Nine Lives to Murder

by Marian Babson

  He leaped up to inspect it. The bottle of scent had been overturned. That was why the room reeked of it. A small puddle had formed in the pin tray, dulled patches on the mirror showed where drops had landed and dried. Dried—it had happened some time ago, then …

  Get out of here—they’ll think you did it! The ancient knowledge sounded an alarm bell in his brain. Cats were always blamed for knocking things over and breaking them. Blame, followed by punishment; that was the pattern—and the injustice. With an accident and a handy cat to blame, no one was going to notice the dried-out blotches that meant it had happened a lot earlier; no one was going to ask where Monty had been then. Old Sam could attest that he had returned to the theatre only about fifteen minutes ago, but on one would think to ask him. No one cared whether a cat had an alibi when it was found in incriminating circumstances.

  After the first glance, he had avoided looking in the mirror. He didn’t want to see himself as he was now. For the same—and stronger—reason, he did not want to look at his own adjacent dressing-table, the dear workbench where he had so often sat and applied his make-up before striding out to the gust of applause that greeted his entrance.

  How are the mighty fallen! How chastening the experiences that Life—or perhaps some sardonic mocking Gods—can inflict. So short a time ago he had sat tall and proud at that dressing-table, with all the light-bulbs ringing the mirror glowing, and casually, carelessly slapped on the foundation—

  He could no longer keep himself from looking over at the adjoining dressing-table. He looked—and froze.

  The Instrument was sitting there.

  The Instrument … slumped forward … face down on the dressing-table … one hand still in a defensive position close to his head … his head … blood …

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. If The Instrument was dead, how could he ever get back into his own body? He would be trapped for ever in Monty’s form. No, not for ever; for the few short years remaining to Monty … He closed his eyes.

  I am Winstanley Fortescue, a star, at the height of my powers and my profession. When I open my eyes, I will be home in bed, awaking from a nightmare…

  I am Winstanley Fortescue … please let me wake up … please let me be back in my own bed… He leaned against the mirror, eyes closed, and no longer knew to whom or what he was praying: God or Bast.

  But, as the dizziness began to pass, he realized that what had held true for Miranda also held true for The Instrument: there hadn’t been time for him to get to the theatre ahead of the cat. Certainly not enough time to get there and change into costume.

  He opened his eyes and forced himself to look across at the body again. Yes, it was wearing the Victorian evening jacket and lace-cuffed shirt of the first act finale. The scene Cynthia and Geoffrey were here to rehearse with Peter Farley.

  Peter Farley! No wonder he had missed his cue. But … what was he doing in the star dressing-room? He knew that he would never be able to occupy it while Miranda was co-starring with him. Had he just wanted to sit at Win’s dressing-table, perhaps use Win’s make-up … for luck?

  Some luck! And yet … he pricked his ears as a sound almost too faint to be heard came from the body. An almost inaudible gasp for air … for breath.

  Farley was still alive! Perhaps only just. He needed help at once. More help than a cat could give. But a cat could raise the alarm—

  ‘YEEOORREEOOOW …’ The howl that came from his depths was louder and more frightening than he had imagined he could make.

  ‘EEERRREEEOOWWOOOOWWW …’ It stopped all sound and movement at the front of the house.

  ‘EEEYYYOOOOWWEEEEYOOOOWW …’ He could hear feet running from every direction, converging on the dressing-room.

  ‘What’s the matter, Monty? What is it?’ Tottie led them. ‘Are you hurt? Why are you making all that horrible noise?’

  He leaped to the floor and ran to meet her. She picked him up and was pushed aside as Cynthia stormed in.

  ‘What’s that little monster doing now? He hasn’t got my Malfi again, has—? Oh my God!’

  26

  ‘Someone is trying to ruin me!’ Rufus Tuxford said.

  ‘I thought it was Win,’ Cynthia babbled. ‘When I saw him sitting there at Win’s dressing-table, and in Win’s costume, I honestly thought it was Win.’

  ‘Perhaps someone else thought that, too.’ Miranda was pale but composed. It had been a shock when everyone had unexpectedly appeared at the door; more of a shock when they told her what had happened at the theatre, but she was calmer now and able to face unpalatable facts. ‘Where is Peter now? St Monica’s?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Rufus was offended at the very thought, ‘He’s in a place where they have better security than St Monica’s.’

  ‘And,’ Davy put in quickly, ‘we’re not saying where. The less anyone knows, the better, until we get this sorted out.’

  ‘Quite right, dear.’ Tottie was holding Monty in her lap and he seemed glad to be there. ‘Gave us all a nasty turn, that did. If it hadn’t been for Monty yowling his head off, poor Peter could have died there and not been discovered for days. Not until the next time Miranda decided to use the dressing-room—and she’s got other things on her mind these days.’ She lifted the cat’s head and massaged its throat gently. ‘You’re a hero, Monty, what do you think of that?’

  He gave her a loud purr. It was nice to be appreciated. Too bad it was only Tottie who was the leading member of his fan club. Dear old Tottie. He opened one eye a wary slit and looked around the room from the safety of her lap. One could trust Tottie, one could depend on her utterly … couldn’t one?

  She had arrived in the dressing-room very quickly—and she’d been nowhere to be seen earlier. Where had she been?

  ‘Ruined!’ Rufus was still on about his own problems. ‘If we can’t open this show with the minimum of delay, I’ll have to return the advance ticket sale money. I’ll be ruined.’

  Quite possibly. Every publicity story of the past decade had emphasized the financial acumen of Rufus Tuxford, the famous theatrical entrepreneur who could do no wrong. They had lauded his flair for picking hits to produce, his genius for discovering new talent to introduce. They had noted wistfully, if not enviously, his manor house in Somerset, his chambers in Albany, his penthouse in New York, his flat in Paris, his yacht, his Rolls-Royce, his succession of expensive mistresses. At no point had there ever been any hint of financial problems.

  Only those closest to Rufus had begun to suspect. There were too many in-jokes about his gambling beginning to circulate. And the increasing number of over-extended City financiers being brought to book by the Serious Fraud Office had proved that no one was—or should be—above suspicion. High-profile millionaires were beginning to make their associates nervous—especially when the millionaires were addicted to gambling. Nothing could diminish a fortune faster. Oh yes, the rumours, the whispers, were beginning to centre on Rufus Tuxford.

  Now they were confirmed from Rufus’s own lips.

  ‘Maybe Win will be able to come back into the show himself,’ Tottie tried to comfort him, unsurprised by his declaration. Because she had reason to know? Rufus wouldn’t have dared play games with the salaries of his stars, but was he keeping the rest of the company short of cash? ‘Win’s getting better every day now.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Miranda said. ‘He’s begun working with Madame Rosetti again. She was here all morning and he’s made marvellous progress.’

  ‘Really?’ Rufus lifted his head, allowing cautious hope to flicker for a moment at the back of his eyes. ‘You think she could coach him well enough to get him back on stage again? No one would expect a fully-realized performance; it would be enough if he could just walk through the part. After all the publicity, the public will give him a lot of leeway for the first few weeks of the run.’

  ‘You mean—’ Miranda’s voice was icy—‘they’ll applaud him for stepping on the stage at all.’

  ‘There are worse
reasons. It isn’t as though he’d been involved in a scandal, or caught at something nasty. He just had an accident—’

  ‘Did he?’ Miranda raised an eyebrow. ‘And what about Peter? Was getting his head bashed in just another “accident”?’

  ‘She’s right, dear,’ Tottie said. ‘It’s time to face up to the fact that there’s dark doings going on at the Chesterton.’

  ‘It may even be time to call in the police.’ Miranda spoke hesitantly. If Antoinette was going to be apprehended, it would be tragedy for Geoffrey and Jennet. It was better for the police to do it.

  ‘No!’ Rufus paled. ‘We can’t!’

  ‘If we don’t,’ Tottie said, ‘it’s going to look awfully bad if … if something else happens.’

  ‘That’s a good point.’ Davy carefully avoided looking at Winstanley Fortescue, who was sitting quietly in an armchair, apparently half-asleep.

  ‘You don’t think anything else can happen!’ Cynthia stared incredulously at Davy. ‘To someone else? To one of us?’

  Davy shrugged. ‘You never can tell.’

  ‘But you can have a pretty good idea,’ Miranda said. ‘The first “accident” happened to Win. Then the power failed in St Monica’s when Win was on a life-support machine. The corrosive acid was put into Win’s orange juice. Now, there’s been an attack in Win’s dressing-room, on an actor who was chosen for his resemblance to Win, who was wearing Win’s costume and sitting at Win’s dressing-table. No one else is in danger. Someone is out to get Win!’

  ‘You can make anything sound bad if you put it like that,’ Rufus protested feebly.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, dear.’ Tottie shook her head regretfully at Rufus. ‘Lord knows, none of us want to believe it but …’

  ‘Believe it or not—’ Miranda’s resolve hardened; Antoinette had gone too far—and for too long; she must be captured and put away—‘until you take action, I am not allowing Win to set foot in the Chesterton again.’

  ‘But—’ Rufus protested. ‘But—The Show Must Go On.’

  ‘Damn the show!’ Miranda snapped. ‘I intend to make sure that my husband goes on!’

  Hear! Hear! Lovely girl, what a fighter. Look at those flashing eyes, the defiant set of her head. There was a woman to have on your side … by your side …

  ‘What’s the matter, Monty?’ Tottie responded to the sudden sad little wail. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

  ‘Never mind the damned cat!’ Cynthia snarled. ‘We’ve got to get this sorted out. Miranda, you can’t keep Win away from the theatre. It … it will close the show. Before it even opens.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rufus said. ‘I can’t possibly begin rehearsing another lead now—it’s too late. Our only hope is that Win can pull himself together enough to go on.’

  ‘No matter how pulled together he is—’ Miranda faced them adamantly—‘Win is not going near the Chesterton until you’ve called in the police.’

  ‘It needn’t be the police police, dear,’ Tottie pointed out. ‘You could have a quiet word with one of your important friends and he could send round someone who’d be discreet. No uniforms. If it’s handled right, there needn’t be any more publicity.’

  ‘Or perhaps you could hire a Minder for Win,’ Cynthia suggested. ‘A bodyguard. That would be even better, wouldn’t it, Miranda? Someone to be on twenty-four-hour guard over Win. We—we could tell people he’s a male nurse. Everyone will believe that—they know Win has been ill.’

  ‘Win has not been ill,’ Miranda corrected. ‘He has been half-killed. And the killer seems determined to finish the job.’

  ‘All the more reason for a bodyguard.’ Rufus was becoming enthusiastic about the idea.

  ‘And a police investigation,’ Miranda persisted.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, of course.’ Rufus had the false note in his voice that meant he wasn’t really going to do anything about the situation. Tell them what they want to hear—and then forget it; that was Rufus when he didn’t want to do something.

  The telephone shrilled abruptly, startling them all. Tottie rose to answer, letting Monty spill to the floor. He gave her an injured look and stalked over to sit at Win’s feet.

  ‘Don’t—’ Miranda stopped her with an abrupt gesture. ‘Not until we know who it is. I’ve left the answering machine on.’

  The machine cut in on the fourth ring: ‘This is the residence of Winstanley Fortescue and Miranda Everton—’ The voice on the tape was Win’s, easy and commanding, in the full flow of his powers. Tottie choked back a sob as she glanced at him sitting there so still.

  ‘I’m afraid neither is available at the moment. If you will leave your name and number with your message, one of us will get back to you as soon as possible.’ There was a pause and the long note bleeped.

  ‘Win? Miranda? You might just as well answer—I know you’re there.’ It was Jilly.

  ‘Damn the woman!’ Miranda’s lips tightened.

  ‘I’ve heard the latest, you know. I have my sources.’

  ‘I’ll find out who,’ Rufus grated. ‘And I’ll kill him! Or her!’

  ‘They tell me there’s no one at the theatre who can make a statement, so I’ve rung you. You’d better have someone get back to me with all the details or I’ll run the story the way I have it now. You might not like that very much.’

  ‘You let us in for this, Win.’ Miranda looked at her husband without favour. ‘Couldn’t you have had better taste than to take up with her? You’re no better than Monty!’

  The hulk of Winstanley Fortescue beamed at her uncomprehendingly. The cat flinched.

  This is where I came in. With momentary hope, the cat closed his eyes and repeated his mantra: I am Winstanley Fortescue, a star, at the height of my powers and my profession. When I open my eyes, I will be home in bed, awaking from a nightmare … In my own bed, in my own body …

  He opened his eyes on the thick grey woollen socks covering the Fortescue ankles. He recognized the careful darn with which Tottie had repaired a small hole. A bleak despair settled over him.

  ‘And Miranda—’ Jilly was still talking. ‘You are taking very good care of Win, aren’t you? We wouldn’t want to lose him.’

  ‘We wouldn’t mind losing you,’ Tottie said to the sudden silence from the answering machine.

  ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ Davy agreed.

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ Rufus said. ‘That woman can make trouble. Serious trouble.’

  ‘She already has,’ Miranda reminded him. The cat flinched again, but no one noticed.

  ‘I’ll ring her later,’ Rufus decided. ‘Ask her to lunch tomorrow. Have a talk with her.’

  ‘Sooner you than me,’ Davy muttered.

  ‘If Win does come back to the show—’ Miranda was intent on an issue more important to her than Jilly—‘he’s not going up that stepladder again.’

  ‘No, no,’ Rufus agreed quickly, scenting victory. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll change the script so that Geoffrey is the one to put the star on top of the tree. Easiest thing in the world to do and it won’t make a particle of difference to the plot.’

  ‘I’ll have to take in his costumes.’ Tottie surveyed Win critically. ‘He’s lost a good bit of weight. Mind you, he looks all the better for it. He’d been gaining too much lately and no one liked to mention it.’

  ‘You think he really can handle the part?’ Davy was sceptical, but willing to be convinced. ‘Remember all those lines? We’ll keep the Prompter on duty but …’

  ‘I was surprised myself,’ Miranda said. ‘Madame Rosetti has been working wonders. The lines of the part are coming back to him more easily and quickly than simple basic facts seem to. I suppose it’s because they’re the most recent things he’s learned, so they’re still near the surface of his consciousness. He has to dig deeper for earlier memories.’

  ‘Like a wonky computer.’ Davy nodded sagely. ‘It’s all there, even though you’ve pushed the wrong button. You’ve just got to winkle it
out again.’

  27

  Responding to the crisis, Madame Rosetti cancelled all other lessons and concentrated on Winstanley Fortescue for the next ten days. In the evenings, the friends Miranda had rallied to talk him out of his coma dropped round to put him through his paces.

  It was working. Slowly, then with increasing confidence, Winstanley Fortescue seemed to be emerging from the mists that had shrouded his mind.

  ‘Oh, he’s not completely himself yet,’ Tottie said, having finished her stint of hearing his lines. ‘But it’s a marvel, the way he’s come along. When I saw him lying there in St Monica’s right after he fell, I tell you truly, my heart sank. I never would have credited the recovery he’s made. But he always was a fighter, our Win. We might not have appreciated it when he was fighting us, but it’s stood him in good stead now.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Davy conceded cautiously, arriving to take over for his two hours. ‘The old fire isn’t quite there, but there’s something else. A sort of … calculating approach, which isn’t bad. Just different from the way he originally played the part. We just might get away with it.’ …

  ‘He’s going to be fine,’ Miranda kept insisting firmly. She looked at her husband lovingly, a new note of hope and joy in her voice. She could not put it into words—not for them—but he was kinder now and gentler. The Win she had always known was there beneath the hard carapace of fame. ‘Win is going to be even better than he was before the accident.’

  The cat sat quietly in a corner and watched sardonically. No one asked his opinion, which was just as well, although The Instrument glanced at him frequently, as though seeking moral support. He wasn’t going to get it; not so long as he insisted on throwing Monty out into the garden every night.

  Let me get back into my rightful skin and I’ll settle with you, my lad. You’d better up sticks and move to the Adelphi or the Garrick, if you know what’s good for you. He allowed his tail to lash threateningly. The Chesterton isn’t going to be big enough for both of us.