Only the Cat Knows

by Marian Babson

  Or possibly just a few of the minions, keeping track of us so that they could appear and dance attendance the instant Oversall might want them?

  We had hardly settled into the deep comfortable armchairs than Gerta and a helper appeared with trays of brandy and liqueurs.

  We made our selections and relaxed into the plush comfort as the lights dimmed, the curtains parted to reveal the screen, the tinkling music swelled …

  J. Arthur Rank — eat your heart out.

  The colour, the locale, the teeming hordes, the young vibrant lovers, the bright catchy music — we were swept away into an exotic magical world.

  Pity about the plot — but you can’t have everything.

  At some point as the dizzying story swung along, I became aware that we were losing our audience.

  ‘Headache…’ a female voice murmured as a dark shape momentarily blotted out the screen and left the room.

  ‘Me, too …’ That sounded like Candy, making her escape.

  ‘That maid with the fever … really should check on her…’ There went Anderson, jumping ship — and avoiding another possible confrontation with me after the film.

  The glorious hodge-podge of unlikely song and dance sequences and scenes that had never been vetted by a continuity girl continued to flash across the screen.

  They were matched by the dark hunched shadows trying to depart inconspicuously, no longer bothering to make excuses, just sneaking out. It was like the old days in the theatre on the cruise ships when the weather began to worsen, the sea to heave and weak stomachs to churn.

  At last the triumphant music swelled, the stars got as close to a clinch as the custom allowed and we had the fade out. The lights went up in the viewing room and I looked around to count the survivors.

  Oversall, Madame and me.

  ‘I don’t think they liked it,’ Oversall said.

  ‘It was not made for them. It will be a great success,’ Madame informed him firmly.

  ‘Maybe —’ I checked my watch — ‘it’s a bit long for European bottoms.’ Three hours was rather overdoing it, but I gathered they like their money’s worth on the subcontinent.

  ‘No matter.’ Oversall shrugged. ‘Advance bookings in India alone have covered production costs. It will show a profit, the only question is: how much?’

  ‘Congratulations.’ A sudden attack of envy prevented me from sounding whole-hearted. All the colour, flamboyance and vitality of the film had brought home to me what I was missing: my world. The theatrical world. I wanted to be part of it again.

  But I had to stay here. For Nessa’s sake.

  Ironically, Oversall was stepping into the world I wanted. Perhaps he was succumbing to nostalgia for his early days when he was cutting a swathe through café society. A throwback to the carefree time before the intrusion of the media and the demands of the shareholders had driven him into seclusion.

  ‘Umm-mm!’ Madame stifled a yawn, her caffeine fix was wearing off. She looked smaller, more vulnerable — and exhausted.

  ‘I’ll send for Richie.’ Noticing, Oversall was instantly contrite. ‘He’ll take you home.’

  ‘I think not!’ Madame drew herself up. ‘We are being observed — do you not feel it?’

  Now that she mentioned it, I did. No one was in sight, not that that meant anything. Common sense told me that the staff would not slope off to bed while Oversall was still up and about. Silent, unobserved, there would be people all around us, but people who were basically indifferent. The hostility was elsewhere.

  ‘After your performance at dinner,’ Madame pointed out to Oversall, ‘it may be expected that you will go with Vanessa — and remain for the night.’

  Tm not sure everyone will have noticed the wedding ring,’ I demurred. Not that that had ever made any difference to Oversall.

  ‘We shall both see Vanessa to her door,’ Madame ordered. ‘Then it will be necessary for you to take me to my own quarters. No one watching could question that.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Madame was right. We were still observed.

  From the moment we entered the cloister, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. An unseen audience was out there, watching our every move.

  Bud? Almost certainly. But… who else? Should I count Brutus?

  ‘Later than I thought,’ Oversall announced loudly, looking at his watch in an exaggerated gesture. He stepped forward, took the key from my hand and unlocked the door for me. ‘We won’t come in.’

  ‘No,’ Madame agreed. ‘I am too tired.’ She watched us severely, the picture of a suspicious chaperone. Playing to the gallery — both of them. Enjoying it, too, I suspected.

  ‘Goodnight, then, and …’ I paused in the doorway, bending my knees slightly so that I could look up at Oversall. ‘And thank you. It’s been a lovely evening.’

  ‘There’ll be many more.’ He brushed my cheek with his lips. ‘This is just the beginning.’

  Madame cleared her throat meaningfully and he moved to the back of her chair, pausing only long enough to see me close the door.

  Leaning against the door after I had locked it and thrown the bolt, I heard the sound of his footsteps fading as he wheeled Madame home.

  Home. Oddly, this place was beginning to feel like that.

  I kicked off my shoes and hurled myself down on the sofa. Just for a minute. I was exhausted suddenly — the evening’s performance had really taken it out of me.

  And perhaps I shouldn’t have had that last brandy…

  I awoke abruptly, disorientated and uneasy, unsure of where I was — or why — and what had pulled me out of a deep dreamless sleep.

  Slowly, it came back to me: where I was and why. But not what had disturbed me.

  Perhaps it was the discomfort of the kaftan twisted around me or the turban that clung achingly tight to my head. Or perhaps it was the growing realization that it would be a very good idea to get up and go to the bathroom — and fast.

  I shuffled into my shoes and stumbled off to attend to the necessary. On my way back to turn off the light in the living room before retiring to the bedroom to finish my night’s sleep, I began to feel that something else was uncomfortably amiss.

  I looked around groggily, trying to discover what — and trying not to wake myself up too fully to get back to sleep again.

  Nothing … Something …

  Then I heard it, and not for the first time. I recognized it as the sound that had pulled me out of slumber.

  The piercing wail of a distressed feline.

  ‘Duchess …?’ I called. ‘What’s the matter? Gloriana …? Where are you? Come here … come on …’

  No response. No bright little bundle of white fur emerged from the shadows to twine around my ankles and berate me for what was bothering her. Nothing.

  Then a long agonized cry sounded again, like the wail of a siren. She was outside.

  The guard dogs were running loose outside.

  I charged to the door and wrenched it open.

  ‘Duchess …?’ Had she slipped past us when Oversall opened the door for me?

  No. I would have noticed. I had been attuned to every nuance of that mocking scene we had played. Nothing had stirred except our unseen audience. Apart from which, the Duchess was an inside cat — and there had been strangers at the door. She would have retreated into the bedroom and waited for me to join her, not rushed out into the unknown.

  But I hadn’t seen her inside, either. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about her. Guilt washed over me. Tired and half-sloshed, I had fallen asleep as soon as I stretched out on the sofa.

  ‘Gloriana …? Duchess …?’ I called frantically. ‘Here, kitty, kitty …’

  The answer was a shriek of pain, still in the distance. Why didn’t she come to me? I had a frightening thought. Along with the guard dogs, did the gardeners set snares for moles or foxes or other pests? Was she caught in some kind of trap?

  I stepped out into the cloister and peered into the darkness.<
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  She gave that anguished cry again and I turned in the direction of it and saw her. She seemed to be suspended in space, a white bundle against the blackness of the Monk’s robes, clutched in his merciless hands as he stood just outside his cell.

  She was in a trap, all right — but the trap was for me.

  ‘Put her down,’ I said evenly. ‘Let her go.’

  There was another agonizing shriek as he twisted her tail with one hand. The other hand remained firmly around her throat.

  He moved backwards a couple of steps, jerking his head in a silent command to go to him. At the same time, he did something to make the cat cry out again.

  Now I knew why Nessa had followed the Monk.

  And why I had to follow him, too.

  I left my door open as I moved out into the cloister. Would Brutus and Bud notice it? Or had they already completed their rounds for the night and gone off duty? If they did notice, what good would it do?

  The figure ahead was moving in a strange crabwise progress. Afraid to turn his back on me?

  Had Nessa tried to tackle him before? Was that why he was being so cautious?

  In more ways than one. I drew close enough — only to be waved back to a more respectful distance — to see that the cat had been wrapped up in some restraining cloth, so that she couldn’t defend herself with those strong legs and sharp little claws. Only the tail swung free — the better to be twisted — and the little head, which kept turning and stretching against the hand clamped tightly around her neck.

  I ached to get my hands around his neck.

  We were heading for that fake Gothic tower. Did he think the first attempt had been worth an encore? Or was it case of If at first you don’t succeed …?

  Ahead of me, the hooded figure stumbled, then recovered its balance. The bundle in its arms writhed and twisted, trying to escape. Good girl, she was going down fighting — we both were.

  I moved closer while the Monk was regaining his footing and wrestling with the cat. Not much closer, but every little bit was an advantage.

  As though he had caught my thought, he lifted his head and waved me back. He wasn’t taking chances, I was as close as I was going to get.

  After a moment, he sidled forward again, still watching me, still on guard. He signalled me to move again, but to keep my distance. We were nearly at the foot of the Gothic tower.

  ‘Let her go.’ I tried again. I’ll come with you, but let the cat go.’

  He gave a slow emphatic shake of the head. While he had the cat, he had me.

  A cold wind swept across the greensward, rustling the bushes and wrenching the few remaining leaves off the trees. Otherwise, there was silence all around us — no night noises, no dogs barking, no owl stirring. The moon was pale and unreliable, clouds scudded in front of it, blotting out what faint light it shed.

  The Monk shuffled sideways a few more steps and waited for me to follow. We were coming up to the moat, on rougher terrain now, studded with large rocks and tussocks of marsh grass.

  As I did, I stumbled and just saved myself from falling. I sensed a grim satisfaction emanating from the dark figure — he wanted me hurt.

  ‘My ankle —’ I decided to give him what he wanted — until I got close enough to give him what he deserved. ‘I think it’s sprained.’

  He motioned me forward relentlessly and I managed a realistic limp. Wounded, weak, not much of a danger to him. But he was cautious, nonetheless.

  He held up his hand, stopping me again. He had reached the door to the tower. He swung it open and stood well back, motioning me to go ahead. He wanted me in front of him now and not behind him, cutting off any retreat as we plodded up the circular stone staircase.

  ‘It’s so dark …’ I hesitated. ‘I can’t see —’

  The cat gave an anguished yowl. He was hurting her again.

  I limped forward, almost tripping over the too-high doorstep, and felt my way up the uneven stone steps. I had reached the first narrow arrow-slit before I heard the footsteps start up behind me. They moved more smoothly and confidently than mine, indicating familiarity with the territory. He probably knew his way blindfolded.

  He let me keep well ahead of him. He was in no hurry. It was hours yet until dawn. He had enough time to dispose of me, dump the cat back where she belonged, replace the costume on the dummy of the monk in its cell and be back in his own life, the picture of innocence, when my body was discovered in the moat. Again.

  I could see his plan clearly: Poor Vanessa — drawn back to the scene of her nearly fatal accident — and this time it had been fatal. What could have possessed her? Perhaps she’d had some sort of flashback to the accident in the night. Groggy and half-asleep, she had decided to follow it up, hoping it was the beginning of the return of her memory — if she could just catch it. But the night was dark, she was still weak, exhausted from a late night and the long stumbling trek to the tower and up all those winding stairs. Obviously, she had then had another dizzy spell when leaning over the parapet to look down at the moat. Poor Vanessa …

  It could work. It was plausible enough. Someone had nearly got away with it the first time. This time … Poor Vanessa.

  But who? And why?

  Ivor? On the If I can’t have you, nobody can principle? Unlikely. He would never have stood a chance in the first place — and he knew it. He was just a grubby little chancer who thought he could get away with manipulating a woman without a memory of her own. But was he furious enough at being thwarted to want revenge?

  Anderson? There was — or could be — something there. I had felt it. But an ambitious man doesn’t mess with the boss’s woman. Only she hadn’t been the boss’s woman at first. Had he felt betrayed? Cheated? Made to look a fool? Only … he knew the truth about me. A truth that would be revealed in an autopsy — unless he conducted it himself.

  Bud? Was that why no dogs were barking? Had he stashed Brutus away — and given permission for the other guards to take an early night? That could be checked — but who would bother? It was almost axiomatic that the person who discovered the body was the person the police investigated first and most closely. And Madame herself had noticed his interest in Nessa. Had Nessa been interested in him? As Head of Security, he was well placed to know information — and the secrets they would pay to learn. Was he the enemy within?

  Shadow? His hostility was clear and uncomplicated. But how far would he dare to go in risking his father’s wrath? Glowering and dumb insolence were just about his speed.

  Richie? His motives were less clear. His devotion to Madame was undoubted, but Nessa posed no threat to her.

  Or even Oversall himself — playing some sort of double game? No … slightly reluctantly, I had to exonerate Oversall. Those stairs alone would have had him wheezing by this time — but there was no sound from the Monk. He was someone younger and with better breath control.

  I reached the top of the stairs — and the door leading out on to the parapet stood open. Waiting. I lurched through it and looked around, trying to get my bearings before the Monk appeared.

  The walkway was about four feet wide — not much room to manoeuvre. The top of the tower rose another seven or eight feet above it, tapering to a blunt platform with just enough room for a brave piper or bugler to stand on while rallying the troops — and making a prime target of himself.

  But it was all a fake, I reminded myself. Perpetrated by some mad Victorian industrialist and perpetuated by Oversall because it appealed to his warped sense of humour.

  I turned away from the tower — to the sight I had been dreading: the outer wall with the long low openings that turned the parapet into a battlement. The openings where archers supposedly could stand to rain arrows down on invaders, from which boiling oil could be poured on insurgents trying to storm the tower.

  I wondered from which opening Nessa had — not fallen, but been pushed. I closed my eyes momentarily against the vision of her spinning helplessly down, down, down into the moat.
/>   There was a sudden rushing scrabbling noise behind me. I turned and opened my eyes.

  The Monk hurtled through the tower door and out on to the roof. He moved quickly, positioning himself with his back against the tower and looked around. Now he was breathing heavily, I noticed.

  He was also not so much in command as he had earlier appeared. He had obviously suspected that I might be waiting to ambush him, to rush at him when he reached the top and give him that fatal push that would send him tumbling down the stairs.

  But I couldn’t have done that: it might have hurt the Duchess.

  While he held the cat, he held the ace of trumps.

  He seemed to remember this. He turned towards me, his head lowered, his shoulders hunched, the picture of menace.

  ‘So —’ he said, his voice low and guttural. ‘So now — you jump!’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Why?’ I clasped my hands at my throat in the classic gesture of distress — which masked the long slide of the zipper that would allow me to throw off the kaftan for more freedom of movement. ‘I don’t understand.’

  An implacable wave of his hand directed me to an opening of the battlement. It was reinforced by another pained yowl from the cat.

  Sorry, Duchess, but I’m not taking the high jump. Not even for you. Hang in there.

  She did better than that, she began to struggle again. Twisting, squirming, snarling, trying to bite, fighting to get a paw free. And keeping the Monk fully occupied trying to control her.

  Go, girl, gol I cheered silently, moving closer while the Monk was distracted. I just needed to get close enough to —

  ‘Halt!’ He caught me. He raised one hand in the Stop! position, the other hand now grasped the cat by the scruff of her neck. The swathing cloth fell away, but she was immobilized by her position. Her eyes rolled, her ears and mouth twitched, but there was nothing else she could do.

  He marched to the parapet and held her out over space.

  ‘Now jump!’ he ordered. ‘Or I let go!’

  Cats can fall from dizzying heights and survive. She had a better chance than I had. But I couldn’t risk it — not and ever face Nessa again.