Canapés for the Kitties (30 page)

The sudden silence was so peaceful no one wanted to disturb it. There were faint exhalations of relief and a few throbbing purrs as they sank limply into the nearest chairs and the cats found welcoming laps.

“Coffin Court ...” Freddie mused aloud eventually. “That will be Clarice's doing, I suspect.”

“She's the only one small enough and agile enough to scramble up over the arch and get at the lettering,” Lorinda agreed. “Also, she has the best motive. Gordie insulted her and this will cause him maximum annoyance and extra work.”

“It's always a mistake to antagonize a clever child.” Macho spoke with the full weight of his schoolmastering experience behind him. “It's better to have them with you than against you. They have ways of getting their own back that would never occur to unwary adults. Gordie will be lucky if she stops there.”

“I'm not sure I begrudge her a little revenge,” Freddie said. “That was a very nasty accusation for Gordie to make.”

“And a highly unlikely one,” Macho added. “Clarice has never appeared to be a child who was fascinated by machinery. Fooling about with the lift isn't Clarice's sort of game. She's far more interested in trying to manipulate poor Rhylla.”

“I've seen her with those black-felt marking pens,” Lorinda said. “I hope Gordie hasn't noticed. Or that he doesn't put two and two together. He could give Clarice a very bad time.”

“And vice versa,” Macho said. “He'd better be very careful about taking her on. She's younger, faster and, I suspect, a great deal smarter than he is. She could teach him a trick or two.”

“Tricks ...” Freddie looked at them. “Do you suppose Clarice could be behind what's been happening to us?”

“Not with tequila involved,” Macho pointed out. “No wine merchant would risk losing his license by selling spirits to an under-aged child. It would mean prosecution. And where would she get that much money?”

“If an adult bought the tequila – a case of it, as you said before.” Freddie was reluctant to relinquish the idea. “Clarice could slip into your house and plant the bottles, or pour drinks out of them down the sink and no one would notice.”

“All other considerations apart” – Macho gave her an old-fashioned look – “if you were up to no good, would you choose Clarice for an accomplice?”

“Perhaps not,” Freddie admitted, after a moment's reflection. “Not unless I were Rhylla – and I can't see her doing any of this.”

“No,” Lorinda agreed. “It's too ... vicious.”

“The cap fits Plantagenet Sutton to perfection. Only ...” Macho hesitated. “I suppose he is dead? It's not some kind of double bluff...?”

“Believe me,” Freddie said, “he isn't going to jump out of the woodwork at the last minute, tearing off a false beard. This isn't a Hitchcock film or one of Dame Agatha's plots.”

“We saw the body.” Lorinda shuddered. “He was dead, all right.”

“All wrong ...” Macho hesitated again before venturing a new theory. “Of course, Dorian has a pretty warped sense of humour. Look at that dummy on top of the bonfire. I believe Dorian would have stood by and not said anything, even if someone risked their life trying to rescue it.”

There was a thoughtful silence. It was not a theory that could be refuted instantly.

“Dorian persuaded us all to move here,” Lorinda said. “Straight into his clutches.” Macho nodded.

“But why should he hate us so much?” Freddie asked. “It's not as though we were more successful than he is. We're all pretty much on a level pegging; doing well, nothing spectacular, but comfortably situated.”

“Who knows what might upset Dorian?” Macho was still looking on the dark side. “He's been going for a long time now and readers can be fickle. Perhaps they're tiring of Field Marshal Sir Oliver Aldershot and turning to newer creations – like ours. Although,” he added plaintively, “what with the political and the historical perspective changing, I suspect Macho Magee may have just about run his course, too. So why pick on me?”

“Perhaps because you're young enough to start a new series,” Freddie said. “And he's out of ideas.”

“But Karla isn't,” Lorinda said quietly.

“Right!” Freddie glanced at her approvingly. “The problem is that Karla still has Jack attached and in line for a half share of her copyrights in the event of a divorce. The bonfire ploy didn't finish him off but ...” She paused significantly. “He was at Coffers Court when Ondine died. It's possible that the lift trap had been set for him, but Ondine fell into it – literally – before Karla had a chance to send Jack into it.”

“I'm not so sure that Dorian is all that keen to link up with Karla any more – if he ever was –” Lorinda objected. “Now that he's had a chance to, um, see more of Karla, in action as it were.”

“He's gone off the boil!” Freddie said. “Not that I could ever imagine Dorian
on
the boil. If he lived on the other side of the house, the way I do, he'd be sending Karla down the lift shaft.”

“And that's another possibility,” Macho said.

Roscoe sat up in his lap and gave a prodigious yawn. “By the way” – that reminded Lorinda – “I hope you're prepared to find another bottle of tequila when you go back.”

“Yes.” Macho stroked Roscoe's throat. “I thought of that. He couldn't get out on his own. Someone let him out. If only you could talk, eh, old boy?”

Had-I decided to talk. She bounced off Lorinda's lap and launched into a short tirade to the effect that heroic cats who had fearlessly battled and seen off marauding canine invaders were entitled to some reward. And pretty quickly, thank you.

But-Known dropped to her side and agreed. Roscoe brightened and looked around hopefully. He'd done his share, too.

“Yes ... yes.” Lorinda led the way to the kitchen. “You've been very good. Very brave. Very clever.”

The others followed her. Roscoe, still in Macho's arms, was half singing, half purring encouragement. He stopped only to yawn again. Macho yawned with him.

“Sorry, it's been a long day,” Macho apologized. “Very long. I think it's time we went home.”

“Let's sleep on it,” Freddie agreed, “and meet for elevenses in the morning.”

“Come round to my place.” Macho stifled another yawn, while Roscoe uninhibitedly gave way to his.

“Have this for Roscoe.” Lorinda gave him a salmon-and-trout from the diminishing pile of gourmet cat food. “I think it's his favourite.” She peeled the top off chicken-and-game for Had-I and But-Known.

“See you not too early in the morning then,” Freddie agreed, opening the back door.

Suddenly, capriciously, Had-I decided that freedom was even more enticing than gourmet cat food. She darted between Freddie's feet, nearly knocking her down, and bolted into the night.

“Oh, no!” Lorinda slammed the door just before But-Known could follow.

“No, you don't!” Freddie helpfully caught up But-Known. “You don't really want to go out. Stay here and eat.”

“Now I'll have to unfasten the catflap so that Had-I can get back in,” Lorinda said resignedly. “And But-Known can get out. I was planning to leave it shut tonight, so I knew where they were.”

“You can't win,” Freddie said cheerfully. “Not with cats.”

Macho took his responsibilities as a host seriously. He had been out early to the bakery and jam doughnuts, cherry muffins and Danish pastries were set out on the table. Macho filled the cream jug and placed it beside them, then looked around vaguely, still holding the cream jug.

“Roscoe's not back yet,” he muttered.

“Mine have been gone all morning,” Lorinda said.

“I know. Roscoe went out with me and I saw him link up with your girls. They went off together up the hill.”

Freddie helped herself to a Danish and munched on it moodily. Lorinda noticed that there were dark circles under her eyes, but supposed she didn't look too well herself. She had spent a lot of half-wakeful hours agonizing over what she might have done to incur Dorian's enmity. She could think of nothing. Nor could she imagine what Freddie and Macho might have done. Presumably, they had done their own soul-searching during the dark hours, they didn't look as though they had done any sleeping.

“Have you seen the facade at Coffers Court this morning?” Macho filled their cups and sat down.

“I've been working,” Freddie said.

Lorinda shook her head, hoping it would be assumed that she had been working, too. In fact, she was once again unable to bring herself to go into her study. She had pottered around, promising herself that she would get some work done in the afternoon.

“It's a mess.” Macho spoke with some relish. “Gordie hasn't cleaned it up properly at all, he's just smeared the black paint into a great big blot. You can still read the graffiti and the bas-relief lettering is filthy, even the letters that hadn't been scribbled over before. Dorian will be furious.”

“Oh, good.” Freddie cheered up a bit. “Anything that annoys Dorian is going to get my support. I must stroll past and admire it later.”

“Gordie will probably be up there doing more cleaning by then,” Macho said. “It's my guess he only did that much last night with Dorian standing over him. As soon as Dorian left, he packed it in for the night and I, for one, don't blame him.”

“But Dorian will,” Lorinda said. “Poor Gordie, he didn't know what he was getting into. It must have seemed like such a good job offer at the time.”

“Gordie and Betty both,” Freddie said. “Although I'm happy to see that she's showing signs of rebellion.”

“Have another muffin,” Macho urged hospitably.

“I haven't finished this one yet,” Lorinda said. “But I will have some more coffee. No, don't get up. I'll get it myself. Anyone else?”

“Well, while you're up ...” Freddie held out her cup.

“Oh ...” Something in the distance caught Lorinda's eye as she passed the window. “Here come the cats now.”

“Just in time for food,” Freddie noted. “You can always trust the little blighters for that.”

“They ... they seem to have something in their mouths.” Lorinda strained her eyes to see what they were carrying. Had-I was in the lead, something pale and gossamer fluttering from both sides of her mouth. “It looks as though they've been catching butterflies.”

“Butterflies? At this time of the year?” Lorinda heard the scrape of chairs being pushed back from the table, then Freddie and Macho were behind her.

“They've got something, all right – and probably something they shouldn't have.” Macho went to the back door and opened it. “What have you got there, you little wretches?”

Roscoe bounded forward. It was his house and his human in the doorway. He carried the biggest butterfly of all in his mouth. Only ... Freddie was right: it wasn't a butterfly.

“No ...” Lorinda whispered faintly. “Please ... no.”

“Put it down, Roscoe.” Macho's voice shook. “Let Daddy see what you have there.”

Had-I and But-Known brushed past Roscoe, rushing to Lorinda with high-pitched little sing-song cries of triumph. They laid their trophies at her feet.

“Oh, no!” She covered her eyes. “Tell me it isn't true!”

“Sorry,” Freddie said. “I'd like to be able to tell you they've raided the fishmonger's stall, but I'd be lying. The last time I saw fish like that, they were swimming around the aquarium in Dorian's study.”

“We're in trouble,” Macho said bleakly.

“You sure are,” Freddie agreed cheerfully.

“We might be able to save them!” Lorinda stoppered the sink and ran cold water into it. She scooped up the tiny bodies – over Had-I's indignant protests – and tossed them into the water, where they floated inert.

“It's worth a try.” Macho tossed in Roscoe's prize. For a moment, the wide graceful fins seemed to flutter and swoop ... then it flipped over, belly up, and they realized it had been an illusion created by the ripples of the water.

“They're goners, I'm afraid.” Macho absently wiped his hands on the nearby dish towel.

“They felt ... strange.” Lorinda looked around for something to dry her own hands on, then wincingly accepted the dish towel. “I don't think they're ... fresh kills.”

“How can you tell?” Freddie peered into the sink curiously. “Do fish get rigor mortis?”

“I've never had occasion to research that,” Macho said with dignity. “Fish have never figured in a Macho Magee story. However, in Venice, with all that water ...” He joined her at the sink. “Mmm ... they do look a bit odd.”

“I'll tell you what else is odd.” Freddie had picked up But-Known and was cuddling her. “The cats' paws aren't wet. Not the way they would be if they'd been dipping them in the tank trying to scoop out the fish.”

“You're right.” Macho bent and checked Roscoe's dry forelegs. “Then how did they get hold of those fish?”

“I can't imagine how they got near them in the first place,” Lorinda said. “It can only have been over Dorian's dead bod –”

They looked at each other, dropped the cats and charged for the door.

By the fourth time they had rung the bell, they had got their breath back after the dash up the hill. They rang again; still no one answered. They tried the door, but it was locked. They stepped back and surveyed the front of the house: the windows were all closed.

“No,” Freddie said. “I never believed in all those locked room mysteries. The cats got in and out. Let's try around back.”

The French windows leading from the drawing room to the terrace were ajar just about the width of a cat's body.

“There we are!” But, having been proved right, Freddie became oddly hesitant. She approached the window frame and rapped on it gingerly. “Dorian – ?” she called. “Dorian? Are you there?”