‘Oh.’ Tottie advanced into the room. ‘I thought you sounded upset. I was afraid—’
‘I mean, yes.’ Miranda corrected herself. ‘But not “wrong” the way you meant it … What? No, sorry, Rufus, I wasn’t talking to you. Tottie just asked me something. Yes, she’s here. No, no, it isn’t necessary for you to come over—’ Miranda felt herself growing distracted. Everyone meant so well, but never seemed to realize that a person needed some time alone to try to assimilate what was happening. The right to privacy was the first thing lost in a crisis. Others felt it their duty to crowd in on one and seize responsibility for the ordinary minutiæ of life on the grounds that they were ‘helping’.
‘Yes, of course, you’ll be welcome. But—Rufus? Rufus?’ She replaced the phone with a sigh. Sometimes such interference—er, help—was welcome. At other times …
‘Tottie,’ she said impulsively. ‘Could you be an angel and run out and get the newspapers? Especially—’ she tried not to choke—‘the London Record.’
‘Oh dear.’ Tottie understood instantly. ‘They’ve got the story about the accident, have they? Well, I suppose we couldn’t keep it under wraps for ever.’
‘It’s worse than that.’ Suddenly, Tottie was a beloved friend and ally again. ‘Much, much worse. That’s why Rufus was calling. Just get the papers and you’ll see.’
With Tottie out of the house, she felt as though her home was her own again, however briefly.
Very briefly. The telephone rang again. When she picked it up, the voice was unmistakably that of a journalist-on-the-make.
‘What can you tell me about the murder attempt on Winstanley Fortescue?’ it began without preamble—probably knowing the shrift any preamble would get and hoping to take the answerer by surprise. ‘Who were his enemies? Who do you suspect?’
‘Sorry, you have a wrong number.’ She yanked the plug out of its connection and replaced the dead phone.
Dead. She discovered that the wild panic had not left her, it had just lain dormant while she slept. Slept for long hours, when anything might have happened. Win! She dropped to her knees and scrabbled to plug in the telephone again.
It began ringing immediately. No, not the hospital—another bloody journalist! How they fed off each other, discovering their stories in others’ papers. She disconnected without speaking and began dialling rapidly before any more of them could get through.
After the obligatory delay, St Monica’s grudgingly saw that Geoffrey received the call. He sounded fraught and exhausted—but cheerful.
‘Dad’s not bad, not bad, at all. Pretty good, in fact, considering that he fell out of bed—’
‘Fell out of bed?’ Miranda heard herself shriek. ‘How did that happen?’
‘We’re not quite sure. No one was around at the time. I was—’ Geoffrey defended himself from a charge of negligence she had not made—‘I was downstairs telephoning Cynthia when all hell suddenly broke loose. They tried to persuade me to stay there, but I could tell from the way they were looking at me that it was something to do with Dad.
‘I ran upstairs. They were furious—but they couldn’t stop me. They knew I knew. They knew I’d make trouble if—’ He broke off and she could hear him swallow.
‘I ran into his room—and there he was. On the floor beside the bed—on his hands and knees—half the wires and tubes still hanging from him. He saw me and started crawling towards me—on all fours. Oh, Miranda—’ For a moment, his youth showed through. ‘Miranda, it was awful! I thought—
‘But he was all right, just a few more bruises. Then they put him back into bed and connected him up again. I tried to stop them. I keep telling them he doesn’t need those machines any more. In fact, they seem to worry him. He can make it on his own now. He just needs to be left alone to have time to recover peacefully. Without doctors pulling and prying at him—’
‘I agree!’ Miranda felt a resolution form and harden. But it wasn’t just the doctors and medical staff—
‘Have you seen the newspapers this morning?’
‘What?’ Her sudden change of subject bewildered him. ‘No. Why? Should I have? Why?’
‘Jilly—’ Miranda’s voice chilled. ‘His friend, Jilly—’
‘Has—?’ Geoffrey swallowed audibly again. ‘She hasn’t got the story … has she?’
‘Rufus just rang me. Tottie’s gone to get the papers now. Rufus says there are photographs … of Win in bed … in St Monica’s.’
‘Photographs?’ Geoffrey’s voice rose unbelievingly. ‘Of Dad? Here? How did she find out? How did she get in?’
‘My questions exactly,’ Miranda said. ‘Also when did she get in? Was she the reason Win fell out of bed? If they were trying to take photographs—’
‘She must have sneaked in when the lights went off. Perhaps she was the one who turned them off. Otherwise, someone was with Dad every minute.’ Sudden guilt tinged his voice. ‘Except for the few minutes I went downstairs to telephone.’
Miranda heard the front door slam. Tottie’s footsteps, hurrying down the hall, were nearly as loud as her lamentations.
‘Oh, oh, oh dear …’She came into the room, the London Record unfolded before her. ‘Win won’t like this. He won’t like it at all. He’ll be furious.’
‘Hold on, Geoffrey, Tottie’s just come back.’
‘Look! Just look!’ Tottie waved the newspaper under her appalled eyes. ‘Right across a double-page spread—bare as the day he was born!’
‘Oh my God! Win will kill someone for this!’ Miranda found her heart leaped up. This was the end of Jilly.
‘Do you think there’s any truth in it?’ Tottie asked, almost timidly, indicating the headline:
‘OR WAS HE PUSHED?’ The sinister black bruise on the small of Win’s back had been thoughtfully arrowed so that the most illiterate of the mental defectives who composed the alleged readership of Jilly’s rag could not miss it.
‘Miranda—?’ Geoffrey said. ‘Miranda, are you still there?’
‘He shouldn’t have a bruise in that spot,’ Tottie said. ‘He fell head first. We all saw him. He smashed into poor Monty head to head. They’re both probably still confused.’ She looked around vaguely. ‘Where is poor Monty? I haven’t seen him since yesterday. You don’t think he got worse and crawled away into a corner to die? That’s what cats do, you know. They go off by themselves and—’
‘Miranda—?’ Geoffrey called anxiously.
Miranda stared at the bruise with growing horror. Had someone actually tried to kill Win?
Worse, were they still trying? That increasingly suspicious power failure meant that the life-support system had stopped. If Win hadn’t been strong enough to continue breathing …
And what had happened just before Geoffrey had returned to the room to find him on his hands and knees on the floor?
‘Miranda—?’
‘I’m coming right over, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘I’m signing Win out of that place. I’m bringing him home where we can watch over him.’
16
It wasn’t quite that easy.
‘I’m not sure this is wise, Miranda.’ Rufus had arrived just in time to accompany them to the hospital. ‘The best medical science can offer is right at Win’s bedside at St Monica’s. If you bring him home and any problems develop—’ He glanced sideways at her to see how she was taking his advice. ‘You know you’d never forgive yourself if anything happened.’
‘And where was medical science when the lights went out?’ Tottie weighed in on Miranda’s side. ‘I thought I’d die when I realized the machines had stopped working. And I was sure Win was a goner.’
‘Yes, but that sort of accident couldn’t happen again in a hundred years.’ Rufus let his irritation with Tottie show in his voice. ‘Do you realize the odds against it?’
‘About the same as the odds for Win being found on the hospital floor shortly afterwards, I’d say.’ Miranda’s voice was cold. ‘What are the odds against three serious “accidents”
happening to the same person within forty-eight hours, Rufus? You’re the gambler. You ought to know.’
‘Things like that happen once in a while,’ Rufus admitted. ‘We call it a losing streak. Remember when you were in three flops in a row?’
‘I told you The Dream Beyond the Moon would never run.’ It had been a mistake to remind Miranda of that. It did not reinforce her confidence in his judgement.
‘Ooooo, yes.’ Tottie winced. ‘That poetry and moonshine lark is always very tricky. You may draw your cult audience, but they can’t keep a show running for very long. And the way that poor author committed suicide after you got his hopes up and then closed the show didn’t go down well, either.’
‘All right! All right!’ Rufus snarled. ‘That’s water under the bridge and not the subject under discussion. We’re talking about Win—and what’s best for him.’
‘Of course, that show might have run a while longer if Win hadn’t pulled out so suddenly, the way he did.’ Tottie was still caught up in the past. ‘It was too—’
‘Here we are!’ Miranda clawed at the door as the taxi swept up the drive and pulled to a halt at the entrance to St Monica’s. Nothing happened. Damn these new taxis and their driver-controlled locks! The stupid sod wasn’t going to release the lock until he’d had his money. Did they look as though—?
‘Right! Good!’ Rufus brandished his wallet and, reassured by the sight, the driver released the mechanism. Miranda half-tumbled out and fought to regain her balance. Tottie was right behind her and put out a hand to steady her.
‘You go ahead.’ Rufus waved them onward. ‘I’ll catch you up.’ He turned and went into consultation with the driver.
‘We’ll see you upstairs,’ Tottie said, following Miranda as she plunged through the entrance without a backward glance.
‘That’s right, dear, you go ahead.’ Panting, Tottie echoed Rufus’s words. ‘I’m right behind you.’ She sighed as Miranda ignored the lift and raced up the staircase. ‘Right behind …’
Traffic jam! Miranda paused in the doorway and looked around. Geoffrey was leaning towards Cynthia in what could only be called a placatory way. Peter Farley hovered just inside the door, looking apologetic but determined. Win lay silently on the bed, one eye closed, the other eye half open. Typical! Taking in everything that was going on, but remaining uninvolved.
‘Afraid we’ve got our wires crossed,’ Peter Farley was saying. ‘Last I heard, this was my tour of duty.’
‘Sorry, old man,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I stayed the night—and then some. I put Cynthia off a couple of times, but I forgot you were next on the list.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Cynthia said with relief. ‘I’m exhausted. One telephone call after another all night! Geoffrey kept changing his mind about what he was doing. This has all been—’
‘Good morning,’ Miranda said crisply. ‘All present and accounted for, I see.’
‘Miranda.’ Cynthia greeted her without enthusiasm. ‘How are you? You got some rest, I hope?’
‘A little, yes. Hello, Win.’ Strangely, she felt awkward about bestowing even the chastest peck in front of all the watching eyes. She settled for resting her hand gently on his cheek and knew that she had done the right thing when he nestled gratefully into it.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she said. ‘You’re coming home.’
‘Actually—’ Geoffrey looked worried—‘I mentioned that idea to the doctor. He’s rather against it. He suggests you wait until Sir Reginald has had a chance to examine him. If Sir Reginald agrees, then he’ll agree. Until then, he thinks you ought to postpone the decision.’
‘It’s not a bad idea, Miranda.’ Rufus had joined them. He nodded to the others in the company before continuing. ‘A second professional opinion, that’s the ticket. Reggie’s night should be getting in just about now. Give him some time to clear Customs and Immigration; he’s coming straight to St Monica’s. He’ll check Win over and let you know what he thinks. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got your own way. If you ask me, Win looks a lot better already.’ He raised his voice cheerily. ‘You’re doing fine, aren’t you, old boy?’
Win closed his eye and seemed to withdraw. Miranda took it as a hopeful sign. Rufus often had that effect on him.
‘At least, I got them to take most of the tubes out,’ Geoffrey said. ‘They were going to do him more harm than good if he began moving around and trying to get out of bed.’ Geoffrey closed his eyes against an uncomfortable memory. ‘Some of them had come out anyway when he fell.’
‘Ummm, yes …’ Rufus began losing colour. He was not, Miranda remembered, very good about accidents or emergencies. He was the first to demand the attendance of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade, even though a situation called for nothing more professional than the Stage Manager wielding a bottle of smelling salts.
‘Well, …’ Rufus looked as though he could use some smelling salts himself now. ‘Who’s minding the theatre? We’re holding a rehearsal after lunch. Is anyone planning to attend?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Peter Farley said guiltily. He knew for whom the rehearsal was being called. ‘I was just going to sit with Win for a couple of hours first. I thought it was my turn, but they forgot to tell me about the changed arrangements. I was planning to read over my part aloud. I thought, perhaps, the words might get through to him and help pull him out of the coma.’
‘That’s true,’ Tottie said. ‘If Win thought someone else was stepping into his part, it would be enough to raise him up from the dead. Oooops!’ She glanced nervously at Miranda. ‘Sorry, dear.’
Miranda made a forgiving dismissive gesture. Tactlessness was the least of their problems right now.
‘Oh! I didn’t know there was a party going on!’ Another problem—Antoinette—stood in the doorway, Jennet immediately behind her.
Rufus groaned and muttered something inaudible and probably obscene under his breath.
‘Antoinette.’ Miranda controlled herself with an effort. ‘And Jennet.’ She managed a genuine smile for the young girl; her mother wasn’t her fault. It was Win who should have had better taste.
‘Hello, Mother, Jen.’ Geoffrey looked awkward, as well he might. He had obviously told Antoinette that this would be a good time for her to slip in and see Win without anyone else knowing. It was typical of Antoinette’s paranoia that she should imagine that anyone—that Miranda—would be upset by her appearance.
‘Geoffrey told me what you were doing.’ Antoinette had always believed that attack was the best defence; no wonder poor Win had found it increasingly difficult to live with her. ‘About setting up a roster of old friends and colleagues to come and sit with Win and reminisce about old times. I can’t understand why you didn’t start with me. After all, Win and I have shared more years and memories together than anyone else here.’
Including you dangled unsaid at the end of that sentence.
‘It’s early days yet, dear,’ Tottie rushed in placatingly. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll all have our turn.’
‘Actually, that may not be necessary now,’ Miranda said quickly. ‘Win seems to have come out of the coma.’
‘Not that it seems to be doing him much good.’ Tottie looked critically at the closed eyes and shuttered face. ‘He’s still not really with us. Not properly.’
‘Sir Reginald will be here soon,’ Miranda said. ‘We’ll have a better idea of the situation after he’s done his tests.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here at all,’ Cynthia complained. ‘I had understood I was supposed to sit here alone with Win and talk to him and try to draw him back to life. I even—’ Her voice rose querulously; the Ministering Angel upstaged by the rest of the heavenly host. ‘I even brought a book of poetry along to read to him. And I get here—and find a Crowd Scene!’
She had a point there, Miranda had to admit. The room was too full of well-wishers. (Or was it? Were they all well- wishers?) Too many people, anyway.
‘I’m not terribly s
orry.’ Geoffrey was beginning to sound harassed. ‘I should have kept better track of everything, but we had problems here and I got distracted. All the arrangement just went out of my head.’
‘I hope the lines of your part don’t.’ Cynthia was sliding into a nasty mood.
‘Geoffrey will be brilliant!’ Antoinette rushed to her son’s defence. ‘If the rest of the cast are half as good—’ She glared from Cynthia to Peter—‘no one will miss Win at all.’
‘Oh dear,’ Tottie mourned. ‘The party’s getting rough.’
‘Mother, you don’t mean that,’ Geoffrey said. Jennet withdrew quietly from her mother’s side and slipped across the room to the window where she stood looking down at the lawn below.
‘Yes, she does,’ Cynthia said. ‘She never really gave a damn for Win. Never!’
‘I suppose that’s the excuse you gave yourself for rushing in to take him away from me!’ Antoinette’s voice rose.
‘You never had him to be taken away from you!’ Cynthia snarled.
The noise level in the room was rising alarmingly. Miranda considered intervening, then decided to stay out of it. Anything she said was likely to result in both sides turning against her.
‘Now let’s be calm—’ Rufus tried, on the theory that the hand that signed the paychecks was the least likely to get bitten in the fray.
‘Perhaps I ought to get back to the theatre.’ Peter Farley started for the door, but stopped just short of the doorway.
‘Dame Theodora!’ He stood aside to allow her to enter.
‘You’re making enough noise down here to wake the dead!’ She swept in, Monty cradled in her arms and looked around disdainfully.
‘Why is Win that peculiar colour? And why is he twitching like that?’
17
Any cat would twitch, surrounded by ex-mistresses, so to speak, and with all that noise going on. The furry body wriggled uncomfortably in Dame Theodora’s arms. She tightened her hold on him; he was her prop in this scene and he wasn’t going to get away.
Nine Lives to Murder Page 8
