‘Did you say something, darling?’ Miranda turned hopefully.
A meltingly sweet smile appeared on Winstanley Fortescue’s face and he blinked his eyes slowly at her. He did not repeat his comment.’
‘He’s trying,’ Miranda said. ‘He’s trying so hard. Sir Reginald says there’s no throat damage—’ Her own throat closed up suddenly. If Win had drunk that deadly orange juice … She was going to have to talk to Sir Reginald—it might be time for Antoinette to be put away for her own good. Quietly and without hint of scandal, in some discreet private nursing home where she could be watched constantly. But … would Geoffrey ever forgive her if she engineered Antoinette’s commitment?
‘Thanks to Monty, his throat is all right.’ Geoffrey gave the cat’s head an extra-hard rub and was rewarded with a thunderous purr. ‘And he knows we’re talking about him, don’t you, old boy?’
You’d be surprised at what I know, old boy. What I don’t know is who’s trying to kill me—and why. He looked across at The Instrument, half curled up in the big armchair. The Instrument had been there when someone entered the room and put the corrosive substance into the orange juice. Perhaps he had even seen the deed being done. If only he could talk.
‘Uuurrr …’ The Instrument seemed to pick his cue out of the air.
‘What is it, darling?’ Miranda crossed to his side. ‘Do you want something?’
‘Oooeeųud …’
‘He means food,’ Miranda translated. ‘I don’t know what they fed him at St Monica’s, but he’s been absolutely ravenous ever since he came home.’
‘Prraauus …’ Winstanley Fortescue rubbed his head winningly against her waist.
‘He’s mad for prawns.’ Miranda tousled his hair. ‘Can you say “prawns”, Win? You almost made it. Come on, try … prawns … prawns …
‘Oh dear,’ Tottie sighed.
‘We don’t want strangers to see him like this,’ Geoffrey said. ‘But I was wondering … Madame Rosetti, the voice coach. She helped him when he had to sing for the Water Rats’ cabaret and she worked to give him an Italian accent for the TV serial Terror in Tuscany. Do you think she could do anything with him now?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea!’ Miranda said. ‘We’ll have her round first thing in the morning and set them to work.’
24
But, before the morning, there was the night.
Geoffrey decided to look in at the theatre before going home to his flat in Highgate.
Tottie wanted to check in at the theatre, too. She had rather been neglecting her wardrobe duties lately and there were alterations needed on the costumes Peter Farley was taking over from Win. She and Geoffrey left together.
Miranda drew the curtains, added a few more lumps of smokeless fuel to the fire and made sure Win was comfortably settled in front of it. A soft pattering rain had begun falling; this was a night for home and hearth. Monty, stretched out on the arm of Win’s sofa, obviously felt the same.
‘Fish pies for supper tonight, chaps,’ Miranda told them. ‘I picked some up at Marks earlier.’
Win stirred and smiled at her with a sleepy approval that twisted her heart. Fish was his favourite dish right now. She wondered if it was because fish was supposed to be good for the brain and some instinct deep inside him was telling him that his poor brain needed all the help it could get.
‘I’ll pop them in the oven to warm up shortly.’ She looked at the television listings and decided against it. Win had shown no interest in television since his return and there was nothing she was particularly interested in seeing. On the other hand, Radio Three was broadcasting a recorded concert by the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic; she tuned in and the soft lilting strains swept through the room. Win smiled again and Monty’s purr throbbed louder; she had chosen wisely.
Miranda sank on to the sofa opposite them and leaned back, relaxing slowly. Win looked so much better, now that he was home. Every day he seemed stronger and bit more himself. The speech problem was the main difficulty now and surely Madame Rosetti would be able to help with that …
The telephone erupted explosively, making them all jump. ‘I’ll get it,’ Miranda said, quite as though Win had intended to answer it—as he usually did. She rose and crossed to the rosewood desk.
‘Hello? What?’ The voice at the other end was speaking so quickly, the words were garbled. ‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, sorry, sorry. It’s Peter—Peter Farley.’ The voice was strangulated and almost unidentifiable, obviously produced from a throat under a great deal of tension. ‘Sorry to bother you at this hour, but … I wonder if I could speak to Win?’
‘Peter, I’m sorry. I’m afraid Win can’t come to the phone right now. In any case, he … he isn’t well enough to talk yet.’
‘But I understood he was a lot better.’
‘Better, yes, but not completely recovered. There’s still a problem with his voice …’ Miranda heard her own voice dip and fall. Win’s voice had always been such an important part of his command of the stage. It was unthinkable that he should not regain full use of it. ‘He understands perfectly well, I’m sure—’ was she?—‘but he isn’t able to respond very well … as yet.’
‘Oh yes, quite. I understand.’ His voice told her that he didn’t, but was willing to go along with whatever public statements were being issued to cover the situation.
‘It really is most awfully important that I talk to Win for a few minutes, though,’ he persisted. ‘And you too, of course. Do you think I could come round—just for a few minutes?’
‘Now?’ Miranda let the doubt and faint indignation shadow her tone. ‘It’s after eleven—and Win has to get to bed a lot earlier these nights, you know. He needs his sleep.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He sounded vaguely desperate. ‘But I must see his—See him, see him.’
‘Well …’ Miranda surrendered to her growing curiosity. ‘If it won’t take too long …’ She hardened her attitude. ‘Within ten minutes—or not at all.’
‘Right away, I promise. I’ll be there and gone before you know it.’
But he wasn’t.
An hour later, thoroughly annoyed, Miranda gave up the vigil. She had kept too many of them in her time. Dear though her colleagues were to her—most of them—she no longer viewed them through the rose-coloured spectacles she had metaphorically worn in the first flush of her career.
The years had brought a different wisdom. Earnest though certain of her colleagues were, fervent though their protestations, ardent and good-willed their intentions … once they had convinced their listener to come round to their view of the situation, they did tend to lose a certain amount of interest. Perhaps all of it. They then danced off after the next will-o’-the-wisp that caught their fancy, leaving their newly-persuaded disciple looking after them—and trying to wipe the egg off his or her face.
She hadn’t put Peter Farley into that well-known category, but it just showed that one never could tell. Or perhaps he had taken her too literally when she had given him a time limit; something had happened to delay him beyond ten minutes, so he had decided ‘not at all’.
‘Oh, well …’ She pulled herself up and began switching off the lamps until only one remained to light their way from the room. ‘Time for bed.’
The concert was ending, too. The orchestra melted into a familiar well-loved melody. She looked at Win to see if he recognized it, as well. Something about the tilt of his head, the warmth in his eyes, persuaded her that he did.
‘Remember, Win?’ She advanced on him, holding out her hands. ‘You were Henry the Eighth and I was Anne Boleyn. You’d written that song and you had the Court musicians playing it for us … just for us … and we danced …’
Softly she began to sing:
‘Alas, my love, you do me wrong
‘To cast me off discourteously
‘For I have lo-o-ved you so long …’
Win was responding—he was! He lurched to his feet—without his customary
grace, but with an unmistakable fervour. His eyes locked on hers, he moved forward, his arms reached out to her.
‘Delighting in your company …’
She swung into his arms, leading him into the dance they had performed six nights and two matinees a week for the length of the run. Oh yes, this was her darling Win, the old Win, the Win she had been afraid she might never recover again.
‘For Greensleeves was all my joy
‘Greensleeves was my delight
‘Greensleeves was my heart alone …’
‘UURGHAARGH!’ Win leaped back from her, bending and clutching at his ankle.
‘MONTY!’ Miranda looked down in shock at the hissing, spitting cat, who seemed to have gone mad suddenly.
Stop that! Stop that! Take your paws off her! Half-hysterical, the cat gathered himself for a fresh assault on Winstanley Fortescue.
‘Uuuraaoow …’ Fortescue rubbed his ankle, then stared with blank disbelief at the blood smearing his hand. His eyes narrowed and he looked at the cat with a distinct absence of his former affection.
Leave her alone! Don’t you dare touch her! He yowled the challenge like a Tom on a back fence. He was ready to fight … to kill … for his female.
The man looked down on him bemusedly, then seemed to realize that he was looking down; that he was bigger, taller, more powerful than his adversary. There was no contest; he was the winner.
Don’t you dare! I’ll get you … The threat was not empty, but could it ever be carried out?
‘All right, Monty,’ Miranda said. ‘Out you go. Out for the night.’
No, no—listen to me. Let me explain—
‘Put him out, Win,’ Miranda said. ‘Before he scratches you again. I’m afraid he must be jealous.’
No! … No! … I mean, yes, but …
The man looked down at the cat and suddenly the knowledge of his power flared triumphantly in his eyes. He stooped and caught the cat by the scruff of the neck, lifting him high.
Grrrr … grrrrr … He was helpless, strangling, unable to twist and slash. And the man knew it.
‘Haaa-haaaaa-aaah …’ The famous Winstanley Fortescue laugh of triumph rang out as he carried the cat to the French window, swung it open and tossed the cat out into the night.
‘Haaa-haaaaa-aaah …’ There was a deeper triumph within the laugh and the cat recognized it as he flew through the air. It was the revenge of a cat who had been set upon by humans, wrested from his lawful prey time upon time, and hurled into darkness, the victim of the unfairness of a world in which he was smaller and weaker than the beings with whom he had thrown in his lot.
Monty was enjoying his revenge. But … would it stop with this?
Later, crouching under a bush in the garden, seething with fury, he saw the light in the master bedroom go out.
25
‘Tell me where is fancy bred,
‘In the heart or in the head …’
Madame Rosetti articulated beautifully, rolling her r’s and exaggerating every syllable.
The Instrument regarded her with genial interest, agreeing ‘Urrrr’ and rolling a mean rr of his own when she nodded to him to try it.
‘Grrrr … rrrr …’ The cat echoed from his perch on the desk.
‘Still sulking, Monty?’ Miranda tapped him lightly in passing.
He glared after her, furious and impotent. He knew that mood of hers; it told him more clearly than words what had happened last night. He had been betrayed—and yet he could not accuse her of cuckolding him with her own husband. Her own husband’s body. How was she to know that it was under new management.
He forgave her … grudgingly. The memory of Butterfly and the Duchess of Malfi slipped through his mind and he forgave himself, too. Perhaps the honours were even. If you could call it honour. Heh-heh-heh.
The Instrument turned and regarded him with sudden suspicion, even a trace of hostility. Had he caught the stray thoughts going through his erstwhile mind?
When male cats are rivals, they fight—tooth and claw. And what about Miranda? He felt his own hackles rising. Interloper! A high-pitched whine rose in his throat. Come on, I’ll tear your tail off … scratch your eyes out …
The Instrument got up and began to lumber towards him.
No! No! No! He pulled back on the warlike instincts. They mustn’t fight each other. Any wound they inflicted on each other, they inflicted on themselves. It gave new meaning to the expression ‘self-inflicted wound’. He mustn’t damage The Instrument—and he mustn’t let The Instrument harm him.
The Instrument raised one hand—one very large hand—in a businesslike manner. He intended to do injury; it was there in his eyes.
‘Win!’ Miranda tried to call him to order. ‘Win! Don’t—’
It was time for a sensible cat to be elsewhere. He backed to the edge of the desk, still keeping wary watch on that threatening hand, and dropped to the floor. He would come back later—when passions weren’t running so high …
He shouldered through the French window and into the garden. Mmm, the theatre … yes, the theatre. Time to check in there and see what was going on; say hello to Tottie and have lunch with her; watch the progress of the rehearsal …
On automatic pilot, he trotted purposefully to the Chesterton. A short sharp yowl outside the Stage Door, of the sort he had so often heard Monty utter, brought a prompt response.
‘Ello, Monty,’ Old Sam said, swinging open the door. ‘Thought we’d lost yer. Miss the old smell of greasepaint, do yer? I know. Theatre gets in everybody’s blood—even yours.’
What do you mean—‘even’ mine? He was so affronted, he gave Old Sam only the most perfunctory ankle rub in thanks before heading down the corridor to Tottie’s room.
She wasn’t there. Feeling cheated and slightly betrayed (again!), he sauntered over to the food dishes. Ugh! The milk was soured, motes of dust floated on top of the tepid water and something absolutely disgusting stirred in the depths beneath the dry crusting on the cat food.
Discipline around this place was shot to hell! High time he came back and brought them all up to the mark. Muttering a dissatisfaction that was as much Monty’s as his, he turned and prowled out of Wardrobe and back along the corridor.
Cynthia’s dressing-room was tightly closed. She was taking no chances with her precious Duchess of Malfi again, heh-heh-heh. Much good it would do her. If he and Malfi felt like it—
What was that? His ears flicked forward, then flattened. Instinctively, he lowered his body until his belly was brushing the floor. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.
There was nothing to be seen. In the distance, he heard the voices of Cynthia and Geoffrey resounding from the stage.
On a rising note of annoyance, Cynthia repeated a line, paused and then repeated it again. It was the cue for Win’s entrance for the key scene.
‘Really, it’s too bad,’ Cynthia complained. ‘If we’ve all taken the trouble to come here for extra rehearsals, so that Peter can work himself into the part, the least he can do is have the grace to show up and work with us!’
Rufus said something placatory, obviously speaking from one of the auditorium seats he favoured when watching a rehearsal, since his words were inaudible backstage.
‘That’s all very well—’ Cynthia was not to be placated. ‘But I consider it discourtesy of the highest order. If not insult!’
‘She does have a point, you know.’ Geoffrey weighed in. ‘I must say, I’m rather disappointed in old Peter myself. I thought he was mad keen on doing a good job in the part. It’s his big chance. So where is he?’
Where, indeed? Geoffrey was right. This was Peter Farley’s big chance—and he had too much riding on it to risk blowing it in any way.
The door to the dressing-room shared by Geoffrey and Peter was half-open, as usual. Geoffrey had nothing to hide—and nothing valuable enough to be worth stealing. Not that anyone would. Although he wouldn’t be too sure about one of the stage hands; also, one could never be sure
who was wandering in and out of the theatre. What with deliveries, friends dropping by, and all manner of authorized and unauthorized persons passing in and out on business of their own, it was better to err on the safe side if you had any valuables.
Perhaps he ought to see to it that young Geoffrey did have something valuable for his quarters. After all, it didn’t look too well if Winstanley Fortescue’s only son had nothing worth protecting. Perhaps a small Victorian oil painting for the Opening Night gift—
Oh yes, and how would he sign the cheque? With a pawprint?
Angrily, he marched into the dressing-room and stared around. No Peter Farley. Of course not. If he had been there, Geoffrey would have known it.
His nose twitched. There was something …
There it was again! This time his ears twitched and seemed to propel him towards the door, the corridor …
The corridor was deserted. Hollow voices echoed from the stage; they had started on a different scene, one that did not require Peter Farley. Cynthia still had a strong note of discontent in her voice.
Monty’s invisible antennae were urging him down the corridor on a journey another part of Monty’s instincts warned him he didn’t want to take. They led him to the door of his own dressing-room.
This door was also closed; from beneath it there came the heavy scent of Miranda’s perfume. Was Miranda inside? He had left her at the house. Could she have got here so quickly? And why?
He stretched up on his hind legs and tried to twist the doorknob with his paws. Not easy but, for one who understood the theory and mechanics of turning a knob, not that difficult either. After a couple of false starts when his paws slipped, he heard the faint familiar click of the latch and the door moved.
He dropped back to all fours as the door swung away from him and padded into the room.
‘Mirreeow … ?’ he called softly.
She wasn’t there; a certain flatness in the air told him that immediately. Perhaps one of the other women who wore that perfume … But what would any of them be doing in his dressing-room?
He looked around. Something indefinable was still sending warning shudders along his spine; he could feel his fur rippling. Almost against his will, he began an exploratory prowl. The furniture was undisturbed, the costumes hung in their places behind the screen, Miranda’s dressing-table—
Nine Lives to Murder Page 12