Canapés for the Kitties (16 page)

Clarice screamed as it clawed frantically at her neckline. Had-I was head and shoulders out of the basket now, hurling a challenge that reverberated off the marble walls. Unusually, But-Known was right behind her. The dogs slipped around Professor Borley and skittered free into the hall.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE?” Plantagenet Sutton threw open his door, which was his mistake.

Clarice screamed again and hurled herself toward the sanctuary of the open door, so much closer than the lift. The dogs pursued her, in full cry.

Lorinda wrestled the cats back into the basket and jammed the lid shut with her heavy shoulder bag, then raced for the front door.

Plantagenet staggered backwards as Clarice rushed past him.

The dogs hesitated momentarily as Lorinda opened the front door, distracted by the sudden choice. Professor Borley swooped on them and gathered them up.

“I always knew I wasn't interested in keeping pets,” he said. “Now I know why.” The wriggling bodies under his arms struggled to escape.

The door across the hall slammed shut. Plantagenet Sutton was behind it – with Clarice and her rat. He wouldn't appreciate that. He was even less of a pet person than Borley, and Lorinda doubted that he cared much for children, either.

“You were at the window,” Lorinda accused Borley coldly. “You must have seen Clarice coming into the building. Why didn't you warn me?”

“I thought of it, but you had the cats in the basket and I thought it would be all right. They couldn't see the rat.”

“Haven't you ever heard of a sense of smell?” Lorinda bumped the trolley over the threshold and out into the High Street. “And the fact that animals have a much keener one than we do?”

“Well, yes, but I didn't think –”

“Precisely, Professor Borley!” Lorinda turned and walked away briskly, feeling that, for once, she had had the last word.

Chapter Twenty

“I suppose you are wondering why I have brought us all together like this,” Miss Petunia said slowly. Her heart was heavy as she surveyed her siblings: Lily, so strong and self-assured; Marigold, so dainty and delicate, with her bright blue eyes and red-gold hair. It was unbearable, unthinkable, that they should be threatened in any way.

“In your own private study,” Marigold breathed with awe. “Oh, Petunia, this is such an honour!” Her bright blue eyes danced around the room, taking in every aspect of the rarely visited
sanctum sanctorum.
“Oh, there's Daddy's precious amethyst-quartz lamp! I always wondered what had happened to it.”

“You'll tell us when you're ready,” Lily said with supreme confidence. “Mind if I borrow this copy of the Oxford English Dictionary? Had one of my own once; don't know whatever became of it.”

“Now settle down, girls.” Miss Petunia's fond smile turned a trifle wintry. “This is important. I want your full attention. In fact” – she paused portentously – “this may be the most important problem we have ever faced in our whole lives.”

“Oh, goody!” Marigold clapped her hands girlishly. “We've got a new case!”

“'Bout time we had another,” Lily said. “Been getting a bit boring lately. Important, eh? Lots of money involved?”

“Far more important than mere money,” Miss Petunia said solemnly.

“Ooooh!” Marigold's eyes grew round.

“What could that be?” Lily was sceptical.

“It is, literally,” Miss Petunia told them, “a matter of life and death. Ours.”

“Somebody threatening us again?” Lily clenched her fists. “We've dealt with that before. Soon see him off.”

“Ah, yes.” Miss Petunia removed her pince-nez and tapped them against her chin thoughtfully. “I fear it may come to that.”

“Oh, tell us about it,” Marigold said eagerly. “I'm dying to hear all about it. Only ...” Her delicate brow furrowed. “I just must make a telephone call first to ...” She blushed delicately. “To my new friend.”

Lily growled deep in her throat. “He's not good enough for you.”

“I fear it will not be possible to ring anyone.” Miss Petunia called them to order. “I have turned the telephones off. It is vital that I have your complete and undivided attention.”

“Petunia!” Marigold gasped. “You've never turned the telephones off before!”

“We have never faced such a crisis before.”

“That's a bit thick!” Lily growled. “Are you sure?”

Miss Petunia gave her the sort of look she rarely had occasion to turn upon one of her sisters, her cohorts. Like any miscreant, Lily quailed before it, but only momentarily.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “Lost my head.”

“I trust not,” Miss Petunia said, “Such a calamity is what we must now unite to prevent.”

“Oh, Petunia!” Marigold gave a dramatic little shiver. “You sound so solemn.”

“It is a solemn moment.” Miss Petunia bowed her head. “And one I never expected to see. However, it has arrived and we must deal with it as best we can.”

“But, Petunia, what is it?”

“Come on, woman.” Lily, as ever, was impatient. “Out with it!”

“I have considered this deeply for some time.” Miss Petunia replaced her pince-nez and looked from one sibling to the other. “I fear the conclusion I have reached is inescapable. But first, I must ask you some questions. Sit down.”

Lily thumped down instantly into the comfortable armchair. Marigold flitted about for another moment, poising herself to perch on the edge of the desk, but deterred by Miss Petunia's severe look, she settled on the footstool at Lily's feet instead.

“Yes, Petunia?” she breathed.

“Are both of you quite comfortable?” Miss Petunia asked.

“Fine,” Lily said gruffly. “Springs seem to be loosening up a bit though. Probably need reupholstering in a couple more years.”

“Oh, yes, this is –”

“Never mind the furniture!” Miss Petunia snapped. “Not now! I mean, are you comfortable within yourselves? Have you been feeling at all strange at times recently? Are you uneasy, perhaps unhappy, without being able to put your finger on any reason for it?”

Lily and Marigold exchanged long glances.

“Have you,” Miss Petunia persisted, “been having strange dreams lately?”

“Fancy your knowing that!” Marigold gasped.

“Nightmares, more like,” Lily admitted.

“Ah, yes.” Miss Petunia bowed her head. “Yes. It is, indeed, as I had feared.”

“Yes, nightmares!” Marigold agreed, going pale. “I keep dreaming that we're coming to the end of a case and – and then – everything starts going wrong. Terribly wrong.”

“Awful things start happening.” Lily stirred uneasily. “People we thought were our friends show themselves as enemies. People we thought we were helping aren't grateful. Every hand turns against us.”

“And we all die,” Miss Petunia said. “Horribly.”

“Petunia! You don't mean you're having them, too?” Marigold cried.

“Time to change our diet,” Lily said. “No more cheese at bedtime. Get more exercise. Good healthy fresh air will blow all those demons away.”

“I think not,” Miss Petunia said. “I fear the problem is far more deep-rooted than that. It strikes at the core of our very existence. Our continuing existence.”

“Oh, Petunia!” Marigold's blue eyes brimmed with the remembered tears of terrified awakenings. “What can you mean?”

“Got to put a stop to it,” Lily said gruffly. “Can't go on like this.”

“Can you stop it, Petunia?” Marigold's trusting eyes turned to her eldest sister, fount of all knowledge and support. “How?”

“Why?” Lily wanted to know. “Why should this be happening?”

“There, indeed, is the nub of the matter,” Miss Petunia said slowly. “I fear that our Chronicler – I will not call her our Creator, for, surely, we have always existed in a life of our own – has grown tired of us. At the moment, she is merely playing with the idea ... toying with us ... but I fear that we are coming to the parting of the ways.”

“Oh, Petunia!” A small shriek escaped Marigold. “Whatever shall we do?”

“We shall survive,” Miss Petunia said grimly. “At whatever cost.”

“Quite right.” Lily flexed her muscles.

“Not yet, dear.” Miss Petunia laid a soothing hand on her sister's arm. “First we must consider our options and come to a democratic decision.”

“Well said!” Lily straightened her back and glared around challengingly. “So what do we do?”

“Oh, dear!” Marigold burst into tears. “It's all so terrible! I can't bear it!”

“There, there, old thing.” Lily patted her heaving shoulders awkwardly. “Don't take on so. It will come out all right in the end.”

“I don't see how,” Marigold choked. “If our – our Chronicler – wants to get rid of us –”

“Someone else will take us up,” Miss Petunia said firmly.

“Oh, Petunia!” Marigold raised her tear-drenched face hopefully. “Do you really think so?”

“Our fans will insist on it,” Miss Petunia said confidently. “And our publishers,” she added as an afterthought. “We are far too popular to be allowed to ... to ... She found herself unable to complete the sentence; the enormity of the thought was too much for her. She closed her eyes briefly.

“Steady on,” Lily said. “It isn't going to happen. We won't let it.”'

“You're right, of course.” Dear Lily, always so supportive. Miss Petunia opened her eyes again and almost smiled. “There is no question but that a new Chronicler will emerge to continue the relating of our adventures. It's done all the time. Look at Miss Anastasia Mudd – she's carrying on stronger than ever.”

“Yes ...” Marigold looked doubtful. “But will it be that easy for us? Might not Lorinda Lucas fight the idea? And she
does
hold the copyright. Miss Mudd is a different case. They had to find a new Chronicler for her because her old one died.”

“Precisely,” Miss Petunia said.

“Oh, Petunia, what
can
you mean?” Marigold's voice quavered.

“As I have said, we are in a life-or-death situation. We must face that fact and prepare to act accordingly. If the choice is between our Chronicler and ourselves ...”

“Petunia!” Marigold buried her face in her hands.

“You mean – ?” Lily gave a long low whistle.

“Precisely,” Miss Petunia said again. “I fear we are left with no other choice in the matter. Lorinda Lucas

  
m

      u

        s

          t

           d

              i

                e
.”

She had never written that! Not one word of it!

The pages slid from Lorinda's nerveless fingers and slithered across the carpet with the dry rustling sound of a snake gliding through the undergrowth.

Had she?

Lorinda backed away from the scattered pages even as Had-I and But-Known advanced to inspect them.

No!
Her mouth shaped the word soundlessly.
No!
Something struck her in the back and she gave a muffled shriek before realizing that she had backed into the wall.

But-Known gave a final sniff at the papers and seemed to understand that she was needed elsewhere. She strolled over and brushed against Lorinda's ankles, offering comfort.

“Oh, But-But.” She bent and gathered the little calico into her arms, holding her close. But-Known twisted to stroke her head along Lorinda's chin. The little body throbbed and a soft deep purr rose like a benediction. Lorinda hugged her tighter.

I can't be going mad. Can I?

The dark terror lurking at the back of every human mind assailed her. She clung to But-Known and looked around her little study, hub of her new home, her peaceful ordered life. Was it all about to implode on her? Had the tenuous link with reality snapped? She earned her living from her imagination; was the mind that had given her that imagination now turning on her like some rogue cell battering at an immune system that was failing to contain it?

Her imagination – was that it?
Surely, she could not have read what she thought she had read. She was overtired, stressed – her imagination was playing tricks on her. Her imagination – not her mind. Just a little blip. Perhaps the onset of a nervous breakdown? No, that wasn't a very reassuring thought, either. Nor was the next thought she had.

She was going to have to read those pages again.
Make sure that they actually said what she thought they had said.

She forced herself to approach the scattered pages, fighting down the dire realization that she was in a no-win situation. It was bad if the pages remained as she had first read them; it would be worse if they didn't.

“All right, move.” She shifted Had-I, who was sitting on two of the pages, putting But-Known down beside her. The pages shook only slightly in her hands as, carefully looking at nothing but the page numbers, she put them in the right order. Then she retreated to sit at her desk and stare into space for a long moment before she looked at them again.

Yes, they were the same.
Unexpectedly, she was aware of a feeling of relief, mingled with a growing anger.

This was some sort of elaborate joke.
It had to be. And it wasn't funny. But who would do such a thing? And how had they known – ?

She rose abruptly and crossed to the filing cabinet. It looked the same. One didn't tuck a betraying scrap of paper into the crack of a drawer or paste a hair across it in ordinary life. Only in the sort of books she and her colleagues wrote – and any one of them could imitate each other's style for a few pages.

She pulled out her Final Chapters file and immediately knew that someone had gone through it. The gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses were missing.