“No! I didn’t! I didn’t!” Clarice hurled herself back into her grandmother’s arms, bursting into tears.
“All right, that’s enough!” Rhylla snapped at Gordie. “That’s a serious accusation and you have no right to say such a thing. If you ever repeat it, I’ll sue!”
“Gordie, what are you doing here?” Gemma was staring at him in some perplexity. “How did you get in?”
“Oh, the door was ajar.” Gordie wrenched his baleful gaze away from Rhylla and Clarice, obviously struggling to bring his mind back to the more mundane subject. “I knocked, but nobody seemed to hear me so ...” He shrugged.
“The Rescue Services sent me.” His voice grew firmer as he cited a higher authority. “They want me to make sure everybody stays put for the next few minutes. They don’t want anyone straying out into the main hall. You see” – he looked at them with grim relish – “They’re bringing out the body now.”
12
As soon as the ambulance had driven away from Coffers Court with its grim burden, the gathering split up abruptly. In the marble hall, the yellow tapes sealing off the area around the lift were an uneasy reminder that the police would be investigating this incident.
Gordie stood irresolutely by Gemma’s door for a few minutes, but only Clarice paid any attention to him, sticking her tongue out as she passed him. Rhylla had noticed, but made no comment; she held Clarice’s hand tightly as they started up the two flights of stairs to her flat.
“I’d better get back to my workroom,” Gordie said, quite as though someone had invited him to stay. “I expect the police will want to talk to me.” He sent a malevolent glance after Clarice. “They’ll want to know what could have happened with the lift doors and all that.” There was little doubt as to what he would tell them and who he would blame. It did not make anyone feel any more kindly disposed towards him and they allowed him to depart unhindered.
Professor Borley swept Betty Alvin and Jennifer Lane up to his flat for further refreshment. Gemma decided that it was a matter of urgency that she walk the dogs at once.
Lorinda wanted to check on the cats and Freddie and Macho had naturally gravitated towards the house with her. Somehow, Karla and Jack had tagged along, happily unaware that they were blocking the conversation that would otherwise have ensued.
Had-I was furious and complaining, But-Known was resigned. Had-I marched over to the catflap and bumped her head against it several times, demonstrating the extent of her captivity and her annoyance. But-Known, curled up on a kitchen chair, watched with one open eye, waiting to see what would result.
Lorinda sighed and went to the fridge. Had-I slowed her tirade and began to relent. Oh, well, if she was going to apologize properly ...
But-Known yawned, stretched and slithered to the floor, sauntering over to join Had-I at the fridge. This was more like it ...
Last night’s leftovers were quite acceptable, thank you. They watched with approval and some surprise as she scraped out the casserole into their dishes. She hoped they weren’t betraying the fact that, if she hadn’t brought company back with her, she might have just put the casserole down and left it to their rough little tongues to do the scraping.
As it was, only Freddie had an amused smile. Karla and Jack obviously weren’t attuned to feline attitudes and the cats’ silent communication went over their heads. Macho was too bemused to notice.
With relief, Lorinda led everyone into the living room and dispensed drinks, but first she snapped on all the lamps against the encroaching darkness.
“If you ask me, there are a helluva lot of accidents here for one little village,” Jack said, rubbing his injured arm. “Now, if all this had happened in one of your books ...” He let the uncomfortable thought lie there.
“Jerk!” Karla said. “Most of what happens in life is too unbelievable to put into a book. We all know that. We have to tone it down to make it seem real.”
“Coincidences abound in real life,” Macho agreed, but looked as though he might be having second thoughts about it. “At least, we always assume they’re coincidences.”
“Aaaaarrreeeooow ...” The long plaintive wail rose outside the windows and Macho leapt to his feet.
“Roscoe!” He rushed to the window and threw it open. He was nearly knocked over as the large orange tom flew past him into the room.
“Roscoe ...” He closed the window again and turned to stare at his pet, who was now sitting complacently at his feet. “How did you get out?”
Because someone else got in? Lorinda wondered whether there was now another bottle of tequila lurking somewhere in Macho’s house, waiting to be discovered. Or perhaps something worse. The fictional Macho Magee had an unfortunate disposition towards finding naked female corpses in various comers of his seedy office-cum-dwelling. It would be a natural progression of the harassment campaign being waged, but, if it had not occurred to him, she did not want to be the one to put it into his mind.
“That cat gets bigger every time I look at him,” Jack said. “You got him on steroids, or something?”
“Don’t be insulting,” Macho huffed. “Some breeds are just naturally large.”
Roscoe blinked amiably at them both. When neither food nor affection was forthcoming, he got up and ambled toward the kitchen where the faint sound of bowls scraping along the linoleum could be heard.
Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to question Roscoe’s pedigree, but the doorbell cut across him. Before anyone could move to answer, it rang again. And again. Someone without much patience was intent on entry.
“Hello, Dorian.” Lorinda opened the door, winning the mental bet with herself.
“Your telephone is out of order,” he said irritably. “I’ve been trying to get you.”
“Oh?” This was not the moment to explain that she had unplugged it when she went out. The fear of coming back to find another sinister message waiting had been too much for her. “Come in.”
“Where’s Betty?” Dorian halted, in the doorway and looked around the room with dissatisfaction. “I thought she’d be here. I can’t find her anywhere else.”
“She’s with Professor Borley,” Karla said. “At least, she was when we left.”
“I’ve tried Abbey. He isn’t there.” Dorian looked at the glass of Scotch Lorinda had automatically given him and tasted it suspiciously. “Or else he isn’t answering the telephone.”
That was only too possible. Lorinda was in no hurry to plug hers back in.
“Perhaps they went out for a meal.” Karla shrugged. “Or maybe they went back to the bookshop with Jennifer. She was there, too.”
“Why does everybody call him Abbey?” The question had evidently been bothering Jack for some time. “I know his initials are A. B., which I’d pronounce Abie. So why the Abbey stuff?”
“Because his name is Borley,” Dorian said impatiently. “Don’t you see it?”
“See what?” It was clear he didn’t.
“Borley Abbey,” Freddie elucidated. “The most haunted place in Britain.” He still looked blank. “It’s a joke,” she explained.
“An English joke.” His voice was flat as he found the joke.
“That’s right, dear.” With Dorian present, Karla cooed sweetly. “It’s over your head.”
“You didn’t get it, either,” he snarled. “And I’ll give you odds Borley doesn’t think it’s funny.”
“On the contrary,” Dorian said. “He was quite amused. Once I’d explained it to him.”
“I’ll bet.” Jack said. “The guy’s got a proper name, hasn’t he? Why the hell don’t you let him use it?”
“Dorian –” Freddie broke into the dialogue. “You do know, don’t you?”
“Know?” He looked blank.
“About Ondine?”
“Oh, that. Yes. Gordie reported to me. That was why I was trying to get hold of Betty. We’ll need to draft a press release. Notify her publishers, agent, relatives ...” He faltered, perhaps sensing that he was not qui
te in accord with his audience. “It’s all very sad,” he said quickly. “But she wasn’t a young woman, nor, I suspect, a particularly well one. It’s just very unfortunate that it happened here, when she’d just moved in an –”
The doorbell made them all jump. Lorinda hurried to answer it. She was conscious of a muted yapping as she approached, so it was no surprise when she opened the door.
“Hello, Gemma.” The pugs at Gemma’s feet surged forward, then stopped and moved back uneasily.
Lorinda glanced over her shoulder to see Had-I and But-Known advancing with a territorial glint in their eyes. Roscoe followed behind them, bristled up to nearly twice his size, clearly ready to do battle for his females.
“Come in,” Lorinda invited, crossing her fingers and hoping for the best. Gemma looked even more upset than the last time she had seen her.
“Yes, thank you. Come on!” Gemma tugged at the leashes, but Conqueror and Lionheart had suddenly become reluctant to enter the hallway.
“Behave yourselves,” Lorinda said over her shoulder to the cats. They paused and waited in ominous docility.
“I beg your pardon?” Gemma was startled. “Oh –” She looked beyond Lorinda. “I see. Come on.” She tugged at the leashes again. “They’re not going to bother you.”
With faint apologetic whines and bellies low, Conqueror and Lionheart scurried past the cats, keeping close to Gemma’s ankles for protection. The cats watched implacably.
“Stay there,” Lorinda said to them, firmly closing the door behind her.
“I’m sorry,” Gemma said. “I just couldn’t go home. I tried. I got there just as the light over the front entrance went on and – and I could see it! In big black letters! I couldn’t walk under it. I couldn’t go in.”
“See what?” Lorinda asked. Behind her, the doorknob rattled. She tried to ignore it.
“The graffiti.” Gemma looked frightened. “Someone has crossed out the ‘ERS’ of COFFERS and written ‘IN’ over it, so that the name reads COFFIN COURT. I couldn’t –”
“So now it’s vandalism!” Dorian exploded, more upset by that than he had been by Ondine’s death.
There was a decisive click and Lorinda felt a draft on the back of her legs. The cats marched past her purposefully and took up commanding positions in front of the fireplace. The pugs cringed closer to Gemma, who was watching Dorian and didn’t notice.
“Vandals!” Dorian raged. “They didn’t chip off the bas-relief letters, did they?” he asked in sudden anxiety. “That would cost a fortune to repair. It was just the black paint?”
“Feelings are running pretty high in this town,” Jack said. “Next thing will be broken windows,” he added, as Dorian winced. He didn’t appear to find anything strange in Dorian’s attitude, but Lorinda was beginning to ask herself just why Dorian seemed to be taking it so personally.
“Just the paint,” Gemma said. “I’m sure Gordie will be able to clean it up. It will be quite a job for him, though. He’ll have to scrub for hours. It’s very messy.”
“If Gordie had been doing his duty, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Dorian snapped. “He should have been keeping watch at the door.”
“Gordie has had his hands full today,” Freddie pointed out. “He must be exhausted. I wouldn’t blame him if he went to bed for the rest of the week with the covers pulled over his head.”
“I’ll go over there and speak to him now.” There wasn’t much chance of that with Dorian around. “If he starts on the graffiti now, he should have it cleaned up by morning.”
“You expect him to work all night?” Karla was scandalized.
“If he’d been doing his job properly, it wouldn’t be necessary. He brought it on himself.”
“An awful lot of people around here seem to bring things on themselves,” Jack muttered. “At least, that’s what other people keep telling them.” He rubbed his arm and flexed his fingers experimentally. He looked from Dorian to his wife, suspicious and unforgiving.
But Dorian had been on the terrace when Jack fell – or was pushed – into the bonfire. Hadn’t he? Lorinda realized suddenly that they knew the moment Jack had been found smouldering in the ashes, but there was no conveniently broken watch to register the moment he actually had been pushed.
“You’d better leave poor Gordie alone for a while.” There was a distinctly bossy note in Karla’s voice, perhaps she’d forgotten it was not her husband she was addressing. “Morning is time enough for him to worry about graffiti. He’s going to have to clean up the top of the lift first, isn’t he? Before it can be put back into service again.”
Although both true and practical, the pragmatic statement was too graphic for its hearers. There was an abrupt deep imbibing of drink in the silence that followed.
Inadvertently, Lorinda intercepted the look Dorian shot at Karla. It went through her like an electric shock. It was as embarrassing as finding you’d opened someone else’s letter by mistake, as disturbing as though that letter had been a piece of hate mail.
Lorinda recalled abruptly that Jack and Karla had been dressed alike on Bonfire Night. In the darkness and excitement, it would have been quite easy for the wrong Jackley to receive that nearly fatal push.
“SSSssss ...” “RRrrreeeeeoooow ...” “Aarrjff ...” The uneasy truce was over. Hostilities broke out.
“No! Stop!” Gemma tugged at the leashes, ignoring the fact that the dogs were already scuttling for shelter behind her.
“Had-I, But-Known – No!” Lorinda tried, although she could see it was useless.
“Roscoe!” Macho frowned, but the effect was lost because his tone sounded admiring rather than censorious.
Paying no attention to human protests, the cats advanced on their prey. Almost languidly, Had-I stretched out a paw and raked the air an inch from Conqueror’s nose. He backed away, yelping as though the claws had connected with his tender nose. Lionheart wriggled forward a bit, but Roscoe gave a warning growl and he retreated again. Even But-Known had the light of battle in her eyes; no canine was going to infringe on her territory. She feinted wildly, with more enthusiasm than skill. Conqueror yelped and reared back so sharply he pulled the end of his leash out of Gemma’s hand. She turned to go after him and Lionheart got away.
“Back!” Gemma flapped her hands at the inexorably advancing cats. “Get back!”
But the only ones backing were the pugs. Not daring to take their eyes off the cats, they slunk backwards until their rumps collided with the wall and there was no escape.
“Had-I, that’s enough! But-Known, stop it! You, too, Roscoe!” Lorinda might just as well have never spoken. She circled around behind the cats, waiting for her moment to swoop on Had-I, who was definitely the ringleader and bully-in-chief.
Gemma had abandoned her flapping motions and was making suggestive little movements of her feet.
Don’t you dare! Lorinda shot her a look as menacing as any of the cats’ and Gemma subsided into shuffling.
“I can’t understand it,” Gemma complained. “They all got on so well in my place the other day.”
Because they were the invaders. But this was not the moment to explain.
“Throw a bucket of water over them!” Jack and Karla had retreated to the far side of the room. It was clear that they were not going to get involved. Dorian had retreated just far enough to stay clear of the action, but not so far as to be suspected of opting out, although no one in their right mind ... mind ... would have looked for help from that quarter to begin with.
“Really, I think we’d better go now.” Gemma tried to recapture the leashes. “Conqueror! Lionheart! Come along! Home!”
The dogs were more than willing, but the cats blocked their way. With an anxious whine, Conqueror tried to sidle along the wall, but Had-I cut him off. Roscoe kept Lionheart paralyzed with a baleful stare.
“Call off your cats.” Jack was full of bright suggestions. “Let the poor dogs go.”
“Have you ever tried t
o call off a cat?” Freddie’s question was rhetorical. Jack obviously knew nothing about feline characteristics.
Abruptly, the final onslaught erupted in a flurry of slashing, flashing paws, against high-pitched yelps and scurryings. Hisses, yowls and spitting imprecations filled the air.
Conqueror was the first to crack. He slithered down and rolled over, belly up, waving helpless paws in the air. Lionheart hesitated only a second longer, then Roscoe’s paw caught him across the nose and he joined Conqueror in abject surrender, whining.
“Those dogs” – Dorian looked down at them with distaste – “give an entirely new dimension to the expression pussy-whipped.”
The cats hovered menacingly over the pugs for a moment longer then, honour satisfied and no doubt as to the victors, they exchanged glances and strolled away.
“Come along!” Gemma had the leashes now and tugged the dogs to their feet.
“I’ll walk you back,” Dorian said. “I want to have that talk with Gordie.”
“I still think you should leave him alone for tonight,” Karla volunteered. “I told you, he’s had a rotten day.”
“And I think I’ll go up to London for a few days tomorrow,” Dorian added reflectively.
“Again?” Karla was indignant. “You’re always going up to London. What’s the big attraction up there?”
Dorian looked at her with almost as much distaste as he had shown for the cringing dogs. For a moment, Lorinda thought he might be going to tell her.
“Work.” He slid away from confrontation. “There are several projects that require my attention.”
“Yeah?” Karla’s tone was unpleasant. “Did it ever occur to you that there might be a few projects around here that require your attention?”
Lorinda stooped and gathered up Had-I and But-Known, trying to pretend that the conversation was meaningless to her. It was so embarrassing when people thought that they were talking to each other in code, unaware that their listeners had long since cracked the code.
“I told you,” Dorian said, a trifle testily. “I’ll see to it that Gordie cleans up the building immediately. That’s the main priority. Anything else can wait until I get back.”
Canapés for the Kitties Page 22
