you found Cornelius Banter in a coffee shop around Seven Dials and asked him about what became of the evening on which The Black Cat came to tea, he would not answer you. He would rather take Scoffe back to Ikea and have him redesign the shop than discuss The-Evening-Of-Which-We-Do-Not-Speak. As it happens, another trip to Ikea is in order for Messrs Scoffe and Banter, something about a new teapot.