‘Wonderful! Every little bit helps. We can give it a page to itself, perhaps with little sketches around it. You know, Mother, I’m not sure I should have started this. I expected Jocasta to be more help than she has been so far.’
‘Give her time, darling. Even if she can’t go back to London in the morning, perhaps she can do a bit of experimenting in the kitchen here. With everyone constantly in and out, this household is going to need odd meals at odd times. There’ll be plenty of scope for one-dish cooking.’
If, that is, Jocasta felt able to face food again so soon. I tried to ignore the spectre of reality tugging at my sleeve. More to the point, if she were able to face preparing it in that kitchen with the door to the cellar a constant reminder. No, perhaps better not mention such thoughts to Martha. She was happy now.
‘Tell Jocasta to ring me as soon as she surfaces,’ Martha directed. ‘At least we can have a telephone consultation before she gets back to town. And, Mother – look after yourself. I don’t like the way things are going in Brighton.’
‘Accidents will happen, that’s all, darling, and we just have to live with it. You look after yourself, too, and give my love to Hugh and the children.’
‘Yes, well …’ Obviously, she wanted to add more, but I heard a voice calling her in the distance. ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming. Goodnight, Mother.’
I hung up the phone with a feeling of relief. It could have been worse. It might be yet. But, in the famous line from one of the roles I didn’t get, ‘I’ll worry about it tomorrow.’
As I turned out the light, I became uneasily aware of just how dark and silent the rest of house was. Unusually so, for a place full of theatre people. Of course, Matilda and Dame Cecile had had a tiring rehearsal to cap a busy and emotionally exhausting morning; it was not surprising that they had retired to their rooms early. Evangeline had last been seen heading towards her own room, clutching her cellphone and murmuring about a consultation with her financial adviser. If that meant Nigel, I didn’t want to know about it. As for Soroya – who cared?
Actually, the house wasn’t all that silent. It muttered to itself with the creaks and groans of an old building settling down for the night. All right if you were used to it, as Matilda was, but subtly unnerving, if you weren’t. I told myself that Matilda would have had the courtesy to warn us if the place was haunted, but it was that time of darkness when anything seemed possible. And perhaps the ghost was so recent that no one was aware of it yet.
What about that new housekeeper, starting a new job, looking forward to an interesting new life, suddenly finding herself plunging down a dark staircase into oblivion? Would her disgruntled shade still be hanging around to … exact some sort of revenge?
That was the front door! I sat bolt upright. The muffled slam sounded as though a sudden gust of wind had snatched the door from someone’s furtive grasp.
Someone going out … or someone coming in?
I seemed to hold my breath for an endless time, straining to hear more, wondering if there were more to hear. Was that creak someone coming up the stairs, or just another complaint from the old house?
Silence … silence … I had to breathe. I took a great choking gasp. Then it was just a gasp as my doorknob rattled. Why hadn’t I locked the door? Why had I been such a trusting fool? Had experience taught me nothing? A woman had died in this house – and recently. The broken top step was no guarantee that it had been an accident.
I saw the door move slowly, but there was no dark shadow visible against the outer darkness. I braced myself. Fight or flight? Or should I let out a few loud healthy screams? What if it was someone innocent and I roused the household?
‘Evangeline …?’ I whispered hopefully
Silence … The door began to swing shut again. Was someone inside the room? Or had I frightened them away?
‘Evangeline … ?’ I whispered again, without hope. The bed shook abruptly – and it wasn’t me.
‘Prrrryaaah!’ The soft triumphant cry acted like a knife blade slicing through the strings that had held me taut. I fell back on the pillows limply.
‘Prrr … prrrr …’ A throbbing furry bundle of delight rubbed against me, nuzzling my neck, my chin, my cheeks.
‘You clever little darling, you found me!’ I hugged Cho-Cho to me. ‘Oh, you are a clever girl!’
‘Prrryaaah …’ She trilled agreement.
‘But … how did you get away from Soroya?’
She wasn’t telling. She snuggled close, purring her little head off, and settled down for the night.
That was fine with me. I curled my arms around her and, with that soft comforting purr drowning out any more creaks or groans, fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eleven
‘I’m dying,’ Jocasta whimpered. ‘Go away and let me die in peace.’
‘Nonsense!’ Evangeline wasn’t usually up this early herself but, in this case, she had made an exception. ‘They say the best thing is a full cooked breakfast – ’
‘Aaaargh! I can never eat again!’
‘Then the next best thing is the hair of the dog that bit you.’
‘I will never drink again!’
‘If you don’t eat and you don’t drink,’ Evangeline pointed out, ‘you will die.’
‘Exactly. Go away and let me get on with it.’
‘Evangeline, come away and leave her alone,’ I said. ‘She’ll feel better after a few hours’ more sleep.’
‘Sleep! I can’t sleep! I’ve got to get back to London! What time is it?’ Jocasta tried to sit up, but slumped back clutching her head and moaning. ‘I can’t move.’
‘Have you noticed how little stamina young people have these days?’ Evangeline asked me. ‘They can’t do anything.’
Jocasta raised her head feebly and glared at Evangeline. I got the feeling that she had just resigned from the Evangeline Sinclair Fan Club.
‘And – ’ She transferred the glare to me and Cho-Cho, who was advancing daintily, nose twitching, to explore this new territory. ‘And make that cat stop stamping its feet!’
‘Come on.’ I stooped and swept Cho-Cho into my arms. ‘Let’s go downstairs. Evangeline, come along.’ I moved aside to let her out of the room first. I didn’t trust her not to slam the door. I closed it quietly.
‘I suspect this is Jocasta’s first hangover,’ I said, as we entered the kitchen. ‘And it’s a lulu!’
‘Don’t worry, I can take care of that.’ Evangeline went to the cupboard and removed a couple of small items before crossing to the fridge and taking out one of the bottles of champagne we’d bought yesterday.
With a plaintive mew, Cho-Cho twisted free of my arms and plunged across the room to paw at the fridge.
‘Do you suppose that wretched woman hasn’t fed her?’ Evangeline looked down at the frantic cat, now wrapping itself around her ankles.
‘She probably didn’t. Poor Cho-Cho must be starving.’ I started for the cupboard where I had stored the halfdozen little tins of gourmet cat food that I had picked up at the supermarket, but Evangeline was faster.
She opened the fridge again, took out the salmon and broccoli quiche I had earmarked for lunch, tore off a large chunk and, without bothering about such niceties as a bowl or saucer, tossed it to the floor.
Cho-Cho pounced on it, also untroubled by the informality. She really was starved, she was even eating the broccoli.
Evangeline returned to business. I watched with fascination as she took a cube of sugar and saturated it just short of disintegration point with Angostura bitters.
‘What are you doing?’ I gasped, as she poured a heap of cayenne pepper into a saucer and rolled the sugar cube in it, coating it liberally with cayenne. She then dropped it into a champagne flute, popped open the bottle and filled the flute with champagne.
‘One from the old days. Best hangover cure-cum-pick-me-up I know,’ she said cheerfully, watching as the bubbles began to rise from the sugar cube.
‘Pick-me-up? It looks m
ore like a scrape-me-off-the-ceiling to me!’ Each bubble was carrying grains of cayenne towards the surface, turning the golden liquid a light reddish brown.
‘Now get that up to Jocasta and stand over her until she drinks every drop. That will put her back on her feet.’
‘Or under the table permanently,’ I muttered. Trust Evangeline to know the recipe for a hangover cure, if nothing else. Still, Martha might be able to use it and, since Jocasta had the hangover, she could test the recipe – which was what she was supposed to do, anyway.
Fortunately, Jocasta was in too weak a condition to put up any fight when I eased her upright and put the glass into her hand. She was at the thirsty stage and had gulped half the liquid before the cayenne kicked in and jolted her eyes wide open.
‘What is this?’ she choked.
‘A little concoction of Evangeline’s,’ I said. ‘Drink up. She swears it will do you a world of good.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ Jocasta sipped gingerly. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Evangeline will give you the recipe for the book later. Right now, just consider that you’re testing it.’
Jocasta took another sip and smiled wanly. ‘And I thought I wouldn’t be able to do any work today.’
Evangeline was studying the nearly full champagne bottle thoughtfully when I got back to the kitchen.
‘I told you we ought to get some half bottles. Now you’ve got all that left over.’
‘It won’t be wasted.’ Evangeline gestured to the carton of orange juice on the table. ‘Buck’s Fizzes all round, I think. Just right for a good start to the day.’
There were more champagne flutes on the table. She quarter-filled two of them with orange juice, topped them up to just below the rim with champagne and handed one to me.
‘Oh, well, why not?’ I set Jocasta’s empty glass, with its little sludge of undissolved sugar and cayenne at the bottom, down on the table and accepted my own drink. Cho-Cho was drinking milk – from a saucer, I was relieved to note.
‘Ah, another customer.’ Evangeline greeted Dame Cecile as she appeared in the doorway. ‘Buck’s Fizz for lunch, Cecile?’ She began pouring.
‘You know how to live, Evangeline.’ Dame Cecile’s eyes lit up. ‘I always did say that about you.’
‘Along with several other things, no doubt.’
‘Only when you were particularly insufferable.’
They exchanged small wry smiles. It looked as though a truce was being declared.
I removed the quiche from the fridge, along with the makings of a salad. ‘Do you like your quiche hot or cold, Cecile?’ I asked.
It was a reasonable question, but she did not appear to think so. An arctic blast froze me as she swept her icy gaze over me and then Cho-Cho. The truce did not extend to us.
After brunch, Evangeline went off to the theatre with Dame Cecile and Matilda. I stayed behind, still feeling vaguely responsible for Jocasta. Someone should be around when she surfaced again. I intended to make sure she ate something before she faced the long drive back to London. I also intended to try to persuade her to stay another night before she got behind the wheel of a car again.
Also, to tell the truth, I didn’t want to leave Cho-Cho-San. We had little enough time left together before Evangeline and I went back to London, leaving her to whatever tender mercies Soroya might possess.
Come to think of it, we hadn’t seen Soroya all morning. I’d gathered it was unusual for her to miss a meal, but there had been no sign that she had had an early breakfast – and no one was complaining because she hadn’t joined us for brunch.
I wondered whether it had been Soroya I had heard closing the front door in the early hours of the morning. If she had left her room silently, not noticing Cho-Cho slipping out at her feet, it would explain how Cho-Cho had escaped to find me.
I wasn’t going to worry about Soroya. Jocasta would feel better when she awoke and, for the moment, Cho-Cho was safe and happy with me.
If I put my mind to it, I could probably find quite a few other matters to worry about, but I wasn’t in the mood. Outside, the sky was blue and beckoning, light breezes stirred the budding trees, the sun was warm. Spring was in the air and the old-fashioned teak deck chairs stretched out invitingly in a corner of the deck, just beyond the wrought-iron table and upright chairs. I eyed them thoughtfully
‘If I take you outside,’ I said to Cho-Cho, ‘you won’t run away, will you? You’ll stay with me?’
She seemed to understand. She hurled herself again at my ankles, purring enthusiastically, then danced over to the door and waited for me to open it.
We settled ourselves in a deck chair in the sun and closed our eyes. The fresh sea air reminded me of how much I had missed while living in town. Impressive and historic though the Thames might be, it didn’t have the same tang to it.
I think I was almost asleep when Cho-Cho stirred suddenly in my lap and sat up. Then I heard the soft tread of feet on the steps leading up to the deck. I sat bolt upright and twisted around.
‘Eddie!’ I hadn’t realized how uptight I was until I went limp with relief. ‘I thought you were driving Evangeline and Dame Cecile to the theatre.’
‘Naw … ‘aven’t seen ‘em. ’Aven’t ‘eard a peep from anybody all day. Walked along the seafront. Walked out to the end of the pier and back.’ He was bored and aggrieved. ‘Then decided I might as well make myself useful.’ He swung a small toolkit he was carrying. ‘So I picked up a few things at the DIY centre and thought I’d come over ‘ere and fix those cellar stairs for you lot. Can’t leave ‘em the way they are, they’re dangerous.’
‘Are you allowed to?’ I wondered. ‘I mean, don’t the police want them left the way they are?’
‘Why should they? They say anything about that to you? They sealed the area off with those tapes?’
‘Well, no …’ I admitted. ‘I just thought …’
‘Not in accident cases.’ He frowned at me, then forgave me. ‘Trouble with you is, you’ve got mixed up in too much nasty business lately. You can’t believe in ordinary accidents any more. You let your imagination run away with you and go looking for trouble.’
‘That fire at the taxidermist’s wasn’t my imagination,’ I said. ‘Was the dead body your imagination?’
‘That was there, this is ‘ere.’ Eddie didn’t want to talk about that. The police questioning had exhausted everything he had to say on that subject. He started for the kitchen door.
‘Sit down a minute,’ I said. ‘Jocasta is still asleep and she’s in no condition to have anyone doing any hammering around the house.’
‘Like that, is it?’ Eddie sank into the other deck chair, nodding sagely. ‘She’ll have to toughen up if she’s going to hang around with you lot.’
‘She’s hanging around with Martha, actually. They’re working on a cookbook together. We only have her with us now because … well, because she’s got a car and we needed to get down here quickly because you …’
‘Right. An’ I’m in this whole mess because of you two.’ He stared glumly into the distance, then his eyes abruptly focused and sharpened. ‘Oi! What’s ‘e doing ‘ere?’
I turned and saw Nigel coming up the steps.
‘Ah! I thought I heard voices,’ he greeted us.
‘Don’t open your purse,’ Eddie muttered to me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I muttered back before I raised my voice to return the greeting. ‘This is a surprise, Nigel. Having a day at the seaside?
‘Ah! Yes. I had business to transact nearby and I thought, while I was here, I’d drop in on you and …’ He looked around hopefully. ‘Evangeline?’
‘Not here at the moment, I’m afraid. She and Dame Cecile went off to the theatre and I don’t know where else.’
‘Ah! She’ll be back soon?’ He was losing hope, but still in there trying.
‘She didn’t say – and I wouldn’t even guess at a time. You know what they’re like when they get together.’
‘Ah
!’ He squinted up at a passing cloud and spoke with elaborate casualness. ‘She, ah, didn’t happen to leave anything for me to pick up, did she?’
‘Not that I know of.’ So Nigel hadn’t happened to drop in on the spur of the moment. I remembered Evangeline’s telephone calls yesterday. Something had been arranged between them – or he thought it had. Evangeline had obviously not been so sure – or had changed her mind.
‘Ah!’ He frowned and sank down on one of the wrought-iron chairs. ‘Perhaps I might wait a while? She might come back …’
‘She might.’ More likely, she might not. ‘Make yourself at home.’
“E already ‘as,’ Eddie muttered.
‘How’s your uncle?’ I decided to change to a safer subject. Or was it?
‘Uncle? Uncle?’ Nigel might never have heard the word before. He looked around wildly.
‘Uncle,’ I repeated firmly. ‘You know, the one with the legendary lost theatre underneath the arches.’
‘Ah! Yes. That one.’ He looked dismayed, then brightened. ‘Not well. Not too well at all. Rather poorly.’ The thought seemed to cheer him. ‘Quite poorly, in fact.’
I had the sudden suspicion that he might soon be going to announce that his uncle had died and that the theatre had passed into the hands of a developer and was lost for ever. With even deeper suspicion, I wondered whether he had an uncle at all, or whether he had invented the whole story just to lure us into his financial schemes.
‘How is business?’ I asked.
‘Business? Business?’ It might be another word he had never heard before, one I had made up just to confuse him.
‘You said you were here on business,’ I reminded him. ‘I hope it went well.’
‘Ah! Yes. Well … not quite. Nothing that can’t be mended with a fresh injection of – ’ He broke off and looked at me expectantly.
Capital. That sentence finished itself. I’d heard it often enough in my lifetime. Usually just before the big, exciting, sure-thing project went down the Swanee.
The Cat Who Wasn't a Dog Page 9
