The woman bending over the stove straightened and her head turned. He crouched lower on the window-sill, but could not stop the now-hopeful yowl coming from his throat. The woman looked so pleasant, so kind—and there was something delicious dripping from the ladle in her hand … She saw him and moved forward.
‘Now what are you doing out there?’ She raised the window and he tumbled into the warmth and fragrance of the kitchen, purring loudly.
‘I’ll get in trouble if they catch you in here, you know that?’ The thought did not appear to trouble her unduly. He breathed deeply and found himself winding ingratiatingly around her ankles. Why should she worry? Anyone who could cook like this could write her own ticket.
‘Now stop that—you’re getting me all wet. Let me dry you off and then we’ll find you some scraps.’
He forced himself to remain quiet as she wrapped paper towels around him, blotting the excessive moisture. Her hands and her clothing were impregnated with cooking smells. What a delightful woman!
‘All right, we’ll get you something to eat now.’ He followed her as she found a cereal bowl and filled it with savoury titbits.
Over here.’ She placed it on the floor, against the wall and beside the stove. ‘Now, if anybody comes in, you go and hide behind the Aga or we’ll both be in trouble—and they’ll throw you out. All right?’
He headbutted her ankle gently, wishing he had a clearer way of telling her he understood. He would not get this charming woman into trouble for the world—nor did he wish to be thrown back out into the storm. As soon as he had cleared this bowl, he had things to do in this building. He had to check and see how Monty was coming along.
But first, perhaps he could persuade her to give him a second helping …
He felt the floor quiver under the steady silent advance of the firm authoritative tread. Trouble! He just knew. He lifted the remaining chuck of chicken from his bowl and retreated behind the stove with it.
Just in time. The now-audible steps crossed the kitchen and he heard the thump of someone subsiding heavily into a chair at the table, then a long-drawn-out sigh.
‘Playing up, is she?’ the cook asked sympathetically.
‘They usually do, at this stage.’ Sister Dale’s voice was resigned. ‘Sober and sulking. Bored out of her mind and furious. That idiot nephew of hers forgot to bring along her glasses, so she can’t read, can’t do a jigsaw puzzle, can’t even focus properly on the television. I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes next time he comes to visit.’
Poor Thea. She didn’t deserve the relatives she had. No wonder she occasionally took refuge in a bottle.
‘Never mind, she’ll enjoy her salmon. It’s almost ready.’
‘Yes, and I’ve rung the nephew and left a message for him to send round her glasses as soon as possible. I hope he does it right away. She’s getting very restless.’
‘And we all know what that means.’ There was the sound of liquid pouring; tea was evidently being taken. ‘Never a quiet moment here when we have theatricals. At least the other one is still out of action, isn’t he?’
‘More or less.’ There was a frown in the voice. ‘His relatives and friends are more trouble than he is. There’s a constant procession. We have to keep turning them away, but I wouldn’t trust them not to sneak in. Someone did last night. And left the window open with the wind blowing in on him. Doctor already suspects a slight bronchial infection. He’s not pleased. Between that and Sir Reginald Peyton, the patient’s own physician, flying back from the States, he can’t do the exploratory operation he wants to do.’
Operation? Exploratory? Abruptly, his fur stood on end, his tail bushed, his mouth opened in a soundless hiss. He crept forward, pushing his head clear of the great bulk of the cooker, He didn’t want to miss anything.
‘I don’t know, I just don’t like those exploratories.’ Again, the cook proved herself a peerless woman of extreme sensibility. ‘It doesn’t seem right to open a head when there’s nothing wrong with it, just to poke around inside.’
‘But there is something wrong with it. The brainwave patterns are registering a disorder. We’ve got to find out what it is.’
‘I don’t hold with it. The poor man ought to be left in peace while he recovers naturally. He got awfully knocked about and it isn’t as though he’s in a real deep coma. You said he halfway came out of it last night.’
‘Yes, and I’m not so sure he sank back into it. Oh, he’s lying there motionless all right, but somehow I just don’t believe it.’
Good old Monty. He recognized the cat’s favourite stratagem. When you don’t know what to do, go to sleep. Or pretend to sleep.
‘I’d like to be able to keep a closer watch over him, but I can’t spare the time. If only we weren’t so short-handed at present.’
‘It’s this ’flu epidemic, dear. Half of London is down with it. I’ve only Sally to help in the kitchen because of it—and I’ve had to send her to the shops. It’s going to have to be bottled Hollandaise tonight, I’ve no time to bother making it with everything else I’ve got to do.’
‘We’re all on overload.’ There was the scrape of a chair being pushed back. ‘I’ve got to try ringing round again and see if we can get some Agency nurses in. Matron had to send Lesley and Henry home before they collapsed—or, worse, infected the patients. That means there’s no one on Reception. Oh dear.’ She sighed deeply.
‘Never mind, we’ll be back to normal in a few days. We can manage until then.’
‘I suppose so.’ The white shoes marched across the room and out the door. He listened attentively, following their progress down the hallway, up the stairs and into the office behind the reception desk. The coast was clear.
He slipped out from behind the stove and started for the door.
‘No! Don’t go up there!’ the voice called out behind him. ‘No! Bad cat! Come back!’ Rapid footsteps advanced on him, he could feel hands reaching out for him.
He sprang for the stairs and raced upwards.
10
Was it because he had been here before in this new incarnation that the long staircase seemed less threatening and dangerous? Or was it that there was something vaguely familiar and reassuring about it? He crouched in the shadows of the first landing and took a few experimental skills. There was something in the air … well-known scents … a trace of greasepaint … a hint of brandy … an exotic tobacco …
He found that his nose could read the scents as surely as his eyes had once read newspapers: friends were here, or had been here, visiting him. Rather, visiting an uncomprehending Monty.
He dashed up the remaining steps at renewed speed. It was probably all right while Monty was still pretending sleep, but what if he decided to open his eyes and try to make contact? The smells, voices and faces would be just as familiar to him; he would know that he was among friends. But had he yet realized what had happened to him?
He slid through the swinging plastic flaps and around the corner, restraining his impulse to burst into the room. A grand entrance would not be appreciated in a cat. He noted absently that he was developing a nice line in slinks.
But the room was empty, except for the motionless body on the hospital bed. Eyes closed, machine-assisted breathing regular, it appeared unaware of its surroundings. Yet the additional senses he had acquired along with his furry body told him that the human body was both conscious and concerned. Puzzled, worried and frightened, it lay there … waiting for something that it could understand.
The fragrance of Miranda still hung in the air. He could remember the day he bought it for her … and the extortionate price … and the afternoon with Cynthia which was the reason he had been willing to pay that price. Mmmm, perhaps some things were best not dwelt upon.
Miranda had been here. Recently. Dear Miranda. She loved that perfume.
It had been such a success that he had also purchased, despite the price, a small flagon of it for Jennet. (Yes, he felt guilty about that poor little
last-throw-to-save-the-marriage daughter, too. The marriage hadn’t lasted beyond her third birthday.) Jennet had loved the perfume, but complained that her mother helped herself to it frequently and lavishly, pointing out that it was too mature a scent for so young a girl.
His hackles rose abruptly. Was it possible that it had not been Miranda in here, but Antoinette? Come to see for herself how the mighty were fallen? To gloat? It would be just the sort of thing she’d do.
And there was another odour in the air … something unpleasant. The smell of enmity, but not Antoinette’s. Someone else had been here who was not a friend. Instinctively, he lowered his head and began to inhale deeply, his mouth opening slightly, as though to taste the smell.
It led him to the baseboard running around the room. It was especially heavy by the electrical socket right by the door. As though someone had stood there for some time, perhaps contemplating the array of plugs supplying power to the life-saving machines servicing the body.
‘Pull the plug,’ he had heard Rufus say to Tottie. Had someone been thinking of doing just that?
A low growl welled up in his throat, his claws flexed. Someone standing here staring at that helpless body, invading its privacy with their gloating eyes. Then looking down at the plug … If he caught them, he’d have torn them apart with his bare teeth and claws.
Hold it! Hold it! He shook himself, letting the fur fall back into place. The Monty responses were taking over again, feline to the core, battling the alien brain fighting to control them. What was happening in that body on the bed? Did the instincts and motor responses of Winstanley Fortescue lie there intact, waiting only for the cues that would set them in motion?
Will the real Monty please stand up? Will the real Winstanley Fortescue please stand up? If only they could.
Steady on now! He throttled down on the forlorn wall his throat wanted to give vent to. Emotion will get us nowhere. This situation calls for brainpower. And luck.
Suddenly that preternatural hearing alerted him: there were footsteps coming along the corridor outside. People were heading this way.
Just before he dived for the shelter of the shadows in the farthest corner of the room, he saw the eyes of The Instrument open in the narrowest of cat’s-slits. Monty’s mind was also sentient and alert. There must be a way of reaching it, communicating with it … exchanging with it.
He huddled in the corner, tucking his tail in tightly around his body, crouching low to diminish the gleaming expanse of white shirtfront fur. As the footsteps came closer, he ducked his head and his own eyes narrowed. Whoever it was, they were definitely heading for this room—and the nurse was not with them.
‘Shhh …’ Jilly’s head craned around the door frame as she stopped outside and carefully reconnoitred the territory before moving forward. ‘All clear. Come along, Jake, quickly! We can’t be sure how long we’ll have the place to ourselves.’
A large male figure lumbered into the room behind her. It was draped with camera equipment and the camera itself.
Finger to her lips, Jilly motioned him to the far side of the bed, then approached the bed herself.
‘Win …? Win …?’ Her voice was soft and cooing; a tone not many people heard. There were some people who would be prepared to swear that it was impossible for her to sound so gentle and concerned.
‘Win …?’ She stroked the face lightly, watching for any sign of response. But … had there always been that slightly false note in her cooing tone?
‘Win …?’ This time she tapped his face, not quite a slap, but with a certain amount of force. ‘Win … can you hear me? Move your fingers if you can.’
The body remained motionless, even the narrow glittering slit that had betrayed the watching eyes had disappeared. The eyes were firmly closed, there was no flicker of response.
‘Right! He’s still out. Set up fast. Let’s get our pictures and get out of here.’
‘Don’t rush me,’ Jake said. ‘It’s not often I get a subject who isn’t running in the opposite direction the minute he sees my camera. I want to do full justice to this; there could be a small fortune in syndication rights. Move out of the way—I want a clear shot of all the medical equipment in the background.’ He began fiddling with the camera.
In the corner, the cat hissed silently. He watched as Jilly circled the bed again, looking at the supine form with cold dispassion. He had thought she cared … at least a little bit. How could she behave like this? Betray him by exhibiting his helpless condition to the readers of her filthy rag?
Light flashed several times in rapid succession. The photographer lowered the camera and moved to a new position, literally covering every angle.
‘Get the establishing shots,’ Jilly urged him on, a faint nervousness in her voice. ‘Then we’ll go for the nitty-gritty.’
‘Just a few more …’ Jake crouched and shot, moved to the foot of the bed and shot again, then seemed to take several more shots at random. ‘You know, I think he moved a bit just then.’
‘Win … ?’ Jilly was instantly wary. She moved forward apprehensively. ‘Win … ? Are you … are you … there?’
The body wanted to move, to protest. He could feel it. His ears twitched in sympathy.
‘It’s all right.’ Jilly moved out of camera range again. ‘He’s still out. Just think.’ She gave a short sharp laugh. ‘It may be the old ham’s last photo call—and he isn’t conscious to enjoy it.’
Old? Ham? She hadn’t talked like that when they were passing Cartier’s! He growled softly. It was probably too late to stop the cheque—even if he were in any position to do so.
And … last photo call? The rest of her remarks registered. How much did she know? Were they really planning to pull the plug? Would Miranda allow it?
‘I hate all these weird noises.’ Jake lowered his camera and frowned at the bank of medical equipment. ‘They’re really spooking me. I’ve got enough now, can’t we get out of here?’
‘One last shot. The big one.’ Jilly advanced purposefully to the side of the bed. ‘Get ready … you’ll have to grab it fast. I’ll need to turn him on his side for it—and that may start the alarms going again.’
‘What do you mean—“again”? What alarms? Jesus!’ Jake flinched as she stripped the sheet from the recumbent form. ‘Be careful!’
‘Just you be ready to get the shot when I heave him over.’ Jilly grasped the shoulders and took a long measuring look at the various points where the machines and tubes were attached. ‘I’ll do it without disturbing the connections if I can, but I won’t promise anything.’
He could feel the waves of panic from poor Monty, feel the wild impulse to run away and climb a tree. But the body was pinned and anchored by the needles and tubes, clamps and wires; he was a prisoner in strange territory, in an unfamiliar body.
‘Right.’ Jake aimed the camera and stood waiting. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
‘Here we go …’ Jilly gritted her teeth and slowly heaved the body over. So far, so good. He was almost on his side without dislodging any of the wires or tubes. She fumbled for the fastenings on his hospital gown and undid them, pulling the cloth away from his back.
‘There! Can you get that?’
Yes! It was there as he’d seen it the first time, as he remembered it. A dark violent bruise in the middle of his back.
‘Jesus!’ The photographer whistled; the camera flashed. ‘What happened to him?’
‘That’s the question I’m going to lead off with.’ Jilly was panting slightly with the effort of holding Win in position—he was no lightweight, but it was worth it.
‘DID HE FALL? OR WAS HE PUSHED?’Jilly quoted her proposed headlines with relish. ‘THE PUBLIC DEMANDS TO KNOW!’
‘That’s a great story all right.’ The camera flashed several times. ‘The only thing that could improve it would be if the old boy died. Then we could demand a murder investigation.’
‘Hurry up, I can’t hold him much longer.’ Win was beginning to sli
p from her grasp.
‘OK.’ The camera flashed a final time, then Jake leaped to her side. ‘I’ve got him. Lower him easy now. We don’t want to jar any of those tubes out.’
‘He … he seems to have gone rigid.’ There was a quiver in Jilly’s voice, as well there might be. ‘Do you think we’ve jiggled something the wrong way? Maybe one of those feeder tubes is sending too much of something into him—or too little.’
‘You were doing all the jiggling.’ Jake backed away hastily.
‘Never mind that.’ Jilly started for the door. ‘We’ve got what we came for. Let’s get out of here.’
‘You’re not going to leave him like that?’ Jake was shocked.
‘Like what?’ Jilly frowned at him uncomprehendingly. ‘He’s in the hands of the doctors. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘No, I mean—’ He broke off and gestured helplessly, seeing that he was misunderstood. It was quicker to do it himself. He stepped forward and draped the sheet back over the body, covering it decently. ‘That’s what I meant.’
Someone was coming. More than one … His ears caught the resonances on the stairs. There was something familiar about the sounds. He lifted his head, questing for a scent on the vagrant air currents.
‘Someone’s coming!’ Now that they were closer, Jilly heard the footsteps, too. ‘You’ve wasted time fooling around—’ She turned her fury on her colleague. ‘And now our escape route is blocked off.’
‘We can’t go down—but we can go up!’ Jake grabbed her arm and hurried her through the door.
He could trace the pattern of footsteps (what ears Monty had!) as the sets narrowly missed each other. One set walking normally, advancing from below; the other set on tiptoes and rushing upwards to the floor above, gaining it before the lower set reached the Intensive Care Unit.
Jilly and Jake were safely away.
11
He was not. He looked around wildly for a hiding-place as the realization dawned on him. It was all very well to huddle in a corner when two egomaniacs completely wrapped up in their own concerns were concentrating only on the unfortunate subject who was to be another stepping stone in their careers, but proper visitors had a way of looking around the room to check that everything possible was being done to ensure the comfort and care of their loved one. He had done it himself when visiting Miranda. Also, it gave an excuse for occasionally looking away from the tearstained face, or, in this case, the motionless form.
Nine Lives to Murder Page 5
