‘Win!’ Hostilities ceased abruptly as Miranda rushed over to the figure on the bed. ‘Win!’ She took his hand and felt it respond faintly. Or was it just another twitch?
‘Where’s the nurse?’ she cried frantically. ‘The doctor?’
In the background, someone pushed a call button.
‘His colour is a little better now.’ Dame Theodora stalked over to the bed and gazed down judiciously. ‘Not twitching so much, either. The man needs some peace and quiet, if you ask me.’
The cat in her arms gave a short assenting yowl. The figure on the bed risked opening one eye to try to pinpoint the sound.
‘Win!’ The eye closed again as Miranda bent over him, blocking his view. ‘Win—speak to me, darling!’
‘Mirreeow!’ It was torn from him. He struggled to reach her, but Dame Theodora held tight.
‘Monty!’ Tottie started forward. ‘It is Monty! What are you doing here?’
‘What are all these people doing here?’ Dame Theodora countered, keeping her grip on Monty as Tottie reached out to take him.
‘That’s right.’ Miranda straightened and frowned at the assembly. ‘How did you all get in, anyway? What are they thinking about on the Reception Desk to allow everyone to crowd in on a sick man like this?’
‘There wasn’t anyone there when I came in,’ Peter Farley said defensively.
‘They’re understaffed at the moment.’ Geoffrey spoke at the same time. ‘The ’flu epidemic has hit them hard.’
‘Lax!’ Dame Theodora pronounced severely. ‘Scandalously lax! The place is going downhill rapidly. They even keep letting my nephew in.’
The figure on the bed twitched again.
‘That’s enough!’ Miranda’s patience snapped, her temper flared. ‘Out! All of you! Out of here!’
‘That’s right,’ Tottie seconded her. ‘There are too many of you. It’s upsetting Win.’
‘His children have a right to be here!’ Antoinette prepared to stand her ground. ‘And so do I!’
‘You can come back later.’ Tottie tried to reason with her. ‘One at a time.’
‘I was just leaving,’ Peter Farley said truthfully—and thankfully. ‘Ooops!’ Again, he nearly collided with someone in the doorway.
‘Clear this room!’ The sharp voice of command, reinforced by Matron’s crisp uniform, allowed no further argument. ‘Immediately!’
Peter completed his exit. Jennet, avoiding her mother’s eyes, was right behind him.
‘I’ve been here all night.’ Geoffrey seemed to feel that he ought to apologize to Miranda. ‘I would like to get a bit of rest before rehearsal …’
‘Use the chaise-longue in my dressing-room,’ she said. ‘Our dressing-room.’
‘Rest?’ Cynthia’s tone made it clear that she had been deprived not only of sleep, but of pleasant dreams and peace of mind. ‘Rest?’ She gave a short bitter laugh for emphasis. ‘At a time like this? When poor darling Win—’ She stretched out her arms towards him yearningly.
Miranda stepped in front of him. ‘It’s time to go now, Cynthia,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll ring you later.’
‘You won’t need to ring me later,’ Antoinette said. ‘Because I’m not going.’
‘Rufus—?’ Miranda appealed over her head.
‘Yes.’ Sighing, he moved forward and put an arm around Antoinette’s shoulders. ‘Let’s go and have lunch. Anywhere you like.’
‘Well …’ Antoinette allowed herself to be bribed, but flashed a dangerous look at Miranda, warning that she’d be back. Miranda hadn’t doubted it.
Win had begun breathing more easily as the room cleared. His eyes remained obstinately closed, but she knew that he was conscious.
‘That goes for the rest of you, too!’ Matron crossed to Win and automatically reached for his pulse. ‘Out!’
‘I’m his wife,’ Miranda said coldly. ‘I’m waiting for his personal physician to arrive. Sir Reginald is flying in from the States and should be here at any moment.’
‘Go ahead, throw me out!’ Dame Theodora challenged. ‘I’d love to get out of this hell-hole. Unfortunately, I have the misfortune to be in residence here.’
‘We’ll take you back to your room in a minute, Dame Theodora.’ Matron’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Dame Theodora for the first time. ‘Where did you get that cat?’
‘He dropped in to visit me. We’re old friends, aren’t we, Monty?’
‘The cat goes! Now!’ Matron’s attention was distracted as the patient moved abruptly. She looked down at him, frowning.
‘I’ll take Monty back to the theatre with me.’ Tottie started forward. ‘That’s where he belongs, isn’t it, Monty? Come on, Monty. Come to Tottie—’
The figure on the bed opened its eyes and looked around wildly. It began to struggle, trying to free its wrist from Matron’s grip.
‘Please leave! The patient is becoming agitated.’ Matron shifted her grip and tried to hold him down. ‘Can’t you see—?’
Easy, Monty, easy … The cat broke free and leaped on to the bed, uttering sounds that were half-purrs, half cries.
‘That’s better,’ Matron said as the patient stopped struggling. She swept one hand at the cat, trying to brush him off the bed.
He dodged her easily and moved up so that cat and man were face to face with each other, looking into each other’s eyes.
In slow motion, both leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching. Slowly they rocked their heads from side to side, rubbing foreheads, eyes closed. The cat’s purr could be heard throughout the room; the man uttered strange little sounds of contentment.
‘Look at that,’ Tottie said wonderingly. ‘I never knew Win and Monty were so fond of each other. Isn’t that sweet?’
‘Germs!’ Matron snapped back to duty. ‘Cats aren’t clean.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Tottie protested. ‘Monty’s the cleanest cat in town. Just look how gleaming white his fur is—the white fur, anyway, the black is shining clean. Besides, he’s doing Win good, isn’t he? I’ll bet Win’s pulse is better already.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Matron avoided the point that had disturbed her: the patient’s pulse had slowed and calmed. His panic attack was over.
‘Some hospitals—’ Tottie pressed her point home—‘even keep cats and dogs as resident pets for the patients,’
‘Well, St Monica’s doesn’t!’
‘Too bad, this place could do with a cat to cheer it up,’ Dame Theodora said. ‘Dreary hole, terrible atmosphere and—’ she was still brooding over her grievance—‘they’ll let anyone in.’
‘I’ll see you back to your room in just a moment,’ Matron said grimly. ‘But first—’ She snatched at the cat.
‘EEEeeek!’ She drew her hand back instantly. A streak of red welled up across the back of her hand and began to drip on the white sheets.
‘Oh, Monty! Naughty boy!’ Tottie captured the cat and gave him a little shake. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over him. He’s usually so good. He never scratches. Well, hardly ever.’
‘The cat didn’t scratch me—’ Matron stared incredulously at Winstanley Fortescue’s hand, still curled clawlike, with a smear of blood beneath the fingernails.
‘It was the patient!’
18
Damn the woman! No, no—not damn—he didn’t mean that. Blast, perhaps. Or bother, even. Yes, bother, that was better, that was more like it …
Bother the woman! … Now that he was no longer sure who—or what—was out there listening, he felt that he must be more circumspect about his language … about his thoughts … about everything.
Nevertheless, it was a nuisance being caught up, bundled into a taxi with Tottie and carried away from The Instrument, where he belonged, back to the Chesterton Theatre, where he also belonged—but in a different way and in a different manner.
No blame attached to Tottie, though. Quickly, he exonerated her to whomever—whatever—might be noticing. Tottie couldn’t
know … He didn’t know what had happened himself …
Besides, Miranda was back there at St Monica’s, watching over The Instrument. And Sir Reginald would be arriving any moment and could be trusted to carry out tests—and Miranda’s instructions—with the utmost expediency.
Miranda would whisk The Instrument safely back to the house in Merrimore Square; Sir Reginald would mobilize the best medical and psychological help available, and the process of rehabilitation could begin.
For whatever that was worth. What good would a human psychologist or psychiatrist be to a feline? Especially when they had no idea what they were treating?
The fact that The Instrument had scratched Matron would give them very little to go on. Probably there wasn’t a doctor in existence who hadn’t secretly wanted to savage a certain officious matron at some point or other. It would not seem excessively abnormal to them.
‘Now you just be a good boy and keep still,’ Tottie said, as she fumbled in her purse for the taxi fare.
Yes, yes … He relaxed in her arms, offering no opposition as she carried him to the Stage Door. If he couldn’t be in St Monica’s with The Instrument, he might as well be here. This was where it had all started. There was work to do here …
‘Oh, good, Davy—’ The Stage Manager swung open the door. ‘Just the one I wanted to see. I know it isn’t far, but I had to take a taxi because I was bringing Monty back and I didn’t fancy walking any distance carrying him when he might jump down and run away. Do you think I could get the fare back from petty cash?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Davy said genially. ‘Sounds like a proper expense to me, bringing Monty back to the theatre. There’s plenty of work for him to do. I’ve been hearing a lot of squeaks and scrabbles lately. I think a new mouse family has begun colonizing the Chesterton.’
‘Monty will see them off now he’s back, won’t you, Monty?’ Her arms relaxed and he could feel Tottie’s relief. Strange, he hadn’t realized she was so strapped for cash that a few quid’s taxi fare constituted a major expenditure. One she was desperate to have refunded.
All the more reason then that Tottie would never have done anything to jeopardize the show. She needed the money a good solid run would bring in.
‘There you go, Monty.’ Tottie tumbled him out of her arms. ‘Have a good prowl round and let the little blighters get a sniff of you. That will discourage them.’
He yawned and stretched, arching his back. A good prowl around, yes. People expected a cat to prowl. No one thought twice about seeing a cat poking his nose into dark remote corners. No one dreamed of moderating their conversation simply because a cat decided to sit there and listen to it …
‘How’s Win?’ Davy asked.
‘A lot better. Miranda’s hoping to be able to take him home after she has had a talk with Sir Reginald.’
‘That’s good.’ Davy met her eyes. ‘What are the chances of him coming back into the production? In time for the opening?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t like to say, dear. I wouldn’t count on it, if I were you. Not for this production. But what do I know? I haven’t any medical qualifications.’
‘I’d back your good common sense against any of them.’
‘Very kind of you, dear, but not very scientific. You have a word with Sir Reginald after he’s had a chance to assess the situation. Miranda is sure that if she brings Win home, he’ll do a lot better—familiar surroundings and all.’
‘She may be right. He’ll be better off at home. Geoffrey’s still pretty upset about what happened last night. If Win hadn’t been in good shape, he wouldn’t have survived that power failure. Geoff says there was an old boy in the other room who didn’t make it.’
‘It was terrible, just terrible.’ Tottie shuddered. ‘I’ll never forget that awful moment when the lights went out and all the machines went silent. If Win had been as bad as they thought, it would have been the final curtain.’
‘That’s no way to run a hospital—especially not at the prices they charge. The sooner Miranda gets him home, the better.’
‘Davy—’ Tottie caught at his arm, her eyes wide. ‘Davy, you don’t think … perhaps … all these things happening, one after the other. You don’t suppose, maybe, it’s … it’s Win’s time to go?’
‘Easy does it. He’s still here, isn’t he?’ Davy looked down at her pale face with concern. ‘You need a bracer. Let’s step round to the Grub and Moth for a quick one. It will do you good.’
‘I don’t want to get ideas like that, but sometimes it seems …’ Tottie’s voice faded as they went through the Stage Door and it swung shut after them.
They’ve left me behind! The surge of indignation swamped him before he remembered that a cat could not expect to be invited to go along to the pub. And yet he went there sometimes. The alien memory nudged at him again: bits of sausages … a nibble of steak-and-kidney … a bite of cheese. The regulars were nice generous people and Butterfly, the pub cat, was always good for a friendly sparring match—and perhaps a bit more, if she were in the right mood. Yes, he might drop over there on his own later.
But right now it was time to beat the boundaries, prowl his territory and see what was going on. It seemed like a long time since he had had a good look around. He started down the corridor, past the dressing-rooms, the stage calling to him like a noisy mousetrap.
Geoffrey and Peter were taking a break, discussing Peter’s slightly different interpretation of the role he had taken over. They were eating sandwiches. Food!
‘Hello, Monty.’ Peter Farley patted the cat’s head and allowed it to sniff at his sandwich, knowing he was perfectly safe from its predations. ‘Like a bite?’
Uuugh! The cat retreated several paces, shaking his head and sneezing. Farley was a pleasant enough man and a decent actor—but his wholegrain bread concealed tofu and bean sprouts, thinly moistened with mint yogurt.
‘That’s a rotten trick,’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘Here, come over here, Monty. You can have some of mine.’ He waved it invitingly in Monty’s direction.
Tuna fish! That was more like it! Sensible lad, Geoffrey. He was tucking into a big roll literally overflowing with tuna mayonnaise.
‘Here you go, fella.’ Geoffrey scooped a large dollop of tuna from his roll and dropped it on the floor in front of Monty.
Ambrosia! It had been a long time since breakfast, and even though dear old Thea had let him eat her boiled egg, he had found that it hadn’t stood by him for long.
‘You made short work of that, fella. How long has it been since anyone remembered to feed you? Here, have a bit more.’
Another dollop of ambrosia fell in front of him. What a splendid lad Geoffrey was! Genes will out. Those years with Antoinette hadn’t ruined him at all.
The cat paused for a moment to rub against Geoffrey’s ankles, expressing his gratitude for the largesse. Champagne and caviar, my boy, when I’m myself again. A Concorde flight to New York and a week or two seeing the latest shows, while I introduce you to all my contacts and give your career the boost that will send it into orbit.
‘All right, all right.’ Geoffrey was laughing again. More easily now, as though he were getting into the hang of it after the long anxious hours of worrying about his father.
‘Silly clot!’ He scratched Monty’s ear affectionately. ‘Back to your lunch before the mice come and steal it away from you. I’ve been hearing complaints that they’re getting in again.’
Just let one cross his path! The tail lashed furiously. They’d dare to approach his food, would they? But, just in case—he lowered his head and was surprised to find that the latest offering disappeared in just a couple of swallows. He looked up hopefully at Geoffrey again.
‘All right.’ Geoffrey separated the two halves of the roll and, scraping most of the filling on to one, set it down on the floor for Monty.
‘You’re spoiling that cat,’ Peter said.
‘He deserves it. If he hadn’t broken Dad’s fall—If Dad’s head had crash
ed down on the floor without bouncing off poor old Monty first, it might have been a fractured skull instead of a concussion. He might not have survived.’
‘Ah yes, that fall.’ Peter Farley seemed uncomfortable. ‘Tell me, what’s your opinion of that newspaper story?’
‘I think it’s contemptible, I think it’s an invasion of privacy, I think—’
‘Do you think it could be true?’
The cat stopped eating momentarily and looked from one to the other with interest.
‘That mark on his back—’ Peter glanced around uneasily and lowered his voice. ‘How else could you explain it?’
‘I can’t, but I’m going to talk to Sir Reginald later today. He might be able to suggest something.’
‘The stage hands were working on the set that day—they still are.’ A sudden burst of hammering and sawing in the background bore out this statement. ‘There were all sorts of poles, slats and pieces of wood around. It might have been an accident. One of them carrying a pole carelessly …’
‘Possible, I suppose. But no one’s going to own up to that now.’
‘No, no, they wouldn’t. Not after what happened.’ Peter sounded increasingly unhappy. ‘I suppose you can’t blame them for that. Only …’
‘Only what?’ Geoffrey looked at him sharply. ‘Did you see anything? Can you identify anyone?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. I turned just in time to see Win fall. Actually, it looked more as though he’d leapt—’ Peter shuddered. ‘But … you know … the media are beginning to clamour. Davy had to fob off a couple of photographers who wanted to come in and take pictures. That’s not the kind of publicity we need.’
The cat lost interest and returned to his food, one ear still cocked abstractedly. There was something he must think over … later.
‘Don’t worry. Rufus will take care of the media. They won’t be making serious inquiries. Most of them know that Jilly Zanna always tries to stir things up—only the worst of the tabloids will follow her lead.’
Nine Lives to Murder Page 9
