Nine Lives to Murder Read online

  Nine Lives to Murder

  Marian Babson

  To

  All the cats in our lives—

  and the life in our cats

  1

  He lay still. Absolutely still. The cold hard surface beneath him was becoming colder and harder by the moment, but he could not bear the thought of moving, of getting up and seeking the deep luxurious comfort of his own bed.

  It seemed to him that he had tried moving at some point in the recent past and the pain had been so excruciating that he had abandoned the idea, perhaps for ever. Rather than face pain like that again, he would lie here like a marble statue for the rest of time. At the very least, he would lie doggo until he was able to pinpoint the source of the pain and remember where it had come from … and why.

  Lie doggo … ugh! What a revolting concept. What a disgusting word. He made a little noise deep in his throat; it sounded almost like a growl.

  Had he had a heart attack? That was always a prime consideration in a man of his age and, well, size. He had given up cigarettes, after a mortal struggle, some years ago. But it had not been so easy to forgo the steaks, the clotted cream, the claret and burgundy and all those delicious little nibbles at all those Opening Night—yes, and Closing Night—parties.

  This time, his stomach growled.

  But his heart remained steady. It was beating slowly but sturdily, no hint of pain radiating from it. No, something deep within himself told him that a heart attack could be ruled out.

  What else, then? Wait … wait … something was flickering at the back of his mind, trying to get through to him. A faint auditory memory of noise: voices, shouts, wood clattering, an almighty crash, a woman screaming.

  An accident. That must have been it. He was conscious of a feeling of relief. Not, then, the betrayal from within of a weakened artery or failing organ, but an accident. An accident was understandable. Acceptable.

  Was it? What kind of accident? A car crash? He had always warned Miranda that she drove too fast, but she was moderately careful. Geoffrey, on the other hand, drove like an accident looking for a place to happen. Surely he hadn’t been fool enough to step into any vehicle that had his son at the wheel?

  Where was Miranda? Why wasn’t she here? He caught himself just as he was about to stir restlessly. No, mustn’t move. Wasn’t safe to move. Not yet. But where was everybody? Where was Miranda? Where, even, was Geoffrey?

  Had they all abandoned him? Crashed and run? Leaving him here, perhaps thrown clear of the wreckage and out of sight in some gully while rescuers conveyed the others, unconscious, to the nearest hospital? Had the rescuers overlooked him?

  Or was he the sole survivor? Thrown clear while the others perished in a fiery holocaust? What others? Who had been with him? Where had they been going?

  Muddy thinking. He wasn’t outdoors; he could feel a building sheltering him; smell the familiar smells of the theatre.

  Probably a slight concussion. He could hope it was slight. His head ached abominably, but he didn’t feel strong enough to get up and search for some aspirins. Moving might make it worse. Better to lie absolutely still and try to remember what had happened.

  Miranda had figured prominently in it. He could vaguely remember her screaming. ‘Alley cat! You have the morals of an alley cat!’

  Oh dear, she’d found out about Cynthia. Or possibly Jilly. Impossible to keep a secret for long around here. Theatre people gossiped too much.

  She’d been throwing things, too. Had she hit him? Unlikely. Her aim wasn’t that good. And his agility was legendary. Ten years of living with Miranda had given him a set of reflexes that were the envy of young men half his age. All their jogging and gym workouts couldn’t produce the flexibility gained by having to sidestep the blows and missiles of an irate woman.

  But something had hit him. A throb—more of a recollection than a current pain—somewhere in the middle of his spine told him that. Then there had been a strong sensation of falling … the crash … the pain … the screaming …

  How long ago? Hours rather than minutes. Hours? … It couldn’t be. They wouldn’t have left him lying on the cold floor all that time.

  Unless he was mortally injured. Couldn’t be moved. Broken back, perhaps? Too dangerous to move him. Specialists flying in from all over the world to assess the situation and give their opinions.

  He was Winstanley Fortescue, leading Shakespearean actor, but also brilliant comedian in modern farces, as well as a sensitive and thoughtful interpreter of the latest drama, whether commercial or avant-garde …

  Husband of the glamorous post-ingénue, Miranda Everton, for the past eight years; father (by a very early and ill-fated marriage) of the brilliant young juvenile, Geoffrey Fortescue (treading, perhaps a trifle too closely, on his father’s heels, but that could be dealt with in due course. Young Pup!)

  Winstanley Fortescue, not to put too fine a point on it, was a Titan of the English Stage. Oh yes, they’d come running from all over the world to put him together again after his fall.

  But where were they? Why was he lying here alone?

  And where was ‘here’? He risked a quick split-second raising of his eyelids. On the floor, just as he had suspected.

  It wasn’t right. There was something wrong about it; deeply wrong; disturbingly wrong. His eyes had closed again automatically and he shrank from trying to force them open again.

  If only he could think. Think properly, his mind unclouded by the thundering headache.

  Headache … he tested the idea. No, not the same as a hangover. He hadn’t tied one on and crept under a table to sleep it off since the early days in Rep—and not very often then. He placed too much value on The Instrument to risk ruining his health. No, no, there had been an accident, a terrible freak accident.

  Even so, he couldn’t lie here all day … or was it all night? He was feeling better … slightly better. The pain seemed to have localized now; it was all compressed into that harsh throbbing headache. He might just risk moving. Slowly and carefully.

  He began with his fingers, flexing them cautiously. They seemed to be in working order, but felt vaguely awkward, as though he had something caught between each one. Of course! For an instant the image flickered through his mind of his fingers clawing at the curtains as he fell, trying to break his fall. Shreds of the material must still be twisted round them.

  Feeling slightly comforted, he extended his arms, then relaxed them again. Yes, everything all right there. With more anxiety, he stretched one leg, then the other. So far, so good.

  He rested then, trying to come to terms with his greatest terror before testing it. Although you could move your arms and legs, your back could still be broken.

  Now … courage to the sticking point … try.

  His head rolled backward … good, neck all right. His back arched smoothly and without undue pain. Nothing wrong there. The tip of his tail twitched.

  The … tip? Of his … tail?… Twitched?

  His eyes flew open. He raised his hands in front of them. One soft furry white paw and one soft furry black paw seemed to swim in the air before him. He flexed his fingers and claws sprang out from between the small delicate pads.

  ‘Miranda!’ he roared. ‘Miranda!’

  It came out: ‘Mirreeow!’

  2

  ‘What was that?’ Entering the star dressing-room she shared with her husband, Miranda Everton Fortescue paused and looked around.

  ‘What was what?’ Davy Bentham asked.

  Immediately behind her, the small protective group huddled closer, as though they could shield her from the nightmare that had already happened.

  ‘I didn’t hear—’ Tottie Clayton broke off as the noise came again.

 
‘Mirreeow!’ They’d heard it often enough before, why should it send a cold chill down their spines now?

  ‘Monty!’ Tottie cried. ‘It’s poor old Monty!’

  ‘Monty! Where is he?’ Miranda started towards the sound, towards the stage.

  ‘Never mind the cat.’ Davy tried to steer her into the dressing-room. ‘He’s all right. You need some rest.’

  ‘No!’ Miranda struggled to break free of his grasp. ‘He might be badly injured. You saw what happened. He might—’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ Tottie said quickly. ‘You go with Davy. I’ll bring him in to you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Davy succeeded in moving her into the dressing-room and eased her down on to the chaise-longue. ‘You just worry about yourself for a bit. You’ve had a nasty shock. Let me get you a drink.’

  ‘We could all use a drink,’ Cynthia Vernon said querulously. ‘Miranda isn’t the only one who got a shock. What do we do about the show now?’

  ‘It’s not up to me. There’s a big advance sale, but without Win …’ Davy shrugged. ‘We might be able to postpone the opening for a while if…’ He stopped unhappily, letting them all finish the sentence for themselves.

  If it looks as though Win might pull through …

  If Win is able to work again …

  If Win makes it …

  ‘See to the drinks, Davy, please.’ Miranda’s voice betrayed her struggle to keep from breaking down. ‘If Win has left anything in the hospitality cabinet.’

  ‘Right away!’ He got her drink first, then ranged the bottles on top of the cabinet, leaving the others to help themselves.

  ‘God, what a mess!’ Geoffrey poured a large Scotch with a shaking hand. ‘Do you think I should let Mother know? And Jennet?’

  ‘It would be kinder than letting them find out through the media.’ Miranda sipped at her drink with an air of conscious restraint. ‘I’ll ring Antoinette myself, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, that might be best.’ Their eyes met in tacit recognition of the difficult situation.

  ‘Here he is!’ Tottie entered, carrying a large black and white cat. ‘Still a bit groggy, poor old boy. But there doesn’t seem to be any lasting damage.’

  ‘You can’t be sure,’ Miranda said. ‘That was a terrible knock he took. It might be better to have the vet check him out.’

  The cat growled.

  ‘Be careful,’ Tottie warned. ‘He understands more than you think. Don’t you, old boy?’ She cuddled him, nuzzling her head against his.

  ‘Oh, forget the tatty old thing!’ Cynthia snapped. ‘We have serious problems here. We can’t waste time worrying about a cat.’

  The cat narrowed his eyes and stared at her thoughtfully.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if it were your cat,’ Tottie said.

  ‘The Duchess of Malfi is a pedigree Persian.’ Cynthia was at her frostiest. ‘There’s no comparison.’

  ‘I’ll take responsibility for Monty,’ Davy said resignedly. ‘He’s the theatre cat and I’m the Stage Manager—he must come under my department—everything else does. Just let him rest a bit and, if he doesn’t perk up within a reasonable time, I’ll take him to the—’ he hesitated and glanced at Monty—‘the V-E-T.’

  The cat twitched his whiskers. It gave him the appearance of sneering.

  ‘I think he’s learned to spell,’ Tottie said. ‘At least, certain words.’

  ‘Will you forget the damned cat!’ Cynthia snarled. ‘What are we going to do about the show?’

  ‘The thing is, dear,’ Tottie said, ‘it’s easier to worry about the cat than the show. That’s out of our hands right now.’

  The telephone burred sharply, startling them all. Miranda started for it, then faltered. ‘It might be the hospital—’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ Davy snatched up the telephone, but hesitated and sent an imploring glance heavenwards before he spoke.

  ‘Good evening. Chesterton Theatre … Oh, hello, Jilly.’

  Miranda made a brief dismissive gesture and returned to the chaise-longue.

  ‘Sorry, Jilly.’ Davy took up his cue. ‘Afraid Win isn’t available right now. No, nor Miranda either. You’ll have to make do with me.’

  Cynthia poured herself another drink, the top of the bottle rattling angrily against the rim of the glass.

  ‘Really? Where did you hear that, Jilly?’ Davy covered the mouthpiece with one hand and turned to Miranda. ‘Do we want to make any statement to the Press?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Miranda leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘And never to her.’

  The cat mewled plaintively and began struggling to escape Tottie’s arms.

  ‘Look, Jilly, it’s all a bit chaotic here at the moment. I can’t really talk now … What? Who told you that? … No, no, I can’t confirm anything—I didn’t say I denied it … not exactly—’ Davy squirmed uncomfortably as the voice at the other end of the line chattered at him remorselessly.

  ‘Look, Jilly, I’m only the Stage Manager. Let me get someone with more authority to ring you back … I promise … as soon as possible. What? … Well, yes, there was a bit of an accident, but it’s too early to … I can’t really—’ He pulled the telephone away from his ear and looked at it incredulously.

  ‘She hung up on me,’ he told the others.

  ‘Well, that fat’s in the fire now,’ Tottie said fatalistically.

  ‘A bit of an accident!’ Cynthia laughed harshly.’ ‘Win’s on a life-support machine in the Intensive Care Unit, for God’s sake!’

  There was a thud as the cat hit the ground. He staggered across the floor, legs not quite coordinating, and sprang into Miranda’s lap. He lurched up face to face with her, his claws digging into the soft fabric of her blouse as he clutched at her.

  ‘Mirreeow …’ he wailed. ‘Mirreeow!’

  3

  It was dark when he opened his eyes again. Dark inside the large familiar room and dark outside. It took him a few moments to become aware of this. He could see perfectly well, if a bit simplistically.

  A bit … A long shudder rippled through him. The events of the past few hours began returning. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. He’d been having a nightmare.

  That’s right. A nightmare. There was Miranda’s dear face on the pillow beside him. He’d wake her and they’d have a good laugh about it.

  He stretched out his arm to shake her, then stared unbelievingly at the long furry extension that had moved in answer to his brain’s command. He let his head fall back on the pillow with a low moan. He was awake—and he was still trapped in the nightmare.

  Or was this some sort of punishment for the life he had led? Had he died and been reincarnated as the alley cat Miranda had accused him of being in their last quarrel?

  But—he felt a flash of indignation—surely when one was reincarnated, one returned at the birth of the new being. Why should he have made his return in an already existing body? A second-hand body. And a cat’s body at that.

  It might have been worse, some corner of his mind suggested. He might have come back as a cockroach. He had always been revolted by Kafka. He’d even scorned archy and mehitabel.

  So why had he wound up as mehitabel? Or, rather, as Montmorency, the theatre cat? Mind you, he’d always had a soft spot for old Monty, but this was carrying it too far. What had gone wrong? If some Day of Judgement had come and sentence had been passed upon him, why couldn’t he remember it?

  But wait … he wasn’t dead yet. He knew that because he had heard them all talking. He was still alive. He was hitched up to a life-support machine in an Intensive Care Unit.

  Or … Monty was.

  4

  The cat woke Miranda with his restlessness. She stirred and whimpered softly, trying to hold on to sleep, some instinct warning her that consciousness would be too unpleasant to face. She had almost succeeded in sinking back into deep slumber when the cat yowled, as though in agony. It brought her sitting upright, heart racing.

  The cat was sit
ting up, too, looking around with dazed bewilderment. Definitely, she must get the vet in to see to him first thing in the morning. The poor creature was probably concussed out of his tiny mind.

  Realizing that she was awake, the cat moved closer, rubbing against her, uttering small sounds of distress.

  ‘Poor old boy.’ She cuddled him absently. ‘You miss Win, don’t you? So do I, bastard that he was—is. Don’t worry—’ she was speaking to herself more than to the cat now. ‘We’ll get him back.’

  The agonizing noises came again. Miranda reached out and snapped on the bedside lamp. The poor creature must be in genuine pain. She wondered whether she dared disturb the vet at this hour. Then she realized that she didn’t know the vet’s number. She would have to disturb Davy first to get it. And poor Davy needed his sleep; he, too, had had a rough day.

  ‘Mirreeow,’ the cat wailed, trying to burrow into her side. ‘Mirreeow.’

  ‘Poor old Monty, you never knew what hit you, did you?’ She stroked him, her fingers probing gently for evidence of broken bones. He was moving more easily than he had been earlier and nothing seemed too obviously wrong. She had heard that cats had great recuperative powers, but could she depend on that?

  Monty was in great distress and making her feel guiltier by the minute. They should have called the vet for him immediately, but there had been all the horror of Win lying unconscious on the floor and the rush to get an ambulance and follow it to the hospital. Poor Monty had been lost and forgotten in the shuffle. Then, when they had found him again upon returning to the theatre, they had been in the later stages of shock, with the contingent exhaustion and lassitude that made even the simplest decisions seem too hard to cope with. It had been easier to bring him home with her, which was what he had seemed to want, and worry about everything else in the morning.

  But not this early in the morning. She glanced at the tiny enamelled clock on the bedside table. Four a.m., traditionally the hour of least resistance, when the tides of life ebbed to their lowest and the dying slipped away.