Nine Lives to Murder

by Marian Babson

  ‘In fact—’ the chair scraped away again—‘I’d better go down and telephone Cynthia. She was going to take the next shift. I’ll tell her I’m staying the night and she can come in at eight a.m.’

  She won’t like that. Cynthia was not a morning person—one reason why she hadn’t got farther in the film industry … in the days when there was a film industry. The theatre suited her better; matinees were the earliest occasions for which she was prepared to rise and shine.

  Geoffrey had left the room—temporarily. Cautiously, he poked his nose out and looked around. Emptiness and silence … good! He crossed the floor to the side of the bed, gathered himself together and sprang—landing, as he had intended, on the pillow.

  Something quivered in the still face beside him, but the eyes remained obstinately shut. Well, what had he expected?

  Monty … Monty, old boy. He nuzzled at an ear, a soft mewling sound broke from him. Can you hear me? Can you understand? What are we going to do?

  An answering muffled sound growled low in The Instrument’s throat; its eyes opened and looked around wildly. It recognized itself, but didn’t know what to do about it. Well, neither did he.

  Take it easy … Was he getting through, or were they still two different species, as far apart as ever?

  The head moved, trying to meet his head and rub against it.

  By George—there was a thought. That was the way it had happened—was it the way out?

  There was a bruise on The Instrument’s forehead, in roughly about the same spot where his own forehead ached. He aimed himself at it and bumped against it. Nothing happened. But Monty did not flinch away; he seemed to know what was being tried.

  He aimed at the bruise again and hit it harder. Something flickered deep inside his skull. Again! He backed off and hurled himself at the bruise. Monty whimpered at the pain and the machinery by the bedside flickered and changed tone.

  He backed to the foot of the bed and prepared to charge forward in a fresh assault—

  ‘I see you!’ The voice from the doorway halted him before he could start. He crouched low, hoping she hadn’t been addressing him.

  ‘What are you doing in here, cat? I’m sure you shouldn’t be here.’ Dame Theodora advanced into the room, frowning through her spectacles.

  ‘And Win!’ She stopped by the bedside and looked down at its famous occupant.

  ‘So the little toad wasn’t lying! Oliver brought me my glasses and—’ She did not appear to notice that she was getting no response from her old friend.

  ‘He told me you were here—but I didn’t really believe him. What’s the matter with you?’ She laughed abruptly. ‘What’s a nice man like you doing in a place like this?’

  Monty lay motionless, watching warily as she bent over him. But hers was a familiar voice, a known form; he was not alarmed. His head rose slightly in greeting.

  The cat crept forward, impelled by instincts beyond Win’s control. Nice lady. Friend. Food, something deep within his temporary form kept insisting. He remembered that Dame Theodora’s last two shows had been staged at the Chesterton. Of course, Monty knew her.

  ‘And you.’ She noticed the cat was advancing slowly, as though against its better judgement. ‘How did you get in here?’ She frowned again and adjusted her glasses.

  ‘Wait a minute—I know you! You’re Monty! You’re the Chesterton cat. What are you doing here?’

  Vaguely alarmed, the cat hesitated and crouched again. Dame Theodora, something inside him insisted, inclined to the capricious—much given to suddenly flapping her hand and driving him away just when he was settling down for an evening in her lap. What sort of a mood was she in tonight?

  ‘Monty—’ She stretched out her hand invitingly. ‘Dear old Monty. Come on, Monty, you know me. Come to Theodora,’ she crooned. ‘There’s a good boy. Good Monty, come here … come …’

  In horror, he saw The Instrument lurch upwards in response to the call and begin to roll off the bed, aiming itself in Theodora’s direction.

  The wavy lines on the monitoring panels broke into mountain peaks and tunnel troughs; electronic bleeps went into hysterical overdrive. Lights flashed, warning bells rang.

  With a gasp of consternation, Dame Theodora stepped backwards, turned and ran from the room, all hell breaking loose behind her.

  He paused only long enough to wince in sympathy as The Instrument, unfamiliar limbs flailing awkwardly, landed on the floor and sprawled there, winded.

  Then he turned and raced from the room, following Theodora to the staircase.

  Below, he could hear the uproar as what remained of the staff rallied to face the new emergency. The elevator whined, voices rose in hubbub.

  Once again, feet took the stairs three at a time, as Geoffrey bellowed: ‘DAD! … DAD! …’

  14

  ‘Auntie Thea, where have you been?’ Oliver Crump was in the sitting-room, scribbling in a spiral notebook. He rose and moved forward as his aunt entered her suite.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Dame Theodora asked ungraciously. ‘I thought you were at the theatre slandering someone’s talent tonight.’

  ‘The show ended an hour ago. I thought I’d just look in on you before dropping my review off at the office.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing with that notebook? Stop it immediately! I will not have you perpetrating your obscenities in my suite.’

  ‘Just a few notes, Auntie Thea.’ He disposed of the notebook hastily, his voice placating. ‘How are you? I’ve been worried about you. The place was dark when I got here. I couldn’t see a thing and I couldn’t find anyone to ask about it. Fortunately, the power came on again just in time for me to use the lift—’

  ‘You ought to use the stairs. Work some of the flab off you!’

  ‘Then, when you weren’t here—’ Crump was an expert at not hearing anything he didn’t want to hear; that—and his rhinoceros hide—had taken him to his present position—‘I sat down to wait for you. I hoped you hadn’t gone too far.’

  ‘Hoped I hadn’t got away, you mean.’ Dame Theodora stalked past him and sat in the armchair opposite, patting her lap in invitation to Monty.

  ‘Where did you get that cat?’ Oliver frowned. ‘Surely they don’t allow animals in a hospital? Have you been outside?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’ She patted her lap again and the cat leaped into it. They both sat there glaring at Oliver. ‘And you can keep your mouth shut about the cat. He’s better company than you are.’

  ‘I can see you’re in one of your moods.’ Oliver gave a put-upon sigh. ‘Did you eat any dinner? You know you’ve got to keep your strength up.’

  ‘The food is disgusting!’ Dame Theodora swept her hand towards the congealing creamed chicken. A low moan escaped from the cat and he gazed ravenously at the abandoned meal.

  ‘Do you want it, Monty?’ She looked down at him. ‘I suppose it can’t hurt you. Your guts are constructed to cope with anything, aren’t they? Even this sort of muck.’ She set the dish down on the floor; the cat leaped from her lap and dived for it.

  ‘I don’t approve.’ Oliver shook his head, knowinġ how little his approval would mean to his aunt. ‘Germs—’

  ‘You’re the only germ around here!’ She watched him bow his head in exaggerated patience. ‘A germ—and a worm. I’m glad your mother isn’t alive today to see the depths you’ve sunk to.’

  ‘Please, Auntie Thea.’

  ‘And what did you think of the play tonight?’ She changed tack abruptly. ‘Whose throats are you cutting for the amusement of your moronic readers tomorrow?’

  ‘I guess it’s time to leave—’

  ‘I asked you a question!’ Even the cat joined her in an accusing glare.

  ‘It wasn’t a very good play. Honestly it wasn’t, Auntie Thea.’ His hangdog look endeared him neither to aunt nor feline. ‘And the actors were … miscast, to put it at its most charitable.’

  ‘Since when were you ever charitable?’


  ‘I’ll have a copy of the paper delivered to you.’ Oliver began backing towards the door. ‘You can read it for yourself—’

  ‘Hello! I thought I heard familiar voices.’ Jilly blocked the doorway, her greedy, gleaning eyes taking in the scene. ‘Oliver, darling, what are you doing here? Oh, I see—’ She looked at Dame Theodora. ‘This is a personal visit, then, not professional?’

  ‘Oliver—?’ Dame Theodora’s voice rose dangerously. ‘Who is this … creature?’

  ‘Sorry, Auntie Thea, I didn’t realize you hadn’t met. This is Jilly Zanna. She works on the London Record. Does a lot of celebrity interviews. I’m surprised you two haven’t—’

  ‘Monty!’ Dame Theodora stooped and swept the cat into her arms. (Luckily he had finished everything on the plate.) ‘Monty, we are surrounded by reptiles!’

  How true, how true. And how clever of dear old Thea to cut to the crux of the matter. But he could not resist a yawn. The feeling slid over him that he could deal with this situation better after he’d had a little nap. A catnap, heh-heh-heh.

  ‘Where did that cat come from?’ Jilly stared at the sharp pointed teeth on full display and the pink curling tongue. ‘How did he get inside again?’

  ‘Reptiles,’ Dame Theodora crooned to the cat. ‘Ugly, nasty … and dangerous. Have nothing to do with them, Monty.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not at her best tonight,’ Oliver apologized. ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I …’ Jilly lowered her eyelids, improbably demure. ‘I came to see Win. He’s here, you know.’

  ‘He’s downstairs.’ Oliver looked at her sharply. ‘What are you doing up on this floor?’

  ‘Spying, I expect,’ Dame Theodora said. ‘I’ve heard about you and Win. Has Miranda found out yet?’

  ‘Auntie Thea, please—’

  ‘I had a friend with me,’ Jilly said quickly. ‘We got separated when the lights went out. I’ve been looking for him.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Win?’ Dame Theodora demanded. ‘Why are the vultures gathering? Why is he wired up to those machines? Was it a heart attack?’

  ‘No, he had an accident at rehearsal. Took a nasty fall.’ Oliver’s eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘How do you know he’s wired up to machines? Have you been snooping, Auntie Thea?’

  ‘The nurse told me.’ The flat statement defied him to call her a liar.

  ‘And why are you here, Dame Theodora?’ Jilly cooed. ‘Nothing serious, I hope? You look quite well. Not a spot of your old trouble, is it?’

  ‘You suggest one word of that in print and we’ll sue!’ Oliver snapped. ‘Auntie Thea is simply here for a rest before she begins her new film in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jilly said. ‘I quite understand. Some people find it quite easy to rest at home, but Dame Theodora is obviously one of those who find that there are too many … distractions … available.’

  ‘One word …’ Oliver warned. ‘You can’t afford another libel suit, Jilly. You know the Lords and Masters are beginning to reckon you’re too expensive to maintain.’

  ‘Maybe.’Jilly’s eyes gleamed. ‘But if the stories are good enough, I can write my own ticket to a better paper. Perhaps even a television show.’

  So that was it! That was why she had always been so anxious to accompany him to the TV studio when he was working on the pilot for that proposed Anglo-American series about a pair of rival management executives in the same international company who had both been made redundant and, unable to find new employment at their ages in a recessionary market, had joined forces to become confidence tricksters and take revenge on the company that had cast them out. The project had gone into abeyance, in the mysterious way that television projects were prone to do and only time would tell whether it had slipped into a black hole or would become activated again at some future—and probably highly inconvenient—date.

  Now, for instance. What more inconvenient time could there be? He gave a shudder as he pictured The Instrument—precariously controlled by Monty—trying to go through its paces in front of the cameras.

  ‘Be careful, Jilly.’ Suddenly, Oliver Crump looked sinister. ‘Be very careful.’

  ‘Why, Oliver—’ Jilly’s laugh was uncertain—‘you sound as though you’re threatening me.’

  ‘Do I?’ Oliver’s smile was dangerous. ‘What a pity you haven’t any witnesses. My aunt didn’t hear a thing. And the cat won’t talk.’

  Don’t be too sure of that. The cat glared impartially from Jilly to Oliver.

  ‘So it’s like that, is it?’ Jilly allowed her open hostility to show. ‘Try being careful yourself, Oliver. Better men than you have thought they could tell me what to do. They found out …’

  ‘Aaaah-ooh.’ Dame Theodora yawned widely.

  ‘We’re tiring you, Auntie Thea.’ Oliver was well-trained to take a hint. ‘It’s late. Go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll come to visit you again tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said, yawning again.

  The cat yawned in sympathy. Sleep … it sounded so-o-o good. He blinked slowly, trying to fight the creeping laziness that told him to relax, curl up beside Thea on the bed and sleep …

  He felt himself being gathered up and carried towards the bedroom.

  ‘Perhaps I might drop in and see you again tomorrow, Dame Theodora.’ Jilly was still in there trying. ‘We could do an interview. It would be good advance publicity for your film.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Dame Theodora turned and looked at her, accurately gauging the nuisance value her next remark would have for her nephew. ‘Make sure you bring a bottle of gin with you, if you do.’

  ‘You didn’t hear that, Jilly.’ Oliver caught her arm so tightly that she gasped in pain. ‘And you’ll do no such thing!’

  ‘You will, if you want an interview.’

  ‘Auntie Thea, you keep out of this!’

  ‘And you mind your manners, Oliver!’ She loosened her grip on the cat and it slid to the floor and retreated to a corner, watching the combatants.

  Why Oliver was fighting a losing battle to protect Dame Theodora’s reputation, he didn’t know. Everyone in the theatre, and most of those outside it, had understood for years the reason for her periodic withdrawals from society. In fact, if she would only withdraw to the Betty Ford Clinic in a blaze of publicity, it would probably give fresh impetus to her career. A good spicy interview with Jilly might have the same effect.

  ‘Let go of me!’ Jilly’s temper was rising. ‘I’ll have bruises.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if that’s all—’ Oliver wrestled Jilly with one hand and the doorknob with the other. The door swung open abruptly.

  ‘Jilly!’ The photographer was just outside. ‘I’ve been looking for you. Is this where you’ve been?’

  ‘Where have you been?’Jilly glared at him, then narrowed her eyes and slanted her gaze meaningly from his camera to Dame Theodora.

  ‘Up on the roof.’ Casually, Jake moved his camera up into position. ‘Got a few great shots of London at night.’

  ‘Will you all get out of here!’ Oliver snapped.

  ‘Sure, guv. Just a minute—’ The camera flashed, then again.

  ‘Stop that!’ Oliver released his hold on Jilly to follow the photographer as he danced around Dame Theodora snapping off several shots.

  Thea obligingly changed pose and expression as he circled her.

  ‘Dear boy,’ she cooed. ‘I’m not dressed properly for this.’

  ‘You look great,’ he assured her. ‘Just turn this way a bit more—’

  ‘Stop it!’ Oliver’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘That does it!’ He stabbed at the button to summon an attendant. ‘I’m having you thrown out!’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Jilly headed for the door. ‘Come on, Jake, we’re leaving.’

  ‘You certainly are! And furthermore, I’m seeing to it that you’re barred from the premises,’ Oliver announced. ‘I’ll make sure they never let you in here again!’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh?’ Jilly looked at him coldly, then flung her defiance into the room behind him.

  ‘Gordon’s or Beefeater’s?’ she called.

  15

  Miranda, exhausted, slept until nearly noon. As soon as she plugged the telephone in, it began ringing. For a moment, her spirit quailed, then she remembered.

  Win was better, a lot better. It was safe to answer the telephone again.

  ‘Hello … ?’ She caught up the receiver and spoke eagerly.

  ‘Oh …’ Some of her enthusiasm dwindled. ‘Rufus, hello. I didn’t expect to hear from you so early. Only … it isn’t that early, is it? … No, no, I haven’t seen the papers yet.’ Her voice grew cold. ‘And I never read the London Record.’

  There was a staccato burst of words from the other end of the line, like a machine-gun, mowing down everything in its path. She listened incredulously.

  ‘They said what?’ Yet why was she so shocked and indignant? She had had the same thought herself. But she had been overwrought then, her nerves frayed, her endurance close to its limits. She had fought herself back from that crisis of confidence, that abyss of suspicion, back to a sane and rational world where such things could never happen. Why should anyone want to kill Win? What had he done to offend that much?

  ‘Picture? They’ve printed pictures?’ The world spun out of alignment again. Proof? How could there be proof of something so unthinkable?

  ‘Is something wrong, dear?’ Tottie stood in the doorway, watching her with concern. How long had she been standing there?

  ‘No.’ The answer was automatic, prompted by a rush of irritation. She had forgotten that Tottie had stayed the night—or what was left of it—again. It had seemed sensible at the time. Tottie had come to report what had happened during the power cut at St Monica’s. It would have been heartless to send her back to her little flat in the suburbs—even in a minicab—at that hour. Especially when there was a guest room available and Tottie knew it; had, in fact, dropped a hopeful little hint about it. It would have been churlish to send her out into the night; after all, it had been her vigil at Win’s bedside that had meant her missing the last train home.