Nine Lives to Murder

by Marian Babson

  The Instrument gave an uneasy shudder and looked at him nervously, perhaps guiltily.

  Yes, you. You—Monty! I know you—and you know me, don’t you?

  The Instrument looked away. The cat continued to glare at him implacably. Well, almost implacably, he felt himself weakening again, his anger slipping away. They were each other—and they were not; still separated by the human/feline divide that was impassable, no matter how close they seemed to be. They still could not communicate freely. They still—

  ‘Hello, Daddy.’ Jennet had arrived to take her turn. She crossed the room and, after a slight hesitation, aimed an awkward peck at her father’s cheek. Another one who could not communicate freely.

  ‘Hel-lo …’ The Instrument was increasingly comfortable with the already-learned dialogue of the play, but when he had to speak for himself he tended to push out the words as though they were unfamiliar objects that had unaccountably lodged in his mouth. He stared at the girl then, seeming to feel that something more was called for, stretched his lips in a smile.

  ‘Mother says she hopes you’re better—and she really means it. I know she does.’

  The Instrument considered this. His smile grew fractionally wider. He gave the impression of disbelieving her.

  Quite right. Antoinette would hope that he was worse, preferably dying. At best, barely able to stumble on stage and make a fool of himself. When Jennet had grown older and wiser, she would know better than to convey any of her mother’s wishes to recipients who could interpret them only too easily.

  ‘Well …’ After the silence had dragged on uncomfortably, Jennet reached for the copy of the script lying on the arm of Win’s chair and sat down. ‘I guess you don’t feel like social chat. You never know what to say to me anyway, do you, Daddy?’ Her voice was forlorn.

  ‘You can talk to Geoffrey all right. You even got him into the production with you. I wonder … if I’d asked you …’ Her voice trailed off and she looked away.

  So Jennet had stage ambitions, too. Why should he be surprised? It was in her blood. Yes, and she might be as good as Geoffrey promised to be. For a moment, his heart throbbed with pride and wonder: he had founded a theatrical dynasty.

  But The Instrument sat there like a lump on a log—and after poor little Jennet had confided her girlish dream to him. She was still waiting for the response he would not—could not—make. She would think her father didn’t care. She would think her father didn’t love her.

  Frantically, he launched himself at her ankles and twined round them, purring loudly. She looked down and smiled faintly.

  Good. Good. Keep her attention away from The Instrument. He leaped into her lap, renewing his caresses, rubbing his head against her chin, chirruping and purring.

  ‘Oh, Monty, Monty!’ Her arms closed around him as she laughed. ‘You understand, don’t you, Monty?’

  ‘Urrrr.’ The Instrument leaned forward, holding out his hand to her.

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’ Still clutching the cat, Jennet hurled herself into her father’s arms.’ ‘You do care!’

  ‘Ahh,’ The Instrument agreed, folding his arms around her.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to cry.’ After a moment, she pushed herself away. ‘And I’m not going to nag you for a part straightaway. I promised Mummy I’d get through my A-levels first. She wants me to go to University, too. I’m not sure. Some of them have very good dramatic societies. And if you’re going to help me when I get out … do you think I should go to University?’

  ‘Ahh …’ The Instrument met her eyes, blinking thoughtfully. ‘Uni-verrr’sty …’ He nodded several times.

  ‘Then I will!’ She gave him a final hug before returning to her chair. ‘And I’m going to make you proud of me, Daddy. I promise.’

  I already am. The cat settled himself in her lap again as she began reading Cynthia’s part, cueing The Instrument on the most difficult speech, the one he was still having trouble with. Jennet was having no trouble at all. Yes, the girl was good.

  I’m proud of both of you. Monty, too, was doing well in the difficult transformation. There was obviously a good bit of Win still in there to help him, as there was a good bit of Monty left in the cat.

  But it wasn’t enough. I want my own body … I want to wake up … I want to get back to my own life. Again he beseeched Bast, God, Fate … Whatever. He closed his eyes and opened them several times in quick succession. But he was still in Monty’s body—and Monty, with that faintly befuddled look creeping back into his eyes as he struggled with the unfamiliar demands on him—was in his.

  What if it never happened? What if they were trapped in each other’s bodies for the rest of their lives?

  Well, he wouldn’t have all that long to worry about it. Even, given that Monty had the traditional nine lives, he’d surely used up a few of them before he landed in his soft berth at the Chesterton. And the day of the fall had surely cost him another one. The remaining feline lifespan would pass all too quickly. Oh, it might be pleasant enough, with good food, soft laps and loving voices—not to mention the agreeable Butterfly and Malfi—but it wouldn’t be his life.

  The worst of it would be that he’d have to stand by and watch The Instrument make a hash of his own life.

  Oh, The Instrument would do well enough—probably. With good directors and Miranda by his side, he would be able to walk through the parts offered—the increasingly undemanding parts, as word of his limitations got around. But he would never realize Winstanley Fortescue’s full potential; never carry out the dreams and ambitions that he had still been hatching in that fertile creative mind.

  He had planned to take over the Chesterton, to become Actor-Manager of the Chesterton, with his own repertory company, producing the best of the old and the most promising of the new plays. He had long realized that Rufus had been having financial troubles, more so than was generally known. Rufus was too fond of the racetrack and the gaming tables. He should have confined his love of gambling to the theatre, where it had a much better chance of paying off. And one could take out insurance to minimize theatrical losses.

  Insurance! Was that the answer? It was possible to insure someone else’s life, even though that person was not a spouse or relative, in fact, it was the done thing between business partners and people who had a vested interest in each other. The star of a show or film was often covered for accidents, illness … or death.

  It was even possible to insure someone without that person being aware of it.

  Had Rufus insured his life and then tried to kill him in order to collect the insurance? It was possible. He quivered with concentration. Rufus had been in the theatre when the accident happened. Rufus had been at St Monica’s when the electricity was switched off. Had he also slipped in at some point and doctored the orange juice? St Monica’s open visiting hours, combined with their current staff shortage, meant that security was non-existent.

  The crucial question was: where had Rufus been when Peter was attacked? If only there were some way to ask. He opened his eyes and glowered at The Instrument, who had a voice and not the least idea about the way he should be using it. Even if he had, how much of Winstanley Fortescue’s memory and deviousness remained for him to call on? Could he make the connection between the threatened danger and his own safety?

  Look at him, sitting there chanting his lines and beaming fatuously at Jennet! Oh God! Oh Bast! Monty was bright for a cat, but not bright enough for a human being. Rather, it was the comprehension of the undercurrents of human behaviour Monty lacked; experience that could only be gained through years of living and interaction with others.

  Even if he became aware of the plan to take over the Chesterton, he would not be capable of the necessary wheeler-dealering to carry it through. Not the way he was now. Rufus would carve him up and make mincemeat out of him.

  Strange that Rufus had seemed so amenable to the idea when Win had first tossed it lightly into the air—as though making a joke. Rufus had even suggested a pr
ice. Too high, of course, just a starting-point where the bargaining could begin. And still keeping it on the level of a very elaborate joke. But the quick flash of greed—and relief—in Rufus’s eyes had been real. So had the sudden strange bout of choking laughter that had shaken Rufus, far heartier and more intense than their little pretext of a joke deserved.

  Was it because, even then, Rufus knew that Win was destined to save the Chesterton—but not in the way he imagined?

  Rufus had everything to gain, plus recouping his losses, if a large sum were to be paid out on the death of Winstanley Fortescue. With Peter Farley, a damned good actor but underrated because he had been forgotten during his American years, waiting in the wings to take over the part in a blaze of publicity, Rufus had nothing to lose.

  The show would go on. No matter that Winstanley Fortescue didn’t. Miranda would mourn, a few friends would grieve—and probably Rufus would put a plaque in the lobby of the Chesterton to record the Fortescue contribution to the history of the theatre.

  Bloody Rufus! But how to prove it? And how to bring him to justice?

  The one hope was that Peter Farley would recover—and that he had seen the person who attacked him. But … if Peter recovered enough to talk, who would know? Rufus had conveniently spirited him away to an unknown hospital—for his own protection. Whose own—Peter’s or Rufus’s?

  He hadn’t realized he’d begun twitching and growling until Jennet put her hand on his neck and shook him gently.

  ‘Monty, what’s the matter, boy? Having a bad dream?’

  Oh yes! Oh yes! You don’t know the half of it. He shook off the brief moment of self-pity; there was nothing to be gained by that. He had to try to stop Rufus before he struck at Winstanley Fortescue again. The next time he might be successful.

  He dropped to the floor and padded purposefully towards the French windows. Rufus had his office at the Chesterton, there might be papers lying about; something incriminating about gambling debts, if nothing worse. Papers that even a cat could disturb and carry into view, where people could read them and perhaps start asking questions. It was the only idea he had, but it was better than nothing.

  The Chesterton, that was where the action was—or would be, when he got there.

  28

  Tottie heard the commotion as she sat hunched over the sewing-machine in the Wardrobe Room.

  The howl of rage was enough to shake the rafters. The answering outraged howl was nearly as loud. The crash of wooden bench falling over, a thunder of footsteps racing down the corridor—

  A black-and-white blur shot through the doorway and streaked across the room to go to ground, growling, behind the easy chair.

  ‘Where is the bleedin’ little bastard? I’ll kill him!’ Woody, one of the stage hands, loomed in the doorway brandishing a claw hammer. ‘Where is he? I know he came in here, he always does.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you now, Woody? Put down that hammer. And don’t you dare step across this threshold unless and until you’re invited in.’ She noticed with relief that Monty had prudently stopped growling.

  ‘Little bastard stole my dinner, didn’t he?’ Woody stayed in the doorway, looking sharply around the cluttered room. ‘I came back from the chipper with a nice order of cod and chips and I just put it on my workbench a minute while I went to wash my hands. When I came back, there he was. He’d torn the wrapping apart, chips scattered all over the floor and he was hogging down the cod like it was the last meal he’d ever have—and if I get my hands on him, it will be.’

  ‘It’s all your own fault, then,’ Tottie said. ‘You should know better than to leave a parcel of fish and chips lying unguarded when Monty’s around. You’ve been working here longer than that.’

  ‘Didn’t know he was back, did I? I thought he was still over at the house with the fat bastard. Probably did some mischief there and got thrown out, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘If—’ Tottie stiffened—‘by “fat bastard” you mean—’

  ‘You know who I mean. They’re two of a kind, him and that bleedin’ cat. Can’t trust either of them with food or females.’

  ‘I’ll pay for your cod and chips.’ Tottie reached for her purse. ‘And I’ll thank you to watch your language when you’re talking about the man who keeps this theatre—and all our jobs—going.’

  ‘I’ll say what I like—and I don’t want your money.’ He took it anyway. ‘I just want to get my hands around that cat’s throat and choke my dinner out of him.’

  ‘It would taste better if you bought yourself a fresh meal!’ Tottie pushed him back and slammed the door in his face, ensuring the last word. She leaned against the door until she heard his footsteps recede along the corridor.

  ‘All right, Monty, he’s gone,’ she said. ‘You can come out now.’

  After a long moment, the cat emerged from behind the armchair with an elaborate air of casualness, a faint surprise at finding himself where he was. He strolled over and rubbed against her ankles.

  ‘I wish you’d be more careful, Monty,’ she sighed, bending to pick him up. ‘That Woody is a nasty bit of work. Win was going to see to it that Rufus got rid of him, but now … oh, I wish you wouldn’t aggravate him. He’ll do you a mischief, if he can. If he should get you alone, with none of us around to protect you …

  ‘Oh, Monty—’ She gave him a little shake. ‘Why can’t you leave Woody alone?’

  Because I don’t like him. The thought came from both Monty and Win, accompanied by memory flashes of tail-pulling, covert kicks, dregs of tea thrown over him. He’s a sneak, a bully, a thief—He broke off, growling softly.

  Where had that knowledge come from? He waited and pictures began drifting into his mind: Woody, pocketing an unopened bag of brand-new nails … Woody, casually tucking a spirit level into his carrier bag just before he left for the day … Woody, helping himself to pieces of equipment the theatre had purchased and would need to repurchase because of him. Adding to the running expenses, which were already high enough.

  Duck! He flinched abruptly at the final picture: a sharp screwdriver, hurled at him like a throwing knife, so that the point would hit first. Monty had dodged it just in time, knowing it had been meant to skewer him, because Woody had caught him watching as he stole something else. It had been sheer spite, because Monty could never tell what he had seen. After that, Monty had avoided Woody and Woody had not gone out of his way to hurt the cat, but he never missed an opportunity if it presented itself. A nasty bit of work, indeed.

  Of course, perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that fish, but it had been too much to resist. The loosely-wrapped parcel had been sitting on the bench wafting delicious odours of crisp golden batter covering thick melting flakes of succulent cod … No cat on earth could have walked past and ignored it.

  And he hadn’t had the chance to finish it. He moaned fretfully. And Tottie had paid for it, too. Tottie, who couldn’t really afford to; the happy days when you could buy a large cod and chips for five shillings and sixpence were long since gone. Everything was more expensive now, hideously so, and Tottie must have expenses he knew nothing about. It had never occurred to him to inquire. She ought to be paid more; she was a treasure above price.

  Dear Tottie. He turned his head and nuzzled her cheek.

  ‘Oh yes, I know what you’re after.’ She misinterpreted, as usual. ‘You want something to wash it down with now.’ She carried him over to the small fridge in the corner. ‘I don’t know how we’re fixed; I was meaning to pick up some milk, but I was a bit late, so I thought I’d nip out and get some later.’ She pulled out a small carton and sniffed at it dubiously.

  ‘I don’t know—’ She poured some into the empty saucer. ‘It may be on the turn, but see what you think.’

  Disgusting! He sniffed at it and turned away. But that wasn’t Tottie’s fault. She had a lot on her mind; they all did. He brushed against her ankles in thanks and good night before going over to the door and staring up at it pointedly. Doors opene
d inwards. A cat could get into a room if he knew about turning the knob, but still needed help to get out.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ Tottie said. ‘If that Woody catches you, you’re for it. Why don’t you stay here with me?’

  He gave her a long deliberate look, then rose on his hind legs and rattled the knob with his forepaws. Woody wasn’t going to be around where he was going. Rufus’s office was out of bounds to the stage hands. (For the first time, he wondered why. Did Rufus know about Woody’s taking little ways?)

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Tottie sighed, opening the door. ‘You’ll give me no peace until you get your way—but be careful.’

  He didn’t need telling. All senses alert, he prowled down the corridor to the partially concealed staircase that led to Rufus’s office, which was perched above and beside the stage. It had slit windows on the auditorium side so that Rufus could watch the performance and count the house at the same time; there were normal windows on the other side of the office looking out on the street. A narrow corridor passed the office and led on to one of the backstage catwalks above the stage.

  His senses twitched uneasily as he pushed at the foot of the stairs. Something wrong. He paused to consider what. Muted voices from Rufus’s office … nothing unusual in that. But closer by, there was a slight scrabbling sound, a strangely familiar scent, faint, but—

  Gotcha! Monty’s body whirled and pounced before he could think of controlling it. There was a squeak—and silence. Then he felt the surge of triumph. Invade his theatre, would they?

  Carefully, he lifted the limp grey body in his mouth. (No, no, don’t think about that; let Monty’s instincts remain in force) and padded up the stairs.

  The door to Rufus’s office was pushed-to, but not closed tightly, a rim of light shone around it, the murmur of voices was stronger. A woman’s voice, low, intimate—so Rufus was not on the telephone.