Only the Cat Knows

by Marian Babson

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  MARIAN BABSON’S MYSTERIES ARE:

  “The pick of the litter.”

  —Booklist

  “As sly as the cat with the cream.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “Consistently witty.”

  —Mystery News

  “A slinky feline extravaganza.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Eminently delightful…deft and enjoyable.”

  —HandHeld Crime

  “A guarantee of quality.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “Always humorous…and charming.”

  —Library Journal

  Only the Cat Knows

  MARIAN BABSON

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ONLY THE CAT KNOWS

  Copyright © 2007 by Marian Babson.

  Cover photo © Getty Images/Andy Ryan.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2007009537

  ISBN: 0-312-93151-4

  EAN: 978-0-312-93151-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  First published as Only the Cat in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / June 2007

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / June 2008

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Prologue

  I awoke in excruciating pain, unable to tell where it began or ended. Every bone was broken, every ligament torn, every internal organ wrenched out of place. Everything — everything — smashed beyond repair. The thin envelope of skin was pierced in a hundred places, the blood pulsing out to seep into the cold damp ground.

  Bitch! The venomous hatred in the explosive whisper seared my eardrums, bringing more pain. Who hated me that much?

  I forced my eyes open and for a brief hallucinatory moment I saw a wall of earth, felt a trickle of icy water beneath me, was aware of the ivy-clad tower of an ancient building looming into the dark sky above me …

  No … not me.

  The vision began to fade. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I was lying in bed in a Melbourne hotel at the end of a hugely successful Australian tour. I was safe, warm, comfortable.

  The pain was retreating into just a memory of pain, the last residue of an exceptionally vivid nightmare.

  Or was it?

  Panic was surging in to replace the earlier sensations. Panic — and a dark foreboding.

  It was a strange thing being a twin, sometimes we each seemed one-half of a whole. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone, the tie was stronger in a way than mere direct lineage, than even the parent-child relationship.

  It meant that there was always someone there, a mind that meshed with your own. Someone to laugh with, share secrets with, always there, with reactions identical to your own. It meant you were never alone, in the way other people were.

  It was a privileged life that carried with it a secret dread: by the very nature of life, of mortality, it could not go on for ever. Some day one or the other of us would have to pay.

  No! It had just been a nightmare. It was something I ate. It wasn’t true.

  I tried to keep fighting as the swirling vortex carried me down into sleep — or unconsciousness — but, deep down, I knew.

  Something terrible had just happened to Nessa.

  Chapter One

  At least she was still alive. If only just.

  I stared down at the supine motionless form, cocooned in bandages, sustained by tubes and wires. I couldn’t see her breathing, but the flickering line on the display panel of one of the battery of machines at her bedside appeared to be monitoring her respiration.

  She was getting the best medical attention that money could buy. Her employer could do no less. He’d better not.

  I took a step closer, but did not need the warning gesture from the young doctor to restrain me. I wasn’t going to touch her. I was afraid to. She looked so fragile — a shattered doll that had been jigsawed back into a semblance of its former shape, but which might disintegrate beyond restoration if breathed on too heavily.

  ‘Hi there, Nessa.’ I settled for vocal contact instead, in the voice we so nearly shared. ‘Your other half is here. It’s going to be all right now.’

  The doctor glanced at me quickly and then glanced away again. He didn’t contradict me, but his expression was not optimistic.

  ‘You’re going to be all right now.’ I spoke with more firmness than I felt. My knees were turning to jelly, something twisted in the pit of my stomach. She was so pale … so still.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. The garbled message that had reached me had told me little. Only that she needed me. I had abandoned my plans for a leisurely sea voyage back to England and caught the first jet instead.

  ‘She fell from a considerable height, I understand. I’m told she was in the habit of wandering along the battlements when she couldn’t sleep at night. She must have missed her footing.’

  ‘Whoever told you that was … mistaken. She was afraid of heights. She’d never have done that.’ It was one of the few points where we diverged. Heights didn’t bother me. But she had been afraid with good reason, it seemed now. Had that fear been a presentiment of what lay in her future?

  ‘Well…’ His face shadowed, he pointed out the irrefutable. ‘It happened. She’s lucky the patrol dogs found her in the dry moat beneath the battlements. Otherwise, she might have lain there all night. That would have …’ He let the thought trail off. I could finish the sentence for myself.

  ‘At least she has a fighting chance now.’ I wasn’t going to give up and I knew that she wouldn’t.

  ‘We’ll do our best.’ Against my will, I identified the expression that flitted across his face: it was pity.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘She’s a fighter.’ And so am I. I wanted to know how this could have happened to her.

  ‘Er …’ He cast a worried glance at the information registering on the various screens. ‘It might be better if we left her to rest now.’ He led the way outside.

  ‘She’s going to be all right,’ I insisted. ‘There are two of us fighting now.’

  ‘You know …’ He assessed me carefully. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m never what anyone expected. But enough of me. Nessa is the important one here. What else is being done for her? Are there any specialists we can call in? Does she need a blood transfusion? We match, of course.
’

  ‘Everything possible is being done. Mr Oversall has seen to that. It’s a question of time now.’

  ‘And does Mr Oversall know that? I rang his office for information as soon as I got to London. They didn’t give me the impression that Nessa’s condition was serious at all. They made it sound as though they expected her back at work in a couple of days.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Our Mr Oversall is notoriously optimistic. He’s had to be — or he wouldn’t be where he is today.’

  One of the richest men in the world. Notorious, indeed, for investing in schemes wiser men shunned, like backing dubious freedom fighters in areas of upheaval, or buying up mineworkings popularly supposed to be exhausted which subsequently turned out to have hidden resources unsuspected by the owners who had sold them to him. A lucky man — or one with impeccable sources of information.

  ‘People tend to tell Mr Oversall what he wants to hear.’ He was apologetic. ‘I’m the junior doctor in this practice. I couldn’t contradict what the senior partner said.’

  The man who pays the piper is the man who calls the tune. And Mr Oversall paid well. But what would he say if the tune became discordant, the music jangled … the patient died?

  I wasn’t going to let myself think that but, just for a moment, I faltered.

  ‘I won’t deny I’m not entirely happy,’ he went on. ‘I … I’ve met Nessa … several times. I … I liked her. I’d formed the opinion that she was a calm and sensible person — unlike most of Mr Oversall’s …’

  ‘Harem.’ I supplied the word he had baulked at. It had been used often enough in the tabloids. The more discreet broadsheets usually opted for ‘Amazon Army’ to describe the plethora of nubile females surrounding the billionaire.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting your sister —’

  ‘I should hope not! Nessa was — is — a proper employee. Mr Oversall’s Personal Assistant. She has no connection with the … the ladies … who make up his entourage.’

  ‘Exactly!’ He nodded vehemently. ‘Nessa is different … special …’

  ‘Exactly!’ I nodded in turn, beginning to wonder about his relationship with my twin. Interested? Smitten? Or …? ‘I think I’d like to have a few words with your senior partner,’ I said.

  ‘Unfortunately, that’s not possible.’ He was on the defensive again. ‘I mean, Dr Ranjit is out on a call. I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s on his way to Saudi Arabia. There’s been some sort of outbreak at one of the installations. They’re hoping to avoid an epidemic’

  ‘I take it the installation belongs to Mr Oversall.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Right. Our … our practice … is largely … er … involved … with Oversall Enterprises. We have very few National Health or private patients.’

  Why was I not surprised? It all made perfect sense. Of course, Mr Oversall would maintain his own medical unit for his far-flung empire. So much easier than having to deal with all the local regulations, restrictions and native doctors.

  ‘And I suppose the police have not been informed about Nessa’s … accident?’ It was another question to which I already knew the answer.

  ‘Police?’ He recoiled. ‘What have they to do with it? They aren’t automatically called to the scene of every accident. Our own paramedics got there faster than any other ambulance could have. I assure you, she’s having the best of care.’

  ‘Of course.’ Just as I had suspected. No names, no pack drill… no record. Whatever had happened was going to be swept under the carpet — a very expensive, highest-quality Oriental carpet, but a carpet nonetheless. Whatever had happened to her, for whatever reason, was going to be swept away. Lost, as she might be …

  ‘I want to know what happened.’ I said. ‘From the very beginning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing myself,’ he admitted. ‘If she recovers enough to tell us …’

  ‘No.’ I stood there, all my energy concentrated on sending out a mental call to Nessa to respond. It had often worked in the past, no matter how far apart we had been. Not this time. She was too far away, whatever spark she had was curled up in the centre of her being, fighting to survive, to return to life. She needed all her own energy for that. I cut off the signal, it wasn’t fair to ask her to dissipate any energy that was left to her.

  ‘No.’ I stood there, limp and empty but for a growing rage. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  ‘And even if … when … she recovers consciousness —’ he was having trouble treading the line between honesty and optimism; just as well Mr Oversall wasn’t here — ‘we don’t know how much brain damage there might be. There’s usually short-term memory loss in cases like this, especially about events just before the accident. She may never be able to tell you anything about it.’

  ‘Amnesia …’ I said. ‘Temporary amnesia.’

  ‘It might be permanent,’ he warned.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had known that: read it, heard it, learned it in some long-ago psychology course. A plan began to form in my mind. Or had it been there all along?

  ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone at Friary Keep?’

  ‘Not really.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘No one’s asked. Apart from Mr Oversall, of course, and my senior partner handled that … before he went away.’

  ‘Poor Nessa …’ There had been vague intimations in some of her letters. Bitch! The echo of that hateful whisper surfaced faintly in my mind. ‘Not very popular, was she?’

  ‘No one was.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘It’s everyone for themselves in that set-up. Nothing to take personally.’

  ‘A strange ménage.’ He couldn’t deny it. ‘So no one knows, or particularly cares about, the actual position. Except for the optimistic Mr Oversall, who is expecting Nessa back on duty in very short order.’

  ‘I’m afraid that sums it up.’

  ‘And now your senior has gone away and you’re the one left to tell Mr Oversall the unpalatable truth.’

  ‘Yes.’ He knew it. He’d known it all along, but he didn’t like having it pointed out to him.

  ‘Mr Oversall isn’t going to like it.’

  ‘No, but they don’t kill the messenger any more.’ His uncertain smile said he wished he could be sure of that.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Shamelessly, I preyed on his fears. ‘I understand Mr Oversall can be quite nasty when thwarted.’

  ‘One hears rumours.’ He lost a little more colour. ‘But even a billionaire has to face reality occasionally.’ Mortality, he meant.

  ‘Not necessarily. I think we should send Nessa back to him. A little the worse for wear, perhaps, and not quite up to the job for a while longer. In need of rest — but able to learn quite a lot while she takes her time recovering.’

  ‘What do you mean? She can’t possibly be moved. You’ve seen —’ He broke off, looking at me with growing — and justified — suspicion.

  ‘I’ll take her place. We’re twins, remember.’

  ‘But — but — you can’t!’

  ‘With your help, I can. Just make sure everyone knows that I’m suffering from amnesia. I think we’ll make that total amnesia, not just the short-term kind.’

  ‘But —’

  I smiled. The gowns, the wigs, the glitter, the glamour that comprised my stage persona, Gloriana, were all packed away in the theatrical trunks following me in the hold of the liner I had intended to sail in, but who needed them? I half-turned, moistened my lips and gave him a smouldering look.

  ‘You — you’re —’ He choked.

  ‘Go ahead, say it.’ I shrugged languorously. ‘I’ve been called obscene before.’ It was his own reaction that had shocked him, I knew. That split second in which he had felt the pull, glimpsed the dark side of the moon.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said. ‘I mean, you’ll never get away with it!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I will!’ I dropped the coquetry and let
my face reveal the depth of my fury — and my determination. Someone had tried to kill Nessa and I intended to find out who. ‘All you have to do is sell them the amnesia story. You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but — you —’ He shook his head. ‘You’re —’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I am,’ I snapped. ‘Twindom apart, I’m the best damned female impersonator in the business!’

  Chapter Two

  The guard dogs began baying as the car swung through the wrought-iron gates and up the long curving tree-lined drive. I knew, from Nessa’s letters, that the kennels were sited along the outer wall, the better to discourage prospective trespassers. At night, the dogs were freed to roam the grounds — except for the more dangerous ones, who patrolled with the armed guards.

  Friary Keep lurched, rather than sprawled, across the top of the low hill like a mad Disneyland extravaganza. At one end, a tower masquerading as a Norman keep rising out of a moat stood guard over a terraced conglomeration of buildings, starting with a medieval manor, which blended into a half-timbered Tudor town house, which melded in turn into a red-brick mullion-windowed Elizabethan manor. At the very end, standing on its own in another moat, a Gothic tower balanced the arrangement. I wondered which tower Nessa had fallen — or been pushed — from.

  ‘The cloisters are around at the back,’ Dr Anderson said, as he drove around the end of the tower. ‘That’s where they have the guest rooms and the superior staff quarters. You have a small suite of your own.’ He had refused the offer of a chauffeur to collect me and elected to drive me himself, so that I could have a last-minute briefing. The amnesia could account for anything he had missed.

  ‘Where are the inferior staff quarters?’

  ‘In the Norman tower,’ he answered seriously. ‘The Gothic tower is just for show. A folly, really.’

  ‘It all looks like a folly to me. It must be like living in an architectural historian’s nightmare.’

  ‘It’s all a Victorian fake,’ he assured me. ‘But it’s been brought right up to date. Behind the pseudo-period features, it’s all mod cons and the latest technology. You can sit in the anchorite’s cell one minute and surf the Internet the next.’