No Cooperation from the Cat (24 page)

“Ah … it isn’t … not actually.” Nigel seemed unsure whether the news might upset his uncle Humbert even more. “That’s Mothball the Fifth … or perhaps the Sixth. We’ve all lost count.”

“Of course, of course.” Bertie was getting himself under control, breathing more easily. “I knew it couldn’t be the real Mothball. He was just a kitten when we … we … found him, wrapped in an old sweater that smelled of mothballs. That’s where he got his name.
She
named him and we made him our theatre cat … but that was thirty-odd years ago. It was just that … for a moment…”

“More like forty-odd, Bertie,” Nigel reminded him gently. “You’ve … been asleep … a long time.”

“Aye.” An ancient man came out of the shadowed wings. “And now we have Mothball the Fifth. Direct descendant—as you’ve just seen. A fitting name for a cat guarding a mothballed playhouse. More’s the pity … more’s the crime…”

“Good Lord! It’s young Sam!” Bertie gasped. “Are you still here?”

I nearly gasped myself as the old boy came over to us. If that was young Sam, then I was baby Trixie.

“Aye. Like the Fifth, another generation is keeping safe watch over your theatre, Bertie. My son is young Sam now, though he’s getting a bit long in the tooth, too, these days.”

“So long ago…” Bertie sighed. “So long…”

“But you’re waking up now,” Nigel prodded.

“Am I? I suppose so.” Bertie sighed again. “I feel like Rip van Winkle—if anyone remembers him … or me.”

“You were never forgotten, Bertie.” Hugh strode to the fore. “You’re a legend. Everyone speaks of you with admiration and—”

“They think I’m dead,” Bertie interrupted. “I’ve heard the rumours, I’ve seen the stories in the papers, I’ve—”

“Ah!” Nigel said hastily. “Um, that is…”

I’ve heard better attempts at trying to change the subject, but at least he was trying.

“They’re all going to find out differently when you burst on the scene again and reclaim your rightful place in theatre land.” Hugh could be depended on to know the right thing to say.

But what exactly was he saying? There was a subtext there that I couldn’t quite fathom.

Before I had time to consider it, another shadow stirred on the far sofa, leaped to the floor, and stretched luxuriously. I realised Mothball had been curled up with this cat—and who could blame him? She—it had to be she—was a little beauty. Also grey, but with slightly longer fur, silver-tipped at the ends.

“Ah,” Nigel said. “Here’s Dustbunny. She’s Mothball’s … ah … mate.” As a diversion, this was more successful. Hearing her name, Dustbunny strolled across to us and greeted Nigel as an old friend.

“She knows you,” I said inanely.

“And you seem to know a lot about the cats—” Bertie shot a keen glance at his nephew. “Their names, their relationship, their place in this theatre…?” Pointedly, he waited for an explanation.

“Ah…” Nigel was caught out. “Well … you gave us—the family—a passkey to the theatre and asked us to look in once in a while and make sure that everything was all right. I … I like to do that … more than the others do. I come here quite a bit, actually. It’s so peaceful and there’s such a pleasant atmosphere. I just like to sit here … even with everything under wraps, it feels safe and happy, like … like coming home after a hard day. I … I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Mind?” Bertie beamed. “Mind? Dear boy, I never dreamed … no one else in the family ever cared a toss about the theatre. Oh, they’ve pretended they do to humour me, but I know if they ever get their hands on it, they’ll have the developers in bidding for the freehold to tear it down and put up a tower block before the flowers have wilted on my grave.”

“Tear it down? They’d have to fight me!” Nigel clenched his fists. “It … it would be sacrilege!”

“Sounds like your DNA is coming through, Bertie.” Hugh smiled.

Dustbunny had wandered over to sniff at Evangeline’s ankles before rubbing against them. I tried not to be jealous, perhaps I reeked too much of Cho-Cho.

“This one is more friendly,” Evangeline said approvingly, picking her up.

“And beautiful.” Bertie also approved. “A fitting ornament to reside in my Jewel Box.”

Jewel Box! And we all were in it. It was the name of the theatre itself. I heard Evangeline’s explosive release of breath as Bertie’s words registered with her. Dustbunny squeaked a reproof at the arms that had suddenly tightened around her.

No diamond bracelets, no emerald rings, no glittering jewels, no heavy gold trinkets at all.

But … perhaps something even better.

Instinctively, I moved towards the white piano to test whether it was still in tune. But something stopped me even before I caught Nigel’s warning shake of the head.

I changed direction, almost as though someone had turned me, and found myself downstage facing the footlights, looking out over the auditorium. Now that I could see it properly, from the stage, I caught my breath with delight. No wonder it had been named the Jewel Box.

The place was small, but exquisite. Two shallow tiers above the rows of seats sent out gleams of fresh gold paint from behind their scaffolding. The first few rows of seats in the auditorium had been uncovered and their new red plush glowed dully. The whole theatre was hushed and seemed to be waiting for the show to begin.

I was drawn forward inexorably, picturing an audience in those seats—the sort of audience Dame Cecile commanded—rustling expectantly.

I couldn’t help it. I took a deep breath and let out a rivulet of notes, running the scale, testing the acoustics. As Hugh had said, they were perfect.

“Sing out, Trixie,” Hugh called. I’d been in enough straw hat circuits with
Gypsy
to recognise that cue.

“
Curtain up
 …
light the lights
…”

The footlights sprang to life. Someone else could recognise a cue.

“
We’ve got nothing to hit but the heights
…” Evangeline was not going to be left out of it. She was beside me. We harmonised and finished as a duet.

“This
is
a Jewel Box!” I exclaimed as the last echo died away.

“Yes! Yes!” Evangeline was equally enthusiastic. So there weren’t any actual jewels, what did that matter? We already had plenty.

Even Dustbunny gave an approving chirrup, looking around. Probably she had never seen the seats uncovered and the footlights shining before.

“It’s all yours,” Bertie said. “If you want it.”

“
If
we want it!” I could hardly speak. “Oh Bertie! Bertie!”

“A theatre—at last!” Evangeline breathed.

“Three hundred seats. The refurbishment should be complete in a couple of months.” Incredibly, it sounded like Bertie was trying to sell us on the idea. He needn’t bother, we were already sold.

“You could begin rehearsing then, while we see to all the finishing touches working around you, and have the grand opening in the autumn. Hugh will produce. I’ll be presenter … again.”

“Wonderful!” After a moment of delirium, I came down to earth with a thud. “Now all we need is a play.”

“Still no news from that playwright you commissioned to write one for you?” Jem was elaborately casual. “The one who took off on a world tour—with your advance payment.”

“Not even a postcard,” Evangeline said bitterly. “If we only knew where he was, we could sue him for fraud, extortion, taking money under false pretences—”

“And having dirty fingernails,” I cut in. “I think we can safely write him off and look around for a better prospect.”

Was it instinct that drew my gaze to Jem—or was it because he was clutching his attaché case so tightly and fidgeting nervously?

“Oh?” Evangeline caught something in my tone and turned to look at Jem, as well.

He looked away.

“We’ll have to start putting it out on the grapevine,” I suggested.

Jem twitched.

“Or put an advert in
The Stage
.” Evangeline joined in the tease.

Jem grew red, twitched again, and clutched the attaché case closer. Bertie beamed at us complacently. So did Nigel. Hugh folded his arms and watched with amusement. Jocasta was perplexed, but game.

“My sister knows someone who self-published his own book of poetry once,” she volunteered.

“I don’t think we need to look that far,” Hugh intervened. “I’ve had a couple of preliminary discussions since it began to look as though you were going to be let down.”

“Really?” Evangeline widened her eyes innocently. “With anyone we know?”

Hugh quirked an eyebrow at Jem. “You might as well tell them.”

“We … um … I, er—” he started.

“Oh, spit it out!” Evangeline’s patience snapped.

“Yes, right.” She might not be the most tactful person in the world, but they were old friends and she obviously knew how to handle him.

“Right!” Jem went from red to ashen, but he straightened his back, marched over to the coffee table, set his attaché case down, unlocked it—and took out a sheaf of paper.

I knew it! A lot of incidents fell into place, from the way Jem had hastily hidden a notebook the day I dropped in on him unexpectedly in his attic apartment at the theatre in Brighton, to the quiet satisfaction he had oozed the day he took us to the London theatre and solicitously enquired about our missing playwright. Not schadenfreude at all, but checking up that the way was still clear for him.

“Here—” Jem handed each of us a script. “See what you think…” His voice faltered, then firmed. “Of this. I started writing it just for you as soon as I saw you in action last year.”

“Jem,” Evangeline purred. “Darling Jem!”

“You—you might not like it,” he warned. “Don’t be afraid to tell me…”

Hugh’s snort of amusement let us know that he’d read the script and had no doubts about our reactions. Hadn’t he already committed himself to producing it?

We were in business!

Chapter Twenty-six

I know the truism has it that
If something seems too good to be true, it is
. But not this time. Bertie took us back to his office and whipped out contracts, all prepared and just awaiting our signatures. Hugh gave us the nod, we signed on the dotted line, and then went off to the Harpo to celebrate.

On the other hand, this was the morning after. My aching head reminded me of that other truism, the one that says
Things are too good to last
. Loud noises from the other side of the wall warned me this one was true.

Although I wanted to remain in bed, savouring our triumph and playing with Cho-Cho, those dominating voices meant the harpies were back in force. There would be no peace now, I might as well get up. Also, Martha and Jocasta might need reinforcements.

“We lost a full day yesterday—” Isolde pulled her head out of the fridge and glared at me accusingly. “We’ve got to work doubly hard today to make up for it.”

“I hope you’re feeling better.” I smiled smugly at her. I knew what she’d been looking for, but we were way ahead of her. Evangeline and I had transferred the champagne to our private fridges where no one could get at it. There wasn’t much room for anything else in the fridges now, but it was the principle that mattered. I made a mental note to lock our doors. Theoretically, our rooms were out of bounds to the crew, but who could trust them?

“I’ve settled the poor dear on the sofa—” Valeria brayed her report, returning from the front room. “We must concentrate on him today.”

Three pairs of eyes converged on Jocasta, quailing behind Tom. “The cookbook isn’t important.”

“But the cookbook deadline is coming up first,” Jocasta protested feebly.

“Poor, dear Banquo is really suffering—” Expertly, Edytha manipulated Jocasta. “Illness now—on top of heartbreak. He needs sympathy, help, the tenderness of a woman who isn’t one of his relatives—”

An eligible woman who can replace Melisande, was clearly implied. Preferably one the harpies could dominate. I cleared my throat warningly, but it was too late. Jocasta was hooked.

“Oooh, poor Banquo.” She dashed towards the living room. The others followed more slowly, pausing to exchange complacent nods.

“Jocasta can’t take much more of being torn apart like this,” I complained. “They might give her a break—other than nervous, that is.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” For once, Mick didn’t sound sardonic. “Nothing matters but Banquo. Nothing—and no one.” He wheeled around and went after the others.

“Nothing matters except their meal ticket.” Tom was increasingly bitter. “Banquo—the showpiece, the mouthpiece—the meal ticket.”

“At least you’re getting away from it.” I watched his fists slowly unclench as I reminded him. “If they trap Jocasta—” It didn’t bear thinking about: a lifetime in that nightmare.

And, if Jocasta finally woke from her deluded fantasy and began to assert herself? If she stopped being so malleable … would she go the way of Melisande? That was even worse to think about.

“Have they gone?” Evangeline’s head poked around the door.

“For the moment,” Tom said. “But they’ll be back.”

“How comforting.” Nothing was going to disturb her this morning.
She
was all right, Jem’s play was brilliant, the theatre was secured, and Hugh was looking after our interests. There was nothing to worry about.

Ah, well. Leave her in her fool’s paradise a while longer. I could worry enough for both of us.

“Have they gone far?” Evangeline was ever hopeful.

“Only as far as the living room.” I dashed those hopes.

“Do we have to burn the place down to get them out?”

“It’s an idea, but we’d be out, too.”

“It would be worth it.”

“Just the same, let’s try for a bit less drastic solution.”

“Less drastic than what?” Martha asked sharply from behind me. I hadn’t heard her arrive, but she was here and she was on the warpath, as she so often was these days. Not surprisingly.

“Good morning, darling.” I repressed a sigh.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” She glared around, noticing everything else. “Where’s Jocasta? Has she wimped off again?”

“It’s not her fault,” I defended. “Those ghastly females practically frog-marched her away to work with Banquo today.”