‘Actually, Freddie outsells you in my shop!’ Pushed too far, Jennifer struck back with a note of triumph in her voice. ‘So does Opal!’
‘Opal?’ Adèle quivered, her voice dripping with distaste. ‘Opal
who?’
‘Opal Duquette.’ Revenge was sweet and Jennifer was briefly savouring it. ‘You know. She does that splendid Bess of Hardwick series. The other one – where Bess is the heroine and not the villainess.’
‘My Bess is not a villainess!’ Adele snapped. ‘She might be a scheming, occasionally vindictive, bitch – but what choice did she have? She is the prototype of an ambitious modern woman, struggling in a man’s world.’
‘Elizabeth I was Queen,’ Opal said icily. ‘So it wasn’t
that
much of a man’s world. And Bess of Hardwick, kindly and understanding, was one of her closest friends.’
‘Hah!’ Adele spat. ‘Elizabeth I was the arch-schemer of them all! No wonder they were cronies – or all crones together! They were both cut from the same cloth!’
‘
Who
is that stupid woman?’ Opal rose out of her chair to glare across the intervening tables. ‘And what does she imagine she knows about history?’
‘I don’t believe you two have met.’ Gleefully, Cressie leaped in to make matters worse. ‘Adèle Desparta – Opal Duquette. I’m sure you’re delighted to meet each other at last. You have so much in common – like the same leading character.’
‘I’ll bet this is the only time in her life Cressie has ever
bothered to introduce anyone,’ Freddie noted quietly. ‘And she’s only done it out of spite!’
‘Common
is one word!’ Opal snarled. ‘
Ignorant
is another! I don’t believe that woman has ever opened a history book in her life, far less gone to any source material. Every word she’s ever written has been wrong. Worse, an outright lie!’
‘I have a degree in history!’ Adele flared back. ‘Furthermore, I know how to interpret it correctly. Unlike some little whitewash merchant, who even tries to gloss over murder! Or don’t you consider it rather suspicious that three husbands died off so conveniently, allowing her to finally marry the richest and most titled of all?’
‘People died earlier then. That first childhood marriage was to a sickly young boy whose illness was already terminal. Her second marriage was very happy and she bore Sir William Cavendish eight children, six of whom survived. He was a lot older and there was never any question but that his death was natural and she mourned him deeply!’
‘Perhaps.’ Adèle shrugged. ‘But it was the third marriage that brought the actual accusation of poison —’
‘Lies!’ Opal was incandescent. ‘All lies – and you’re perpetrating them!’
‘Opal …’ Gemma tugged frantically at her cousin’s sleeve. ‘Opal, sit down. You’re making a scene.’
‘She’s getting plenty of help,’ Freddie observed.
‘That accusation came from her husband’s brother —’ Opal’s voice rose — ‘who was a poisoner himself. Even his own mother knew that he had already killed two people and was now trying to poison Bess and his own brother. She wrote a warning letter to Bess admitting it. Bess was already ill from the poison at the time —’
‘One of the oldest tricks in the book!’ Adèle’s voice rose, trying to drown out Opal’s. ‘Take a bit to make you sick yourself – or pretend you are —’
‘We can have coffee back at the house, Adèle.’ Dorian
tried to end the situation. Neither woman paid any attention to him.
‘If they were cats, you could throw a bucket of cold water over them,’ Freddie said helpfully. Dorian rewarded her with a harassed glare.
‘Opal!’ Agonized, Gemma tugged again. ‘Please! People are staring!’
Indeed, they were. Lorinda glanced around to find that their tables had become the centre of the evening’s entertainment.
‘Let them stare!’ Adèle trumpeted, although she had not been the one addressed.
‘Oh, dear.’ Jennifer Lane began backing away, making apologetic gestures. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start —’
‘Is everything all right here?’ The manager appeared, their anxious waitress behind him. He was a short stocky man with a nose that bore witness to a past that might have included a stint as a boxer or bouncer. He looked from one to the other of the furious women before him and quailed visibly.
‘Perfectly all right,’ Dorian said. ‘We were just leaving. Charge everything to my account.’
‘I’m not finished —’ Adele began.
‘Oh, yes, you are!’ Dorian caught her arm and pulled her out from behind the table. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged quick glances. The brusque order and rough handling cast an entirely different light on Dorian’s relations with his house guest. Mind you, it was nothing they hadn’t expected.
‘We should be leaving, too.’ Gemma, also, intended to brook no further insubordination from her companion.
‘What a shame to break up the party,’ Professor Borley said. Lorinda shot a startled glance at him, but he was deadly serious.
In the general exodus, the words, ‘Too stupid to live!’ floated back to them, although it was not clear which woman had spoken. Not that it mattered, since the feeling was obviously mutual.
‘I might as well walk along with you.’ Cressie had fallen so silent that Lorinda was surprised to find her still there. ‘We’re going the same way.’
‘Come on, then,’ Freddie agreed. They all walked with their own thoughts until they reached the High Street when Freddie ventured, ‘Quite the little scene tonight, wasn’t it?’
‘Hmm …?’ Cressie had been looking over her shoulder.
‘I said —’ Freddie gave up. Cressie wasn’t listening. She walked beside them, but was not really with them. She seemed to be melting into every shadow along the way and kept peering around uneasily.
‘Well!’ Freddie looked after her as she said a curt goodnight and darted for the shelter of Macho’s house, still taking advantage of every shadow. ‘What do you suppose that’s all about?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Lorinda said.
‘And all I wanted,’ Freddie mourned, ‘was a quiet evening and a meal I hadn’t had to cook myself.’
Time to pull up the drawbridge and get some work done. In the morning, Lorinda left the answerphone on, didn’t open the mail or the newspaper, and resolved to ignore the doorbell if it rang during the day. She could always apologize to anyone who felt slighted later.
The cats were delighted at this turn of events. It signalled to them that life was returning to normal and Lorinda was really going to stay home for a while. They allowed themselves to begin to forgive her defection, so long as she provided frequent cuddles and snacks throughout the day.
Lorinda was happy to oblige. On one of her sorties to the fridge in the afternoon, the doorbell rang and went on ringing insistently. It was a peremptory,
I know you’re in there, so you might as well answer
sort of ring and Lorinda would not have felt inclined to respond even if she hadn’t resolved to ignore the doorbell all day.
Tiptoeing to the window after the unwelcome would-be visitor had finally given up, Lorinda was not surprised to see Cressie stomping down the path. No one else would have been so rude. Although, now that Adèle and Opal had joined their little group, she was no longer so sure of that.
Nor was she surprised when, checking her telephone calls at the end of a productive day, she found three increasingly plaintive messages from Freddie. This time, she rang back.
‘You didn’t make the mistake I made,’ Freddie said
accusingly. ‘You were smart enough not to open the door.’
‘Cressie?’
‘Well, how was I to know? I’m expecting proofs any time now. I thought it was the courier service.’
‘Bad luck,’ Lorinda sympathized. ‘But you won’t make that mistake again.’
‘You can bank on it! From now on, I look out of the window before I leap to answer the doorbell.’
‘What’s her problem? I take it this wasn’t just a social call.’
‘That woman doesn’t know the meaning of the word social,’ Freddie said bitterly. ‘She was complaining about Macho. And she wasn’t happy about you not answering your door, either.’
‘Too bad,’ Lorinda said. ‘I was working.’
‘I was trying to, but she put paid to that. Anyway, come round. Bring the cats, I’m experimenting with chicken liver recipes – that should be right up their alley.’
Had-I and But-Known caught the scent the instant they entered the house and began uttering little yowls of excitement.
‘I did feed you,’ Lorinda reminded them. ‘In fact, you’ve been grazing all day.’
But not on chicken livers!
They danced into the kitchen, tails waving, and headed unerringly for the table, where little brown islands dotted a bowl full of curiously pinky liquid.
‘Mind your manners!’ Lorinda caught Had-I in mid-leap before she reached the table top. But-Known settled for hurling herself at Freddie’s ankles, mewling cajolingly.
A tray of bacon-wrapped livers waited to go under the grill. On closer inspection, Lorinda saw that strips of green peppers, halved mushrooms, cocktail onions and chunks of cheddar had been variously secured to the liver pieces by the bacon and skewered by wooden cocktail sticks.
‘Looks delicious.’ Lorinda discovered that, like the cats, she could easily find room for those succulent titbits.
‘Not too enterprising,’ Freddie said, ‘but it took me a while to get rid of Cressie. I can always get more adventurous another time.’
‘I don’t know …’ Lorinda looked dubiously at the bowl on the table. ‘That looks rather adventurous to me. We’re not going to drink it, are we?’
‘Oh, that. No. I just read in so many recipes that you soak lamb’s liver in milk to take away too strong a taste, that I thought I’d try it with chicken livers and see how it works out. Usually, they tend to go heavily for marinades with chicken livers. I don’t know why.’
‘Mmm … it could be interesting, I suppose.’ Lorinda tried to think of a way to suggest to Freddie that, since she wasn’t a natural and enthusiastic cook, she might be happier experimenting with a sub-genre other than cooking.
‘All
right
!’ Freddie rubbed an ankle that had been pricked by impatient claws. ‘Wait until it’s cooked, can’t you?’
‘I’m not sure that’s necessary,’ Lorinda said. ‘In their natural state, they eat things raw.’ She thought ruefully of dismembered offerings left on the doormat. ‘They still do.’
‘Not here, they don’t. I’m not sure it’s good for them. In fact —’
She broke off at the thunderous knocking on the back door. The cats, distracted, moved towards the door.
‘Oh, she’s not back again!’ Freddie cried in exasperation. The knocking did not stop. It sounded as though she was.
‘All right, I’m coming!’ Freddie threw open the door and Macho stumbled into the kitchen, clutching Roscoe like a life preserver.
‘Macho – are you all right?’ Lorinda pushed a chair towards him. He looked as though he needed it badly. ‘Here, sit down.’
‘What’s happened?’ Freddie demanded. It was clear that something had. There was a large bruise darkening on Macho’s forehead, with a dark red smudge in the centre where the skin had been broken.
‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ Macho lied gallantly. He slumped in the chair, relaxing his grip on Roscoe, who slid to the floor and rushed to commune with Had-I and But-Known. They touched noses and huddled together, whiskers twitching. Lorinda had the feeling that they were getting a lot more information than she and Freddie were.
She turned back to Macho, surveying him as he gave them his best stiff-upper-lip smile. Two long scratches curved from his left ear to. the corner of his mouth. The distance between them exonerated Roscoe from any blame. He couldn’t have done it unless he’d used one claw from both paws at once. But Roscoe was a great big softie who never bared his claws to anyone at all, least of all to his beloved Macho. Of course, things were a bit different these days – and if it had been Cressie who had appeared bearing scratches …
The scratches hadn’t escaped Freddie’s notice, either. She looked from them to Lorinda and quirked an eyebrow meaningfully. Definitely, a rift in the lute … if there had ever been a lute.
The cats converged on Freddie. Obviously, the exchange of information had gone both ways. Roscoe quivered and let out a plaintive cry.
‘He’s hungry,’ Macho apologized. ‘I haven’t been able to slip him anything decent all day.’ He inhaled deeply and quivered himself. ‘There isn’t anything decent to slip him. Cressie is making couscous and roasted vegetables for dinner.’
‘Then you’d both better fill up here before you go back.’ Freddie set the waiting tray of prepared chicken livers under the grill.
‘We didn’t intend to invite ourselves to dinner,’ Macho protested half-heartedly. ‘But it looks awfully good,’ he added quickly.
‘Plenty for all,’ Freddie assured him. ‘It’s not really dinner, but we can bulk it out with some bread and cheese and other bits and pieces I’ve got in the fridge.’
‘It’s better than couscous!’ Macho spoke from the bottom of his heart. ‘Anything is!’
‘You’re so right.’ Freddie’s agreement was equally heartfelt. ‘Then you can work your passage by opening that bottle of Merlot …’
They were just relaxing with their first glass when there were splattering and popping noises from the grill and a cloud of smoke eddied into the kitchen. The cats erupted into hysteria.
‘Oh, God – I’ve got the grill too high!’ Freddie was not far behind them. She reached for the handle of the grill pan, burnt herself on it, let go hastily and, snatching up a pot-holder, tried again.
Lorinda rushed forward and turned off the grill. Macho caught up the tea towel and hurled it over the grill pan to smother the little flames dancing over the bacon wrappings.
‘Oh! Oh, damn!’ Freddie dropped the grill pan into the sink. ‘I should have been paying more attention!’
‘No harm done.’ Macho raised a corner of the towel cautiously, allowing a cloud of smoke to waft away. ‘At least, not much. Personally, I like my bacon good and crispy’
‘It’s crispy …’ Freddie looked down at the smouldering canapés and the charred cocktail sticks holding them together. ‘But I’m not sure how good it is.’
‘Anything is better than couscous!’ The phrase was becoming a mantra for Macho.
‘Oh, no!’ Lorinda shrieked. The crisis over, she had turned away from the grill to discover a different crisis.
The cats had taken advantage of the humans’ distraction to leap on to the table and plunge into the bowl of livers soaking in milk. Three little muzzles were thrust deep into the bowl, three little jaws chomped blissfully, three little tongues slurped up the flavoured milk – and two out of three of the little reprobates belonged to her.
‘Oh, Freddie,’ she wailed, ‘I’m sorry. I should have watched them! I’m so sorry.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ Freddie said philosophically. ‘We all turned our backs. At least they’re enjoying it.’
‘It’s the first decent meal my poor Roscoe has had in days,’ Macho said. ‘I owe you a case of champagne.’
‘Not necessary,’ Freddie assured him. ‘He’s more than welcome to it. So are yours,’ she told Lorinda.
‘You’ll get it just the same.’ Macho shifted from firm to plaintive. ‘Er, apart from these …’ He indicated the burnt offerings. ‘They’re fine, just well done but … you did say you could scrape up a bit more?’
‘I’m sure I can.’ Freddie opened the fridge door to demonstrate. For once, that elicited no response from the already-feasting cats. ‘How about ham and cheese omelettes with lashings of hot buttered toast?’
Macho’s eyes lit up, he beamed, then winced. For the first time, Lorinda noticed that he also had a split lip.
‘This is like old times,’ Macho sighed nostalgically. They were relaxing in the living room, a cat sprawled on the arm of each armchair. Macho, replete and at ease, seemed close to purring himself.
‘It wasn’t that long ago.’ Lorinda tactfully refrained from pointing out that times were still the same for herself and Freddie. It was Macho who was looking back wistfully to the days of BC – Before Cressie.
‘It seems like for ever.’ Macho rubbed his cheek so forcefully that the scratches began bleeding. Lorinda wondered whether she should mention it.
‘You need to put something on those.’ Freddie was not so diplomatic. ‘They could turn septic if you don’t.’
‘I don’t have anything.’ Macho rubbed his cheek again and seemed surprised to find blood on his fingertips. ‘I – I – stumbled on the stairs!’ he blurted out.
‘Quite.’ Freddie didn’t even pretend to believe him. ‘Nasty claws those stair carpets have.’
‘Roscoe didn’t do it,’ he said defensively.
‘We never, for a moment, thought he had.’ Lorinda spoke for both of them.
‘No, really …’ Having invented a story, Macho was
going to stick to it. ‘I – I —’ He raised a hand to his brow.
‘Don’t rub your forehead; Lorinda cut in. ‘You’ll start that one bleeding, too.’
Too late. A droplet of blood welled up and rolled down towards his eyebrow, followed by another … and another.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ Freddie sighed. ‘No. Sit still.’ She poured a splash of brandy into a glass, dipped the end of her handkerchief into it and began dabbing at the scratches.
‘What are you doing?’ Macho reared back. ‘Ow! That stings!’
‘Alcohol is antiseptic,’ Freddie said. ‘For medicinal purposes in more ways than one.’
‘Ow! All right.’ Macho winced. ‘Just be more careful, can’t you?’
‘It looks to me as though you should be the one who’s more caref —’
The sudden ring of the telephone startled them all. The cats sat up, twitching unhappily. Macho shrank back in his chair. They all seemed to know who it would be.
‘Macho is there, isn’t he?’ Cressie’s voice rang out loudly, without preamble. Macho flinched.
‘He just left.’ Freddie replied to the plea in Macho’s eyes. ‘I’m not sure where he’s gone.’
‘You’re lying!’ It was Freddie’s turn to flinch. ‘Tell him to get back here right away. It’s urgent!’ She slammed the phone down and the dial tone began buzzing.
‘I heard her.’ Macho rose to his feet reluctantly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole neighbourhood did.’ He reached for Roscoe.
Mmrrr!
Roscoe had heard, too. He dug his claws into the well-padded arm of the chair and flattened himself into it.
‘Bear up, old chap.’ Gently, Macho disentangled the clutching claws. ‘We’ll sort something out soon.’
‘Throw
something out,’ Freddie muttered beneath her breath. ‘And you know who!’
Lorinda nodded agreement. Macho either hadn’t heard Freddie, or was pretending he hadn’t. Roscoe continued uttering plaintive protests. Had-I and But-Known stared at Macho accusingly, then turned those accusing eyes to Lorinda and Freddie – surely they could do something.