The Cat Next Door

by Marian Babson

  A sudden wave of exhaustion engulfed her, reminding her that she had bruises and wounds of her own to contend with. She leaned back and closed her eyes, yielding for a moment to the swirling dizziness that threatened to carry her into unconsciousness.

  ‘You’re tired.’ She hadn’t heard Aunt Milly come in, but she smiled at the sound of the gentle familiar voice. ‘Why don’t you go up to bed now? No one will mind. You’ve had a long day.’

  ‘Perhaps I will.’ She opened her eyes in time to see Milly steal a frightened glance towards the french window.

  ‘You won’t miss anything,’ Milly assured her, with growing confidence. ‘Justin and Fenella are just going to have a snack and then go up to their rooms themselves. You’ll feel better in the morning and so will they. It’s all that jet lag …’

  It was a little more than that, but this was not the time to go into it. Margot smiled again and gathered herself to face the struggle to get to her feet, run the gauntlet of whirlwind hugs and kisses from the newly-arrived in the front hall and force herself up the stairs.

  If she put a little extra energy into rising, Milly didn’t notice. Her aunt, she saw, was glancing again at the french window and still held the book she had been reading clutched like a shield in front of her bosom.

  Despite her misgivings, she fell asleep immediately. It was only later that the uneasy dreams began.

  Claudia came to sit on the side of her bed, tossing back her long glossy hair and laughing. ‘Oh, how funny, how funny! Did you see the way he jumped? He actually thought I was going to run him down – ’

  Margot writhed unhappily and half-heard her own protesting whimper, almost waking her, but not quite. One part of her mind recognised the moment being replayed from the past, realising that it was the past. Another part fought to keep a grasp on the present, the reality. Claudia was dead.

  Dead … but the gurgling laugh still rang in Margot’s ears, she could sense the hair brush her face as Claudia leaned closer to whisper something, feel the force of that larger-than-life personality vibrating in the atmosphere.

  The Centurion had been a figment of active imaginations, but Claudia had been real – and now it was Claudia who was haunting her dreams. Perhaps everyone’s dreams.

  And not just Claudia. Chloe was there, too, drifting aimlessly on the fringe of the dreamscape. In Claudia’s shadow, as she had always been in real life. The shadow twin, with Claudia’s face, Claudia’s form, Claudia’s voice, but without Claudia’s personality … without Claudia’s husband …

  Was that why Chloe had done it? Jealousy?

  I’m dreaming, the small sentient corner of her mind assured her. This is all a dream. I wasn’t even here when it happened, I wasn’t even in this country.

  But it was happening again now. Chloe crept out of the shadows, heading purposefully towards Claudia, whose laughter had taken on a mocking, taunting note. Claudia, who had everything –

  Light flashed along the length of the sharp glittering blade as Chloe raised the knife and struck.

  Claudia stopped laughing, her eyes widened in shock, she stumbled and fell, pitching forward, falling on to Margot, her hair pressing into Margot’s face …

  ‘No!’ Margot choked, wrenched out of her nightmare, dazed and disoriented. But the hair was still there, still pressing against her cheek like a warm living entity. She reached up to brush it away. It brushed back and began purring.

  ‘Tikki!’ She sat up and gave a shaky laugh. ‘You frightened me.’ The clinging shreds of the dream fell away and her mind cleared. ‘How did you get back in? Nan threw you out.’

  Tikki pranced back and forth across her thighs, headbutted her fondly in the midriff and purred more loudly than ever, clearly delighted to have someone awake and ready to pat him.

  ‘But Nan had a point,’ she said softly. ‘Uncle Wilfred has enough to contend with right now. From the way he was carrying on about you tonight, the sight of you might just be the last straw.’

  She gathered the cat into her arms and slid out of bed, groping with her feet for her slippers. Tikki rubbed his head against the underside of her chin.

  The hallway was dimly illuminated by the shaded nightlight bulb plugged into the skirting-board socket beside the bathroom door. Margot paused to get her bearings. Familiar though this house had once been, the reshuffling needed to accommodate the descent of far-flung family members meant that she no longer had any idea who occupied which room. The fact that Fred and Milly had ceded the master bedroom to Lynette was, alone, enough to destabilise all her memories.

  Tikki stiffened abruptly in her arms and stared down the hallway at something she could not see. His ears pricked and seemed to turn in the same direction.

  She heard it then. A faint erratic sound, muffled but persistent, strangely harrowing. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, yet noticed that Tikki’s fur was not bristling. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t know.

  As she listened, clutching Tikki as her aunt had clutched her book, as though he were a shield to hide behind, the sound became identifiable: someone was sobbing. Torn with anguish, trying to muffle the choking sobs, someone was crying her heart out. Or, possibly, his. Tears had no gender, heartbreak was universal.

  Especially in this house. There was a lot to cry about here. An upper lip that had been suitably stiff and impassive during the day had quivered and given way in the depths of the night, when there was no one around to witness it.

  Who was it?

  What should she do? She shrank from tiptoeing down the hallway, listening at each door. Suppose someone came along and caught her? And if she did find out who was crying – what then? Burst in and offer a shoulder? Presumably, anyone who had given way to those heart-wrenching sobs had done so at this hour because it seemed safe with no one around to hear them.

  But her own heart twisted. It seemed inhuman to listen to such pain and not try to do something to alleviate it. On the other hand, any attempt might seem an intrusion into the other person’s privacy. Family or not, everyone had the right to their own space. Perhaps especially family.

  Frozen with indecision, Margot tightened her arms around Tikki. He gave a small protesting mew, so soft as to be almost inaudible, as though he, too, recognised the need for secrecy. He twisted around so that he was looking over her shoulder and his whole body tensed.

  Margot swung around, but there was no one behind her. Or nothing. Gravity suddenly tugged at her knees, her back, her arms, every ligament in her face and body. The old enemy, more overpowering and debilitating than jet lag, fought for control once more.

  There was no question now of hunting down the broken-hearted or even carrying the cat down the stairs to put him out. She had all she could do to remain upright.

  She was suddenly afraid that, if she didn’t get back to her room and lie down, she would fall down. It would be too humiliating to be found lying in the hallway by the first member of the family to be up and heading for the bathroom in the morning. They had enough to worry about right now without worrying about her, too.

  She turned and, leaning against the wall, slowly began making her way back to her room. Tikki stared up at her with sudden concern.

  ‘It’s all right, Tikki,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll put you out of the window instead. You can make your own way down, can’t you?’

  A fresh paroxysm of slightly louder sobs was torn from the anguished throat somewhere in the darkness. Margot halted, guilt-ridden at her inability to help, repelled by her inability to throw off the exhaustion. Perhaps, if she hadn’t had jet lag to contend with as well as the other weakness …

  Still, it seemed as though she ought to be able to do something. She closed her eyes, swaying, her grip on Tikki loosened.

  His cold wet nose touched the tip of her chin. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her reassuringly.

  Leave it to me, he seemed to say, just before he leaped to the floor and darted off down the hallway. She started after him, but
he was too fast for her. He turned a corner and she heard him bound down the three steps to the lower level of the bedroom floor. She almost thought she heard the faint creak of a protesting door hinge.

  The dizziness tried to claim her again and she stopped and turned back towards her own room.

  As she closed the door behind her, she was aware of silence. The crying had stopped …

  Chapter Four

  Margot awoke in the morning with a deceptive feeling of well-being. After the restless beginning to the night, she had slept deeply and dreamlessly. Her energy, such as it was, was restored. If she guarded it carefully, it might see her through the day. When she glanced at her watch, she saw that the day wasn’t going to be such a long one. It was eleven thirty already. Jet lag strikes again!

  She wasn’t the only one. Christa was seated at the dining-room table. The cup of coffee was obviously not her first, a used plate had been pushed aside and she was working on something in her sketchpad with a charcoal stick and pastels.

  ‘Brunch …’ She waved a careless hand towards the array of covered chafing dishes on the sideboard as Margot entered. ‘Help yourself to plenty, there won’t be another meal until dinner. Nan thought this would be easiest, with everyone keeping different hours. The twins aren’t down yet.’

  ‘Oh …’ Margot winced before realising that Christa was referring to her own twins, Justin and Fenella.

  ‘Yes, I see. Good idea.’ Margot moved along the line of chafing dishes, lifting silver domes to reveal kedgeree, scrambled eggs, devilled kidneys, sausages, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, hash-brown potatoes and slices of cold ham and chicken. Coffee bubbled in the glass coffee pot and a toaster waited to receive slices from the brown and white loaves beside it.

  Margot filled her plate, decided she was probably not up to slicing the uncut loaves, especially as the bread knife looked rather dull, and took a poppyseed roll instead. She carried it to the table, went back for coffee, then sat down and wondered whether she could eat anything at all. Suddenly, her appetite had deserted her.

  Fortunately, Christa was too absorbed to notice. Her charcoal stick raced over the sketchpad, a dab with the red and then the silver pastel chalk highlighted a fold, emphasised a seam, suggested a curve. What had been a vague outline was beginning to take shape, turning into a costume to die for. Obviously, Christa had a contract for a new theatrical production.

  ‘Any more coffee?’ It was more of an order than a request. Christa was lost in her own world, not noticing that there wasn’t a gofer or assistant within miles.

  Oh, well, why not? Margot took Christa’s empty cup and refilled it. No milk or sugar, she noticed, Christa operated on straight caffeine.

  She was just setting the cup down at Christa’s elbow when the handbell pealed out an urgent summons from upstairs, causing her to jump and slosh coffee into the saucer.

  Christa swore as the sudden noise tore at her reflexes, constricting her fingers and sending a streak of red chalk off the end of the page in an erratic line.

  ‘They’re ruining that child!’ Christa snapped. ‘Sympathy is all very well, but they’re going too far!’ Her hand was still shaking, setting her charm bracelet rattling, as she lifted the dripping cup unsteadily to her lips.

  There was the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs to answer the summons. Not fast enough, obviously, for the bell rang impatiently again.

  Christa was right. Sympathy for a bereaved, traumatised child was one thing, but ‘spoiled brat’ was the phrase that came to mind. Then one thought again of why she was being so spoiled.

  ‘She has been through a terrible experience,’ Margot said.

  ‘So have we all.’ Christa was unforgiving. ‘It’s still going on and she isn’t making it any easier for us.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Margot slumped into her chair and picked at the kedgeree. Unexpectedly, her appetite returned. She had forgotten how good kedgeree could be, made with the proper spices, unlike the bland commercial varieties she had encountered where the hard-boiled egg was often the tastiest component.

  ‘Delicious,’ Margot said. ‘I see Nan is still working her magic in the kitchen. She was wasted in the nursery all those years.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Christa looked up from her work absently and seemed to have difficulty in recognising her niece.

  ‘Nothing.’ What it was to be so absorbed in one’s work. Margot felt a small pang of envy. It wasn’t so long ago that she, too, had been able to slip into that cocoon and be oblivious to the world. ‘Just a pleasantry.’

  ‘Oh …’ Christa shrugged and went back to her sketch.

  ‘Pleasantries, I remember those,’ a voice said behind Margot. ‘At least, I think I do. It’s been so long since I heard one. There hasn’t been much heart for them lately.’

  ‘Kingsley!’ It wasn’t fair! Someone should have warned her. She hadn’t expected to see him here. Not so soon, so unexpectedly.

  And yet, when she thought about it, where else should he be? Lynette was his daughter, as well as Claudia’s.

  ‘Good to see you again, Margot.’ He stooped to brush her cheek with his lips. ‘You’re looking very well.’

  ‘So are – ’ The lie froze in her throat. He looked terrible. His face was gaunt and lined, his eyes sunken, deep shadows surrounding them, unbearable pain in their depths, too many silver threads in what had been a thick brown-gold mane. She caught her breath, hoping her face did not reveal her thoughts.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ She changed tack abruptly. ‘I didn’t see you last night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not staying here.’ There was veiled reproof in his tone. ‘Bit too awkward, in the circumstances. We’re putting up at the Roman Arms, but I’ll join the family for the occasional meal and, of course, in court.’

  We? Her momentary confusion was dispelled by another voice.

  ‘Hello, Margot. You’re looking a bit jet-lagged. It takes a few days to wear off, I know. How wise of you to arrive early.’

  She might have known it. If Kingsley were here, could Verity be far behind?

  In their teenage years, a crush on Kingsley had been part of growing up. Once he had chosen Claudia, everyone had bowed to reality and moved on. Except for Verity.

  ‘She’s got a job as his secretary, my dears!’ Claudia had screamed with laughter. ‘She lives in hope! She’s read too many stories about MPs and their secretaries. She hasn’t a chance. Not while I’m around. But if anything ever happens to me, just watch how fast she moves in.’

  ‘Anyone for a refill before we finish the pot?’ Kingsley asked.

  ‘None for me, thanks,’ Verity said quickly. ‘I’ve had enough caffeine for one morning …’ And so have you, her tone implied. ‘I’ll have an orange juice, though.’ She joined him at the sideboard and helped herself.

  From upstairs, the sound of the handbell pealed out vigorously, urgently. They both looked upwards involuntarily and exchanged a glance.

  ‘You’d better go up.’ Christa frowned at another line run off the page. ‘She knows you’re here.’

  ‘Sit down and finish your coffee first,’ Verity said sharply. ‘There’s no rush. She isn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ll take it with me.’ He gave them all a perfunctory smile and left the room.

  Verity’s lips tightened, then she shrugged and moved over to sit opposite Margot at the table, regarding her with a cool assessing stare. Margot stared back, not quite so impolitely, she hoped, noting with interest that Verity was several shades blonder than when last sighted. Also, she appeared to have received some professional guidance with her make-up and dress sense; she was altogether sleeker and more stylish than Margot remembered her. She was just as complacent, though. How far had the moving-in process gone?

  ‘Are you here to cover the trial for your rag?’ Verity was wasting no time in opening hostilities. ‘Or as a member of the family? Or a little bit of both?’

  ‘I’m not a journalist,’ Margot said patiently. �
��I never have been. I do commercial photographic work, freelance. Advertising, fashion, portraits. I’ve just finished the illustrations for a cookery book and the job before that was a travel brochure for a local Chamber of Commerce. Nothing to do with news, that’s another field entirely.’ One she might have liked to try her hand at once, but out of the question now.

  ‘Oh?’ Verity shrugged disbelievingly. ‘That’s not the way I pictured your career going. Still, it’s nice to know that you won’t be feeding the tabloid frenzy with intimate photographs from inside the family circle. Although I understand they pay quite well for that sort of thing.’

  Margot envied Christa’s detachment. ‘I’m off-duty for the duration,’ she answered softly, although what she had done to incur such enmity she could not imagine. ‘I haven’t even brought my equipment with me.’ No need to go into the real reason for that now.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Verity looked at Margot’s hands pointedly. ‘Now that you mention it, I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you without a camera in your hands. Did you have to have it surgically removed?’

  ‘All right, Verity, that’s quite enough!’ Christa wasn’t so oblivious, after all, although the voice could have been her sister Emmeline’s. Margot realised that, for all her artistic airs and graces Christa would have had no trouble in controlling a schoolful of unruly students. The icy glare she levelled at Verity could have quelled a riot.

  ‘Sorry,’ Verity muttered, as though she had been ordered to apologise and resented it.

  Christa kept her cold gaze on Verity for another long moment before dismissing her with a twitch of the eyebrows and returning to her sketch.

  ‘I must see if Kingsley needs me.’ Released, Verity pushed back her chair and darted from the room.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Margot asked herself softly. ‘What did I ever do to her? Why does she hate me so?’

  ‘Jealousy.’ Surprisingly, Christa answered, although she did not look up from her sketchpad. ‘It’s not just you. She hates all of us.’

  ‘But why?’