Only the Cat Knows (6 page)

After a few of these clinkers, Yvonne had returned to the international cabaret circuit, trading on her screen credits as much as her voice.

Somewhere along the way, Everett Oversall had entered the scene and she had become his ‘new romance’, as the gossip columnists of the day — ever careful of the libel laws — had tactfully phrased it.

Oh, yes, I’d done my homework on the Internet before I came here, pulling up everything possible on Oversall’s background. Most of it was from files of tabloid newspaper gossip from his playboy years; he had kept an exceptionally low profile before that.

But the meeting with Yvonne had been the beginning of his nightclubbing phase. Constant photographs had appeared in all the tabloids and some of the broadsheets. It became noticeable that his entourage was expanding. He collected Candy Shaeffer in New York and added Amanda Sloane in London. While others came and went, they remained to form a stable core.

A few years later, when Oversall shares wobbled a bit and shareholders grew restless, most of the publicity ceased. The earlier, more serious and work-centred Oversall re-emerged; a man dedicated solely to his business interests. All mention of the women in his background disappeared, although they didn’t.

Rumour had it that Candy Shaeffer, who had cut her fangs as a New York public relations executive, was masterminding the repositioning of Oversall in the business world. It worked. There hadn’t been a photograph of him in anything but Captain of Industry mode for the last decade or so.

Amazing how much one can gather from the gossip columns over the years. Now all I had to do was keep pretending that I didn’t know a thing and couldn’t recognize anyone from anywhere.

‘Tricky.’ I told my audience. ‘Very tricky.’

The cat had been crouched nearby, watching closely as I went through my bedtime routine. She blinked when I finished shaving and rubbed in moisturizer.

Nessa’s moisturizer, smooth and creamy, with a faint scent of lilacs, bringing back the springtimes of our childhood, when the lilac bushes in the garden came into full bloom and their heavy fragrance blended with the sea air. I wondered if that were why Nessa used this particular brand; it would remind her, too, of those carefree days.

Nessa!
My heart twisted abruptly. How was she now? Why had there been no news? Because there was none or …

Or because
I
was Nessa now. Dr Anderson could not issue bulletins on the state of a patient presumably discharged and back in circulation. I would get a private report when he came to examine ‘me’ and check ‘my’ progress.

Eyes wide, whiskers quivering, the cat inched forward a bit. I could see her problem: I looked like Vanessa, I smelled like Vanessa, but …

Suddenly she straightened up, alert and turning towards the outer door. I followed her into the sitting room and up to the door.

Nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, the doorknob wasn’t moving. But I trusted my little honorary bird dog — and she was pointing.

We both waited silently. Nothing happened. Perhaps the cat was just as jumpy as I was right now and it was a false alarm. Or someone had passed by, walking innocently along the cloister.

Then she moved forward again, neck stretched out, nose twitching. I saw that something had already happened.

A triangular corner of paper almost the same shade as the carpet peeked from beneath the door. We both eyed it mistrustfully.

I decided I was in no hurry to pick it up. The cat looked up at me impatiently, but I shook my head.

‘Later,’ I whispered. If anyone was lurking about outside, waiting for me to discover their missive, let them wait until they gave up and went away.

I chose a book from Nessa’s shelves and tried to read. The cat continued to stand guard at the door.

After half an hour, I joined her to slowly pull in our catch and examine it. It was a small plain card, the size of a calling card.

The message was printed in block capitals:

WHEN YOU REMEMBER,
I’LL BE WAITING.

I stared at it for a long time, wondering which way to read it.

As a romantic promise? Or a threat?

The Duchess alerted me in the morning, jumping on the bed and ramming her cold wet nose into my ear just as the breakfast trolley was trundling into the cloister. I barely had time to jam on my turban and swirl my kaftan over me before opening the door to it.

‘Oh!’ Round eyes widened in a round little face staring up at me from atop a round little body. ‘I expected you to be still asleep. I was going to leave it outside the door.’

‘Not this morning.’ I smiled down at her reassuringly, almost as startled as she. Her presence reminded me that there was a whole sub-stratum of servants I had not yet encountered.

‘Oh, Miss Nessa!’ Recovering herself, she wheeled the trolley into the room. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right! We all are.’

‘Thank you …’ I hesitated. ‘But you’re going to have to help me out, I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.’

‘I’m Dilys, Miss Nessa.’ Her eyes welled with tears. I’m sorry, I should have said. Miss Monica told us —’

‘Yes, yes, all right.’ I gave her another reassuring smile. I didn’t want her blubbing all over me.

‘You looked so awful when they took you away,’ she wailed softly. ‘I was so afraid. We were all afraid —’

‘Thank you, Dilys, but I’m all right now.’ I heard my voice waver. Was I? How
was
Nessa this morning? ‘Except for my memory, that is.’

‘If I can help,’ she volunteered. ‘If you want to ask me anything, anything at all —’

‘Thank you, Dilys.’ I mentally filed that offer for possible future use. ‘I may take you up on that. When I can think of something I need to know.’ I edged her back towards the door. ‘And please thank everyone for their good wishes.’

‘My number is 23 on the house phone.’ She backed out slowly. ‘Just ring if you want anything.’

‘Thank you, Dilys, thank you so much.’ With a final smile, I closed the door behind her and let my face relax.

Gloriana looked from me to the trolley and back again expectantly.

‘Yes, thank you, too. Good work!’ I praised her. Perhaps she had only been anxious to get her share of breakfast, but I was glad to have been alerted to its arrival. I no longer felt comfortable with the thought of the trolley being left to stand outside my door for any length of time. Food could be too easily tampered with.

We settled down to our meal and I rewarded her with a kipper and most of the coffee cream, of which she was duly appreciative.

We might not quite trust each other, but we were settling down into being a team.

By mid-morning, I was feeling too restless to remain confined to quarters. Besides, it looked like a good day outside. For November, that is. Although overcast, it wasn’t actually raining — and an invalid ought to take a bit of fresh air, oughtn’t she? A turn around the grounds — the immediate grounds, obviously; the estate was too huge to be encompassed in a single stroll — might not go amiss.

A voluminous navy blue pashmina shawl hung from a hook just inside the closet. It seemed more suitable than either of the coats or the cashmere blazer. I shook it out and wrapped it over my kaftan. Then, feeling rather like a Victorian waif, I stepped into the cloister and locked the door behind me.

Had Nessa felt the same when she wore this shawl? Of
course she had. Our tastes, thoughts and feelings were almost identical.

Almost
…
aye, there’s the rub
. There had been people over whom our opinions had diverged. Nessa was —
is, is
. She’s not in the past tense yet. Not now, not ever! Nessa
is
more easy-going than I. She might not suffer fools gladly, but she suffers them. I’m more impatient, perhaps too impatient.

Surely, she would never have been as close to Ivor as he kept trying to insist. Beloved — like hell!

I was less sure about Kiki. She and her friend — if friends they were, nothing seemed certain around this place — had obviously joined Oversall’s retinue after his retreat from the public scene, thus escaping the full glare of publicity. They were younger than the others, although still older than Nessa, but it was possible that one or both of them had been her friends.

It was also possible that they hadn’t. What sort of friend goes searching through a mate’s belongings in their absence? And what were they searching for? What had Nessa got herself into?

Somewhere in the distance, the plaintive cry of a seagull, or perhaps a stray cat, caught my attention. Could it really be a seagull? It seemed to come from ground level.

I followed the cries through a rose garden where many bushes still bore blooms thanks to the mild English climate. In most places, they wouldn’t have stood a chance once winter was so near; here, there were still buds forming.

A wide flagstone-paved path lay, rather curiously, on the other side of the garden, stretching as far as I could see. Beyond it, a greensward sloped gently down to an ornamental lake dotted with waterlilies. Another stretch of lawn and then a grove of birch trees gleamed white against the pine forest behind them.

Not quite Capability Brown, but not bad. Not bad at all.

As I stood there, two brown hens scuttled out from the holly hedge bordering the path. A moment later, they were followed by a larger oddly shaped bird who appeared to
be dragging a pile of brushwood behind him. One of them uttered another of those plaintive haunting cries.

The burdened bird stalked into the middle of the flag-stoned path and swung about to face me challengingly. I had the eerie feeling that he had recognized me as another male and was ready to fight to protect his females.

He stared directly at me then, with a surge of effort and a faint rattling noise, the pile of brushwood rose up behind his head and fanned out into a shimmering display of gloriously improbable colour. A peacock in his full glory, he faced me proudly.

‘Fantastic!’ I applauded enviously What wouldn’t I give for a stage costume half so magnificent. That iridescent green, with the deep royal blue, surrounded by burnished gold, of the spectacular eye that tipped each feather, the —

‘Popinjay!’ The harsh croak from behind made me jump. ‘Just like all males. Popinjays — every one!’

Turning cautiously, at first I saw no one until I lowered my gaze to wheelchair level. She was glaring up at me, as though daring me to contradict her.

‘Good morning, Madame.’ It was safe to acknowledge her, wasn’t it? After all, we had met last night.

‘Come in here!’ She wheeled back her chair and I realized why the path had been paved instead of gravelled. For her convenience.

‘Yes, Madame.’ I followed her through an opening in the hedge large enough to accommodate her chair and found myself in a raised garden. Greenery sprouted in profusion from deep earth-filled boxes mounted on trestle tables at wheelchair height. I recognized basil, rosemary, parsley and chives. I could smell sage and other familiar fragrances. A herb garden, then, especially arranged for Madame, although I doubted that she did much gardening herself these days.

What Madame had done in the past was open to question. Rumours abounded: claims that she was the financial genius behind Oversall’s empire; that she was his first
mistress, who knew too much about his early shady deals — and had proof hidden away somewhere, so that he was afraid to drop her. There was even a faction that claimed she was his mother.

Whoever she was, she was here to stay. Till death did them part. And that was another story one heard: that, although much older, she had been his first wife — and still held the marriage certificate that would prove all his subsequent alliances were bigamous.

A mystery woman, indeed. Of indeterminate antiquity, unknown origins, vaguely foreign accent — and a determined grip on life. And on Everett Oversall.

Madame was still a force very much to be reckoned with.

‘So!’ She halted the chair abruptly and whirled it round to face me, with something of the same challenge the peacock had shown. ‘You are recovered, eh?’

‘Partly …’ I said hesitantly.

‘Ah, yes. The amnesia.’ Her tone said she didn’t believe a word of that story. ‘How convenient. And clever … very clever.’

‘But true.’ I gave her a rueful smile, wondering what degree of intimacy she would proceed to claim.

‘And you recall nothing?’ She tipped her head back as far as it would go, her shrewd eyes assessing me.

‘I can read and write.’ I made a brave show of it. ‘And use the right fork. All the automatic motor responses are in place. It’s just the people who have slipped out of gear. And events, of course.’

‘Vanessa!’ She gave a small splutter of what might have been mirth in someone else. It was drowned out by the peacock’s strident cry from the other side of the hedge.

Instinctively, I turned towards the sound in time to see a slight blonde figure dart through the opening into the herb garden.

‘Nina!’ Madame went white with fury. ‘You have been told to leave those peacocks alone!’

‘I didn’t do it!’ Too late, Nina tried to hide the glittering
peacock feather behind her back. ‘I was just looking at Percy, admiring him — and he knew it. He sort of shook himself and dropped the feather right at my feet. He
wanted
me to have it!’

Oh, yes?
That story didn’t quite jibe with the outraged cry we had heard from Percy. As was becoming usual around this place, I found that I believed the fauna more than the humans. No surprise there.

‘Ah, yes?’ Madame was equally sceptical.

‘Anything the matter?’ Unseen, unheard, the man called Richie had appeared and was hovering protectively over Madame.

‘Nina is up to her tricks again,’ Madame complained.

‘I’m not!’ Nina defended hotly. ‘I don’t have any tricks. I’m an artist! An interior designer. Right now, I’m in my Art Nouveau phase. I’m going to have a tall blue vase filled with peacock feathers in one corner of my studio — just like the Victorians used to do.’

‘Forget that,’ Richie said flatly. ‘And stay away from the peacocks, Nina. You don’t want Mr Oversall to lose patience with you.’