Only the Cat Knows Page 6

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ I gave her a rueful smile this time. ‘If I can’t remember what I was like before, how can I know how much I’ve changed?’

  ‘I envy you,’ she said. ‘Here you are: young, pretty, bright, with the future before you and no past. You’re like a blank page.’

  That’s right. And everybody was queuing up to scribble all over me. I waited for her contribution.

  ‘You know —’ Sure enough, it came. ‘I could do a lot with you.’ Her eyes narrowed assessingly. ‘I never did think you made enough of yourself. That mousy hair, those fade-into-the-background clothes, no make-up. You just weren’t trying!’

  Interesting — and confirming my own impression. Nessa knew as much about costume and make-up as anyone in the business. As children, our favourite games had involved the dressing-up box and the tray of discarded lipsticks, eyeshadows and liners and all the other bits and pieces of make-up we had scrounged from older relatives and friends.

  There was even a time when Nessa’s ambition had been to design costumes and stage settings. She had got off to a good start and then something had happened. A broken romance, I assumed, although I was on the other side of the world by then, so we couldn’t discuss things as we used to. Not that Nessa had shown any sign of wanting to talk about it.

  But something had daunted — if not quite broken — her spirit and the next thing I heard, she had taken this secretarial job with Oversall. Licking her wounds? Skulking in her tent? Whatever, she had retreated from the world as she knew it — and found herself in a far more dangerous one. No wonder she had tried to fade into the background.

  ‘Vanessa!’ A hand was weaving back and forth in front of my face. ‘Are you there?’ Candy’s voice was sharp, annoyed. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Sorry …’ I swayed gracefully. ‘I … I’m not used to standing for so long …’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ But there was no contrition in her voice. ‘I should have realized that. Let’s go and have a drink. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, as we headed for the library. ‘Were we close friends?’

  ‘No.’ She surprised me, the first not to claim to have been my bestest closest buddy. The first honest answer I had heard around this place.

  ‘No, we weren’t … then.’ She turned and smiled, the tips of her sharp white teeth gleaming below the painted curve of her lips. Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear …

  ‘Not then. But we can be … now.’

  ‘Here they are,’ Monica said. ‘We’d nearly given you up. I was afraid we’d overtired you yesterday’

  ‘Have a drink.’ Ivor started forward, a glass in his hand.

  ‘Thank you, I’d love a sherry’

  ‘But —’ He stopped short, looking down at the glass. ‘But you had Scotch yesterday,’ he spluttered indignantly. I’ve got it all ready for you.’

  I noticed that — which was why I’d opted for sherry. A girl can’t be too careful these days. Not with drugs like Rohypnol and types like Ivor floating around.

  ‘Tonight I’d prefer sherry,’ I said firmly. The sherry bottle was full and still sealed.

  ‘But —’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Ivor, give her what she wants,’ Monica said impatiently. ‘A person doesn’t have to have the same thing every night.’

  ‘I’ll have a sherry, too, for a change,’ Candy chimed in, giving me a conspiratorial look which was not lost on Ivor. ‘I think it’s a mistake for people to get too set in their ways.’

  ‘All right! All right!’ Quietly fuming, Ivor went back to the drinks table, slammed down the unwanted Scotch and began making far too much clatter as he rummaged around for the knife to cut the seal on the sherry bottle. Having done that, he pulled out the sherry glasses with unnecessary force.

  ‘Don’t chip those glasses, Ivor,’ Monica warned. ‘Mr Oversall chose them himself in Venice years ago. It would be hard to replace them.’

  ‘All right!’ Pettishly, he splashed sherry into the fragile glasses and sulked when Candy stepped forward to take both of them and bring mine to me. Whatever he had planned — whether a suggestive brush of the fingers, or something more sinister with the Scotch — his wheel had been well and truly spoked.

  I had taken a small armchair, bypassing a sofa with room for three. That didn’t please Ivor, either.

  Ignoring him, I sipped my sherry demurely and looked around at my new best friends.

  They were all here. Even Kiki and Nina had deigned to join us and were smiling hopefully at me.

  I counted the house again and realized that only Amanda Sloane and Yvonne Beauclerc had failed to approach me. They sat together, talking quietly. I wondered what their game was.

  I had a clear view when the door opened and the black-clad figure leaned into the room. As before, he met Monica’s eyes over our heads and signalled: No.

  She nodded resignedly. She seemed to have expected nothing else.

  Then, in the split second before he withdrew, I became aware that he was looking at me intently.

  I glanced away, acting as though I hadn’t noticed, but I felt the shuddering chill you’re supposed to feel when someone walks over your grave. He hated me — and I didn’t know why.

  What had I — what had Nessa ever done to him? Was he someone she had picked up and then abandoned on the rebound from her unhappy love affair?

  He was a more likely candidate than Ivor: younger, better looking —

  ‘Shall we go in to dinner now?’ Monica rose, making the question rhetorical. ‘Mr Oversall won’t be joining us this evening.’

  Neither would Madame. The wheelchair-sized gap beside me remained unfilled, the table setting undisturbed.

  Perhaps the day had been too much for her. The argument with Nina, the warning to me and then Dr Anderson’s visit must have taken a lot out of her. She wasn’t as strong as she used to be. I remembered the doctor’s sigh and knew it might be more than that. She needed her rest.

  Yet I felt cheated. I had hoped, under the cover of light table chat, to find out something about what was going on around here. Her sudden outburst had told me that she believed Vanessa was in danger; her rudeness told me that she was probably more of a friend to Nessa than any of the other claimants sweet-talking themselves forward.

  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, altho
ugh 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.

  Chapter Eight

  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 kno
w 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?’