No Cooperation from the Cat (12 page)

Another blast of lightning and thunder endorsed her invitation. It hadn’t seemed possible, but the rain had become even heavier. You could barely distinguish individual drops, it was all one great continuous downpour.

“I suppose so.” Martha was nearly as reluctant. She looked around restlessly, then moved closer to the cooking implements, as though they gave her comfort. Like Jocasta. I suspected we were in for a marathon cooking session.

“But—” Martha picked up the flour sifter, then flung it down again. “There’s no flour!” She glared at Jocasta.

“Why don’t you try your butterless, eggless, milkless cake, darling?” I suggested.

“Because, Mother—” She barely refrained from grinding her teeth. “We have butter, we have eggs, we have milk. What we don’t have is flour—and you need flour for practically everything! Even if it’s only a little bit of flour!” She sent Jocasta another poisonous look; forgiveness was not going to be earned easily.

Jocasta shifted uneasily, fully aware of this. The next flash of lightning did not seem quite so bright and the thunder took a few more seconds before it sounded. That part of the storm was moving upriver, but the rain looked as though it was settling in for the night.

So was the wind. A wild gust hit the windows with what I swear was hurricane force, driving the rain into them like daggers.

“I hope those windows hold,” Evangeline said.

I nodded agreement, not voicing what I really thought: I hoped the building held. I’d distinctly felt it begin swaying. And even though modern high-rise buildings are designed to accommodate natural phenomena, that meant earthquakes, didn’t it?

Too many pictures rose in my mind of areas devastated by typhoons, tornadoes … and hurricanes.

I didn’t even want to think about what the river might be doing. Presumably, they had raised the Thames Barrier against tidal surges—but we were all in the lap of the gods. It wasn’t very comfortable there.

“That does it!” Martha glared at the windows as though the storm was a personal insult. “There’s no chance of getting any supermarket to deliver now.”

“They couldn’t,” Jocasta said. “No vans will be allowed out on the road in this. It would probably violate all sorts of clauses in their insurance policies.”

It also wouldn’t do much good for any drivers foolhardy enough to attempt it. Evangeline and I exchanged glances. How nice that Martha and Jocasta were so concerned about their cooking that it hadn’t occurred to them to worry about their basic survival. Nice for them, that is.

“Actually…” Jocasta got a faraway look in her eyes. “I wonder…?” She headed back into the supplies cupboard.

It was just as well there were no windows in the cupboard. The next flash of lightning was blindingly bright and Jocasta’s disposition was nervous enough. The subsequent crash of thunder wouldn’t have helped either. The storm hadn’t moved away; it was stuck overhead, circling us relentlessly.

“Found it!” Jocasta staggered under the weight of the cardboard carton she was carrying. “The movers brought it up here with the rest of the kitchen gear I brought from home. I thought they might have.” She dropped it on the table and stood back, beaming triumphantly.

“What is it?” Martha frowned at it. I didn’t like the look of it myself.

“It’s Melisande’s demonstration equipment. She kept all the basic ingredients in it, ready to use. So all she had to do was unpack them and measure them out—all
I
had to do—” she corrected. “Then I had to measure everything out for her. As I recall it, the flour canister should still be about two-thirds full.” She lifted a round medium-sized tin from the carton.

“Wonderful!” Martha pounced on it and twisted the lid off. “It is! We have enough to carry us through today.”

“What else is there?” Always curious—not to say nosy—Evangeline was peering into the carton.

“Sugar—” Jocasta lifted out a smaller canister. “Olive oil for sautéing the mushrooms and shallots—” A smallish bottle was deposited on the table.

“What’s in there that’s so heavy?”

“Oh, that.” Jocasta reached in and, brushing a few other items aside, wrestled it out with some difficulty and set it on the table. “A camping gas stove with a spare gas cylinder. Melisande never knew what conditions she might encounter, so she always brought this along to have in reserve. She even had to use it in a couple of places that didn’t have their own cooker.”

“You can make a mushroom quiche on this?” Evangeline looked at the two gas rings incredulously.

“Of course not. If there wasn’t an oven available”—Jocasta took out a packet of basmati rice and a tin of chopped tomatoes in basil and herbs—“she went to plan B—which was a mushroom risotto. You can cook that on the stove top.”

Risotto!
The word made my mouth water. In weather like this, that was just what was needed. Only, perhaps, beefed up a bit. I drifted over to the freezer and removed a pound of mince and a packet of peas and put them on the draining board until we got round to thawing them in the microwave, then went back to the table.

Martha had been too impatient to wait any longer. She had used the little scoop in the canister to transfer an appropriate amount into the flour sifter which she was wielding over a bowl.

Not too successfully apparently. She was frowning at the result.

“What’s the matter, dear?” I asked.

“It doesn’t look right.” Martha transferred her frown to Jocasta. “Have you mixed semolina in with this?”

“Certainly not!” Jocasta was indignant. “Why would I do a thing like that? Let me see!” She moved closer to Martha and peered into the flour sifter.

“How odd!” I closed in on Martha’s side and looked, too.

“You see, Mother, there is something wrong, isn’t there? It looks lumpy. No, not lumpy—grainy.”

Our fingers met, then danced around each other, as we all simultaneously dipped into the sifter to take out a pinch of the flour and study it more closely.

“There’s definitely more here than flour.” I rubbed it between my fingers and sniffed. Odourless, so far as I could tell.

“Melisande didn’t have a secret ingredient in this, did she?” Martha had done the same, obviously with the same results.

“Not that I know of.” Jocasta was just as puzzled. “And”—she forestalled Martha’s next question—“she didn’t rub in the shortening in advance. There might be a long time between engagements where she needed her own supplies and it would go stale.”

“Hmm…” Martha cautiously put the stuff on the tip of her tongue and tested the taste. She frowned and took a bit more from the sifter and rolled it around her taste buds.

“Mother—” She paled visibly. “Mother, I think it’s—” She tried one more pinch and looked ill.

“Darling, be careful—”

“Mother, it’s ground almonds!”

“Are you sure?” I tried a pinch myself and, now that she had identified it, I could taste it. “Ground almonds—and Melisande ate the last piece of quiche with a crust made with ground almonds mixed into the flour!”

“Long-distance murder!” Evangeline said with relish. “Anyone who knew Melisande’s habits could have tampered with her kit and then sat back and waited. Or gone off to Timbuktu, Glastonbury … or the North Pole!”

Chapter Twelve

“No-o-o-o…” Jocasta wailed. “You can’t think that! You don’t understand. You don’t know him. He’s idealistic, brave, noble—”

Evangeline and I just looked at each other. She was off again.

“He’s kind and courageous—” Jocasta went on listing his virtues. It didn’t sound as though she was going to run out of them anytime soon.

“He always thinks of others. He—”

“Let me see that bottle of olive oil!” Martha cut across her. “I don’t like the look of it!”

“Oh!” Jocasta stopped abruptly and looked at the small bottle critically before passing it over to Martha. “It does seem a little—different.”

“I know this brand.” Martha frowned at the bottle. “It’s usually a darker colour than this.”

“It seems to be a little lighter at the bottom.” Or was I imagining it? “Doesn’t it?”

“There’s definitely something wrong about it.” Martha unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the bottle. Nothing. She put her forefinger over the opening and upended the bottle swiftly and put it down on the table. She sniffed her finger, and then tasted gingerly with the tip of her tongue.

“Well?” Evangeline demanded. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure…” Martha licked her finger, a thoughtful look in her eyes.

“Something … some other oil mixed in with it, I think. Odourless … almost tasteless.”

“Almost…?” Evangeline prodded.

Martha upended the bottle again and took another taste, then poured a small amount into a saucer and studied it before tasting again.

“I can’t be absolutely sure,” she said. “This should really go somewhere for a professional analysis. But, if I had to guess—I’d say walnut oil…”

“Walnut!” Evangeline looked at the innocuous-seeming bottle. “More nuts! Someone wanted to be very sure. If the ground almond in the pie crust didn’t get her, the walnut oil would.”

“That’s terrible!” I shuddered. “That’s evil!”

“You see?” Jocasta said. “Banquo would never do a thing like that. He’s too fine, too decent—”

“Stop worrying about Banquo and start worrying about yourself!” Evangeline snapped. “You sautéed the mushrooms and shallots in that oil. You handed her the pie crust mixture.”

“And,” I added helpfully, “Edytha has already begun hinting to Banquo that you were in some way responsible for Melisande’s death. By negligence, if nothing worse.”

You couldn’t fault the stage effects around this place. As though on cue, the lightning flashed, the thunder crashed, the electricity flickered and … the doorbell rang.

We all jumped, stared at each other, and looked down the hallway as fearfully as though Beelzebub himself might be standing outside our door.

“Not Teddy,” I moaned. It was the worst fate I could think of. “Oh, please, not Teddy.” Did the building sway again—or was it me?

“In this weather?” Evangeline was incredulous. “Only a suicidal moron would go out in weather like this.”

“That’s Teddy,” I said glumly.

The doorbell rang again, not with the imperative urgency Banquo used, but faintly, with an almost pleading note.

“Teddy.” Now I was certain.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Martha started down the hallway. “I’ll answer it.” I stared after her, wishing I could tell her not to—and she’d obey.

“Nigel!” Martha’s startled cry rang out as a figure stumbled past her, reeled down the hall into the kitchen, and collapsed into the nearest chair. He slumped there, grey-faced, shaking and wheezing.

“Nigel, are you ill?” I asked anxiously.

“Nigel, is anything wrong?” Jocasta asked at the same time.

He shook his head. Which question was he answering?

“Nigel—” Evangeline spoke in her take-no-prisoners tone. “Have you just walked up eight flights of stairs?”

“Six … teen…” Nigel gasped. “Two … flights … per … floor…” His head drooped again and he leaned forward to rest his arms on the table and wheeze some more.

“A glass of water!” Jocasta rushed to get it.

“Brandy!” Evangeline moved in the other direction at a statelier pace.

“Both!” Martha said. “Water first—” She took the glass from Jocasta and set it down in front of Nigel. He fumbled for it weakly.

“But why?” Jocasta asked.

“Storm …
gasp
 … overhead…” He managed a gulp of the water. “Wanted … make sure …
gasp
 … all safe … up here.”

“I mean, why didn’t you take the lift?”

“Ah…” Nigel took another gulp of water and began to sound more like his old self. “Same thing … storm overhead … electricity supply … never too … reasonable. Couldn’t … risk … getting trapped in it … if…”

The lights flickered and went out.

“You see?”

“But you’re here. You could have made it.”

“Didn’t know that, did I?”

“Never mind that!” Martha was exasperated. “Do we have any candles around this place?”

“I’m not sure.” I tried to think. “There may be a couple of scented ones in the bathroom cabinet. Nothing too practical.”

Now, when we could have used it, the lightning was moving off into the distance again. The rain remained, beating against the windows more heavily and noisily than ever.

“
Braak-erk-erkk
 … large areas of London are without power as…” Jocasta’s little radio burst into sudden life, startling us all.

“Perhaps all the electricity hasn’t gone out completely,” Martha said hopefully. “The radio is still working.”

“It’s battery-operated.” Jocasta was backing into the room, holding a flickering glass-enclosed candle which gave off the faint sickly scent of some unidentifiable bloom.

“… lightning strikes at power plants …
erkk
-
erkk
 … overhead cables brought down by high winds …
brakk
-
erkk
 … flood warnings are being issued for …
erkk
-
erkk
…” The static was getting worse, cutting in every time the lightning flared.

“… Emergency crews are working to restore power but …
brrkk
-
brrkk
—” The radio erupted into staccato bursts of static, then went dead.

“Oh, dear,” Jocasta said. “I’m afraid the batteries have gone. I can’t remember when I put them in, but it was some time ago.”

“Don’t you have any spare?” Evangeline was impatient.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I meant to get some but … I haven’t been out much lately.” She hadn’t been out at all; she had been lying low in here.

“Never mind,” I said. “The radio can’t tell us anything we don’t know—or can’t guess.”

“And it’s not quite accurate information, either.” Nigel was reviving by the minute. “Emergency crews can’t do much until the storm is over. Work inside the power stations, of course, but all this lightning could knock the power out again as soon as they restore it.”

“I could only find three candles and we’re already using one,” Jocasta said anxiously. “I do hope the storm is over soon.”

“Not bloody likely,” Evangeline quoted as the thunder and lightning moved closer again. “We’ll use them one at a time and make this an early night, I think.”