The Cat Who Wasn't a Dog Page 13

  ‘You know,’ Evangeline looked after him thoughtfully, ‘I’ve had it done with more panache, but I think we’ve just been given an eviction notice.’

  ‘Put up or shut up,’ I agreed. ‘Either buy this place or get out.’

  ‘Buy this place … ?’ Evangeline looked around, still thoughtful.

  ‘It’s too far from the centre of things.’ I noted the most important drawback. ‘Transport links aren’t good. If we didn’t have Eddie …’

  ‘And we don’t have Eddie now.’ We looked at each other.

  ‘Poor Eddie. I wonder how he’s getting on. They can’t really enforce that “Don’t leave town” order, can they?’

  ‘I don’t know any more about police powers here than you do, but I know one thing – ’ Evangeline straightened up and squared her shoulders – ‘Eddie needs us – and we’re going to get him out of this mess.’

  ‘Only fair,’ I murmured. ‘As he keeps reminding us, we got him into it.’

  ‘We’re going back to Brighton first thing in the morning,’ Evangeline said. ‘And this time we’ll concentrate on Eddie’s plight. That means we’ll have to discover who killed Mr Stuff Yours – and why.’

  ‘That might not be so easy. He doesn’t sound as though he had a lot of friends who’d be available for questioning.’

  ‘But a lot of people who visited him under cover of night.’ Evangeline nodded wisely. ‘We’ll start with them.’

  ‘How – ?’ The full force of her determination struck me like a blow and I changed in mid-question. ‘How are the trains in the morning?’

  ‘Trains?’ Evangeline’s lip curled in distaste. ‘Mmm, I don’t suppose Jocasta …?’

  ‘I wouldn’t suppose it for a moment,’ I told her. ‘Even if she wasn’t thoroughly fed up with us, Martha needs her working here. We don’t have any luggage to worry about this time, so I’m afraid it’s going to be public transport for us.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two early mornings in a row weren’t doing Evangeline’s temper any good. I wasn’t very happy myself. Only the comforting rattle of the refreshment trolley rolling down the train aisle mollified us.

  ‘We didn’t have any breakfast,’ she reminded me, as she ordered coffee, muffins, a chicken salad sandwich and, for good measure, added two miniatures of brandy which, I was relieved to see, she tucked into her handbag, murmuring, ‘For future reference.’

  I duplicated her order, except for the chicken sandwich, and took Scotch instead of brandy. The future reference was bothering me slightly, it was obvious she knew something I didn’t know … yet.

  We took our time leaving the train. Why not? Brighton was the end of the line, we couldn’t be carried on to some other station if we were too slow. We let the holidaymakers crowding the aisle disembark ahead of us. I sat there envying them, they looked so happy and carefree. Laughing, juggling holdalls and picnic baskets, calling to their kids, looking forward to a day at the seaside, perhaps even a week or more. They didn’t have to worry about things like arson and murder and police restrictions.

  Neither did we – at least, not full time. My spirits rose, buoyed up by all the happy anticipation surrounding us. It was another beautiful day, the sea air was invigorating as we stepped from the train and walked down the platform. Overhead, sunlight beamed through the glass roof, throwing latticed shadows in our path. I tried to decide why this feeling of coming home should have suddenly engulfed me.

  Perhaps it was because of all the bustle and bubbling life around me, so different from the austere and rather bleak air of Docklands. Oh, Docklands was doing its best, but it was still like one of those places where, when you get there, there’s no there there.

  Brighton, on the other hand, as someone had once noted, looked like a town that was helping the police with their inquiries. Perhaps it was slightly shady, but one felt Life’s rich cornucopia was overflowing here.

  We walked out on to the station forecourt, looked past the waiting buses at the low hill leading down to the big shops and the seafront. Smaller shops stretched along each side of the hill, full of souvenirs and tat. Over all was the faint smell of fish and chips and, everywhere, people, people, people.

  ‘This,’ Evangeline said, ‘is more like it!’ We beamed at each other. It was our kind of place.

  ‘We don’t have to go straight back to Matilda’s, do we?’ I pleaded. ‘Not right away?’

  ‘Well …’ Evangeline pretended reluctance, but I could see that the dizzying devil-may-care atmosphere was getting to her. ‘I suppose we can’t really do anything until later, anyway. And we’ve never seen the Royal Pavilion.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I’d love to see the Royal Pavilion! It’s supposed to be fabulous – all that chinoiserie! And the Lanes! I want to explore the Lanes in daylight. With the shops all open, so that we can actually go in and buy something!’

  ‘Missing your retail therapy, are you?’ But she was as excited by the idea as I was. We were just beginning to realize how cut off we had been in Docklands, where it was such a long haul to the West End and back. And when we got back …

  I began to feel more kindly disposed towards Jasper. It was no great tragedy to be evicted from the middle of nowhere. If he could make a healthy profit from his luxury penthouse, why not? We could find a lot livelier places to live. Practically anywhere else, for instance.

  Even here. I looked around with fresh interest, trying to picture it at its worst on a bleak and wet and cold winter’s day, out of season, without all the crowds and colour. Even so, it had a lot more to recommend it than our current stamping grounds. Theatres, cinemas, cabaret venues, places of historical interest, restaurants, cafés, and shops of all sorts and descriptions – quite unlike the boring regulation high street monoliths that were beginning to invade Docklands under the guise of offering consumer goods that people were supposed to want.

  Oh, yes, this was more like it. We meandered along the Lanes, zigzagging from side to side to window shop, price, compare, decide we weren’t really interested and move along to the next enticing display window.

  ‘Interesting, but not interesting enough.’ Evangeline turned away from the glittering array of jewels.

  I agreed. That little silver-and-enamel necklace of violas was shining like a beacon in my memory. It was nicer than anything we had seen so far and quite, quite perfect for Viola. I must go back and get it as soon as possible before – oh, horrible thought! – someone else fell for it and bought it first.

  Still lost in the pleasant dream of Viola opening her birthday present and squealing with delight, it took me several moments to realize what I was looking at when we stopped in front of the next shop.

  Cats! Cats everywhere. Cats in pictures, in pewter, in china, in porcelain, in carved quartz, in every possible combination and variation of the beautiful, the cutesy, the twee, the dignified and the utterly revolting. And everything a cat might desire, from climbing posts to cushioned beds, from catnip mice to munchies, to balls, toys – Oh, and Cho-Cho would just love that little –

  To my horror, I found myself bursting into tears. I didn’t have Cho-Cho. I didn’t have a cat at all.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Exasperated, Evangeline grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the window. ‘Pull yourself together! We have too much to do tonight for you to go to pieces now!’

  ‘I’m trying,’ I sniffed, ‘but – ’ The import of her words got through to me. I’d known she was up to something. ‘What too much? What are we doing tonight?’

  It got cold when the sun went down – and the sun had been down for a long time. Even the moon was thinking of quitting. A chill wind swept from off the water, the smell of wet ashes was beginning to turn my stomach.

  ‘Evangeline – ’ I was tired and frozen and fed up. ‘How much longer do we have to hang around here?’

  ‘How do I know how long it will take?’ Evangeline pulled her cloak tighter around her and tried to pretend she wasn’t shivering. ‘Stop whining
.’

  ‘I’m not whining. I merely asked a simple question. And I’ve got another: suppose he doesn’t show?’

  ‘Then we’ll try again tomorrow night.’

  That was what I was afraid of. ‘He might not come at all. He might have already found whatever he was looking for. If it was anybody looking for anything at all – that’s only your theory.’

  ‘There must be something to be found. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have set fire to the place. Arson is always used to destroy the evidence.’

  ‘Not always. Sometimes it’s done as an insurance fraud.’ We both spoke from the depths of experience our B-movie scripts had given us. I had the uneasy feeling that I wouldn’t like to take either theory to Superintendent Thursby and try to convince him of it.

  Even more uneasily, I recalled the state of that back office just before the fire erupted. I had thought Mr Stuff Yours was just another untidy slob, but it was possible that Evangeline was right and someone had been rootling through the files and paperwork searching for incriminating evidence.

  ‘Anyway, for whatever reason, he made a pretty good job of destruction.’ I looked into the ruins the wavering moonlight revealed: the charred lumps half-hidden in the heaps of ashes strewn across what had once been the floor, the blackened hulks of the bits of wall still standing, the jagged shards of the showroom window. ‘There can’t be anything left to be found.’

  ‘Then why should someone keep returning under cover of darkness?’

  ‘Maybe a hopeful looter? Or, perhaps … I don’t suppose you’d care to consider the possibility that the old boy the other night was right and it really is a ghost?’

  ‘Believe that and you’re as crazy as he is! No, there’s still something here that someone wants desperately – and he’ll keep coming back until he finds it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She could be right. I hoped she wasn’t. If she was, it was very silly of us to have come here by ourselves to face the villain. We tended to overlook the fact that, when we were tiptoeing through the perils in our films, we had a camera crew, stunt people for the dangerous bits and a director to yell ‘Cut!’ when the action got too hairy. Now we were acting out the scripts all on our own – with no cavalry to ride to the rescue if we got into trouble.

  At the very least, we should have brought Eddie with us. It was his neck we were trying to save, after all.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that before? ‘Too soon old, too late schmart,’ as the saying went. If Evangeline tried to drag me over here tomorrow night, I would definitely drag Eddie along –

  ‘What’s that?’ A dark shape was materializing at the far edge of the ruins, seeming to float above them. Maybe Eddie wouldn’t have been so useful, at that. A silver bullet, perhaps, or a –

  ‘Our quarry!’ Evangeline was triumphant. ‘Be quiet – and watch!

  ‘Uuuuh-hoooo ... uuuh-hoooo …’ The sobbing, shuddering moans made the hair prickle at the back of my neck as the figure glided closer.

  Suddenly, the night became even darker. Dimly, I realized that lights had been snapped off behind several previously glowing windows near us – as though their brightness might attract the attention of any roving demons.

  ‘Uuuuh-hooooo …’ The figure glided and swooped, swerved and dipped, in some macabre dance of its own devising, approaching ever nearer. The ashes, disturbed every time it swooped, flurried into the air and were swirled across the debris by the wind.

  My throat began to ache from the fine ash dust and I found I was afraid to clear it. I didn’t want to attract any attention, either.

  The figure stretched up so high it seemed to blot out the watery moon, then contracted and slithered along at ground level, bobbing up and down unevenly.

  Wasn’t there some legendary phantom called the Shape-Shifter? Was that what we had here? But wasn’t this the wrong part of the world for it? I tried to remember which culture had given rise to that particular revenant. Was it Oriental? Asian? Native American?

  Whatever it was, it was getting closer. I found myself backing away. Evangeline wasn’t exactly standing her ground, either. In fact, we were bumping against each other in our haste to put more space between ourselves and the encroaching shape.

  ‘Eeeee-aaaah …’ With an agonized howl, the thing hurled itself lengthwise on top of an ash heap and began scrabbling at it. Clouds of ash sprayed into the air and the wind carried it in our direction.

  I held my breath.

  The figure was twisting and bobbing. If it were human, I would have said it seemed to be tugging at something. With a final gasp of exertion and another explosion of ashes, it pulled that something free and raised it aloft, wailing. The wind gusted and more ashes swirled around us.

  I couldn’t help it, I coughed.

  The dark figure stiffened and turned towards us. Its thin reedy hiss seemed an echo from another world. ‘Who’sss there? Whooo isss it?’

  Was I imagining it, or was there something vaguely familiar in the tonal quality underlying those sibilants? Evangeline had no doubt.

  ‘Cecile!’ Evangeline strode forward briskly. ‘What the devil are you playing at?’

  ‘Fleur …’ Dame Cecile moaned. ‘My darling Fleur … I have nothing of her now … nothing! And we’re opening tomorrow night – I can’t bear it! For nearly twenty years, my little darling sat in the chair beside my dressing table, watching over me as I applied my make-up. I don’t know how I can go on without her! But if I can’t have her dear little body curled up in the chair, then I want her ashes in a box on the mantelpiece. It’s my right!’

  ‘There are nothing but ashes here,’ Evangeline said. ‘How do you expect to separate hers from the rest?’

  ‘I’ve found them! They’re here! Where I found her dear little spine!’ Dame Cecile threw out one hand dramatically. From it dangled an improbably long chain of jointed bones. Evangeline and I exchanged sceptical glances.

  ‘But the little mutt was – er, I mean, Fleur was a Pekinese,’ Evangeline pointed out. ‘Not a dachshund.’

  ‘You may sneer, if you like,’ Dame Cecile said. ‘But I think – I know! – this is my dear little Fleur!’

  There was something lumpy in the ashes at my feet. Absently, I stirred them with a toe, then wished I hadn’t. They fell away to reveal a large claw. I remembered the golden eagle that had hung from the ceiling. And then I remembered what had been coiled in a nearby corner.

  ‘Think again, Cecile,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you odds that’s the remains of the hooded cobra.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Having poured the contents of our miniatures down Dame Cecile’s gullet before we could persuade her to move, we took the precaution of stopping at the all-night off-licence for fresh supplies on the way back to Matilda’s.

  At which point, Dame Cecile had an attack of hauteur, shook away our supporting arms and insisted that she was quite capable of climbing the stairs by herself. Not only that, she wanted to be alone.

  We stood uneasily at the foot of the stairs and watched her weave her way up, prepared to do our best to catch her if she fell. It was just as well that she didn’t; it had been a long day and our best wouldn’t have been very good.

  ‘Was that Soroya?’ Matilda appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘No, it was Cecile,’ Evangeline answered.

  ‘Where’s Soroya?

  ‘Who knows?’ I shrugged.

  ‘Who cares?’ Evangeline went one better – and truer.

  ‘I don’t care. Not about her.’ Matilda descended the stairs slowly. ‘But I don’t like to go to bed while she’s still out. I know – only too well! – that she has her own key, but she never bothers to lock the door behind her. I want to know that the house is secure for the night when I go to bed.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Evangeline approved, stifling a yawn.

  ‘What time is it? I’m afraid I dozed off.’

  ‘Ummm …’ We exchanged glances, tossing a mental coin. I lost. ‘It, um, seems to be about one thi
rty.’

  ‘One thirty? And Cecile is just getting in!’ She stopped, seemed to listen to herself, then gave a self-deprecating little laugh. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an outraged parent, but Cecile must realize we’re opening tomorrow – tonight. What is she doing running around until this hour?’

  We didn’t even exchange glances on that one. Neither of us was going to do any explaining.

  ‘Both of them – ’ Matilda continued her plaint – ‘Cecile and Soroya – in and out. Out until all hours. And not together. Oh, no, that would be too simple. I’m forever waiting up for one or the other. Believe me, houseguests are hell!

  ‘Oh, er, present company excepted, of course. I didn’t mean you …’ She let the valiant lie trail off. It was one thirty in the morning and we had just come in, too.

  At least we’d brought Cecile with us. We ought to get Brownie points for that.

  ‘Lock up and go back to bed.’ Evangeline did not bother to stifle her yawn this time. ‘Soroya won’t be back now. The last we saw of her, she was in Trafalgar Square, prepared to go off and make someone else’s life miserable. With any luck, they’ve killed her.’

  I wish Evangeline wouldn’t joke about things like that. It was too close to home.

  ‘Matilda may complain about her houseguests – ’ it was still rankling with Evangeline – ‘but she doesn’t have such great luck with her housekeepers, either.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ We were in my room, having voted ourselves a nightcap, since we were exhausted and chilled to the bone from our long vigil. ‘What did happen to the last housekeeper – the one before that poor Australian woman in the cellar? Do you know if she left of her own free will? I mean – ’

  ‘Or was she pushed, you mean.’ Evangeline poured another drink. ‘I understand she left in the time-honoured way. Flouncing out in a towering fury for reasons best known to herself.’