No Cooperation from the Cat (17 page)

And then the police arrived for a second round of questioning. With Martha hot on their heels.

“Mother! What does this mean? What are all these policemen doing here?”

“Please, Martha…” She was all I needed right now.

“I saw the police cars downstairs and I knew—I just
knew
—they’d be up here with you again. There’s even a police boat in the dock. Oh, Mother! What have you done now?”

That tore it! Good old tactful Martha. I saw a couple of officers exchange glances and then look at me with renewed interest. All the publicity for the revival of
Arsenic and Old Lace
had put people in mind of possible homicidal tendencies in the older generation. I could see them deciding that, if they were offered elderberry wine, they would accept it, but not drink it. In fact, they would bag it and take it away for forensic testing.

Evangeline ran a hand over her still windswept hair, trying to smooth it into some sort of order, and I knew she had caught the nuances of the situation, too. The vengeful look she slanted at Martha hinted of retribution when there were no uniformed witnesses around.

I must say I didn’t blame her. I felt pretty much the same myself. I had brought that child up to the best of my ability. Obviously, my best had been none too good.

But Martha was not totally insensitive, just tactless and socially clumsy. She fell silent as the atmosphere finally got through to her and looked around uneasily, trying to decide how to retrieve the situation.

I willed her to just remain silent. She’d said enough.

“Um … would anyone like some coffee?” Jocasta offered tentatively.

The officers consulted each other in eye contact. They weren’t keen on accepting anything in this flat at the moment. On the other hand, it wasn’t alcoholic and they, too, were chilled almost to numbness from the icy wind blowing along the river.

“If everyone is having some…” one of them said cautiously. I knew they would wait until we had ingested ours safely before drinking theirs.

“I’m not really—” Evangeline began.

“We’d love to have a refill.” I cut across her, taking pity on the officers. It wasn’t so long ago that we were ourselves freezing after being out in that bitter cold.

I was just beginning to relax when I noticed that one of them was eyeing Martha strangely. He muttered something to his colleagues and they, too, surveyed Martha with renewed interest. Unhealthy interest.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “In the St. John’s Wood nick. Capital charge, wasn’t it?”

“I was
not
under arrest,” Martha said coldly. “I was merely helping the police with their inquiries.”

Sure you were, sunshine,
was written all over their faces.
That’s what they all say
.

“More coffee, anyone?” I tried to distract them, but only succeeded in transferring their attention back to me.

Like mother, like daughter?
We were now right up there with the Borgia family.

It was so unfair! Just because we had unwittingly been involved in a murder or two since we arrived in this country. Surely that didn’t make us prime suspects in this case. Although I remembered reading that the person who discovered the body was always suspect. But Evangeline had been there, too. She was keeping a low profile, I noticed.

If we were likely suspects, what about Tom and Mick? They had left shortly after Teddy. And, if they had discovered him lurking downstairs, ready to continue with his grievances…? Their tempers were already frayed by all that time in the lift with him. They’d had no sleep, they were sick of his whining—who could blame them if they snapped? Certainly not me.

Unfortunately, the police could. And would.

Martha slammed a spoon down on the table. I wished she hadn’t. They were all looking at her again.

Martha, I realised, had also taken her departure shortly after Teddy. Martha, short-tempered, exhausted, in no mood to suffer fools gladly—or at all. If she had encountered Teddy … shoved him aside—into the water—and continued on her way, not looking back to see if he could swim … I tried to suppress the thought, in case it might escape into the atmosphere and be caught by one of the police.

They couldn’t consider irritation a sufficient motive, could they? Of course not, they’d need something stronger than that. I took a deep breath and felt better—not one of us had a really strong motive for wanting to get rid of Teddy. It shouldn’t take the police long to discover that.

A warm throbbing bundle of fur brushed across my ankles. Cho-Cho!

My motive. Now I never had to worry about Teddy taking her back.

Would the police believe that someone could care enough for her cat to murder to keep her?

Why not? Murders were committed for miniscule sums of money, for a few hours’ supply of drugs, because some inane look or remark was considered disrespectful, for reasons most ordinary citizens would not consider credible. Why not for the possession of a faithful loving companion?

Another thought I tried to sweep out of my consciousness in case it was picked up by the men sitting at the table.

“Ron!” Evangeline’s glad cry roused me from my forebodings. She started for the door, looking as though she would hurl herself into the newcomer’s arms, were they not already laden with a stack of cake boxes.

“Sustenance, lads,” Ron said, dumping the boxes on the table by the coffeepot. “It’s cold, bleak work hauling bodies out of the Thames in this weather.”

“It’s bleak in any weather,” one of them replied. The others were too busy opening the boxes to bother replying.

Doughnuts, lovely fragrant doughnuts. Dozens of them: jelly doughnuts, frosted, coconut encrusted, with cream and jam, chocolate speckled, cinnamon and sugar dusted, every variety except plain. Quite right, too. A good blast of sugar was what we all needed after what we had been through.

“And, in case any of you ladies are on a diet—” Ron pulled a large bag from an inside pocket. “The tasting menu. There’s a new shop in Upper Street. I thought you might like to sample their wares.”

Shaking out the bag into a bowl, Martha cooed with delight to discover doughnut holes. Small delicious little balls with all the attractions of their larger companions.

But Ron had underestimated us. Evangeline had already thrust an arm into the melee and emerged with a coconut cruller. I had snagged a luscious lemon-filled doughnut. Martha and Jocasta, lagging behind, settled for the dainty holes. They had never had the practice we’d had on studio sets when the tea trolley was wheeled in.

“Ron, you’re a darling!” Evangeline mumbled, her mouth full and her eyes already scanning the offerings for her next foray.

“You know these people?” the chief officer asked Ron.

“Old, old friends,” Ron said. “Feels as though I’ve known them a thousand years … for my sins.”

“And…?” the unspoken question rested.

“And…” Ron had no trouble interpreting the silence. “I’ll stand bail for them, I suppose.” He sighed deeply. “Completely bonkers, but no harm in them. Theatre people, you know.”

“Right.” Apparently that explained everything.

Evangeline’s eyes flashed but, before she could rise to the defence of our profession, there was a sudden opening in the crowd around the goodies. She dived in and surfaced triumphantly with a long doughnut, split and dripping with cream and jam. Bismarks, we used to call them, who knows why.

I eyed it enviously, then circled the crew waiting my chance for another lucky dip. Meanwhile …

“Martha—” I called over my shoulder. “More coffee and a cup for Ron. Especially for Ron!”

There!
I elbowed in and fished out another jelly doughnut, raspberry jam this time.

“Apart from which,” Ron continued blithely, taking his coffee black and latching on to a handful of holes, “there’s no reason to worry about them. It’s unfortunate that they discovered a corpse on their doorstep, as it were. But they’re just innocent bystanders. There’s no way they can be held accountable because some derelict decided to end it all in the Thames near them.”

Uh-oh!
Evangeline and I exchanged glances.

“Ron…” I said timidly, after he had moved apart from the others and was getting comfortable with his coffee and doughnuts.

“Ron … I think we need to speak to you for a minute.”

Chapter Eighteen

I swear, I’ll never get used to it. The way that man can change in the blink of an eye from Mr. Nice Guy to a bloodhound of the Torquemada strain. Faster than an actor getting into a role when the cameras start turning. And he didn’t have to be so nasty about it. We were telling him, weren’t we?

“Do you mean to tell me—?” The fact that we had come forward voluntarily and helpfully cut no ice with him. “That the victim spent the night with you?”

“Certainly not!” Evangeline took violent umbrage. “We didn’t even know he was here. He spent the night trapped in the lift with Tom and Mick.”

“And who…?” He was dangerously calm. “Are Tom and Mick?”

“They’re Banquo Fitzfothergill’s closest friends and members of his team.”

“Fitzfothergill? You mean, the Heartbroken Hero? The Tragic Explorer?”

“Oh, so the tabloids are on to the story already.” It wasn’t a difficult deduction for Evangeline when Ron began speaking in headlines like that.

“What connection did the victim have with them?”

“None, really,” I said. “He was here to visit Cho-Cho.”

“Cho-Cho?” Ron looked thoroughly confused, although he had been feeding her the least sticky nibbles from his doughnuts since he’d sat down.

“Cho-Cho-San.” I indicated her helpfully. “She used to belong to him, but Frella was, um, sort of allergic to her.” That was putting it mildly, but the waters were getting muddy enough without any further explaining. “So he gave her to me.”

“Who is Frella?” The doomed note in his voice suggested that he might suspect.

“Frella Boynton, the director. He’s her husband. Rather,” I clarified, “he is at the moment. I think he was about to be an ex-husband.”

“Frella Boynton.” Ron eyed us with distaste. “Don’t you two know any ordinary people?”

“Of course, we do. Lots of them.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of one right now.

“What do you mean, victim?” Evangeline zeroed in on a more salient point. “Wasn’t it an accident?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. It’s for the autopsy to decide.”

“Oh, please,” Evangeline wheedled, going all kittenish. “You must have some sort of an idea. You can give us a teensy little hint.”

“Well…” Ron looked around uncomfortably, but no one was paying any attention. “It looks as though he had a big lump on the back of his head.”

“Struck from behind!” Evangeline pounded. “And then thrown in the water.”

“It could still be an accident,” he said unconvincingly.

“When?” She was relentless. “When he left here yesterday afternoon?” I knew she was lining up suspects from the mass exodus that had followed almost immediately. Practically everybody. Including Martha.

“Now that really is impossible to tell. I couldn’t even guess. The autopsy will narrow it down.”

“But you can—” Evangeline began.

“Right.” He moved back. “Enough of the private consultation. You’re going to have to tell the others. They’ll have some questions of their own.”

*   *   *

Questions, questions, questions. I don’t know how the police ever get any work done. They’re too busy asking questions all day.

By the time they had departed, the sun had gone down, the lights of the city were gleaming below, and we were all limp and exhausted. Drained, utterly drained—and tomorrow we were going to have to report to some outpost of officialdom to read through our statements and sign them. Tomorrow didn’t sound as though it was going to be worth getting up for.

Meanwhile, there was tonight to get through.

“We could ring up for seats and go to a show in town,” Evangeline suggested listlessly.

“Or we could jump off the terrace,” I countered with equal lack of enthusiasm.

“You’re both too exhausted to do anything more today.” Jocasta overruled us. “I’ll thaw out some chicken soup from the freezer and make hot buttered toast.”

“Sounds good,” I said, more to encourage her than anything.

“And for dessert—” Jocasta looked inspired. “We’ll have something luxuriously gooey. How about a slice of marble cake, drizzled with raspberry liqueur, with blended chocolate and vanilla ice cream on top and a thick chocolate sauce over all?”

“That
does
sound good.” Evangeline showed the first spark of animation in hours. “Comfort food, just what we need. That river patrol can moan about pulling bodies out of the Thames, but it’s no fun discovering them, either.”

“No…” Jocasta gave a long shuddering sigh. “Especially when it’s someone you know.” She sighed again and I suspected that she had picked up on the point that Evangeline seemed to have dismissed as unimportant. Jocasta needed comfort as much as we did.

“Good old comfort food,” I echoed. We were all going to need a lot of it.

Heartbroken Hero
 …
Tragic Explorer
 … It didn’t bode well. If that story had been leaked to the tabloids already, it meant that the pressure to rush Banquo’s book into print had begun.

And the one facing the most pressure was going to be Jocasta. All other considerations aside, the basic unpalatable truth was that she was employed by the publishing company—and not by Martha.

If any project was going to be relegated to the back burner, it was the cookbook.

Martha was not going to be pleased.

My forebodings redoubled. Tomorrow was definitely not going to be a day worth getting up for.

*   *   *

Oh, how right I was.

It began slowly, almost reasonably. Tom arrived by himself and began unloading what seemed to be a vanful of photographic equipment from the lift.

“We’ve settled on a compromise,” he announced. “There’s no reason we can’t work on both projects at the same time. Most of my work was done on the expedition, so I can set up here and get some preliminary shots for the cookbook while the others—”