Only the Cat Knows (11 page)

I shrugged a disclaimer at her as I picked up the phone, wondering if this was my summons to join Everett
Oversall and his important visitors. I didn’t think it could be. Nina was right: I wasn’t presentable enough right now — and I was determined to stay that way. Perhaps a heavier hand with the eyeshadow bruises?

‘Hello? … Hello?’ The only response was the soft click as the other end of the line hung up.

I replaced my own receiver thoughtfully What was that all about? Someone ringing the wrong extension and too discourteous, or too unsure of his English, to apologize. Or someone checking to make sure I was still locked up in my quarters?

The cat’s wary eyes and tensed attitude told me that the dogs, although silent, were closer now, perhaps sniffing along the perimeter of the cloister. I turned out the lights and moved over to the window, opening the inner shutter just far enough to allow me a narrow streak of vision. There was nothing to be seen within that limited range and to open the shutter wider would be to betray my presence. I closed it again and switched the dimmest lamp back on.

The cat was still tensed. Light, or the absence of it, hadn’t affected her attitude: she was still suspicious, mistrustful and ready to disappear if the worst developed. She turned towards the cloister walk, ears pricked.

I froze and listened, too. It seemed to me that I heard a faint ominous growl outside. Then I definitely heard a low gruff command. Brutus and Bud. I had moved away from the window just in time.

‘Everything all right in there?’ Bud’s voice called softly enough not to disturb me if I were already sleeping. Why wouldn’t it be all right? He had personally delivered me to the door and seen me inside. The automatic locks must have clicked into place as soon as the door closed behind me. The question was automatic, not expecting an answer. Of course, I must be all right and fast asleep for hours.

As the footsteps retreated, the cat let her head fall back
and returned to sleep. All clear now. I sat up for another half-hour before joining her.

In the morning, the door was unlocked when I tried it. I heard the rain beating against the windows in a steady downpour and it seemed to me that sometime in the dark hours of the morning I had vaguely heard the clatter of a departing helicopter. Since we had now been released from our temporary imprisonment, it would seem that the visiting dignitaries had gone with it.

The unfriendly maid brought breakfast and would not be drawn on anything other than how long the rain might continue. She was not an optimist, either.

‘All day, maybe all week,’ was her verdict. It was November, after all.

Gloriana came to investigate the tray and turned away in disgust. The chef, perhaps exhausted by last night’s efforts, hadn’t bothered much this morning. A bowl of muesli and a pot of coffee. Or was he telling me something? Perhaps that it was time I recuperated enough to totter over to the breakfast buffet set up in the morning room. If so, the message wasn’t going to get through. I’d rather go hungry than face the others first thing in the morning.

The cat had a different opinion. It wasn’t good enough, she let me know. All that disruption last night, and then the rain, and now — starvation! If she had anywhere else to go, she’d leave home.

‘I didn’t order this,’ I told her. I can’t help what they decide to send me.’

She turned her nose up and sniffed. Then, suddenly alert, sniffed again. She leapt up on the table and moved forward purposefully, zeroing in on the covered butter dish beside the croissant.

I lifted the lid and there, nestling next to the curls of unsalted butter, were three cocktail sausages. Leftovers from last night’s festivities, obviously.

Good old thoughtful Monica. I could grow quite fond of her — if she weren’t getting to be one of my prime suspects.

Monica Chandler, who kept a watchful eye on every detail of the housekeeping. Monica, who knew everyone’s foibles and, possibly, secrets. Monica, who had hurriedly packed and swept away all of Francesca’s possessions before Nessa had arrived to take her place.

A gust of wind hurled a waterfall against the windows. This was going to be a day to remain as sequestered in our cloister — locked in or out — as any medieval cleric.

And possibly a good day to take closer stock of my surroundings and discover just how meticulous Monica had been in packing up the belongings of the previous occupant. To look for traces of Francesca.

If Monica had been careless enough to leave any. If there was anything to find. Anything of any importance. Anything that might have been overlooked. Anything … at all.

I sat down at the table and poured some milk over my muesli without enthusiasm. I inspected the first spoonful warily It might be safer for the future to express a sudden craving for boiled eggs — boring, but tamperproof, boiled eggs.

Gloriana had no such qualms. She had helped herself to the cocktail sausages and, once she understood that I had no intention of disputing her right to them, was regarding me with approval. We were friends again.

For whatever that was worth around this place. I already appeared to have more friends than I knew what to do with. I did know what not to do with them: trust them.

Had they been such firm friends with the alien Francesca, too? Did she get together with Nina and Kiki for long girlish gossipy sessions? Was Ivor also
her
Beloved?

Somehow I doubted it.

Just as I doubted that Nessa had ever been so close to any of them, either.

I pushed away the muesli and stood up. The cat gave me a sympathetic look, but stretched a warning paw over her remaining sausage just in case I had changed my mind. She might not be able to finish it right now, but it would make a tasty snack later.

After an hour and a half, I had to admit it had been a stupid idea. Too much time had elapsed, I was chasing shadows.

Francesca had disappeared over a year ago. All her belongings had been packed up and stored away by the ever-efficient Monica. I wondered where.

Then Nessa had moved in and made the place her own. There were unlikely to be any traces of Francesca still around. And nothing to tell what had prompted her sudden departure.

Had she, as Nina fantasized, eloped in the sudden throes of a romantic frenzy? Perhaps carried away, literally, in one of the helicopters belonging to a passing billionaire?

Or, more sinisterly, had the locks not served their purpose one dark night and had she been kidnapped by one of the thugs in uniform surrounding some dictator, sheikh or despot?

Or … had she followed the Monk?

The day continued grey and wet. The cat curled up and went to sleep. Lucky cat.

I was too restless to settle. My thoughts churned round in circles, getting nowhere. Or else dashing off in directions I did not wish to go.

Except for the rain against the windows, the place was silent. It might have been deserted, all occupants spirited away, the fake ruins left to disintegrate into genuine ruins.

Surely it had never been this quiet before. Although I had not been paying any particular attention, it seemed to me that I had been vaguely aware of muted domestic noises during other days: the hum of a vacuum cleaner,
footsteps hurrying from one destination to another, the occasional bark of a guard dog or cry of a peacock, the dull throb of a motor as one of the estate cars drove past. There had not been this deep unnerving silence, this lack of evidence of any other humans in the world.

At this point, I’d even have welcomed the sound of spectral chanting again.

I moved to the window that looked out on the cloister and pulled back the curtain. Rain dripped from the eaves and the greensward beyond the walkway was beginning to show signs of the puddles forming in its hollows.

Wet, bleak and depressing. Suddenly, I needed air, however rain-laden. I draped the familiar shawl around me and stepped out into the cloister, locking the door behind me. I didn’t want anyone slipping into my quarters while my back was turned even briefly.

It was colder than I had anticipated. I drew the shawl tighter. A chill wind swept down the cloister carrying the rain with it. The cloister wasn’t as sheltered as it looked. What was? Puddles had formed in and around the uneven flagstones. I had to remind myself that the stones had not been worn down by centuries of monastic processions, of silent monks scurrying to the chapel or taking the air on a day like this. The whole construction was an elaborate Victorian fake. An edifice of lies and illusion. Ghostly monks included.

I reached the door leading into the main house, pivoted and walked back, deciding that I wouldn’t stay out too long. The cold was all-embracing, even the soles of my feet were feeling the chill from the icy paving stones. The air had gone from bracing to arctic, seeming to have dropped several degrees in the short time I had been out here. My mood wasn’t improving, either, it was as bleak as the world around me.

Nessa
… I called silently and experimentally and waited … listening… as though there might be some reply.

There wasn’t, of course. There couldn’t be. Not now … perhaps not —

No!
I wouldn’t let myself think that. Nessa was a survivor. So was I. We’d had to be.

The deep shudder that suddenly racked me took me by surprise. It was visceral, rather than owing anything to the plunging temperature. Depression and dark thoughts were crowding in on me.

Where the hell was that quack, Anderson?
Why wasn’t he here to tell me how Nessa was doing? He’d promised to keep me informed. Had she lost ground, and was he afraid to face me and admit it?

Perhaps he was trying to reach me now. Would I hear it out here if the phone rang?

Odds were, I would. But he couldn’t take the risk of telephoning — there were too many chances that someone might be listening in. He’d have to report personally. Eventually …

I shuddered again and moved forward. I’d just walk to the end of the cloister and back to my own door. I’d got my fresh air and honour was satisfied. There was no need to turn a stroll into an endurance contest.

I quickened my pace. Down to the anchorite’s cell and turn back — and that would be my exercise quota for the day. I’d never gone in for the hours in the gym and the jog till you drop routines.

There! I reached my goal: the end of the cloister. I turned quickly, glancing idly into the cell to nod hello to the wax figure perpetually at its prayers.

I was three steps farther on before I did the classic double-take and retraced my steps. I must have been seeing things. It couldn’t —

It could. It was. There were two figures in that cell now.

I wrenched at the bars, trying to open the gate, to get inside. I might have known it was useless. The bars held, the figures beyond them remained motionless and unreachable.

For a moment, I cursed, fluently and vehemently. The wax monk knelt, unheeding.

The female, lying face down, the back of her head imploded, hair colour obliterated by blood and bone, one arm outstretched, hand reaching toward the hem of the monk’s robe, was clearly beyond help.

‘Are you sure?’ Monica asked. ‘Are you really sure?’

‘It’s not the sort of thing one is likely to make a mistake about,’ I said coldly.

‘No, but —’ In the abrupt silence, I could almost hear the wheels turning and the contingency plans clicking into place in her mind.

‘Where are you now?’ she asked. ‘Right this minute.’

‘In my quarters,’ I said. ‘I came straight back and rang to let you know.’

‘Right!’ she said. ‘Stay there! Lock the door! We’ll be along straight away!’

‘We —?’ But she had rung off.

After half an hour, it was quite clear that Monica’s definition of ‘straight away’ and mine did not coincide.

I had telephoned her again at the quarter hour and at five-minute intervals thereafter, but there had been no answer. I had no doubt that she was extremely busy somewhere, doing something. But what?

Impatient, I had tried to disobey orders and go back to the anchorite’s cell for another look. That was when I discovered that the override lock had been flipped into place and I was locked in. The Open Prison had closed again.

There was nothing to be seen from the window, although I was sure I could hear muted sounds of activity at the end of the cloister. On the other side, there had also
been the throb of powerful motors: one or two cars arriving — and departing.

When the knock finally came, I played it straight, opening the door without hesitation, as though I had never tried it earlier and found it locked.

Sure enough, it opened easily. Monica stood outside and, behind her, Dr Anderson.
Nessa?
For a heart-faltering instant, I froze, staring at him.

No
. He caught my fear and, behind Monica’s back, he shook his head reassuringly. That wasn’t why he was here. Of course not. It was the body in the anchorite’s cell. I began to breathe again.

‘Nessa, are you all right?’ Monica stepped into the room, face creased with concern. Anderson followed. ‘Really all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ I gave a shaky laugh, in keeping with my parlous condition. ‘Well, a bit shaken … naturally’

‘Naturally.’ Monica nodded, sending a meaning glance towards Anderson, who suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘Who was she?’ I wanted to know. ‘I couldn’t get close enough to see. What happened?’

‘You shouldn’t have been out in weather like this. It’s too cold and you’re still too frail. It isn’t good for you.’ Monica moved forward, oozing sympathy. ‘Why don’t you lie down for a while and have a little nap?’

‘Is it someone I know — or knew?’ I backed away before she reached me. ‘Not that I’d remember.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ she agreed and frowned with increasing concern. ‘Have you been having headaches lately? Or dizziness, or anything like that?’

‘No.’ I looked at Anderson. Shouldn’t questions like that be coming from him? Except that he already knew the answers.

He looked away, visibly distancing himself from the situation. He didn’t want to get involved. Too bad he already was.