Canapés for the Kitties (23 page)

“Macho –” she began.

A sudden disturbing sound erupted into the silence. Distant, at first, but rapidly approaching, a siren warning everyone out of its way. Urgent, demanding ... ominous – and all too familiar these days.

“Ambulance!” Macho was on his feet.

“No!” So was Lorinda. “Now what?”

They rushed to the living room windows. Behind them, the cats were all asleep now, undisturbed by the wailing siren. Not an ear twitched, not a whisker stirred. It had nothing to do with them.

Lorinda pulled the curtains back just as the ambulance roared past and turned at the corner leading up to the Manor House. Another burst of sound heralded its approach. She had heard once that the paramedics sometimes turned on the siren from some distance away, just to reassure the injured that help was on its way.

“Dorian!” she gasped. “He must have had an accident!” He should have been in mid-flight now – unless something had happened to him. If the airport limousine had called at the door and no one responded to the bell, they would probably have gone away again, cursing, but assuming some friend had volunteered to drive the passenger to the airport and no one had thought to cancel them.

“Get you coat!” Macho was already heading for the door. “Come on!”

The blast of cold air struck her like a blow in the face as she stepped outside. Frost dusted the trees and bushes; they might have a white Christmas in store but, right now, it was too cold to snow. She pulled her coat more tightly around her and they joined the straggle of people who had suddenly appeared from nowhere and were following in the wake of the ambulance.

“What the hell is happening now?” Jack came up behind them, pulling on his gloves. Karla was beside him, pale and speechless as she stared at the braking ambulance. “Dorian,” she whispered.

There was a deafening moment as a police car swept past them, siren blaring, after which no one spoke, they just walked faster. Nearly running, they reached the gate to the grounds of the Manor House where the two vehicles had pulled to a halt.

Doors slammed and uniformed people began piling out and along the grey stone wall to the gate. Gemma Duquette stood by the wrought-iron gate, dabbing at her face with a crumpled tissue. The dogs, strangely subdued, were sitting at her feet, but began to bark as the strangers ran past them.

“Gemma!” Betty Alvin dashed ahead of the others. “Are you all right?”

“I ... I found him,” Gemma choked. “Rather, the dogs did. I ... I was walking them and … they began pulling at their leads ... they wanted to come in here. They must have known –” She broke off and wielded the tissue again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorinda saw Freddie slip past and through the gate. She followed quietly while the others were waiting for Gemma to resume her story.

At first, all she saw was legs: the legs lying flat on the ground, surrounded by the columns of other legs, upright legs, belonging to the emergency services rallying around him. Too late. He had been lying there a long time, probably all night. The frost outlined his form. A killing frost, literally. He would not get up – aided or unaided – and walk away.

Some of the legs moved aside as the paramedics shifted to crouch by the body. For a moment, there was a clear view.

He could have been sleeping, except that he looked far more dishevelled than one could have imagined him in life. His Barbour jacket was awry, his tie askew and long untidy strands of limp grey hair straggled around his neck and spread out wildly behind his head.

“He – ? He's dead?” Freddie wanted to be told it was all a mistake, that things weren't the way they looked, that the paramedics could load him into the ambulance, rush him off to the hospital and he would be bellowing for better service and claret in no time.

“I'm afraid so.” Lorinda felt numb and it was not just from the cold. It was all very well to write glibly about the discovery of bodies, state of the corpse, and sundry matters, but it was quite another thing when the corpse was someone you knew personally.

“I wonder if he got his last column in.” Freddie was recovering. “And who they'll get to replace him?”

Lorinda shook her head weakly. These were questions she could not deal with at the moment. She stared at the grey locks, rimed with frost and straggling out over the sered grass.

Had But-Known raked them out like that as she clawed her ribbon trophy from his ponytail?

“It's Plantagenet Sutton, isn't it?” Betty Alvin had come up behind them. “I knew I shouldn't have left him there.” Her voice rose, wavering out of control. “I should have waited and walked him back to Coffers Court, no matter what Dorian said. He was in no condition to be left on his own.”

“You knew the deceased?” She had attracted the attention of the police. One of them detached himself from the group around the body and came over to them. “Are you the person who made the telephone call to us?”

“No.” Betty quailed under his frown. “No, that was Gemma. The lady with the dogs. She was walking them when she discovered –”

“Then perhaps you'll be good enough to clear the area.” He lost interest in her.

“All of you. Leave your names and addresses with the constable and we'll be around to talk to you later.” He waited patiently, expressionless, obviously determined to see them off the scene.

They turned reluctantly and walked back through the gateposts to join the others on the pavement outside.

“Is he really dead?” Jack asked, earning an indignant look from Gemma, who had already told him so. “What happened?”

“Doornail,” Freddie confirmed. “Don't know. There wasn't a mark on him. Not,” she qualified cautiously, “that I could see.”

“Yeah? Well, whatever happened to him, there'll be a lot of dancing in the streets when the word gets round.”

“Jack!” Karla's protest was automatic; she looked anxiously at the others to see how they were taking his remark.

“I thought you got along very well with him,” Macho said.

“Hey, listen, I liked him OK. Don't get the wrong idea. But that Brussels sprout was his idea, you know.” Jack paused thoughtfully. “You know, down deep, he had a lot of hostility towards you, people.”

“And vice versa,” someone muttered, too low and too quickly to be identified.

“I don't think it's smart to make cracks like that with all these cops around,” Karla said. “We don't know what happened to him yet – and he wasn't the most popular guy around.”

“Now who's making stupid remarks?” Jack looked over her shoulder at an approaching constable. “Considering the kind of books you people write, the last word in the world any of you should hint at is
you-know-what.
Oh, hello, Officer –” He gave a bright, nervous smile. “We aren't blocking the way, are we?”

“Good afternoon, sir.” The words were unexceptional, the, tone said,
clear off, you lot.
“Madam.” He turned to Gemma, glancing down at the dogs, who were beginning to stir restively again. “I understand you reported this, er, incident?”

“That's right,” Gemma said. “We ... the dogs and I ... found the – Found him.”

Betty Alvin suddenly began to weep quietly.

“Perhaps we could speak to the rest of you later.” The constable was young enough to be uncomfortable. “If any of you have any relevant information, that is.” His tone showed that he doubted it. They were just another crowd of bystanders trying to pretend they weren't just being nosy.

“Come on.” Impulsively, Karla threw an arm around Betty's shoulders. “Let's go back to my place and have coffee. All of you,” she added. “I baked cookies yesterday; wasn't that lucky?”

“Honey,” Jack protested in a warning tone. “I'm not sure we have enough cups.”

“Then Freddie will help out, won't you, Freddie?”

“Sure,” Freddie agreed promptly, a gleam in her eye. “No problem at all. What are neighbours for?”

“Gemma –” Karla called as they began walking away. “You come and join us when they've finished with you.”

“Gemma –” Lorinda hung back. “Would you like me to take the dogs? You can collect them at Karla's.”

“Oh, would you?” Gemma handed over the leashes gratefully. “They've had their walk. I don't want them to stay outside too long, they might catch a chill.”

The dogs frisking in front of her, Lorinda did not catch up with the others until they reached the house.

“How charming,” she said, looking around as Jack tethered the pugs to the banister and took her coat.

“Karla likes it.” He shrugged. “But I feel like I'm drowning in chintz. No, I mean it,” he answered her smile. “Some nights I really dream I'm sinking down through waves of chintz, past chintz rocks into a deep undersea cavern all swathed in chintz. I wake up choking and trying to breathe.”

“How uncomfortable.” Lorinda had chintz curtains herself; there wasn't much she could say. “Would you prefer leather?”

“What do you mean by that crack?” He glared at her suspiciously.

“Mean?” She raised an eyebrow and stared him down. “What could I mean?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “My nerves are shot to hell these days. Accidents all over the place – and then people dropping dead. I wish we'd never come here.”

Lorinda was spared trying to answer that by a kicking at the base of the front door. Jack opened it to find Freddie, laden with a tray full of mugs, cups, saucers and glasses.

“You've got enough to supply an army there,” he said.

“Just wait,” Freddie predicted. “We'll use them all.”

“Wait! Hold it!” Footsteps pounded down the path as Jack started to shut the door. Professor Borley appeared in the doorway. “What's going on?”

“You see?” Freddie said meaningly, carrying her tray through into the kitchen.

Jack took a quick nervous look around outside before stepping back smartly and almost slamming the door shut.

“I was working,” Professor Borley explained earnestly to Lorinda, “so I was only vaguely aware of all the commotion. By the time it registered and I went out to see what it was all about, there was nothing to see. That is, there probably was, but the police were putting up tapes to seal off the scene and trying to chase everybody away. They wouldn't answer any questions and told me, in the nicest possible way, of course, to get lost.”

“Oh, Abbey –” Betty Alvin advanced to meet him as they entered the living room. “Abbey, it was terrible!” The ever-present tears spilled over again. “And I'm so terribly afraid it was all my fault!”

“I hope to hell you're not going to talk like that in front of the cops,” Jack snapped. “You'll give them the wrong idea.” He paused and stared at her stonily. “I
hope
it's the wrong idea.”

“Now, just a minute –” Abbey Borley, one hand patting Betty's shoulder consolingly, glared at him. “Can't you see she's upset?”

“Coffee's up!” Karla brought in a tray of steaming cups, then glanced uncertainly at Betty. “Or something stronger, if you want.”

“Coffee will be fine.” Betty smiled bravely and reached for a cup. Professor Borley caught her hand.

“Something stronger,” he ordered. “The strongest you've got.”

“Brandy?” Karla offered. “Or the last of the full-strength duty-free Bourbon?”

“Bourbon sounds good to me,” Borley said.

“Well, perhaps a teeny splash of brandy in my coffee.” Betty dabbed at her eyes with her tissue and appeared to pull herself together a bit more. She remained within Abbey Borley's encircling arm.

“Right,” Jack said in answer to Karla's imperative glance. “Coming right up.” He moved to the cluster of bottles on the sideboard, a reluctant host about to do his duty.

The doorbell rang. “I'll get it,” he said, with the look of a reprieved prisoner, but Freddie was ahead of him, shouldering him aside as she dashed into the front hall.

“Gemma's here!” Freddie called out, although the yapping of Lionheart and Conqueror had left no one in doubt as to the identity of the latest arrival.

“They let you go then,” Jack said, somewhat tactlessly. “Why shouldn't they?” Gemma glared at him, affronted.

“Sorry, sorry. I just meant ...” He trailed off, as though unsure of just what he did mean.

“What did the police say?” Karla edged forward. “What happened to him? Was it his heart?”

“Heart? What heart?” Gemma stared at her, bewildered. “Well said,” Macho applauded.

“Hey, come on, now,” Jack protested. “
Nil-boni
-whatever-it-is. The guy's dead, after all.”

“And not before time,” Macho said. “It's easy for you to talk, you only met him socially. You were never reviewed by him.”

“My books haven't been published in this country,” Karla snapped. The vagaries of international publishing were always a delicate subject, as was the fact that Jack had not actually written any books himself. “They said no one would be interested in a couple of young American backpackers. They didn't think it would work, even if I turned them into Australians.” She brooded quietly. “Not that I'd do that. There are so many differences –”

“Oh!” Betty gave a choked sob. “How can – ?” She broke off abruptly, but it wasn't hard to guess what she nearly said before recalling herself. Lorinda supposed that their preoccupation with their own characters and work must sound like untrammelled ego to other people.

“Take it easy. Here –” Jack thrust a glass into Betty's hand. “Drink up and you'll feel better.”

“I think I need a drink more than she does.” Gemma spoke with some asperity. “I was the one who found him, you know.
And
the police have been questioning me.”

“Coming right up.” Jack poured with a lavish hand, perhaps because he had some questions of his own. “What did you tell them? I mean, what did they tell you? Do they know what happened? Will they have an inquest? An autopsy?”