Win! She snatched up the telephone and stabbed blindly at the buttons, the number already committed to memory. They wouldn’t be sleeping there.
It took too many rings before anyone answered. Long enough for panic to begin fluttering her heart. Surely they shouldn’t be too busy to answer the phone—not at this hour. Unless they were dealing with an emergency. Win—?
Then a low pleasant voice spoke in her ear, a voice trained to inspire immediate confidence. There was never any emergency at St Monica’s; Win was in the best of hands; everything possible was being done for him.
‘Good morning, this is Miranda Fortescue. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I wanted to inquire about my husband …’
‘Oh yes, Mrs Fortescue. His condition is stable …’
That meant no change, didn’t it? Win was still lying there like a log—or a fallen giant. Unconscious and helpless, fighting for his life. Kept alive by a machine …
The comfortable banal phrases flowed through the earpiece to her, but the voice wasn’t inspiring so much confidence now.
‘Monty, stop it!’ She struggled briefly with the cat, who was rubbing against her face, trying to insinuate his head between her own head and the telephone, as though he was trying to hear what was being said at the other end. Jealous, probably, because her attention was no longer centred on him.
‘I see, thank you.’ She brushed the cat aside and ended the conversation. One-sided as it was, it wasn’t going anywhere. Hospitals never wanted to tell you anything. Only that the patient was stable … resting comfortably … still alive. That was what she had called to find out.
‘Goodbye.’ She replaced the phone in its cradle and suddenly swept Monty into her arms, burying her face in his fur. After a brief, surprised wriggle, he lay quietly in her arms while her tears drenched his neck.
5
He closed his eyes, feeling the melancholy wash over him like the tears. Miranda, Miranda, you do love me. And I love you. And what’s to come of us now?
She began stroking him softly, hypnotically, in rhythm with her sobs. He relaxed into her caress until, suddenly, she touched the wrong spot on his head and pain flared through him. He wrenched away, hissing a protest, and leaped to the floor.
‘Oh, poor Monty,’ she apologized. ‘I forgot your head must be sore. Did it hurt you dreadfully when Win collided with you? Come here and let me see if you’ve got a lump there. Come on, that’s a good boy, I’ll be careful. I won’t hurt you any more. Let me just feel your head …’
Against his better judgement, he allowed himself to be coaxed back on to the bed. He moved slowly, cautiously, his head complaining all the way. Yes, it did hurt dreadfully—both now and when the accident had happened.
Gently, Miranda’s fingers probed the delicate spot between his ears, but not quite gently enough. He flinched away, involuntarily spitting at her. With the pain came a sudden flash of recognition—and memory.
A disquieting double-image formed in his mind, as though he was remembering the accident from both points of view: the giant form hurtling towards the small furry body; the little head rearing back, ears flattened, eyes narrowed to terrified hostile points. The clattering of poles, slats and boards as the makeshift rehearsal set collapsed around them. Then the crash and the blinding pain on both sides as they collided head on.
Head on. Forehead to forehead. He had read somewhere that the essential elements of personality were contained in the frontal lobes of the brain. In the force of the encounter, had some sort of mad exchange taken place? It was some sort of explanation anyway. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio …
There was another remembered pain, though … one not quite simultaneous with the collision, but just slightly preceding it. A sharp, shooting pain in the small of his back. His back … or Monty’s? He had seen one of the stage hands slam a broom handle across Monty’s back once. After he had threatened the stage hand with dismissal, it had never happened again. Or was it just that he had never caught the man doing it again?
‘Poor Monty,’ Miranda crooned. ‘It’s a hard life.’
She had no idea how hard. He nudged her perfunctorily with his nose, already trying to project his problems into the future, trying to find some solution to them.
‘Oh, Monty, Monty, Monty!’ Miranda held him close as the tears overwhelmed her again. ‘Oh, Win, Win, Win! What are we going to do?’
The knock at the door startled them both. Automatically, Miranda glanced at the clock again. Still just a few minutes past four. She’d only just spoken with St Monica’s; there was no time for Win to have died and a policeman to be mobilized to come and break the news to her. They wouldn’t do it that way, would they? Not when she had just been talking to them …?
‘Are you all right, dear?’ The doorknob turned, the door swung open. ‘It’s me, Tottie. I heard your voice. Were you calling? I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Oh, Tottie!’ Miranda had forgotten that their old friend and current wardrobe mistress had volunteered to stay the night—in case. In case of what was tactfully not specified and, while Miranda did not expect to break down even if the news were bad, she found that she was not averse to having a friendly presence nearby.
‘I’ve just been talking to the hospital and,’ Miranda admitted with a rueful smile, ‘the cat.’
‘Monty’s good company.’ Tottie came over and perched on the side of the bed, reaching out to stroke the cat. ‘He’s deserted his Tottie tonight. He knows you need him more.’
‘There’s no change.’ Miranda answered the unspoken question.
‘I didn’t expect there would be. It’s too early, isn’t it?’ The hand stroking Monty’s fur tightened convulsively and he knew there was more wrong than Tottie was admitting. ‘These things take a while.’
‘I suppose so.’ Miranda drew a deep unsteady breath. ‘At least he’s getting the best of care. I’ve been in St Monica’s enough myself to know how good they are. Tomorrow we’ll contact the best specialists available. We’ll have Win back on his feet in no time. Back in the theatre.’
‘That’s right, dear.’ A handful of flesh and fur was gripped and twisted. ‘Everything will look better in the morning—the real morning, when there’s daylight outside.’
The cat gave a small protesting mew and tried to writhe out of her grasp.
‘We’ll all feel better in the morning,’ Tottie insisted, tightening her hold on the cat. ‘Perhaps you need to take another sleeping pill, dear. Just one doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘I don’t want a sleeping pill.’ Miranda turned her head, avoiding Tottie’s accusing gaze—thus telling her that she hadn’t taken the first one. ‘I’m all right. I’m not the one you have to worry about.’
‘Too true, dear,’ Tottie said in heartfelt tones. ‘But we have to watch over you as well. The last thing in the world we need is for you to go on the sick list, too.’
‘I won’t,’ Miranda promised. ‘I’ve got to be strong now—for Win.’ A brooding look came into her eyes. ‘Whether he deserves it or not.’
‘Mirreeow!’ the cat protested.
‘All right, Monty, all right. I know what you want.’ Tottie stood and picked him up. ‘You just come with me. He wants his litter-box, that’s what he wants.’
6
His litter-box? Winstanley Fortescue, foremost Shakespearean actor of his generation, brilliant comedy player, prospective Knight of the Realm (there had been discreet soundings; if not this Honours List, then the next, or perhaps the next). Winstanley Fortescue, scooped up like a diapered babe and carried off to a litter-box!
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a litter-box,’ Miranda said. ‘We don’t usually have a cat around.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, dear. He prefers his litter-box, but he can make do with a newspaper now and then. I’d put him out in the garden, but I’m afraid he might wander off and this is a strange neighbourhood to him.’
‘Yes …’ Miranda’s thoughts
were obviously already far away. She reached for a pad and pen on the bedside table. ‘I suppose I’d better make a list of things that need to be done …’
‘Don’t work too long, dear. Put out the light soon and try to get some rest.’
‘Yes …’ Abstractedly, Miranda made a note.
At the door, Tottie hesitated. She opened her mouth, closed it again, opened it again. ‘If you want anything, just call.’ Her fingers twined nervously in Monty’s fur. That wasn’t what she had intended to say, but it would have to do.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Miranda said. ‘Get some rest yourself, Tottie.’
‘Yes, I’ll just get Monty settled first.’ This time she stepped outside and closed the door. ‘Oh, Monty!’ She hugged the cat tighter, resting her forehead on his back. ‘Monty, Monty, what are we going to do?’
Damn it! Didn’t any of these women own handkerchiefs? He wrinkled his fur against the dampness soaking into it and voiced a protest.
‘Yes, yes, we’ll get you there.’ She misunderstood the nature of his complaint. Or did she? He became aware of an increasing urgency, now that the matter had been called to mind.
Nevertheless, he was affronted when she dumped him down on the Sports Pages and stood back expectantly. He sat down deliberately and glared at her.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You know what that’s for. You just go ahead and use it now.’ And stood there. Watching.
He glared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. An absent look had come into her eyes, as though her thoughts had slipped away to some far distant place … or problem.
‘I don’t know,’ she said softly to herself. ‘I just don’t know.’
He settled himself firmly on the paper, prepared to out-wait her. For once in his life, he had no desire for an audience. In his irritation, his tail lashed back and forth. He tried to stop it, but the control mechanism escaped him; the tail seemed to have acquired a life of its own. After a brief struggle, he abandoned the attempt. Let it lash, it suited his mood.
The swishing sound on the paper brought Tottie back to attention. ‘Oh, you’re in that mood, are you?’ She shrugged. ‘Well, you can’t have it your own way. I’m not letting you outside. Be a good boy and use the paper. You’ll be back to the theatre and your litter-box tomorrow.’
It wasn’t his intention to flatten his ears, but he felt them go down. Deliberately, he got up, turned his back on her, and sat down again, tail still lashing. Really, a cat’s body was quite expressive. He had noticed this in a desultory sort of way before; now he began to appreciate the extent of it.
‘Well, I’m sorry.’ Tottie had no difficulty interpreting his fury. ‘But that’s the way it is. I can’s stand around waiting for you to resign yourself, I’ve got things to do.’ He heard her leave the room.
After a few moments he got up and turned around, checking. Yes, she was gone—and not lurking in the hall outside to make sure he used the paper. He could do so now in decent privacy. But first …
Awkwardly, but with increasing expertise, he used his claws (handy little gadgets) to rifle through the pages until he found the Theatre Section.
There! There it was … the bloated porcine face of Oliver Crump (better known in theatrical circles as Oliver Grump), the sadist who purported to be a drama critic. The monster who was actually paid for destroying the hopes, dreams and ambitions of talented people so far above him that, were there any justice in the world, he would not be allowed to breathe the same air, let alone sit in judgement of them.
Everyone knew the swine had started out as a restaurant critic—and that was where he should have stayed. With any luck, he could have then eaten his way into an early grave, whether through stuffing himself until he burst, or whether through ptomaine or botulism poisoning judiciously engendered by an enraged restaurateur. And don’t think there hadn’t been a few rumours about that. The whisper was that the increasing frequency of gastric attacks had been the reason for his transfer to the theatre assignment. With his bulk, he had not been able to maintain the anonymity required of a restaurant critic and there were more than a few maître-d’s who would have considered a burst of short unfortunate publicity a small price to pay for the removal of such a snail in their salad.
Actors had no such redress. Not usually.
He positioned himself over the hated face and relieved decades of injured feelings, along with a couple of other things. It appeared that there was going to be a certain amount of compensation to being in this situation. Heh-heh-heh …
He had retreated to a far corner of the room and succumbed to an irresistible urge to wash his face when a sudden stirring of curiosity halted his paw in mid-swipe.
Tottie had departed saying that she had things to see to. At four-thirty in the morning? What things?
He became aware of voices … No, one voice, murmuring softly … Telephoning someone? At this hour?
Purposefully, he padded down the hallway to the drawing-room.
Tottie sat curled in one corner of one of the velvet-upholstered sofas flanking the fireplace. Her feet were tucked under her but, although she looked comfortable, she did not sound as though she felt comfortable.
‘I tried.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘I tried to prepare her for it, but my heart failed me. Two or three times I tried to sort of suggest it, but I just couldn’t do it. Let her have at least one good night’s sleep before she faces it.’
There was a prolonged burst of dialogue from the other end of the line, to which Tottie listened, nodding her head as though her agreement could be seen. ‘I know, Rufus,’ she moaned. ‘I know …’
What did she know? What did they all know that he didn’t? He leaped to the arm of the sofa and from there to the back, trying to insinuate his head between Tottie’s ear and the phone.
‘… pull the plug …’ the voice was saying.
‘I know it’s sensible to think about it, but …’ Tottie began sniffling again. ‘It’s too soon. It’s much too soon. They can’t be sure, not just like that. They must need more time, more tests … oh, it’s terrible. With all his faults, no one would ever have wanted him to end up like that …’
Faults? What faults? He reared back and glared at her. She was talking about him, he knew it. But what was going on? He tried to deny the knowledge creeping into his consciousness. Plug? Plug? Was that just slang, or was it a literal statement of fact? How badly had he been injured?
‘I expect the rest of them will be here in the morning.’ Tottie was answering an unheard question. ‘Burt is trying to contact Sir Reginald—wouldn’t you just know he’d be visiting Los Angeles at a time like this? With the time difference, Burt will be up all night. Not that any of us can sleep right now …’ She sniffled into incoherency.
The click at the other end of the line was decisive. Good old Rufus was not about to lose any more sleep himself.
‘Oh, Monty, Monty …’ Tottie replaced the receiver and swept the cat into her arms before he could get away. She buried her face in the back of his neck. ‘What are we going to do?’
Good question. He didn’t know what she was going to do, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he had to get himself over to St Monica’s, sneak into the Intensive Care Unit—and take a good look at what was happening to his own body.
7
After a brief struggle to escape, he settled down with an appearance of docility to wait until Tottie’s attention was elsewhere. Strangely, he found the gentle stroke of her hand soothing and soporific. His eyes began to close and an involuntary reaction began deep in his throat. He realized he was purring.
Fascinated, he began experimenting to control it. At first, this resulted in a series of hiccoughy interruptions in the smooth flow of sound.
‘Monty, are you all right?’ Tottie was alarmed. ‘Got a hairball?’ She began patting him on the back vigorously. ‘Cough it up, there’s a good boy.’
He gave her an indignant glare and took a deep breath. Left to its automatic mechan
ism, the purr resumed steadily.
‘That’s better.’ Tottie seemed to find the purr as soothing as he found her stroking. ‘Don’t let anything happen to you, Monty. I couldn’t bear it if I lost my little gentleman friend.’
Well! Who’d have thought Tottie had such a sentimental streak in her? She’d certainly never given any sign of it when she was berating artistes for the way they maltreated their costumes. Only last week she’d snapped at him and nearly struck him, simply because his lace cuff had caught on a loose nail and torn. A very small tear, the audience would never have seen it, but Tottie had gone berserk. And it had all been the fault of the careless stagehand who had neglected to knock in the nail properly. It had been a danger to the actors, sticking out like that; it could just as easily have been flesh that had torn. Not the first time Woody had been guilty of negligence, either, even his Union had been forced to admit that he had been given so many warnings there would be no substance for a case for Unfair Dismissal if he failed what was to be his final chance.
Tottie had stopped stroking him. He looked up to see that her head had fallen back against the cushions. Exhausted by the emotional turmoil as much as by the lateness of the hour, Tottie had fallen asleep.
Good. He slid off her lap and dropped to the floor, heading for his study. Thought they had him locked in for the night, did they? Little did they know the French window had a broken catch, so defective even a cat could operate it with one quick push. Heh-heh-heh.
Once outside, he paused and nudged the door almost shut before padding across the patio and down into the garden. Now he could get in again when he returned. If he had to return as Monty.
How odd the garden looked from this level. And smelled. And the noise! His ears twitched. The garden was alive with noise, with the traffic of insects and small nocturnal creatures. Mice! His whole being twitched in a sudden automatic reaction: there were mice over there!
He found himself crouching close to the ground, his eyes scanning the roots and tussocks. He noted absently that it was bright as daylight, even though the moon—and a crescent moon, at that—had gone behind a cloud. Motionless, he waited for a movement or a squeak that would betray their whereabouts.
Nine Lives to Murder Page 2
