Only the Cat Knows

by Marian Babson

  I pushed away the muesli and stood up. The cat gave me a sympathetic look, but stretched a warning paw over her remaining sausage just in case I had changed my mind. She might not be able to finish it right now, but it would make a tasty snack later.

  After an hour and a half, I had to admit it had been a stupid idea. Too much time had elapsed, I was chasing shadows.

  Francesca had disappeared over a year ago. All her belongings had been packed up and stored away by the ever-efficient Monica. I wondered where.

  Then Nessa had moved in and made the place her own. There were unlikely to be any traces of Francesca still around. And nothing to tell what had prompted her sudden departure.

  Had she, as Nina fantasized, eloped in the sudden throes of a romantic frenzy? Perhaps carried away, literally, in one of the helicopters belonging to a passing billionaire?

  Or, more sinisterly, had the locks not served their purpose one dark night and had she been kidnapped by one of the thugs in uniform surrounding some dictator, sheikh or despot?

  Or … had she followed the Monk?

  The day continued grey and wet. The cat curled up and went to sleep. Lucky cat.

  I was too restless to settle. My thoughts churned round in circles, getting nowhere. Or else dashing off in directions I did not wish to go.

  Except for the rain against the windows, the place was silent. It might have been deserted, all occupants spirited away, the fake ruins left to disintegrate into genuine ruins.

  Surely it had never been this quiet before. Although I had not been paying any particular attention, it seemed to me that I had been vaguely aware of muted domestic noises during other days: the hum of a vacuum cleaner, footsteps hurrying from one destination to another, the occasional bark of a guard dog or cry of a peacock, the dull throb of a motor as one of the estate cars drove past. There had not been this deep unnerving silence, this lack of evidence of any other humans in the world.

  At this point, I’d even have welcomed the sound of spectral chanting again.

  I moved to the window that looked out on the cloister and pulled back the curtain. Rain dripped from the eaves and the greensward beyond the walkway was beginning to show signs of the puddles forming in its hollows.

  Wet, bleak and depressing. Suddenly, I needed air, however rain-laden. I draped the familiar shawl around me and stepped out into the cloister, locking the door behind me. I didn’t want anyone slipping into my quarters while my back was turned even briefly.

  It was colder than I had anticipated. I drew the shawl tighter. A chill wind swept down the cloister carrying the rain with it. The cloister wasn’t as sheltered as it looked. What was? Puddles had formed in and around the uneven flagstones. I had to remind myself that the stones had not been worn down by centuries of monastic processions, of silent monks scurrying to the chapel or taking the air on a day like this. The whole construction was an elaborate Victorian fake. An edifice of lies and illusion. Ghostly monks included.

  I reached the door leading into the main house, pivoted and walked back, deciding that I wouldn’t stay out too long. The cold was all-embracing, even the soles of my feet were feeling the chill from the icy paving stones. The air had gone from bracing to arctic, seeming to have dropped several degrees in the short time I had been out here. My mood wasn’t improving, either, it was as bleak as the world around me.

  Nessa … I called silently and experimentally and waited … listening… as though there might be some reply.

  There wasn’t, of course. There couldn’t be. Not now … perhaps not —

  No! I wouldn’t let myself think that. Nessa was a survivor. So was I. We’d had to be.

  The deep shudder that suddenly racked me took me by surprise. It was visceral, rather than owing anything to the plunging temperature. Depression and dark thoughts were crowding in on me.

  Where the hell was that quack, Anderson? Why wasn’t he here to tell me how Nessa was doing? He’d promised to keep me informed. Had she lost ground, and was he afraid to face me and admit it?

  Perhaps he was trying to reach me now. Would I hear it out here if the phone rang?

  Odds were, I would. But he couldn’t take the risk of telephoning — there were too many chances that someone might be listening in. He’d have to report personally. Eventually …

  I shuddered again and moved forward. I’d just walk to the end of the cloister and back to my own door. I’d got my fresh air and honour was satisfied. There was no need to turn a stroll into an endurance contest.

  I quickened my pace. Down to the anchorite’s cell and turn back — and that would be my exercise quota for the day. I’d never gone in for the hours in the gym and the jog till you drop routines.

  There! I reached my goal: the end of the cloister. I turned quickly, glancing idly into the cell to nod hello to the wax figure perpetually at its prayers.

  I was three steps farther on before I did the classic double-take and retraced my steps. I must have been seeing things. It couldn’t —

  It could. It was. There were two figures in that cell now.

  I wrenched at the bars, trying to open the gate, to get inside. I might have known it was useless. The bars held, the figures beyond them remained motionless and unreachable.

  For a moment, I cursed, fluently and vehemently. The wax monk knelt, unheeding.

  The female, lying face down, the back of her head imploded, hair colour obliterated by blood and bone, one arm outstretched, hand reaching toward the hem of the monk’s robe, was clearly beyond help.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Are you sure?’ Monica asked. ‘Are you really sure?’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing one is likely to make a mistake about,’ I said coldly.

  ‘No, but —’ In the abrupt silence, I could almost hear the wheels turning and the contingency plans clicking into place in her mind.

  ‘Where are you now?’ she asked. ‘Right this minute.’

  ‘In my quarters,’ I said. ‘I came straight back and rang to let you know.’

  ‘Right!’ she said. ‘Stay there! Lock the door! We’ll be along straight away!’

  ‘We —?’ But she had rung off.

  After half an hour, it was quite clear that Monica’s definition of ‘straight away’ and mine did not coincide.

  I had telephoned her again at the quarter hour and at five-minute intervals thereafter, but there had been no answer. I had no doubt that she was extremely busy somewhere, doing something. But what?

  Impatient, I had tried to disobey orders and go back to the anchorite’s cell for another look. That was when I discovered that the override lock had been flipped into place and I was locked in. The Open Prison had closed again.

  There was nothing to be seen from the window, although I was sure I could hear muted sounds of activity at the end of the cloister. On the other side, there had also been the throb of powerful motors: one or two cars arriving — and departing.

  When the knock finally came, I played it straight, opening the door without hesitation, as though I had never tried it earlier and found it locked.

  Sure enough, it opened easily. Monica stood outside and, behind her, Dr Anderson. Nessa? For a heart-faltering instant, I froze, staring at him.

  No. He caught my fear and, behind Monica’s back, he shook his head reassuringly. That wasn’t why he was here. Of course not. It was the body in the anchorite’s cell. I began to breathe again.

  ‘Nessa, are you all right?’ Monica stepped into the room, face creased with concern. Anderson followed. ‘Really all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I gave a shaky laugh, in keeping with my parlous condition. ‘Well, a bit shaken … naturally’

  ‘Naturally.’ Monica nodded, sending a meaning glance towards Anderson, who suddenly looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Who was she?’ I wanted to know. ‘I couldn’t get close enough to see. What happened?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been out in weather like this. It’s too cold and you’re still
too frail. It isn’t good for you.’ Monica moved forward, oozing sympathy. ‘Why don’t you lie down for a while and have a little nap?’

  ‘Is it someone I know — or knew?’ I backed away before she reached me. ‘Not that I’d remember.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ she agreed and frowned with increasing concern. ‘Have you been having headaches lately? Or dizziness, or anything like that?’

  ‘No.’ I looked at Anderson. Shouldn’t questions like that be coming from him? Except that he already knew the answers.

  He looked away, visibly distancing himself from the situation. He didn’t want to get involved. Too bad he already was.

  ‘If you won’t lie down, at least sit down.’ Monica gave me what was obviously meant to be a reassuring smile, then frowned at Anderson. ‘Shouldn’t you check her pulse?’

  ‘Um, right.’ Humouring her, he reached for my wrist while blocking her view with his body lest she notice that my hand against his was on the large side. ‘A little fast, but within the normal range,’ he reported.

  ‘Are you sure?’ That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. He was letting the side down.

  ‘I’m all right!’ I snatched my wrist away. ‘Just a bit shaken, that’s all. It’s not every day one finds a dead body.’

  The silence was deafening. Monica looked at Anderson. Anderson looked back. Neither wanted to be the first to speak. Anderson turned his head, distancing himself even more, and Monica had to admit that she had lost.

  ‘Nessa, dear,’ she began. ‘That’s just it. You didn’t. There was no dead body in the cell. That was just the wax figure, the way it always has been.’

  Why was I not surprised? In the length of time between my informing Monica and their appearing here, they could have embalmed it, buried it and arranged for the memorial service.

  ‘I saw her,’ I said flatly.

  ‘You thought you saw something,’ Monica corrected. Her tone of sympathetic understanding was sickening. ‘It’s been a dark gloomy day, the cell is even darker, and filled with shadows …’ She shrugged.

  ‘Shadows don’t bleed.’ It wasn’t Monica I was trying to convince. I avoided looking directly at Anderson, even as I wondered how much convincing he needed. There had been the sounds of several cars arriving and departing. When had the good doctor arrived: before or after the body had been spirited away?

  ‘I don’t think you quite realize, dear, just how seriously ill you’ve been,’ Monica said.

  Again, I was not surprised. If I’d thought about it, I would have taken a bet that that was the way they’d play it.

  ‘You had such a terrible, terrible accident,’ Monica went on. ‘And you’ve made a remarkable recovery — so far. But you’re still recuperating and it’s not unusual if you’ve had a little relapse. Perhaps you’ve been pushing yourself too far, too soon. It’s only to be expected that you might have some post-traumatic … difficulties. We do understand that head wounds can have that effect.’

  ‘I was not hallucinating.’ Anderson would know that. Monica could be excused — almost — for what she was pretending to believe. I wondered if tidying away bodies was a normal part of her housekeeping duties.

  ‘Of course not,’ she soothed. ‘Vision problems are common in cases like yours.’ She smiled forgivingly. She was winning and she knew it.

  ‘But …’ I closed my eyes and swayed briefly. ‘But … I was sure I saw … something …’ I had to let her win. For now. A barely recovered Nessa would not be strong enough, perhaps not sure enough of herself, to fight her corner.

  ‘It’s all right, we understand,’ she cooed. ‘You’re overtired. You mustn’t think of trying to join us for dinner tonight. Have an early night and catch up on your rest.’

  ‘Oh, but I’ve been resting all day.’ I didn’t want to miss dinner. I needed to speak to Madame — and to find out if anyone was missing from the table. ‘It won’t be too much for me. Truly.’

  ‘I’m sure you think so, but I don’t believe it would be wise.’ The voice chilled, the velvet glove slipped. Monica was not about to let me mingle with the others. In the mood I was in, believing what I believed I’d seen, possibly asking awkward questions, I was a loose cannon and she was not going to have me rolling around.

  ‘It would be best,’ she went on firmly, ‘for you to retire now and sleep through until morning. Everything looks so much better and brighter at the start of a new day. All the phantoms of the night will have faded away’

  ‘It’s still early and I’m not at all tired.’ That might be the way she’d like to have it, but I wasn’t going to go along with it. Phantoms be damned! ‘I’m feeling quite well enough to come to dinner.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be wise. You must conserve your strength.’ She sent another meaning glance to Anderson. ‘I’m sure you’re a lot more tired than you think. Brian will give you a little something to help you go to sleep right away’

  ‘No!’ I should have known that was why she had waited for Anderson to arrive before she appeared at my door. ‘No! I’m not having that!’

  ‘It’s all right, Nessa, I promise you.’ Anderson had drawn something out of his black bag and was smiling at me in a way I didn’t like. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘No!’ I saw light glint off a hypodermic needle and prepared to go down fighting. If he tried to roll up my sleeve, I’d lay him out. I could always claim that it had been a lucky punch. ‘Try to touch me and you’ll regret it!’

  ‘Nessa, don’t be silly. You see —’ Monica spoke across me to Anderson — ‘she is hysterical.’

  ‘I am not!’ Although there was plenty to be hysterical about. The mere thought of being left here unconscious, unable to throw the bolt against invaders, at the mercy of anyone who might have a key, made my blood run cold. As did the fear that Monica might decide I would sleep more comfortably if she were to undress me and put me into one of my nightgowns …

  ‘All right,’ I capitulated. ‘I’ll go to bed now. I’ll take a sleeping pill. I’ve got some. I don’t need anything from —’

  I felt the sharp stab of the needle. Anderson had rammed it through my clothes, straight into a buttock. I tried to pull away, but it was too late.

  What had he shot into me? The effect was almost instantaneous. I felt my muscles weaken, my eyesight blur, as I fought to hold on to consciousness. It was a losing battle.

  ‘It’s all right … Nessa.’ He caught me round the shoulders in a strong grip and Monica advanced to steady me on the other side as they took me into the bedroom.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Anderson crooned. ‘Just relax … trust me.’

  As though I had a choice.

  Tr-r-ru-u-u-s-s-t m-e-e-e … T-t-r-r-u-u-s-s-t m-e-e-e …

  The words eddied and looped through my uneasy dreams, sometimes loud and demanding, sometimes soft and insinuating.

  I was stumbling through a swirling fog that obscured my surroundings and blotted out the path beneath my feet.

  Trr-r-u-u-s-s-t m-e-e-e … A disembodied hand thrust through the mists, extended towards me.

  I reached out tentatively, only to recoil as a burst of high-pitched mocking laughter rang out behind the veiling fog.

  I turned, disorientated, then turned again to find myself facing a mirror. I grimaced at it, but it just gazed back sadly.

  It wasn’t a mirror, it was Nessa.

  ‘I trusted,’ she said, ‘and look what happened to me.’

  ‘Nessa …’ I struggled through quicksands towards her, but she dissolved into the mist, leaving me bereft.

  ‘Nessa …’ I called after her. But she wouldn’t come back.

  ‘Nessa …’ She had to come back. She had to.

  Half-conscious now, I fought against restraining bonds. Had they tied me up? I felt again the sting of a needle — no, multiple needles. No, not again! I pulled away, managed to sit up and opened my eyes.

  In the dim glow of the night-light that had been left burning, I saw two furious eyes glaring back at me and a p
aw raised to strike again.

  The sheet was tangled about me, but I was still in my kaftan. Perhaps I could trust Anderson — at least, as far as I could throw him. This time. I was conscious, becoming more so with every minute — and with no drug-induced hangover. Only the lingering depression from the haunting dream.

  ‘Down, girl,’ I said. The cat looked at me uncertainly. Taking a risk, I rubbed behind her ears. Gradually, she lowered her paw and relaxed. She was still in an aloof mood, however. She must have been curled up beside me on the bed when I began to thrash around and disturb her.

  It had given her a nasty shock — and I had the marks to prove it. I looked ruefully at the scratch just above my wrist, then pulled down the kaftan sleeve to cover it. And we had been doing so well, too. Still, a little setback could happen to anyone. As Monica had reminded me.

  The bedside clock told me I hadn’t been unconscious all that long. There was still time to join the others for dinner. Since that appeared to be what Monica had been determined to prevent, I decided I would.

  I wanted to see which of the harem was missing — and what explanation might be given for her absence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I showered and changed into a fresh kaftan, then waited until I knew they would all be in the dining room. As I went down the corridor, a familiar figure appeared at the far end, obviously having delivered his usual message.

  ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ I said when the black-clad young man drew abreast. ‘Mr Oversall will not be joining us tonight.’

  ‘You ought to know.’ His icy glance raked me contemptuously. With elaborate formality, he stepped to one side and bowed me past.

  ‘And what do you mean by —?’

  He was gone. Disappearing into the shadows of the long dark passageway. Only the faint emanations of his hostility quivered in his wake to disturb the atmosphere.

  Nessa, Nessa, what did you do to him? Would I ever know? Even if — when, when — she recovered, she might not reveal it. Close as we were, there were still some things we didn’t tell each other. Whether we guessed or not was another matter.