The Cat Next Door

by Marian Babson

  The handbell rang again, urgently, insistently. It was not going to stop. It was going to disturb the peace of the house until someone answered.

  It was obviously up to her – unless she wanted to try to eat her breakfast with that endless clanging as an accompaniment. She turned and went back up the stairs slowly, clinging more tightly to the banister at each ascending step. Pausing to catch her breath at the top, she looked back and felt a cold chill.

  Nan was still standing just inside the front door, watching her shrewdly. Nan had been standing there watching her all along.

  Nan gave a cheery wave of encouragement and, this time, left the house, closing the door softly behind her.

  ‘I’ve been ringing and ringing,’ Lynette complained. She was propped up against the pillows, fractious and flushed with the exertion of her bell-ringing. Or was it temper? ‘Where’s Nan?’

  ‘Gone to church,’ Margot said coolly, regarding her in the new light of the suspicions that had surfaced during the night and could not be completely discarded. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I want Nan! When will she be back?’ Lynette pushed the bell aside and looked at Margot uneasily, as though sensing something less than whole-hearted approval.

  ‘I don’t know. What is it you want? I can get it.’

  ‘My tray is in the way.’ Lynette pouted at the bedside table where the tray occupied most of the space.

  ‘I’ll take it down.’ Margot picked up the tray and hesitated. ‘You know, you could just put it outside the door and then anyone going downstairs could take it down with them.’

  ‘I’m not well!’ Lynette recoiled as though she had been struck. ‘I can’t get up.’

  ‘You get up to go to the loo, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes … but I don’t have to carry anything.’ She was being bullied unmercifully, Lynette’s body-language conveyed. She sank deeper into the pillows, her eyelids fluttered down, her voice grew weaker. ‘I’m not well.’

  ‘You might feel better if you tried to move around more.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ Lynette’s eyes opened and flashed hostility.

  ‘No, I’m just trying to help.’ Margot realised she must go no further. Perhaps a seed had been planted. Perhaps. ‘Is there anything else you want?’

  ‘Yes. I want Tikki. Where is he?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him,’ Margot replied truthfully.

  ‘He’s been here. I can always tell when I wake up. He likes to play with the jigsaw pieces. Yes – that’s what else you can do. Pick them up off the floor … please.’

  Margot set the tray down on a nearby chair and stooped to gather up the scattered pieces. Sudden dizziness overcame her and she sat down heavily on the floor.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Lynette cried in sudden panic. ‘Are you all right?’ She reached for the handbell.

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ Margot said quickly. ‘It’s just – I haven’t had breakfast yet. My blood sugar is a little low. That’s all.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Lynette was not convinced. ‘You’re not … sick?’ Dying, she meant. Her world had caved in so completely beneath her feet that she no longer trusted the firmest surface, the strongest person. Anything – anyone - could betray her at any moment.

  ‘No, no.’ Margot forced herself to her feet and dropped the jigsaw pieces on the table. Cautiously she reclaimed the tray. ‘I’m going to get some breakfast now.’

  ‘Is my father downstairs?’ Lynette asked abruptly. ‘I want to see him. Send him up to me.’

  ‘If he’s there,’ Margot promised.

  ‘I know he’s there,’ Lynette insisted. ‘I’m sure I heard his voice a little while ago.’ She paused. ‘But don’t let Verity come up. I don’t want Verity.’

  ‘Who does?’ Margot stopped herself from actually saying it, but the thought seemed to hang in the air and Lynette was not stupid.

  ‘You don’t like her, either.’ Lynette exuded satisfaction; she had discovered an ally. ‘I think she’s terrible. I don’t want her to be my new – ’ She stopped abruptly, not able to bring herself to say the word.

  Had Kingsley suggested such an idea to her? Or had it been Verity, trying to lay the groundwork as she pushed herself forward for the coveted position? Would Kingsley actually marry her? Or, after a suitable interval for grief – and allowing the publicity to die down – would Kingsley look for a bride with better social and financial connections?

  No prizes for guessing the answer to that one. Her own cynicism startled her. Once, she would never have dreamed of criticising Kingsley, not even mentally. It was, perhaps, a measure of how far she had travelled, how much she had changed.

  ‘If your father is downstairs, I’ll tell him you want him.’ Aware of Lynette’s anxious eyes, she balanced the tray carefully as she carried it from the room. She was pretty anxious herself. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated, wondering whether it would be wiser not to attempt the stairs with it. One or both of them might go crashing down if she tried.

  ‘Leave it there.’ Emmeline spoke from the foot of the stairs. ‘Nan can collect it when she comes back. You’re not used to carrying heavy trays, especially not on stairs.’

  ‘I was a bit nervous about it,’ Margot admitted, setting the tray down on the floor and freeing her hand to rest lightly on the banister as she descended. ‘Especially as I haven’t had breakfast yet and I’m feeling a bit weak.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you weren’t up yet,’ Emmeline said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve cleared the dining-room. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make fresh tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘Tea is fine.’ Margot followed her into the kitchen, vaguely uneasy, and watched Emmeline bustling about, setting a place for her at the table. What was wrong with this picture?

  While the kettle boiled, Emmeline rinsed the dishes piled on the draining board and stacked them in the dishwasher. ‘I’ll wait until you’ve finished and put yours in before I switch it on,’ she said. Emmeline was not usually so domestic – or domestic at all.

  ‘Where’s Nellie?’ That was what was wrong. The weekend help, who augmented the au pair, should be here doing all these domestic chores.

  ‘Nellie …?’ Emmeline closed the dishwasher door and straightened up. ‘Nellie doesn’t work here any more.’

  ‘But I thought Nellie was part of the fixtures and furnishings! Did she retire?’

  ‘In a way. We haven’t seen her since … about a year ago. We had to let her go.’

  ‘Let her go? But – ’

  ‘Nellie was unable to resist the lure of chequebook journalism. She sold “her story”. Only it wasn’t hers, it was ours. How we were coping, how Lynette had taken to her bed, almost as catatonic as Chloe. Oh, she told them everything she knew. And what she didn’t know, they invented. They printed it in a double-page spread, with Nellie, the “faithful retainer”, grinning all over her face at the top of one page. We couldn’t allow her to stay on after that.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘We’ve got by with temporary help from an agency since then but, with the trial about to start, we’ve cancelled our account. We’ll just have to manage on our own until it’s over. We can’t risk having a spy in the house. It’s sub judice right now but …’ Her voice faltered. ‘But, once the verdict has been announced, they can say what they like. Especially if Chloe is found … if the verdict goes against Chloe.’

  Emmeline obviously could not bring herself to utter the word guilty, perhaps she couldn’t even think it.

  ‘Then they’ll write their books about the case,’ Emmeline said, adding bitterly, ‘They probably have them written already – all but the final chapter.’

  They probably had. From the beginning the case had captured the public imagination and the media had leaped gleefully on the delicious irony of a beautiful young political wife and mother being murdered in her family’s garden, after having moved unscathed through some of the most dangerous trouble spots of the world.
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  ‘What can you expect?’ Henry had written, enclosing a selection of clippings. ‘If it had happened on one of those foreign jaunts, no one would have paid much attention after the first few days. This way, her story will never end. It will become one of those classic crimes they rehash repeatedly and feature in every collection of famous crimes. Still, I suppose this is the way she would have wanted it.’

  Henry was right. Claudia had always thrived on attention – and excitement, her taste sharpened by that first memorable fact-finding tour when the rising young politician and his glamorous wife had been held hostage for forty-eight hours by local insurgents, while the diplomatic community worked tirelessly to free them and a breathless public, whipped up to hysterical frenzy by the media, gulped down every detail.

  It had raised Kingsley’s profile no end. And Claudia hadn’t done badly out of it, either, garnering radio and television appearances and lecture tours about her experience.

  After that, their travels had often taken them to the risky regions of the world; at times, it seemed that the Foreign Office’s list of no-go areas was being used as their travel itinerary. Even low-risk countries seemed to seethe and boil over if they were visiting, although never again with such spectacular results.

  How very ironic that the most dangerous place in the world for Claudia had turned out to be her family’s garden; the most deadly adversary, her own twin.

  ‘It will go on and on,’ Emmeline prophesied grimly. ‘We’ll have the repercussions to deal with for the rest of our lives. As though it wasn’t bad enough, to have lost Claudia …’

  They had lost more than Claudia, they had lost a large part of their own lives. Emmeline had felt unable to continue as headmistress of her exclusive girls’ school with an open scandal in her family. Yet she was a strong energetic woman who ordinarily would not have thought of taking retirement until she had reached sixty-five and would probably have gone on into her seventies in a job she loved and could do easily. Now, from a whole schoolful of girls to supervise and shepherd, her life had dwindled down to looking after just one: Lynette. Although it was only too possible that Lynette needed more looking after than that entire school.

  ‘Is that all you’re going to eat?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Margot looked up to find Emmeline frowning at the mound of scrambled egg remaining on her plate. It seemed that Emmeline was going to extend her concern to other members of the family, as well.

  ‘You haven’t had very much.’

  ‘You gave me too much. It’s nearly lunchti – ’ Abruptly, Margot realised what her aunt was implying. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t have anorexia.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Emmeline acknowledged with a wry smile. ‘Too many years of dealing with teenaged girls. One always looks for the worst.’ And usually finds it, her tone suggested.

  ‘Truly – ’ Margot pushed the plate away. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘We all have,’ Emmeline said, taking the plate. She scraped the egg on to a saucer. As Margot watched, she opened the back door and stepped outside; when she stepped back in, the saucer was gone.

  ‘Don’t tell Wilfred,’ she said. ‘He says we shouldn’t have anything to do with the cat – it chose to desert us, so let it stay away. The rest of us don’t consider it such a personal betrayal, however. We think Tikki should be encouraged to return.’ She looked away and her voice wavered. ‘It would be so good for Milly, if he did. It might help her to – ’ She broke off and left the room abruptly.

  Margot rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher. She had an unpleasant foreboding that the day was not going to improve. How could it, when the trial started tomorrow morning?

  The hours stretched ahead of her interminably. Another good day to get away from the house and everyone in it. Perhaps she could take her camera and get some more pictures of local antiquities and beauty spots.

  The thought had just occurred to her when the rain began. The first heavy drops splashing down turned almost immediately into a torrent, veiling the windows with solid sheets of water. Outside, puddles formed around the paving stones and flooded the path. If it kept up like this, the pond would be in danger of overflowing. The rain showed no signs of abating; if anything, the downpour got worse.

  So much for getting out of the house. She was trapped. There was no escape.

  Escape … Chloe could not escape, either. What was she feeling, sitting there in her cell, waiting for tomorrow? She must dread the thought of being put on public display, of having no place to hide from the staring eyes, the flashing cameras. Would she speak at last, or retreat farther into that trancelike state she had taken refuge in?

  Exhaustion dragged at Margot – and yet she had hardly been out of bed for two hours. Perhaps she could slip back to her room and have a little nap. How much longer could she plead, the excuse of jet lag? Already Nan was regarding her suspiciously.

  But Nan was still at church, Emmeline had disappeared and no one else was around to see her. She had a good chance of making it before anyone else appeared.

  Except … she had promised Lynette to see whether Kingsley was here and send him up to see her. For that matter, she was slightly curious herself as to whether Kingsley was going to stand beside his wife’s family … or distance himself from them. She was beginning to have little doubt about the answer, but surely Kingsley would not keep away from his only child just because she lived in the maternal family home.

  If Kingsley were here this morning, it was probably for the last time until the trial was well under way and he had a chance to see which way public sympathy was veering.

  With a faint sigh for the lost illusions of youth, Margot turned away from the staircase and went in search.

  Chapter Ten

  Milly was alone in the morning room, reading, of course. She looked up reluctantly from her book. It was a sub-Georgette Heyer today. It often was, Margot realised. Safe, reliable, happy ending guaranteed and an absence of any genuine pain along the way.

  ‘Was there something you wanted, dear?’ Milly broke the silence, clearly anxious to get back to her book.

  ‘I was just looking – wondering – I thought Kingsley might be here. Have you seen him?’

  ‘No, dear.’ Milly was indifferent. Kingsley might have been the name of a stranger. She had no interest in him, in what he might be doing, in where he was. She glanced down impatiently at her book. ‘Was that all?’

  It wasn’t, but it would do for now. Margot had no wish to continue a conversation with her aunt – with this shell of her aunt. Wherever the real Milly had hidden herself away, she was no more in the room than Kingsley was.

  Milly come back! The cry was silent. Her aunt was gazing at her with polite blankness, as though she were some remote acquaintance who had unexpectedly appeared at the door. There was no indication of shared laughter and memories, no trace of the warm loving woman who had welcomed a suddenly orphaned child into the bosom of her family and helped her to rebuild her life. Aunt Milly, where are you?

  ‘If there’s nothing else,’ her aunt returned to her book, ‘please close the door behind you. I’m at quite an exciting bit and I’d rather not be disturbed. Lady Clarice is about to take on Sir Rupert at Faro, he little knowing that she was the cleverest cardsharp ever to be released from Newgate – but he richly deserves his comeuppance …’ Her voice trailed off as her gaze fell to the open page.

  Dismissed, reproved and made to feel like an intruder in what had been her own home, Margot pulled the door shut with a decisive click, then leaned against the wall beside it, her vision blurred by tears.

  All centuries but this – if not every country but her own – that’s where Aunt Milly was. Far away from the new century that had already treated her so badly and quite possibly had worse in store.

  It would not be kind to force her back into the present, with all its attendant horrors – but, oh, how she missed her! Margot dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled paper handkerchief and straightened up.

 
There were faint sounds coming from the kitchen. Perhaps Nan had returned. Margot turned in that direction; it was time she began trying to pull her weight around here. Helping Nan prepare lunch would be a good start.

  But it was Uncle Wilfred standing beside the fridge, gnawing on a chicken leg, half of a cold boiled potato, liberally buttered and sprinkled with pepper, in his other hand.

  ‘Been a long time since breakfast, eh?’

  Not for her, but it was sad that Uncle Wilfred should feel defensive about raiding his own refrigerator.

  ‘And it looks like a long time until lunch.’ Wilfred gulped down the last shred of chicken and bite of potato, then glanced wistfully at the fridge. Obviously, the other leg and remaining half of the potato were still in there.

  ‘Nan should be back soon, she just went to church. I’d help, but I don’t quite know where to start – ’

  ‘There’s a leg of lamb thawing in the larder.’ Emmeline appeared in the doorway, calm and quite composed again. ‘It should be ready to go into the oven now. We can do that. I’m sure Nan has everything else under control.’ She advanced purposefully towards the larder.

  ‘Good, good! I’m glad someone has something under control.’ Wilfred made a sudden despairing lunge to open the fridge door and wrench the last leg from the chicken carcass. ‘Mmmmmf, frmmm, urrrm,’ he said, ramming it into his mouth.

  Margot stood aghast but Emmeline was made of sterner stuff, or else inured to such bizarre behaviour. How long had it been going on? Quite a while, judging from Wilfred’s expanding waistline.

  ‘Sorry.’ He swallowed and his voice was clear and distinct again. ‘I said: that will take hours to cook.’ His sidelong glance at the fridge bordered on the panicked.

  ‘Not a bit of it.’ Emmeline was firm and reassuring. ‘An hour and a half at the most, if we put it in now, without waiting for Nan.’

  ‘No, no,’ Wilfred said urgently. ‘Don’t wait for Nan. The sooner you get it into the oven, the better.’ He glanced at the fridge again, then, with an abstracted air, sauntered into the larder.