Nine Lives to Murder Read online

  Damn the consequences! He leapt for the bed. She couldn’t complain; she was here illegally, too.

  It all happened at once: Jilly smothered a scream. The eyes of the inert figure opened and he stared uncomprehendingly at Jilly.

  ‘Win, darling—you’re awake!’

  Then he saw Monty. He stretched out towards the cat, his body thrashing with the uncoordinated movements of someone who did not know how to control the strange appendages he found at his command. As he lurched for the cat, tubes and wires rocked violently, the patterns on the monitor screen went berserk, high-pitched electronic bleeps gave the alarm that would bring the emergency medical team running.

  ‘Hell!’ Jilly backed away; the cat leaped back to the floor. He didn’t reckon his chances if an Instrument operated by Monty got him in its clutches.

  Outside, running footsteps cut off any hope of escape in that direction. Jilly looked around wildly. There was no place to hide in the room.

  She dashed for the window and threw it open, hurling herself into the ivy and hoping it would hold. The cat was right behind her. Together they scrabbled down to the ground.

  ‘You rotten little sod!’Jilly snarled as they landed in the flowerbed. ‘You ruined everything. I could kill you!’

  Equally furious, he glared back at her before turning and running into the bushes. She’d like to kill him? Didn’t she understand what she had seen?

  The proof that someone else had already tried.

  8

  Because of the telephone call, Miranda was late for the meeting. The others were already assembled on stage, in chairs spread out across the length of the stage, as though for a first read-through. The stagehands had pushed the partly-constructed scenery back against the wall and were standing beside it, watching the others and waiting.

  Antoinette was there, wearing a black-and-white outfit that made her look more like a magpie than the ex-wife in semi-mourning she so obviously intended. Jennet was beside her (surely, it was unnecessary to drag the child away from school for this?), looking ill at ease and wary. There was an empty chair on the other side of Antoinette, but Geoffrey had had the good sense to distance himself. He was at the far side of the stage, talking to Peter Farley, frowning portentously, projecting ‘two men deep in vitally important conversation’ and avoiding his mother’s increasingly furious eye as she tried to signal him to her side.

  Some women didn’t deserve to have children! Antoinette was using her children as stage dressing for whatever part she had cast herself in, the better to manipulate everyone’s emotions.

  ‘Miranda.’ Davy came forward and took her hand, leading her to the empty chair centre stage. ‘Any news?’

  ‘The hospital rang—that’s why I’m late. Win … rallied, but only briefly. They don’t know whether it’s a good sign or not …’

  Being cautious, they thought not. They had tried to discourage any hope on her part with their bleak medical vocabulary. Brain stem … motor responses … vital signs … automatic reflexes …

  She became aware that everyone had gone quiet, shamelessly eavesdropping, and she pitched her voice accordingly. It was not the sort of information one wished to keep repeating. Let them all hear it now.

  ‘He seems to have slipped back into the coma again.’

  A murmur of sympathy swept the stage and reached out to enfold her. Comforting concerned glances were directed at her, silently assuring her of love and support. They were all on her side—and Win’s.

  Or were they? Suddenly she was aware of a violent jolt of emotion flashing through the atmosphere. Someone was neither concerned nor supportive. Someone was seething with repressed rage and hostility. Someone was furious at the thought that Win might still stand a chance of recovery. But who?

  The obvious ill-wisher was Antoinette. Curiously, the hostility did not seem to be emanating from her—at least, not any more than usual. Antoinette sat with eyes downcast—except when she beamed fury at the son who was not playing the game by sitting on her other side in support of his grieving and hard-done-by mother. Beside her, young Jennet looked increasingly embarrassed and terrified.

  Abruptly, Miranda recognized the role Antoinette was playing: the grieving widow at the reading of the will.

  But Antoinette was merely the ex-wife and Win was not dead. Not yet. Not at all, if medical science and the experts Miranda had commanded to his side had anything to do with it.

  But … had anyone else had anything to do with it? For the first time, she questioned the circumstances of Win’s fall, forcing herself to remember …

  It had been one of those fragmented rehearsals, with Rufus going from one cast member to another, blocking out movements which would later be integrated into the ensemble scene leading to the first act curtain. Davy was by his side, taking notes.

  The setting was a drawing-room in Victorian Edinburgh on Christmas Eve. Win, as paterfamilias, had just led his brood home from some festivity in the town, which meant that they were wearing full evening dress. Miranda played his new young wife; Geoffrey, his son by his dear-departed first wife; Cynthia, his sister, who knew all the family secrets; and Peter Farley, a mysterious American friend of Cynthia’s who had somehow insinuated himself into the family gathering.

  Serpent in the Heather was loosely based on a little-known nineteenth-century Edinburgh poisoning case. The author had taken his oath that there were no descendants still alive who might make trouble—and then left for a Hollywood scripting assignment, promising to return for the First Night.

  The key scene was that first act curtain. Having returned in high spirits (in every sense of the words), Win decided it was time to trim the Christmas tree.

  The battle was still on—had been on—was still on, as to whether Win should be wearing a kilt or tartan trews. Needless to say, Win favoured trews; Rufus insisted a kilt was the only proper formal attire, especially with that ruffled, lace-cuffed shirt. It was Win’s contention that the front rows were getting enough value for money without a peep up his skirts as well, as he mounted the stepladder to place the star on top of the Christmas tree.

  To help decide the issue, Tottie had run up a practice kilt for Win to wrap over his trousers. Eddie, Bob and Woody, the stagehands who were working in a welter of poles and trellis slats as they cannibalized an old rose arbour set into the conservatory opening off the drawing-room, had sportingly donated an eight-foot pole. Win had crammed the pole into an umbrella stand already full of umbrellas and walking sticks which he had commandeered from the star dressing-room to stand in for the huge Christmas tree that would dominate the finished set.

  Win had then experimented with various ways of going up and down the stepladder; dashing up, skipping up, with a jaunty air, with a thoughtful air, soberly and not so soberly—with a careful eye to the disposition of his kilt with each varying movement.

  The others had been busy with their own several parts: Miranda was engaging in a delicate flirtation with Peter Farley; Cynthia was quietly expiring in a corner from the effects of a poison administered by persons unknown at a time unknown; and Geoffrey was torn between a sudden anxiety about his aunt and the demands of his father who kept requiring various ornaments to be passed to him to trim the tree.

  They had all had their backs to Win when the accident happened.

  But it was not the first time Win had been darting up and down the stepladder. He was as sure-footed as a cat, with no trace of faltering or awkwardness; his only uncertainty had been about the kilt.

  Why, then, had he fallen off?

  Perhaps they ought to check the stepladder to see if anyone might have put grease on one of the steps. It might have been intended as a joke, but it had been misjudged and produced dire consequences. If that were so, naturally no one was going to admit to it now. Pranksters abounded in the theatre; in fact, Geoffrey had been rather notorious for practical jokes in his very recent teenage years. Until Win had read the Riot Act to him. Had Geoffrey done some backsliding and thought
it would be hilarious to play a trick that would undermine his father’s dignity and authority?

  No … probably not. Thoughtfully, she exonerated Geoffrey. Like his father, he was theatre through and through. He would have done nothing to jeopardize the production—and he would have realized that a fall would bring the risk of a sprained ankle or broken bone, if nothing worse. Injury to the star would have meant the postponement, or even cancellation, of the play. And this play was Geoffrey’s big chance. A plum role, opposite his own father, giving him a chance to show his paces. No, Geoffrey would have done nothing to blow this chance.

  Antoinette, however, wouldn’t care about the production. Not if she had a chance to get at Win. And one needn’t work in the theatre—or be present at all—to arrange for an accident. She had already dropped in several times to visit Geoffrey when Win wasn’t around. No one would have thought anything of it if she’d wandered about a bit, looking at the stage setting, the props … and what else?

  She could not be sure that Win would fall into her trap—or that it would be fatal. Perhaps she didn’t care whether it was or not. She might simply have wanted to hurt and upset him. On the other hand, she might have been acting with extreme malice—and she might have set a number of other traps in case the first one didn’t have the desired effect.

  But again, there was the question: would Antoinette have jeopardized her son’s future just to get some sort of revenge on her ex-husband? And, if she carried that deep a grudge, why hadn’t she done something about it before now?

  ‘All right, everybody,’ Rufus Tuxford said. ‘Shall we settle down and have our meeting?’

  Geoffrey reluctantly assumed his place at his mother’s side. The stagehands ranged themselves along the back of the set. The murmur of voices died away and faces turned expectantly to the producer.

  ‘First of all,’ Rufus said, ‘I know we all want to extend our utmost sympathy to Miranda—’

  Antoinette sniffed.

  ‘And to Jennet and Geoffrey,’ he added hurriedly. ‘And, er, Antoinette.’

  Miranda restrained a sniff of her own. She settled for a patient forgiving smile which made Rufus wince.

  ‘Right, the next question I know you all want the answer to is: what’s going to happen to the show?’

  A murmur of agreement rose from the assembly. Anxious faces, trying not to look too anxious, watched him, waiting.

  ‘Right. As you know, I’ve been holding informal discussions and the general agreement is that The Show Must Go On. Miranda …?’ This time it was his face that was anxious as he turned to her.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed, knowing how much the answer would mean to the others. ‘If we can …’

  ‘We’re still in the early stages of rehearsal. Cynthia and Peter have been doubling as understudies for you and Win. I’m glad to say that Peter is willing and able to step in—until Win can rejoin the cast.’

  Peter Farley nodded, keeping up the fiction that Win had nothing more serious wrong with him than a couple of broken bones and needed nothing more than a short convalescence.

  ‘And …’ Rufus hesitated. ‘You’ll stay with us, Miranda, playing your own part?’

  Miranda took a deep breath and nodded. What else could she do? She’d go mad without something to keep her busy. She couldn’t just hang about waiting to see if Win rallied again. And, from what the doctors had been trying to put across to her delicately, if he did begin to recover, it could be a long process. Long and expensive. They would need all the money she could earn. She had to keep on working.

  ‘Good! We might be able to arrange a short provincial tour before bringing it into the West End. That would give Win a bit more time to recover.’

  And it would also give Peter Farley more time to work himself into the part. This was a big opportunity for him. And he needed one. Stepping into the leading part would make all the difference to him now that he was rebuilding his life in England.

  Peter had been rising steadily in his career when he met and married a girl from Texas and returned with her to that State. He had carved out a comfortable niche for himself in a repertory company there and done well for several years until the marriage broke up. Packing his bags and a few souvenirs, he had returned to London to find himself almost forgotten and a whole new wave of young talent competing for the few jobs available. He’d tightened his belt and begun doing the rounds.

  But the West End isn’t particularly kind to those who have abandoned it for pastures which turned out to be not so much greener, after all. The returning prodigal was expected to re-apprentice himself, start almost at the beginning again—with too many years lost and no guarantee of eventual success.

  Peter’s ability to slide into an American accent had won him the part in Serpent in the Heather. His willingness to double as understudy also helped. And now that he was stepping into the leading role, he would reap far more publicity than he normally would have. The media would flock to what was already being called ‘The Fortescue Family Play’ to see how it would fare without the senior Fortescue. It would showcase Peter Farley as nothing else could.

  ‘Oh, Rufus,’ Cynthia called. ‘Who’s going to do Peter’s part now? Do you have any ideas?’ She sounded as though she might, if he didn’t.

  ‘I’m going to try for Jack Long,’ Rufus said. ‘I’ve heard he’d like to take a leave of absence from that Soap and get some more stage experience. He’ll be great—and we’ll have the added bonus of the audience he’ll attract.’

  ‘Oh … fine,’ Cynthia said. ‘He should be all right.’

  ‘Right!’ Rufus exuded relief. Evidently he had been more anxious than he appeared, but now that everyone was responding as he had wished, he was fully in command again. ‘Then we’ll start rehearsing Peter right away. Geoffrey, if you’d stay and run through the scenes with him …?’

  ‘Of course,’ Geoffrey said.

  ‘Geoffrey, I want you to come with me to see your father!’ Antoinette’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘He should have his family around his bedside at a time like this.’

  ‘I’m not sure Win is allowed visitors,’ Miranda murmured.

  ‘Nonsense! They can’t keep us out! We have the right to be there. You can’t stop us.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you,’ Miranda said. She would let St Monica’s take care of that.

  9

  He had fallen asleep suddenly and against all his intentions, but now he was awake and trying to convince himself that he was really awake, properly awake. In the early days of their marriage, Antoinette had fallen under the influence of the first of a series of gurus. It had been very much the fashion then and he had not known enough to mark it as the beginning of her increasing instability. For a while, he had gone along with her to various meetings and had even been given a mantra of his own, which he occasionally muttered under emotional duress.

  He had devised a new mantra now: I am Winstanley Fortescue, a star, at the height of my powers and my profession. When I open my eyes, I will be home in bed, awaking from a nightmare. I am Winstanley Fortescue …

  He opened his eyes. He was still under the bushes on the grounds of St Monica’s. Worse, he was cold and hungry. And it was going to rain. Any minute. He knew it. He no longer questioned how he knew such things. He just did. It came with the territory—this strange furry territory he inhabited.

  That was what had wakened him: the knowledge of the impending storm and the instinct to find better shelter. He would not have time to reach home before the storm broke. The Chesterton Theatre was even farther away. He allowed himself to reach the decision he had already made:

  He had to get back inside St Monica’s. Back to himself.

  He studied the building. A clump of torn-away ivy marked the window he and Jilly had tumbled through, but the window was firmly closed now. So was the front door. He was unlikely to have a repeat of the sort of luck that had allowed him to slip in with the new patient last night. And the darknes
s had helped.

  The bushes rustled above him as the first large raindrops fell. A chill wind eddied along the ground, rippling his fur. He rose hastily, stretched and gathered himself together for the dash across the open lawn to the shelter of the overhanging eaves.

  The back door. The kitchen. The knowledge came to him unbidden. Pressing close to the building, he followed the sweep of red brick and ivy. The smell of food grew stronger as he rounded the corner and became the magnet that drew him on.

  Chicken! They were cooking chicken! He loved chicken! A faint plaintive yowl rose in his throat as, everything else forgotten, he stopped at the back door and stared up at it longingly. From the cracks around and beneath the door, delicious smells seeped out. His stomach contracted with hunger.

  Yes, it was probably creamed chicken on the menu tonight. He had gathered from Miranda that creamed chicken appeared on the menu with monotonous regularity, partly because so many of the patients were in for various abdominal operations and partly because certain of the other patients were not to be trusted with knives. The strength of their complaints about the menu was a measure of their progress towards recovery. Silly people. Creamed chicken seemed like heaven to him right now.

  How could he get at it? Earlier in the day there might have been deliveries coming to the back door, but it was too late for that now. No chance of slipping in with an unwary tradesperson.

  The window-sill was an easy leap and gave an enticing view into the kitchen. The big Aga held a variety of pots and pans with steam rising from each of them. A salmon was poaching in a long low utensil; now that he had seen it, he could differentiate that scent from the others. Delicious, all of them, delicious. His stomach contracted again.

  He pressed closer against the window-pane, strange little plaintive yodelings escaping his throat. He could not seem to find the control mechanism to stop the sounds. Monty had always been a great vocalist, he recalled.

  A sudden gust of wind slammed a downpour of rain against the window-sill and all over him. He gave an involuntary yowl of protest.