Only the Cat Knows (3 page)

‘I’m sure I’il sleep through until morning.’ I began closing the door on them. ‘Perhaps even until noon.’

‘Sleep as long as you like —’ Monica began.

‘Thank you both. So much.’ I closed the door firmly and listened to their retreating footsteps. After a tactful interval, I turned the key in the lock and noticed that there was also a large brass bolt attached to the door.

It looked new. Too bright and shiny to match the original dark lock and doorknob. Furthermore, the wood surrounding it looked scratched and raw, as though the bolt had been affixed recently.

Wishing I had paid more attention to Nessa’s most recent letters — or had had the ability to read between the uneasy lines — I slid the bolt home. It couldn’t do any harm and I didn’t want anyone popping in on me unexpectedly. I’d open it in the morning before breakfast arrived so that there wouldn’t be any wounded feelings.

That decided, I took a deep breath and decided to make myself more comfortable. But first … I crossed to the window looking out on to the cloister walkway and checked to make sure it was locked. It was and I was pleased to discover that, lurking behind the curtains, heavy wooden shutters were there to be secured across the window. Interesting, because they were out-of-period, but suggested that security took precedence over authenticity.

Authenticity? Anderson had said the whole pseudo-kingdom was just a big Victorian fake. And the shutters had obviously been part of the original fittings, they were a lot older than the brass bolt on the door — but would be just as effective in keeping out marauders.

I locked them in place, then drew the curtains across, concealing them, and repeated the process for the office window which also faced on to the walkway.

A quick look into the other rooms revealed narrow windows so high up that no one outside could possibly see in. Why, then, did I have the feeling I was being watched?

Because I was. I turned back into the sitting room to find the cat perched on an arm of the sofa, watching me intently as I prowled around. I nodded to her and she looked away quickly.

‘All right, be like that.’ I removed my turban and eased off the bandages that had been stitched together into a sort of helmet so that I needn’t try to wrap and unwrap the long length of bandage by myself.

I tossed the headgear on to the nearest chair, followed it with my kaftan and padded bra, then treated myself to a long luxurious scratch of the stubble on my head. The doctor and I had agreed that a close crop rather than a shaven head would offer more camouflage in case the bandage-helmet slipped. In the few seconds before I could adjust it, the stubble would help conceal the fact that there were no wounds visible.

The cat was staring openly at me now. It was obvious that she had never seen a jockstrap before. I hadn’t known that cats could look askance.

I turned off the lights in the sitting room and headed back to the bedroom to find out where Nessa kept her nightgowns. The bed had been turned down and the crisp white sheets yawned invitingly. I yawned, too, suddenly aware that I was as exhausted as though I’d genuinely been released from hospital that evening. Walking on eggshells, trying not to put a foot wrong, takes a lot out of you.

Someone else was walking delicately, too. She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes wide and wary.

‘Gloriana —’ I said to my namesake. ‘Come in and let’s get acquainted. If we can’t make friends fast, you’re going to get me in trouble.’

She advanced into the room a few steps, then something behind her caught her attention. She turned back, her fur bristling, her gaze fixed on something out of my range of vision.

‘What’s the matter?’ Her anxiety was contagious. ‘Not seeing ghosts, are you?’

Ignoring me, she lowered her body to an inch above the floor and half-slunk, half-stalked into the sitting room.

Uneasily I followed her, looking around to see what had spooked her.

Everything was as I had left it. No wisps of ectoplasm were visible in the dim light filtering into the room from the bedroom. I collected the helmet, turban, bra and kaftan from the chair to take back into the bedroom with me. I’d need them when Monica brought my breakfast tray.

I wondered whether I should pick up the cat, too, or whether I’d have a battle on my hands if I tried. Some cats don’t take kindly to being handled by strangers. Better not.

While I was still watching her thoughtfully, she turned and looked over her shoulder at me. Her mouth opened in a vehement hiss.

Decidedly better not. Then I followed her gaze as she turned her head away and realized that the hiss had not been directed at me, but was a comment on our situation.

The doorknob of the outer door was silently turning.

There was also a faint scrabbling sound. A key twisting in the lock? But the bolt held.

The door began shaking as a certain amount of force was applied to it, still very quietly. Someone was determined to get in — and didn’t want anyone to know it.

Gloriana and I moved closer together. I felt my top lip curl back as I instinctively mimicked her silent hiss. It seemed the only fitting response at the moment.

‘Darling — it’s me!’ The shaking changed to a light tapping. ‘I know you’re in there. Are you all right? I must see for myself.’ It was a deep male voice, plummy with faintly theatrical overtones.

‘Beloved —’ The voice lowered seductively. ‘Beloved, let me in.’

Not by the hair on your chinny-chin-chin!

I backed away from the door. Gloriana backed with me, still glaring at the door. Whoever was on the other side of it was not on her list of favourite people. We were as one on that.

‘Darling?’ The insistent voice began to falter. ‘Are you awake?’

Who was this man? And how much else was there that Nessa hadn’t told me?

Quite a lot, obviously. Perhaps she had planned to tell me all about it when I arrived. And yet … and yet … I had had no flash of intuition to tell me that she was emotionally involved. Was that because the essential closeness of twinship was breached when True Love entered the equation?

I wouldn’t know. Whatever brief encounters had come my way had been amusing and, in their way, fulfilling, but nothing that could be categorized as True Love. Not yet.

‘Darling …’ He was giving up. Perhaps he felt too exposed, standing at the near end of the cloister, tapping on an unyielding door. ‘Sleep well, then. Until the morrow. I’ll be busy all day, but the night … the night will be our own!’

That’s what you think!

Morrow? The night will be our own?
Who was this ham? What was Nessa doing tied up with him? Had she lost her sense of humour — or her mind?

Whoever he was, Romeo was not going to be the one to
make any dent in my amnesia. He was going straight back to being a stranger — and staying there. So far as I was concerned, we had not been introduced.

On the other hand, Gloriana and I appeared to be bonding after our experience with the voice on the other side of the door. Clearly, she approved of my not letting him in. I felt soft fur brush my ankle lightly as we returned to the bedroom. She was the only one I was going to share it with tonight.

Sleep …? I lay there staring into darkness. How could I have imagined, even for one insane moment, that sleep would be possible? In a strange bed … in a strange house … surrounded by strangers?

And isn’t that a definition of any hotel you’ve ever stayed in?
The reasonable side of my brain tried to calm me.

Not quite
. I would not be soothed. In this place, one of the strangers was an enemy. Perhaps more than one. And who knew what else one or more of them might be?

How many of them were there? What were they to Nessa? Or she to them? This was the first time she had ever taken on a residential job. Had she been enjoying it — or had she begun to regret it?

I turned over restlessly and punched a dent in the pillow. It was too dark here, too quiet. At least, in a hotel, there were sounds of life around you. Normal life. Loud voices, laughter, the boom of a television set, an occasional snatch of drunken song … and unashamed footsteps noisily heading towards their rightful room.

I found myself listening again for the furtive steps shuffling outside my door. Stupid, of course. Beloved had long since drifted away to his own lair. Secrecy seemed to be paramount; he would not want anyone to catch him loitering outside Nessa’s quarters.

Outside, there were the sounds of the night. The wind rising, a splatter of rain — good, that would discourage any other incipient prowlers. In the distance, guard dogs barked … except for the one that howled. Another splatter of rain told me there was no moon for it to howl at.

Night has a thousand sounds … and a thousand eyes. I could feel them watching me now. For an uneasy moment, I wondered whether there was a spyhole in one of the walls … or a hidden camera.

A faint whisper of sound, close by, and
I
turned to find that the cat was crouching in the bedside armchair and was watching me intently … suspiciously.

‘Oh, come along,’ I said, patting the bed. ‘Come over and let’s get acquainted.’

Oooops!
I had offended the Dowager Duchess again. Her head reared back, her eyes went icy. The temporary truce that had ensued when I ignored Beloved was over. We were back on barely nodding terms again.

‘All right, be like that.’ I turned over. ‘See if I care.’

But I did. If we couldn’t reach a semblance of amity, if not intimacy, she might blow my cover. In her current amnesiac condition, ‘Nessa’ might not remember her cat, but the cat would be expected to recognize and welcome Nessa. A loving cat can only maintain a snit at her mistress for a limited time. If the Duchess didn’t come round soon, I could be in trouble.

They say you never have a really sleepless night, it’s just an illusion; that, actually, you have a series of catnaps in between the periods of waícefulness. It’s because the wakefulness is so clear and worrying that it seems never to have ended.

Perhaps I did sleep, after all. At some point, I must have drifted off. Suddenly, the room was noticeably brighter, the cat was gone from the armchair, and there were faint sounds of the world moving back into action in the distance. A car motor roared, a dog barked — a different kind of dog — not the deep menacing snarling bark of the guard dogs, this sounded like a more normal dog, one you might be able to reason with. Some sort of bird cried out plaintively … a seagull? How near the sea were we?

No point in lying here any longer. Time to get up and
face what the day might bring. Face … yes, a quick close shave first thing, before anyone came calling, and a light application of foundation cream, dappled with a judicious overlay of darker shades to simulate fading bruises.

That accomplished, I did a quick survey of what was available in Nessa’s wardrobe. Luckily, we were both tall and had the same build, typical twins. The fit would be no problem.

Especially with the full-length kaftans we both loved. I knew she had a full wardrobe of them — I had provided it myself. My early years as an entertainer on the cruise ships plying the Mediterranean, the Caribbean, and even more exotic locations had provided great shopping opportunities and I had stocked up with costumes and kaftans for both of us. Who would have thought that they would come in so useful this far in the future?

The more businesslike everyday outfits she had chosen for herself were about what I would have expected. Excellent materials, beautifully cut, but in muted colours, designed to be quiet and unobtrusive. Just what I would have chosen myself to dress the act. A good secretary doesn’t outshine her employer’s ladies. Not if she’s wise.

No, nothing wrong with the costumes in themselves, except … I could feel my frown deepening. Something wasn’t quite right. I walked into the closet for a closer inspection.

The light didn’t work. I flipped the switch several times before looking up to discover that the bulb was missing. I settled for propping the door open with a stray shoe and looked around.

At first, nothing to cause disquiet was immediately apparent. Here and there a hanger hung askew, the garment half slipping off it, and there were uneven spaces between the hangers. Not like Nessa.

Then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I noticed the sleeve of a jacket, half inside out, and the lining of a pocket protruding from another jacket.

Moving forward to investigate, I stumbled over a pile of
shoes in the middle of the floor. I recognized the mate to the one I had propped the door open with. The others were all jumbled together, instead of being lined up in matching pairs as Nessa usually kept them.

Had Nessa dressed hurriedly that last night, changing whatever she had been wearing for something more suitable for outdoors? And why had she gone out into the cold and darkness where relentless guard dogs patrolled the grounds? Had she been summoned? By whom? And why?

The whole set-up whispered of haste and urgency. But was it on Nessa’s part — or was there another reason?

I stepped back into the bedroom, kicking the doorstop shoe into the pile with the others and letting the door close behind me.

One after the other, I pulled open the dressing-table drawers and looked down into them. Into the uneven heaps that had once been neat tidy piles of Nessa’s underclothes and personal belongings. There was now no doubt about it: the place had been thoroughly, if amateurishly, searched.

And what about her desk? Surely that would have been a prime target. I turned towards the living room to see — in the cold light of day and the cold knowledge I had gained — just what I might have missed the night before.

I had forgotten the cat again. She sat beside the door opening into the cloister, staring at me accusingly.

‘No, you can’t go out,’ I said. ‘You heard those dogs last night. Some of them might still be around. I’m sure you’re not an outside cat, anyway.’ Nessa would never have allowed her precious pet to run loose in such dangerous territory. What a shame she hadn’t taken the same precaution herself.