Nine Lives to Murder

by Marian Babson

  ‘A lot of people read the worst of the tabloids,’ Peter said.

  ‘Not a bad thing. Perhaps we’ll have a big rush of the curious to the box office.’

  That’s right, my boy, put the bums on the seats and the devil with how they get there. The cat sent him an approving glance before remembering that it was the accident to The Instrument that was going to bring in the public—and The Instrument wouldn’t even be there to take his bows.

  His fur bristled, his tail twitched, his composure vanished. Besides, the tuna was all finished and there was nothing left but the boring old roll. What self-respecting cat would eat that? He turned and stalked away downstage.

  ‘’Ere, Monty—’ One of the stage hands snapped his fingers at him. Another one shied a chip of wood at him. He ignored them both.

  A feeling of lassitude was creeping over him. He felt that it would be nice to find a soft cushion to curl up on, give himself a bit of a wash and then a little nap. Yes, that was what he wanted. Automatically, he headed for Tottie’s domain. As well as cushions, there were always piles of soft fabrics and constantly replenished saucers of fresh milk, water, and munchies in one corner.

  Tottie’s Wardrobe was at the end of the dressing-room corridor, as far from the stage as it could be, so that the whirr of the sewing-machine could not be heard out front, in case it was necessary to make running repairs during a performance.

  He was strolling past Cynthia’s dressing-room when he noticed that the door was ajar. Practically an invitation, wasn’t it? Perhaps Cynthia wanted company. He slid into the room and was surprised and a bit disappointed to find it empty.

  No, no, not quite empty. On the chaise-longue, one of the fluffy white cushions stirred and opened big blue eyes. Malfi. The Duchess of Malfi. How could he have overlooked her?

  What a divine creature. Even in his human form, he had always liked her. Now there was a new dimension to that liking. He stared at her in wonder. She was ravishing, exotic, exciting … and alone.

  Everything that was left of Monty suddenly took over. He struggled briefly, but was impelled forward by forces beyond his control. Malfi watched him as he crossed the floor; her eyes seemed to grow larger and deeper as he came nearer.

  Deep, fathomless, intensely blue, one could drown in those eyes. He leaped up on the chaise-longue beside her.

  Malfi stretched luxuriously and flicked her long feathery tail seductively. She was an enchantress—and he was lost.

  But—But—He couldn’t—He made one final conscious protest before he was submerged. Monty could.

  Monty and Malfi, left to themselves, had no problems at all. He could only stand by, as one did in dreams, both onlooker and participant in some eerie way, and wait for the episode to end.

  Don’t think about it … don’t attempt to rationalize it … That way lies madness …

  Perhaps he was already mad. Hallucinating everything. Everything from the moment he had hit the floor what seemed a lifetime ago. Another lifetime.

  If he had fallen and struck his head. If this wasn’t all some bizarre psychiatric episode. Who would have wanted to kill him? Been so determined to kill him that they had struck twice, killing the occupant of the other intensive care unit in the process?

  And how could he have hallucinated a thing like that? Or this? He’d never be able to call himself a cat-lover without a guilty qualm in the future. If he had a future. If he ever woke from this dream …

  19

  ‘Horrid! Filthy! Beast!’ There was nothing dreamlike about the hand crashing across his ear.

  ‘Monster!’ An iron grip closed on the scruff of his neck and lifted him bodily from his pleasant occupation.

  ‘Urrr …’ Strangled by his own skin, he could only writhe in Cynthia’s furious grasp. However, it did not escape him that Malfì had streaked off and was hiding behind the screen in the corner, trying to pretend that she had never been there at all.

  ‘Don’t you ever come near poor Malfi again!’ He felt a final slap and then was hurled into space while the door slammed shut behind him.

  He’d never realized Cynthia had such a vicious temper. Oh, a bit of temperament now and again, that was one thing. But to think she could turn into a howling termagant like that! And after all the soothing times she had sympathized with him when Miranda was in a fury about something, making him wonder if life might be more peaceful with her.

  The residue of Monty performed a neat arabesque in mid-air and set him down lightly on all four feet. He shook himself dazedly.

  ‘Caught in the act, eh, Monty?’ A burst of ribald laughter exploded around him.

  His ears twitched furiously, his tail shot up. If there was one thing more embarrassing than to be caught in the act, it was to be seen to be caught. He disdained even to glance in the direction of the unseemly merriment. He turned and stalked down the corridor.

  ‘Never mind, eh?’ one of the stage hands called. ‘It was good while it lasted.’

  Well, yes, so it had been. Malfi was a delightful little creature. He felt that she might understand him if he tried to communicate his problem to her. Cynthia often brought Malfi to the theatre, he had noted absently in the past. That meant Malfi would spend a lot of time here during the run of the play—and Cynthia would have to be onstage for much of that time. Heh-heh-heh.

  He suddenly realized with incredulous horror that he was actually planning future assignations with a cat.

  Why not? He was a cat himself now.

  It was all too much! Thoroughly unnerved, he plunged through the open doorway into Wardrobe and curled up in his favourite chair. It was also Tottie’s favourite chair, but he knew she wouldn’t dispossess him when she returned to find him there.

  He had intended to give himself a bath but, worn out from his exertions, both physical and mental, he fell asleep …

  He dreamed of Miranda. Miranda as she was when he first knew her, so young and vibrant and trusting, filling the days—and the nights—with laughter …

  Suddenly, Antoinette was there … and the dream darkened, the laughter faded. Antoinette, holding a younger Geoffrey by one hand and Jennet by the other, her dark eyes accusing him of all his inadequacies as a husband and a father. He found himself groping for the words to make them understand, to make it all right … but no words would come.

  Cynthia came instead, someone else staring at him with accusing eyes. He had failed her, in some unspecified way. But Cynthia wasn’t the sensitive type; she was tougher than Miranda; tougher, even, than Antoinette.

  The toughest of them all was Jilly. Something moved in the shadows and she stepped centre stage, flicking her wrist in that quick careless motion with which she had tossed back the sheet to expose him to the camera.

  Women, women, too many women. Too many complications. He had felt for a long time that he should do something to simplify his life, that it would be heaven to be able to step aside and remove himself from the scene—temporarily, of course, temporarily—and just let them all get on with it. Without him.

  They were dancing around him now and he crouched on the floor in the centre of the circle they had formed. He was a cat. A male in feline form. But they were closing in on him and he was helpless before them. He looked for escape … and there, just outside the circle, he saw …

  Malfi! Blinking her great blue eyes, watching … inscrutable. But he knew she was contemplating joining the other females in the dance against him. Why? Jealous as a cat … that was an old saying. True, as most old sayings were. But Malfì had nothing to be jealous about …

  Unbidden, the vision of Butterfly rose as another memory invaded his dreams. That delicious little ginger pub cat. Oh, they’d had some times together when the theatre was dark and the pub had closed …

  Malfì moved forward slowly and joined the other females circling around him. Jealous, definitely jealous—and how many other … indiscretions … in Monty’s past were there for her to be jealous of?

  Women! Females! They were
never satisfied. There was no escape, or peace. For man or cat.

  They were closing in on him … His paws scrabbled wildly. The little involuntary sounds he made half-woke him.

  It was dark. How long had he slept? He shook himself and sat up. His instincts cried out for more sleep, but he fought them. What dreams may come? Aye, there was the rub indeed. He was not going to risk slipping back into that nightmare.

  It was dark and quiet outside, too. Had everyone gone home? He stretched and dropped to the floor. Force of Monty’s habit led him over to the corner to see what had been left out for him.

  He found fresh milk and water and unfamiliar food in the dish. He sniffed at it suspiciously. Was this a commercial cat food? It seemed to be chicken-and-gravy based and he had to admit the smell was tempting. He tested it tentatively with his tongue. Not bad. In fact, quite good. He had finished it before the thought struck him.

  This was fresh food … well, newly-opened. That meant someone—Tottie—had been in here and moving around while he slept. What about the theory that cats slept with one eye open?

  But he wasn’t a cat—not an honest cat. He remembered the slit of The Instrument’s eye glittering white; Monty’s reaction to the strange surroundings in which he had found himself. That cat-inhabited body was probably still sleeping with one eye open, while the human-driven cat was adopting the sort of dangerous human habits that could leave him vulnerable to a marauding foe.

  Or was the explanation simpler than that? Cats didn’t always sleep with one eye open, not when they were in a safe place with people they trusted. It could only have been Tottie moving around in here; her presence would signal no danger to Monty. He trusted her completely and so he had slept on.

  Yes, that was it. No one could possibly be afraid of Tottie. Her presence wouldn’t have disturbed Monty at all. If anything, it would have made him feel more secure.

  There was a noise outside. He jumped, then shook himself and moved cautiously towards the sound. As he reached the corridor, he could hear the initial sound—had it been a click?—change to a stealthy rustling.

  Mice? His ears pricked forward, his body quivered, he moved forward swiftly and silently. He’d get them! This was his theatre, his territory—

  He shook himself again, trying to reclaim the feline body. There was something more sinister than a mouse somewhere ahead. That click had been the click of a latch—and, if the person had entered the dressing-room for a lawful purpose, why hadn’t the light been turned on?

  It was in Geoffrey’s dressing-room. Well, the dressing-room he shared with Peter Farley. Would continue to share. Even though Farley was stepping into the star’s part, he would not expect to step into the star’s dressing-room—not when it was occupied by the star’s wife.

  The sound of stealthy movement continued. There was not even the flicker of a torch. Someone was operating in darkness, with as little discomfort as a cat.

  Malfi? Had she heard the mouse first and gone after it? Was she prowling around in the dressing-room … alone? Heh-heh-heh.

  Begone! He struggled to vanquish the hopeful Monty’s instincts again. Of course it wasn’t the Duchess of Malfi. Cynthia would never have gone off and left her alone in the theatre for the night. Especially not with Monty about.

  Someone else was in there. Someone larger than Malfi and with a more sinister purpose. What?

  The door was wide open. So that someone could retreat quickly? Someone—up to no good—had stopped moving around and was standing frozen, instincts as well-honed as those of any cat, waiting to learn what was wrong. The someone knew itself observed, but not by whom, and was waiting for the challenge …

  If only he could! His claws flexed automatically and his teeth bared, reminding him that he was not completely defenceless. But would they be enough to drive off the intruder? More prudent, perhaps, to wait and discover what he was trying to do.

  It had gone completely silent. Not even the sound of breathing. He gained some comfort from the realization that the intruder was as disturbed as he was. He crouched lower, blinked, and tried to see what was happening.

  It was behind him now! Too late, he listened to the instincts he had inherited. He had wasted time trying to think his way through the situation. The human mind was less effective than the feline instincts when the chips were down. And they were down now.

  He twisted and shot away just in time. He felt the rush of air past him as he avoided the crippling kick by a split-second. Hissing and snarling, he skittered into the opposite wall.

  No longer trying to keep quiet, the intruder bolted for the corridor and the Stage Door, footsteps echoing in the darkness. The Stage Door slammed—and the intruder was gone.

  Slowly, the cat inched forward, still tensed and ready for action, all senses alert. But no one else was there. He was alone in the deserted theatre. Alone … and safe.

  Saved by the basic instinct. The instinct for survival. Given equally to man and beast, but perhaps a bit more efficient in the beast, who knew better than to stop and cerebrate before taking evasive action.

  Here’s to the basic instincts! He padded back to Tottie’s room. Another guzzle of milk would have to serve for the toast instead of champagne.

  The basic instincts. Unbidden, the fluffy white fur and deep blue eyes of the Duchess of Malfi seemed to float before him. He stood corrected.

  The baser instincts deserved their toast, too. Where would we be without them? He wondered where Malfi was right now. Curled up on the cushions in Cynthia’s flat, probably.

  But Butterfly was right next door. Perhaps even closer. When the pub closed for the night, it was Butterfly’s time to howl. She might be outside now, waiting for a friend to join her.

  He slurped quickly at the milk, gulped at the food. Had to keep one’s strength up. Heh-heh-heh.

  No! Wait! What was he doing? What was he thinking? He struggled against the feline instincts. The instincts he had so latterly admired. Now they were unthinkable … unthinkable.

  ‘Mirr-yeow-eow-eow. A siren call drifted through the night outside. Butterfly … sweet, beautiful Butterfly.

  His thinking stopped. The cat won. He leaped for the window-ledge. Tottie always left the window open a few inches so that he could come and go as he pleased. The window was barred against burglars, but there was plenty of room between the bars for an agile cat to slip through. Monty slipped, uttering an answering call to the beauty of his dreams:

  ‘Here I am …’

  20

  ‘Oh dear, I’m tiddly.’ Tottie leaned against Davy’s shoulder and breathed deeply of the soft spring air. ‘I am definitely tiddly.’

  ‘Do you good,’ Davy said. He wasn’t so sober himself, but he felt the better for it. At least, at the moment.

  The landlord had called ‘Time, gentlemen, please’ some while ago and they were sitting outside the Chesterfield, with their backs against the building. Like street people. Or harking back to happier times, like eager fans, queueing all night to be first when the box office opened, so that they could get the best seats in the gods to look down on their idols and cheer. Three-and-sixpence for the seat and another sixpence for the programme. Those were the days!

  ‘Oh, Davy,’ Tottie sighed. ‘What is the world coming to?’

  ‘Good question.’ Davy nodded approval and went on nodding sagely. ‘Good question.’

  ‘But what’s the answer?’

  ‘What’s the question?’ Davy had lost the thread.

  ‘What’s that?’ The explosion of decibels somewhere towards the back of the theatre brought Tottie sitting bolt upright.

  ‘Oh no!’ Her head began to clear and she identified the sounds. ‘It’s Monty! Monty and Butterfly again! And I had a terrible time finding homes for all those kittens the last time!’

  ‘Beautiful kittens,’ Davy said sentimentally. ‘Beautiful. My little Flutterby was the cutest of the lot.’ He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Have I shown you my pictures of little Flutters … ?’
>
  ‘Often.’ Tottie struggled to her feet and pulled Davy up on his. ‘Hurry up.’ She led the way down the narrow alley between the Chesterton and the Grub and Moth into the large area they shared at the back.

  ‘There he is—get him!’

  Oh, the ignominy of it all! This was the supreme indignity of being a cat—the way humans could pick you up and toss you around. Tear you from the very loins of your beloved at a most sensitive moment—and cuff you around the ears.

  ‘Not your day, Monty.’ And Davy had the nerve to be amused.

  I’ll get you for this! the cat growled, lashing his tail.

  ‘Now stop that!’ Tottie gave him a little shake, then held him close. ‘We have enough problems around here without you acting up.’

  ‘The situation is improving, though,’ Davy said. ‘I rang Miranda while you were in the Ladies and she sounds a lot more cheerful. They’ve talked her out of taking Win home right away. Sir Reginald wants to keep him under observation for another day or two, but they’ve compromised and moved him out of intensive care. He’s upstairs in the suite next to Thea’s now. That’s nice for both of them—they can drop in and visit each other.’

  ‘Let’s go and see him!’ Tottie said impulsively.

  ‘What, now? Isn’t it pretty late for visiting?’

  ‘That’s why he’s at St Monica’s, they understand about theatre people. We don’t start unwinding until after the curtain goes down. Win will be wide awake at this hour. If he isn’t, we can always pop in and visit Thea for a while. She’s never in her life put the light out before two a.m. Not—’ Tottie giggled wickedly—‘unless she’s had the kind of reason she’s not likely to find at St Monica’s!’

  ‘Well …’ Davy allowed himself to be persuaded. ‘What about Monty? Shall we shut him in the theatre before we go? You’ll have to go and close your window or he’ll get out again.’

  ‘Monty can come too. He loves his Win, don’t you, Monty? And Win loves him. It’s been a revelation to see how attached they are to each other. I never suspected it.’