Only the Cat Knows (8 page)

A throat was cleared quietly but emphatically. Not for the first time. Ivor was trying to catch my eye. He’d be lucky!

Is Madame unwell?’ I turned to Monica.

‘Overtired, I’m afraid.’ Monica frowned slightly. ‘She tries to do too much. She doesn’t like to admit she isn’t as young as she used to be.’

‘None of us are,’ Yvonne said. Her candour earned her several poisonous glances.

‘On the contrary, dear lady.’ Ivor sent her such a melting smile that I wondered if she were another of his Beloveds. ‘It is my strong impression that you grow younger looking and more beautiful every day.’

‘
And she well may pass for forty-three
…
In the dark with a light behind her
…’ Amanda Sloane trilled Gilbert and Sullivan maliciously.

‘Ah, yes.’ Yvonne slanted a look worthy of Madame at her. ‘You, of course, are a connoisseur of passes!’

Hmmm … perhaps not such friends, after all. Of course, it was not necessary for allies to be friends. Mutual interests were enough to keep them together for the duration of the pact. But what pact?

‘Perhaps —’ Ivor cleared his throat again — ‘one of you experts would be kind enough to
pass
the butter.’ He glanced around the table with a roguish simper to make sure that we had all appreciated his wit.

What was it Dorothy Parker had said when challenged to a battle of wits? Something along the lines of, ‘I refuse to fight an unarmed opponent.’

Everyone ignored him. He didn’t even get the butter and had to reach for it himself.

After that, a glacial silence descended that lasted until the end of the meal.

I was not the only one to decline adjourning for coffee, although I was the only one with a ready-made excuse. The others simply darted away abruptly as they finished. I had to move fast to avoid being left alone at the table with Beloved.

Monica hesitated in the doorway behind me, effectively blocking Ivor’s attempted pursuit. Was it just a fortuitous happening, or did she derive some satisfaction of her own from foiling his intentions?

I didn’t linger to hear what she had to say to him, but made my way steadily to my own quarters. I wanted to be in them with the door securely bolted before Ivor got away from Monica.

As I turned the corner into the cloister, something stirred at the far end. A dark shape emerged from the shadows and glided slowly towards the anchorite’s cell.

A monk? Or the ghost of one?
What I could see of the long flowing robes, lightly cinched at what might have been a waist, the bowed head, the processional pace, all gave that impression.

Then the figure stopped, half-turned and, with a vague gesture, seemed to be inviting me to follow him.

Was that what Nessa had done? Had seen? Had followed out of the cloister, through the adjoining buildings, to the tower and the parapet from which she had fallen?

Ahead of me, the figure turned again and raised its arm in a more imperious gesture, commanding my presence.

Not bloody likely!
No, thank you, Brother, Father, Whoever — Whatever — you are. Not this lady. Whatever your game is, I’m not playing.

I had the key in my hand as I reached my door. I inserted it and turned it quickly in the lock, slipping inside without a backward glance.

The sitting room was warm and welcoming after the icy cold of the cloister. They say the presence of a ghost is marked by a distinct drop in the temperature. On the other hand, a dank chill is not unknown on a late November evening.

The apparition also posed an interesting question about psychic technicalities: would the genuine ghost of a medieval monk haunt premises that were a Victorian fake? Or was it the spirit of the suicidal butler who had departed in the purloined costume of the monk?

The cat was curled up in a corner of the sofa, comfortable and unconcerned. If the paranormal had passed by, it hadn’t intruded on her consciousness.

‘So, nobody here but us chickens, eh?’ I asked her.

She deigned to open one eye and close it again.

Nobody. I made a mental note to add near-sightedness
and blurred vision to my list of traumas, just in case the ‘monk’ was someone I had met who was playing games.

But which one of them? The only person who might be stupid enough to pull such a trick was Ivor. Did he imagine that, if he snowed up after giving ‘Nessa’ a good fright, she would fall into his arms thinking he was a rescuer? Only, he had not had time enough to get away from Monica, race to the far end of the cloister and change into costume before I arrived to catch his act.

Then who? And why? The only certainty was that there was someone in the house deeply chagrined at the failure of his plot to … to what? Entrap me? Dispose of me?

Time would tell. But how much time did I have? The spectral appearance could mean that someone was growing nervous and anxious to finish me — Nessa — off. This attempt had fallen flat, but what other tricks did he have up his flowing sleeves?

Dilys was tight-lipped and unwilling to linger when I took the breakfast tray from her in the morning.

‘Sorry, Miss Vanessa,’ she said, ‘can’t stop. Bit of a flap on. Got to get straight back, they’re waiting for me. Miss Monica says for you to rest today I’ll bring you your lunch later.’ She hurried off before I could ask her any questions.

‘Now what?’ I asked the cat instead.

She didn’t know and couldn’t have cared less, her entire attention was centred on the tray in my hands.

When I set it down and lifted the lid, I found the main attraction was scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. An urgent mew and furry body twined around my ankles told me that would do nicely.

My temporary best friend and I enjoyed the breakfast, then she returned to aloofness and sauntered off to nap until the next meal.

At the sound of an approaching motor, I drew back the inside shutters on the window facing the outer world and
stood behind the curtains to watch Dr Anderson’s car roar into view.

Nessa!
I hurried out and intercepted him before he could reach the front door. He was carrying the traditional black bag.

‘Not now, Nessa!’ he said impatiently. ‘This is more import —’ He broke off, glaring at me accusingly.

‘God! the tricks the mind can play!’ he exploded. ‘Even knowing what I know, for one second, I actually thought you —’

‘Don’t say it,’ I warned.

‘No, no. I wasn’t going to.’ He became abstracted, but brusque. ‘However the message is still the same … Vanessa. Go back to your quarters and stay there. This has nothing to do with … you.’

‘Madame?’ My heart sank. Had I lost my chance to find out what she knew?

‘No, no! She may not look it, but she’s in better shape than some of them.’

‘Then who? Oversall?’

‘He’ll outlive us all’

‘But —’

‘Just go inside and keep out from underfoot!’ He gave me a sardonic grimace. ‘It’s nothing for you to bother your pretty little head about!’

I slammed the door behind me then kicked the waste-paper basket across the room and, for good measure, followed it with a few books.

The cat narrowed her eyes at me and prudently retreated beneath the bed. She wasn’t going to get underfoot, either.

Pretty little head
— hell! It was a low blow — and a deliberate one.

As though, somewhere in that tricky mind of his, Anderson was blaming me — hating me — for not being Nessa.

Monica had sent a message suggesting that I rest today. Dr
Anderson had told me bluntly to keep out of the way. What was going on?

Deciding that a short stroll through the gardens could pass as heeding the spirit, if not the letter, of the barely concealed orders, I draped the shawl around my kaftan and stepped outside.

In a slow pace suitable to an invalid, I walked the length of the cloister to the cell at the end. Nothing had changed there: the wax anchorite in monk’s robes still knelt in position, head bowed, face concealed.

What had I expected? An empty cell? A changed position? A sudden rising to the feet and another imperious gesture to follow him — or her? It was just a waxwork. Everett Oversall picking up and continuing the nasty joke of the original owner of Friary Keep. Well, Oversall had never been renowned for his sense of humour.

With a curious reluctance to turn my back on the figure, I moved out on to the lawn beyond the cloister. It was deserted. No sign of life anywhere. Not even a peacock. I might have been a ghost myself, victim of a time-slip that had pitched me into some earlier century.

Somewhere in the depths of the pine forest beyond the lawn, a dog barked, startling me. Of course there was no reason why the guard dogs should not be patrolling the grounds by day as well as by night, and probably every reason why they should. Especially when Mr Oversall was in residence.

A wrought-iron bench at the edge of the pine trees seemed a likely destination. I could sit there and look as though I were resting, while keeping the entire forecourt under observation.

Dr
Anderson’s car was still parked by the front door, telling me that he hadn’t left yet. Although it wasn’t his usual day for doing his rounds, he might be checking his patients just the same, since he was here anyway. But why was he so insistent that I keep out of the way?

The dog in the forest barked again — or was it a fox? Another dog howled in answer. What was the matter? Was
there an intruder? I glanced over my shoulder, but could see nothing untoward.

A low growl at my feet made me snap my head around to find a large German shepherd sniffing at the hem of my kaftan.

I froze.

‘Steady on, Brutus. It’s only Miss Vanessa. You know her.’ I was relieved to see the dog was attached by a businesslike chain to one of the guards.

‘Oh, Brutus,’ I said feebly. ‘Hello, Brutus.’ That was the trouble: he knew Vanessa — he didn’t know me. And he didn’t look as though he’d be as reasonable about it as Gloriana had been.

Another growl and Brutus raised his head, sniffing up to my knees and heading unerringly, in the way of the beasts, for my crotch. I realized just how much I had always preferred cats.

‘Down, Brutus!’ A sharp yank on his choke chain momentarily discouraged the monster. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it,’ the guard apologized, disregarding further growls. ‘He just hasn’t seen you for a bit and wants to check you out.’

That was what I was afraid of.

‘We found you, you know, Brutus and me,’ the guard went on. ‘Brutus, really. Sniffing and yelping and pulling me down into the moat. There you were, all blood and mud and dead white. I wouldn’t have given a tinker’s damn for your chances, but you’ve scrubbed up real well. How are you feeling?’

‘I’ve felt better.’ I fended off another of Brutus’s advances. He was practically in my lap. I wondered if he would snap my hand off if I pushed his muzzle away.

‘Not surprising.’ The guard nodded and pulled Brutus back again. ‘They tell me you can’t remember anything about it.’

‘That’s right, I’m afraid. But I can’t thank you enough, Mr …’

‘Bud, just Bud,’ he said. ‘No thanks necessary. Just doing
my job. And Mr Oversall gave us a nice bonus — best steak for Brutus and an extra month’s wages for me. Glad we got to you in time.’

‘So am I.’ I shuddered. If Nessa had lain there much longer, her chances would have been nil.

Sudden activity over on the forecourt drew my attention. The front door had opened and Dr Anderson emerged in a far more leisurely manner than he had arrived.

‘Why there’s Dr Anderson,’ I said in innocent surprise. ‘But this isn’t one of his usual visiting days, is it? What’s going on, do you know?’

‘Oh, usual hysterics and such. Houseful of women — what do you expect?’ He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘One of the silly little cows tried to top herself.’

‘What? Who?’

But he had tugged at Brutus’s chain and they were walking away at a brisk clip. Too brisk for a supposed invalid to catch up with them.

Before I was halfway across the sitting room, I knew I was in trouble.

Gloriana stalked forward, nose quivering, whiskers twitching, fur bristling. Her accusing glare brought on an attack of instant guilt — and I didn’t even know what I had done.

I was going to find out. She advanced relentlessly, upper lip curled back, nose working overtime.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ But I knew.
I
was the matter.

She stopped in front of me, just out of reach, and gave me
that
look. The look of a betrayed bride whose husband has just reeled home reeking of gin and another woman’s perfume. And with lipstick on his collar.

‘Now look —’ I followed her gaze and saw the damning evidence of dog hairs sprinkled all over my kaftan.

That was it. I was guilty of consorting with the enemy. Treason, treachery and betrayal. The evidence was in clear sight, even for those with no sense of smell.

It wasn’t my fault,’ I said. ‘I can explain. I didn’t encourage him. I don’t even like him.’

That’s your story! She turned away, her tail jerking upwards in the feline version of a two-fingered salute, and stalked away. The divorce papers were in the post.

I hurled the offending kaftan into the laundry bag and donned a fresh, uncontaminated one.

She’d come round. Wouldn’t she?