Only the Cat Knows

by Marian Babson

  ‘There’s a cell, too?’

  ‘What cloister would be without something so atmospheric? I understand the original Victorian owner even had a wax dummy installed — which looked so real it frightened the servants. Except for the butler, who decided the cell was an ideal place to commit suicide and was discovered hanging there in the robes he’d stripped from the dummy. After that, rumours began that the place was haunted.’

  ‘It was a superstitious age,’ I said absently. Heat-sensitive lights had blazed into life as we drew up in front of an iron-studded heavy oak door. Something moved behind the small glass panel at one side and the door swung open as we got out of the car.

  ‘Vanessa?’ The figure was shadowy with the light behind her, but her voice seemed warm and concerned. I braced myself for my first hurdle.

  ‘Mrs Chandler, the housekeeper,’ Dr Anderson cued me softly.

  He meant well, but I ignored the information. If I greeted her by name, the idea might get around that my amnesia was not so complete as someone might have hoped. Memory had to return gradually — if at all.

  ‘Vanessa!’ She stopped short of embracing me, noting my obvious fragility. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. How are you?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ I smiled vaguely at the maternal figure.

  ‘I’m afraid … she’s a long way from being … her old self,’ Dr Anderson said carefully, making sure he was using the correct pronoun.

  ‘I understand.’ She nodded, accepting the hesitancy as his delicacy in offering any sort of diagnosis in front of the patient. ‘You’ll do better, now that we have you back home, my dear. We’ll have you on your feet in no time.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms …?’ I might as well hammer it home right from the beginning.

  ‘Oh!’ Her hand fluttered up to her heart, she looked across me to the doctor. ‘I — I knew, of course. I — I supposed I hadn’t really understood —’

  ‘Vanessa, this is Monica Chandler, the housekeeper.’ He introduced me formally. ‘She’ll take good care of you.’ He met the woman’s anxious eyes. ‘And she’ll introduce you to the others,’ he underlined.

  ‘Oh … yes. Yes, of course.’ She was out of her depth. She’d obviously had to deal with a great many problems during her long domestic career, but never anything like this before. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I.’ Smiling weakly, I swayed against Dr Anderson, who tensed slightly before ostentatiously offering his arm.

  ‘Perhaps we should get her to her quarters,’ he said. ‘She ought to lie down now.’

  ‘Of course.’ She led the way along a corridor lit by electric candles which flickered realistically and didn’t give off enough light to illuminate the dark corners. Atmospheric was the obvious intention. ‘Spooky,’ Nessa had called it in one of her letters to me.

  Her letters — why had I thrown so many of them away so blithely? Three moves are as good as a fire, they say, and I was always on the move. True, most of our correspondence had been frittered into cyberspace but, when she was really disturbed, Nessa found the old-fashioned pen-to-paper routine the best therapy for her anxiety. I should have paid more attention to her fears.

  Somewhere behind us, I caught the sound of a door opening and closing quietly. Someone taking a furtive peek at the returning outpatient?

  ‘Here we are!’ We had reached the end of the cloister and another iron-bound oak door blocked our way. Monica Chandler pulled a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. ‘Here are your quarters!’ She swung the door wide, giving me a hopeful look, as though the sight of my private domain might instantly restore my memory and we could all have a good laugh.

  Although she stepped aside to allow me to enter, I remained where I was, taking stock of my surroundings. The door opened directly into a pleasant L-shaped sitting room. The short end of the L cut across the end of the cloister and seemed to be a sort of office, while the long main room stretched along the cloister with doors on the opposite wall flanking a fireplace. There were deep overstuffed armchairs and sofa, with floor lamps positioned behind them for comfortable reading, a small but well-filled bookcase in a corner and fresh flowers in a crystal vase on a polished end table.

  I was aware that Monica Chandler was watching my face closely — and that it gave nothing away. After a moment, she gave a tiny shrug and stepped across the threshold herself, leading the way. I followed.

  ‘And here’s Gloriana!’ she cried, flinging out one hand dramatically.

  I froze. The intonation and gesture were a parody of the usual introduction to my act. Had I been unmasked already?

  ‘Come to welcome you home!’ she concluded and I followed the line of her gesture to find myself looking down at a dainty white Angora cat with sapphire eyes. I stared at it, still frozen, unable to move despite a nudge from Dr Anderson urging me forward.

  ‘No!’ Monica Chandler said with disbelief. ‘You mean she doesn’t even remember her beautiful little cat? I can’t believe it!’

  Neither could I. The cat and I stared at each other blankly. It lifted its head and sniffed in my direction, the tip of its tail twitched ominously, the sapphires turned to chips of blue ice.

  No rapturous reunion here. Monica was visibly disappointed.

  ‘Look, Gloriana,’ she urged. ‘Mummy’s home!’

  The cat gave me a frigid Have we been introduced? stare, as affronted as a Dowager Duchess who had just had her bottom pinched by a passing street person. Then she turned her back on us, sat down and began to wash her face. At least she hadn’t run away.

  ‘That’s cats for you.’ Dr Anderson tried to retrieve the situation. ‘When they think you’ve been neglecting them, they’ll make you pay for it.’

  ‘It must be the hospital smell.’ I touched the bandage discreetly peeping from beneath my turban and spoke very softly, as befitted my bruised throat. ‘It reminds her of the vet.’

  ‘That must be it,’ Monica agreed.

  ‘I shan’t try to make it up with her right now.’ I gave a weary sigh. ‘I’m too tired …’

  ‘You must be exhausted!’ Monica was good at picking up a cue. ‘I’ve turned your bed down and it’s all ready for you. Go straight to bed and get some sleep. I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning. Just give me a ring on the intercom when you’re ready for it.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ I murmured.

  ‘Not at all.’ She gave me a worried look. ‘It’s my job.’ She was at the door now, but hesitated. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Pretty much so.’ I smiled faintly at her. ‘Just terribly tired.’

  ‘Keep taking the tablets.’ Anderson winked at me as Monica turned away He was getting braver now that escape was in sight.

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’ I followed them to the door and opened it like a good hostess.

  ‘Be careful.’ He was serious again. ‘Any problems, phone me immediately. You have my number.’

  ‘We’ll take good care of her,’ Monica said. ‘We’ll call you instantly if. But there shouldn’t be —’

  ‘I’m sure I’il sleep through until morning.’ I began closing the door on them. ‘Perhaps even until noon.’

  ‘Sleep as long as you like —’ Monica began.

  ‘Thank you both. So much.’ I closed the door firmly and listened to their retreating footsteps. After a tactful interval, I turned the key in the lock and noticed that there was also a large brass bolt attached to the door.

  It looked new. Too bright and shiny to match the original dark lock and doorknob. Furthermore, the wood surrounding it looked scratched and raw, as though the bolt had been affixed recently.

  Wishing I had paid more attention to Nessa’s most recent letters — or had had the ability to read between the uneasy lines — I slid the bolt home. It couldn’t do any harm and I didn’t want anyone popping in on me unexpectedly. I’d open it in the morning before breakfast arrived so that there wouldn’t be any wounded feelings.

  That decided, I took a deep
breath and decided to make myself more comfortable. But first … I crossed to the window looking out on to the cloister walkway and checked to make sure it was locked. It was and I was pleased to discover that, lurking behind the curtains, heavy wooden shutters were there to be secured across the window. Interesting, because they were out-of-period, but suggested that security took precedence over authenticity.

  Authenticity? Anderson had said the whole pseudo-kingdom was just a big Victorian fake. And the shutters had obviously been part of the original fittings, they were a lot older than the brass bolt on the door — but would be just as effective in keeping out marauders.

  I locked them in place, then drew the curtains across, concealing them, and repeated the process for the office window which also faced on to the walkway.

  A quick look into the other rooms revealed narrow windows so high up that no one outside could possibly see in. Why, then, did I have the feeling I was being watched?

  Because I was. I turned back into the sitting room to find the cat perched on an arm of the sofa, watching me intently as I prowled around. I nodded to her and she looked away quickly.

  ‘All right, be like that.’ I removed my turban and eased off the bandages that had been stitched together into a sort of helmet so that I needn’t try to wrap and unwrap the long length of bandage by myself.

  I tossed the headgear on to the nearest chair, followed it with my kaftan and padded bra, then treated myself to a long luxurious scratch of the stubble on my head. The doctor and I had agreed that a close crop rather than a shaven head would offer more camouflage in case the bandage-helmet slipped. In the few seconds before I could adjust it, the stubble would help conceal the fact that there were no wounds visible.

  The cat was staring openly at me now. It was obvious that she had never seen a jockstrap before. I hadn’t known that cats could look askance.

  I turned off the lights in the sitting room and headed back to the bedroom to find out where Nessa kept her nightgowns. The bed had been turned down and the crisp white sheets yawned invitingly. I yawned, too, suddenly aware that I was as exhausted as though I’d genuinely been released from hospital that evening. Walking on eggshells, trying not to put a foot wrong, takes a lot out of you.

  Someone else was walking delicately, too. She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes wide and wary.

  ‘Gloriana —’ I said to my namesake. ‘Come in and let’s get acquainted. If we can’t make friends fast, you’re going to get me in trouble.’

  She advanced into the room a few steps, then something behind her caught her attention. She turned back, her fur bristling, her gaze fixed on something out of my range of vision.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Her anxiety was contagious. ‘Not seeing ghosts, are you?’

  Ignoring me, she lowered her body to an inch above the floor and half-slunk, half-stalked into the sitting room.

  Uneasily I followed her, looking around to see what had spooked her.

  Everything was as I had left it. No wisps of ectoplasm were visible in the dim light filtering into the room from the bedroom. I collected the helmet, turban, bra and kaftan from the chair to take back into the bedroom with me. I’d need them when Monica brought my breakfast tray.

  I wondered whether I should pick up the cat, too, or whether I’d have a battle on my hands if I tried. Some cats don’t take kindly to being handled by strangers. Better not.

  While I was still watching her thoughtfully, she turned and looked over her shoulder at me. Her mouth opened in a vehement hiss.

  Decidedly better not. Then I followed her gaze as she turned her head away and realized that the hiss had not been directed at me, but was a comment on our situation.

  The doorknob of the outer door was silently turning.

  There was also a faint scrabbling sound. A key twisting in the lock? But the bolt held.

  The door began shaking as a certain amount of force was applied to it, still very quietly. Someone was determined to get in — and didn’t want anyone to know it.

  Gloriana and I moved closer together. I felt my top lip curl back as I instinctively mimicked her silent hiss. It seemed the only fitting response at the moment.

  ‘Darling — it’s me!’ The shaking changed to a light tapping. ‘I know you’re in there. Are you all right? I must see for myself.’ It was a deep male voice, plummy with faintly theatrical overtones.

  ‘Beloved —’ The voice lowered seductively. ‘Beloved, let me in.’

  Chapter Three

  Not by the hair on your chinny-chin-chin!

  I backed away from the door. Gloriana backed with me, still glaring at the door. Whoever was on the other side of it was not on her list of favourite people. We were as one on that.

  ‘Darling?’ The insistent voice began to falter. ‘Are you awake?’

  Who was this man? And how much else was there that Nessa hadn’t told me?

  Quite a lot, obviously. Perhaps she had planned to tell me all about it when I arrived. And yet … and yet … I had had no flash of intuition to tell me that she was emotionally involved. Was that because the essential closeness of twinship was breached when True Love entered the equation?

  I wouldn’t know. Whatever brief encounters had come my way had been amusing and, in their way, fulfilling, but nothing that could be categorized as True Love. Not yet.

  ‘Darling …’ He was giving up. Perhaps he felt too exposed, standing at the near end of the cloister, tapping on an unyielding door. ‘Sleep well, then. Until the morrow. I’ll be busy all day, but the night … the night will be our own!’

  That’s what you think!

  Morrow? The night will be our own? Who was this ham? What was Nessa doing tied up with him? Had she lost her sense of humour — or her mind?

  Whoever he was, Romeo was not going to be the one to make any dent in my amnesia. He was going straight back to being a stranger — and staying there. So far as I was concerned, we had not been introduced.

  On the other hand, Gloriana and I appeared to be bonding after our experience with the voice on the other side of the door. Clearly, she approved of my not letting him in. I felt soft fur brush my ankle lightly as we returned to the bedroom. She was the only one I was going to share it with tonight.

  Sleep …? I lay there staring into darkness. How could I have imagined, even for one insane moment, that sleep would be possible? In a strange bed … in a strange house … surrounded by strangers?

  And isn’t that a definition of any hotel you’ve ever stayed in? The reasonable side of my brain tried to calm me.

  Not quite. I would not be soothed. In this place, one of the strangers was an enemy. Perhaps more than one. And who knew what else one or more of them might be?

  How many of them were there? What were they to Nessa? Or she to them? This was the first time she had ever taken on a residential job. Had she been enjoying it — or had she begun to regret it?

  I turned over restlessly and punched a dent in the pillow. It was too dark here, too quiet. At least, in a hotel, there were sounds of life around you. Normal life. Loud voices, laughter, the boom of a television set, an occasional snatch of drunken song … and unashamed footsteps noisily heading towards their rightful room.

  I found myself listening again for the furtive steps shuffling outside my door. Stupid, of course. Beloved had long since drifted away to his own lair. Secrecy seemed to be paramount; he would not want anyone to catch him loitering outside Nessa’s quarters.

  Outside, there were the sounds of the night. The wind rising, a splatter of rain — good, that would discourage any other incipient prowlers. In the distance, guard dogs barked … except for the one that howled. Another splatter of rain told me there was no moon for it to howl at.

  Night has a thousand sounds … and a thousand eyes. I could feel them watching me now. For an uneasy moment, I wondered whether there was a spyhole in one of the walls … or a hidden camera.

  A faint whisper of sound, close by, and I turned to fin
d that the cat was crouching in the bedside armchair and was watching me intently … suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, come along,’ I said, patting the bed. ‘Come over and let’s get acquainted.’

  Oooops! I had offended the Dowager Duchess again. Her head reared back, her eyes went icy. The temporary truce that had ensued when I ignored Beloved was over. We were back on barely nodding terms again.

  ‘All right, be like that.’ I turned over. ‘See if I care.’

  But I did. If we couldn’t reach a semblance of amity, if not intimacy, she might blow my cover. In her current amnesiac condition, ‘Nessa’ might not remember her cat, but the cat would be expected to recognize and welcome Nessa. A loving cat can only maintain a snit at her mistress for a limited time. If the Duchess didn’t come round soon, I could be in trouble.

  They say you never have a really sleepless night, it’s just an illusion; that, actually, you have a series of catnaps in between the periods of waícefulness. It’s because the wakefulness is so clear and worrying that it seems never to have ended.

  Perhaps I did sleep, after all. At some point, I must have drifted off. Suddenly, the room was noticeably brighter, the cat was gone from the armchair, and there were faint sounds of the world moving back into action in the distance. A car motor roared, a dog barked — a different kind of dog — not the deep menacing snarling bark of the guard dogs, this sounded like a more normal dog, one you might be able to reason with. Some sort of bird cried out plaintively … a seagull? How near the sea were we?

  No point in lying here any longer. Time to get up and face what the day might bring. Face … yes, a quick close shave first thing, before anyone came calling, and a light application of foundation cream, dappled with a judicious overlay of darker shades to simulate fading bruises.

  That accomplished, I did a quick survey of what was available in Nessa’s wardrobe. Luckily, we were both tall and had the same build, typical twins. The fit would be no problem.