Conspiracy of Cats
by B. C. Harris
Date of Publication: August 26th 2021
Publisher: Olympia Publishers, London
Cover Artist: Olympia Publishers, London
Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal, Murder Mystery
ISBN: 978-1-80074-032-7
ASIN: B09CGHZ7K7
Number of pages: 325
Word Count: 123,121
Tagline: A Beautiful House, A Horrible Death, A Brilliant Revenge
BLURB
CONSPIRACY OF CATS… a supernatural murder mystery.
An apprehensive Jos Ferguson travels from Edinburgh to Northern Tanzania to visit the house her Uncle Peter built before he died. But Peter isn’t as dead as he should be… he was murdered, and he wants his niece to help him exact revenge upon his killer. With a little Maasai magic and a conspiracy of cats, Jos sets out to do exactly that.
A beautiful house. A horrible death. A brilliant revenge.
Who knew death could be so lively?
Excerpt
Looking back, it was as if Peter had known that he was going to die.
It was as if all of them had known, because the Maasai came prepared for their ritual even though their little brother died only a few hours before they arrived. It was the largest group of Maasai Beola had ever encountered at the white house. At least fifty men, most of them warriors, all carrying their weapons and their shields. Their chests and faces and arms painted as if they were going into battle. She watched them from the master bedroom window, just as she’d watched the police arrive, having gone back up to finish changing the bed so it would be clean and ready when Jude returned. They arrived on foot just before sunset, and it would have taken all day to walk from their village on the western side of Mount Kilimanjaro all the way to the white house.
Some of the warriors carried armfuls of wood, and immediately began building a large fire in the middle of the lawn. The elders, including their bearded laibon, sat down on the porch steps to rest and, when Beola went out to meet them, they asked only for water. When she offered food they politely refused. When Beola moved to go back inside to fetch the water, a young warrior stopped her. ‘We must leave the white house in peace, little sister,’ he told her, and then he and several of his fellow warriors guided her towards the lodge where they fetched enough water for all. When that was done, the young warrior told her, ‘Word has been sent into the park so your husband and your son will come home soon. When they do, you must be ready to leave.’
‘But why?’
‘The laibon wishes to cleanse the white house of sorrow.’
Beola knew better than to argue with the wishes of a laibon, and so she nodded, resigned.
‘How long must we stay away?’
‘Moon die and come back again, man die and stay away. Come back with the new moon, sister.’
Back inside the lodge Beola began to pack, without any clear idea of where her family would go or who they would stay with. By then it was full dark, and the fire was burning so brightly she could see its orange glow above the garage blocking her direct view. Kissi and Ben arrived while she was still packing, in shock at both the death of their friend and the large gathering on the white house lawn. The evening breeze was becoming a wind by then, and the stars were obscured by gathering clouds. The warriors had begun to sing a sorrowful sounding song, their beautiful voices competing with the mounting voice of the wind.
By the time the Nyerere’s were readying to leave, a storm was in full flow.
The perimeter of trees bent and swayed in the wind that had initially made their leaves whisper. That wind was howling and shrilling by then, a tempest that thrashed and whipped the leaves and branches. Storm clouds had gathered so close, they were piled on top of one another, grumbling, rumbling, crashing with thunder directly overhead. Lightening split the night over and over. Up on the roof garden, a solitary figure braved the onslaught. The old laibon was yelling into the night, his spells snatched away by the wind that seemed, in turns, to want to blow him away and push him down. Rain pelted down upon him, it blinded his eyes, dripped from his beard, soaked his shuka and chilled his bones. He fought against it, at the same time as he embraced it, arms stretched wide and high. Calling out, over and over, to the spirit of his friend.
As the Nyerere’s were loading up their jeep, another vehicle arrived, lights sweeping across the scene as it circled the lawn. Beola thought that it must be Jude, but it was Henk de Vries, pulling up in his flatbed truck. She assumed he’d heard the news and had come to pay his respects. She ran towards him, but half a dozen warriors barred Beola’s way. They told her to go, to never speak of this night to anyone. Beola struggled against them, and called out to Henk in some distress, but either the wind stole her voice, or the Dutchman chose to ignore her. Kissi was next to her by then and had to impel his wife bodily into the back of his Land Rover as Ben sat quietly weeping in the front. He then got in himself and set off for his father’s home in Arusha, having called ahead to stay there were sanitation issues at their home, so they needed a place to say for a while. As they were moving around the lawn towards the drive, Beola watched Henk lower the tail gate of his truck and saw two warriors lift and carry something towards the fire. Meat for the funeral feast, he told her much later.
Looking back, it was as if Peter had known that he was going to die.
It was as if all of them had known, because the Maasai came prepared for their ritual even though their little brother died only a few hours before they arrived. It was the largest group of Maasai Beola had ever encountered at the white house. At least fifty men, most of them warriors, all carrying their weapons and their shields. Their chests and faces and arms painted as if they were going into battle. She watched them from the master bedroom window, just as she’d watched the police arrive, having gone back up to finish changing the bed so it would be clean and ready when Jude returned. They arrived on foot just before sunset, and it would have taken all day to walk from their village on the western side of Mount Kilimanjaro all the way to the white house.
Some of the warriors carried armfuls of wood, and immediately began building a large fire in the middle of the lawn. The elders, including their bearded laibon, sat down on the porch steps to rest and, when Beola went out to meet them, they asked only for water. When she offered food they politely refused. When Beola moved to go back inside to fetch the water, a young warrior stopped her. ‘We must leave the white house in peace, little sister,’ he told her, and then he and several of his fellow warriors guided her towards the lodge where they fetched enough water for all. When that was done, the young warrior told her, ‘Word has been sent into the park so your husband and your son will come home soon. When they do, you must be ready to leave.’
‘But why?’
‘The laibon wishes to cleanse the white house of sorrow.’
Beola knew better than to argue with the wishes of a laibon, and so she nodded, resigned.
‘How long must we stay away?’
‘Moon die and come back again, man die and stay away. Come back with the new moon, sister.’
Back inside the lodge Beola began to pack, without any clear idea of where her family would go or who they would stay with. By then it was full dark, and the fire was burning so brightly she could see its orange glow above the garage blocking her direct view. Kissi and Ben arrived while she was still packing, in shock at both the death of their friend and the large gathering on the white house lawn. The evening breeze was becoming a wind by then, and the stars were obscured by gathering clouds. The warriors had begun to sing a sorrowful sounding song, their beautiful voices competing with the mounting voice of the wind.
By the time the Nyerere’s were readying to leave, a storm was in full flow.
The perimeter of trees bent and swayed in the wind that had initially made their leaves whisper. That wind was howling and shrilling by then, a tempest that thrashed and whipped the leaves and branches. Storm clouds had gathered so close, they were piled on top of one another, grumbling, rumbling, crashing with thunder directly overhead. Lightening split the night over and over. Up on the roof garden, a solitary figure braved the onslaught. The old laibon was yelling into the night, his spells snatched away by the wind that seemed, in turns, to want to blow him away and push him down. Rain pelted down upon him, it blinded his eyes, dripped from his beard, soaked his shuka and chilled his bones. He fought against it, at the same time as he embraced it, arms stretched wide and high. Calling out, over and over, to the spirit of his friend.
As the Nyerere’s were loading up their jeep, another vehicle arrived, lights sweeping across the scene as it circled the lawn. Beola thought that it must be Jude, but it was Henk de Vries, pulling up in his flatbed truck. She assumed he’d heard the news and had come to pay his respects. She ran towards him, but half a dozen warriors barred Beola’s way. They told her to go, to never speak of this night to anyone. Beola struggled against them, and called out to Henk in some distress, but either the wind stole her voice, or the Dutchman chose to ignore her. Kissi was next to her by then and had to impel his wife bodily into the back of his Land Rover as Ben sat quietly weeping in the front. He then got in himself and set off for his father’s home in Arusha, having called ahead to stay there were sanitation issues at their home, so they needed a place to say for a while. As they were moving around the lawn towards the drive, Beola watched Henk lower the tail gate of his truck and saw two warriors lift and carry something towards the fire. Meat for the funeral feast, he told her much later.
When Kissi’s Land Rover reached the foot of the hill, he turned north towards the main road that would take them to Arusha. They left the storm behind almost immediately. When they reached the top of the escarpment, he stopped and got out. Ben and Beola joined him. Together they stood atop the ridge, watching a small storm rage over the white house.
Author Info
B C Harris is a Scot who, at the time of writing, had just finished renovating a farmhouse in France. A labour of love that began from first sight back in 2016. No sooner had the final length of flooring been laid and the last paintbrush dried, than disaster struck in the form of pandemic. France went into a strict lockdown and, with time to do more than simply daydream about writing books, a new project began to take shape.
Writing began as an escape from the fear and isolation that was soon affecting us all, and quickly flourished to become ‘Conspiracy of Cats'. The global pandemic seems to be receding now, but the passion for writing has taken root. Find out more about B C Harris online.
The Book Junkie Reads . . .Reckless Dreams Interview with . . . B. C. Harris . . .
How would you describe your style of writing to someone that has never read your work?
For me, a story in book form… any story, is a contract between two people; the writer and the reader. My part of the arrangement lies in creating an interesting enough narrative to entice you deeper into my story, and to animate what I picture inside my head vividly enough in words… showing rather than simply telling, so you can not only see what I see, but embellish it using your own imagination. By then you are as invested in the story as I am, because my words have formed a bridge between us. It doesn’t matter if you see exactly what I see, because reading a story is a very personal experience. What matters most is the journey we take together.
Do you feel that writing is an ingrained process or just something that flows naturally for you?
Ingrained suggests something that is difficult to change, but my writing evolves constantly as my story evolves along with the characters moving through it. I suppose then that my writing flows naturally. My fingers often can’t keep up with my thoughts as I try desperately to get it all out. I’ve learned just to go for it, and worry about the corrections once it’s done.
What mindset or routine do you feel the need to set when preparing to write (in general whether you are working on a project or just free writing)?
I prefer working in the morning, and frequently wake really early when I’m writing so I can get up and get on with it. If I wake with the alarm I get up, have breakfast and then walk the dogs. When I get back I have another coffee and a second breakfast of Weetabix and honey. This will keep me going until early afternoon.
I have my ipod on, or maybe I use Alexa to play something else that suits the mood of what I’m writing. By around 2pm I start to feel a bit sick because I need to eat. For this reason I now always have a little dish of sweets on my desk. One or two of those will let me finish what I need to, before stopping for lunch.
I think I ignore lunch for as long as possible, because I seem to always lose the will to write after eating. Afternoons have become my time for catching up on house stuff like laundry and cleaning. I quite often return to my desk later on for an hour or so, because my husband likes to cook dinner and he always takes ages making his Indian or Thai meals. Long enough for me to either get more done, or maybe just edit what I wrote earlier in the day.
Do you take your character prep to heart? Do you nurture the growth of each character all the way through to the page? Do you people watch to help with development? Or do you build upon your character during story creation?
Character development is a complicated process for me, and it’s mostly inside my head. I get an idea initially… from any number of inspirations, and then I cast a few characters and create a variety of mini scenarios for them to move around in. I give them names, relationships. I give them a place to live, a job maybe, a car. I spend a lot of time thinking about them… who are they, what are looking for… especially at night while waiting for sleep.
Eventually I’ll start to dream about them and, if I’m lucky, I’ll get more ideas from these dreams. I then work out what it is these people need to be doing in terms of a story, and what their personality traits are. I work on this for months, just getting to know them, turning their little stories around in my head until I start to see a longer narrative for them to follow. Once I can see how it’s going to end, that’s when I start writing.
It’s during the writing process that I learn the most about my characters; as the story evolves, so do they. Sometimes the characters will develop in ways I hadn’t thought of. They become a kind of real, and that’s when I know I’m doing it right.
Do you have a character that you have been working on that you can't wait to put to paper?
Felicitas Wolfe prefers to be called Felice. Like Peter Sinclair she’s dead for most of the story (The Accidental Assassin) But, unlike Peter, Felice has an incredible wardrobe as well as a very varied role to play. For her, death is a new lease of ‘life’ and she embraces the experience with all the joy of a woman running through the gates of Disneyland with an Ultimate Ticket in each hand. I’m writing this story at the moment, and it’s shaping up nicely. I adore Felice and know we will have a lot of fun together.
Can you share your next creative project(s)? If yes, can you give a few details?
I’ve just submitted Making Sacrifices, a darker tale than Conspiracy of Cats. The supernatural element here is provided by a young, unknown woman whose body is discovered in a bog pool in a very lonely part of Exmoor in Somerset, England. Archaeologists imagined they were uncovering the ancient remains of a sacrifice to old Gods, but she turns out to be modern and macabre find.
When the police get involved they recreate her features and the resulting image goes viral, because she looks exactly like a character in a book.
The book was written and illustrated by Isaac Saddler. It is his job to find out why his character is a dead ringer for a dead woman, discovered very close to where he grew up.
His search for the truth will threaten to destroy his entire existence.
Have you ever felt that there was something inside of you that you couldn't control? If so what? If no what spurs you to reach for the unexperienced?
As I get older I find myself taking more risks… older and bolder, I say. Life can be pretty mapped out for most of us. School, job, marriage, kids, job, the odd holiday if we’re lucky, job, job, job, retire, die. I was lucky enough to reach the retirement part of my life early… a situation brought about by a change of husband. I suddenly found myself living with a man who had a few more resources than I was used to. I got to travel more and have a little fun. Since meeting my lovely husband I have learned to drive, ride, sail, dance. We’ve travelled too, heading away from tourist hotspots into the Sierras de Cordoba, Argentina, to ride Peruvian Pasos with Gauchos, or into the African bush to live and work on an animal rehab centre. Covid aside, I can’t wait to travel again, and experience new places as well as situations. I want to keep challenging myself, see what I’m capable of. Getting older doesn’t frighten me at all, because this is when I get to stretch myself and see how far I can go, to live right up until living ends.
Where would you spend one full year, if you could go ANYWhere, money is not a concern? What would you do with this time?
I would return to Africa. I would find a project helping to protect lions and I would work as a volunteer. I would relish every day, every moment, every breath.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/BCHarris64
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorBCHarris
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/beverleycharrisauthor/
Interview https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IuiVm2B-_bo
Second interview https://anchor.fm/donna-morfett/episodes/BC-Harris-e16hvnk
Facebook book group https://www.facebook.com/groups/2890431834618695
Goodreads Author page https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21921104.B_C_Harris
Article About Author:
https://chrisrobertsmbe.co.uk/scottish-authors-first-novel-could-be-the-next-netflix-film-or-series/
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