MISS PETUNIA'S LAST CASE
by
Marian Babson

Another delightfully off-the-wall and witty crime novel from the
ever-popular Marian Babson.

MISS PETUNIA'S LAST CASE

Marian Babson

To ELIZABETH WALTER who read them all

1

CHAPTER TWENTY

Miss Petunia Pettifogg adjusted her gold-rimmed pince-nez and surveyed
the tea table with deep satisfaction. "I see that our invaluable Mrs
Bloggs has outdone herself again," she remarked to her sister. "Jam
sponge. Lily began lifting the little white muslin tents covering the
dishes to display the treasures hidden beneath. "Scones, crumpets,
walnut bread ... woman must have been baking all day."

Miss Petunia closed her eyes briefly and inhaled the delicious
fragrances. All part of the comfort and delight of coming home to their
dear Blossom Cottage after a tedious and exhausting day in London trying 
to convince the singularly obtuse hierarchy at New Scotland Yard that 
there had, indeed, been yet another murder in the deceptively rural and 
peaceful village of St Waldemar Boniface.

"Let's eat," Lily said, tilting the teapot and beginning to pour. "But 
... where's Marigold?" Miss Petunia looked around for her youngest 
sister.

"Off on some mysterious errand of her own," Lily said. "Don't know how 
long she'll be. No point waiting for her."

Even as Lily spoke, they heard the sound of footsteps running down the 
path to Blossom Cottage and the quick scrape of a key in the lock. Then 
the front door slammed on loud and obnoxious shouting which came to 
them, unfortunately, all too clearly.

"Come back out here!" a male voice howled. "And I'll alo yer! Come out 
and I'll show yer what it's for!"

Another door slammed and Marigold was suddenly in the room with them, 
leaning against the door, her red-gold curls dancing, her bright blue 
eyes sparkling with the merriment of the chase.

"Oh, dear!" She tossed her head impishly. "I'm rather afraid poor 
Colonel Battersby is overrefreshed again."

"You mean the drunken sot is drunk again!" her sister Lily growled 
tigerishly. "You must stop encouraging these vulgarians. One day you'll 
go too far."

"I was merely following your instructions," Marigold pouted.

"I was questioning him - very subtly - about the strange disappearance
of his sister-in-law, the cyanide in his wife's cocoa, the bonfire which 
destroyed any evidence that might have been hidden in the compost pile 
and the reason why there were bloodstains on his knitted silk tie when, 
for no reason at all, he suddenly got very upset and began shouting at 
me."

"So you came home immediately," Miss Petunia said. "How very sensible of 
you." Outside, the shouting died to sporadic sulky outbursts.

"I most certainly did not desert my post that easily," Marigold said 
indignantly. "I went to the bar and bought him another drink. When I 
came back, he seemed quite reasonable and we had a pleasant little talk. 
He asked me how much I was insured for. Then, before I could answer, he 
said no matter how much it was, it wasn't enough." She frowned 
thoughtfully. "I hadn't realized that Colonel Battersby had taken to 
selling life insurance as a sideline."

"He's sly, that man," Lily growled. "Sly and dangerous. As too many 
women in this village have found out ... too late."

"He's gone very quiet suddenly." Miss Petunia felt a strange flutter of 
apprehension.

"Perhaps he's fallen asleep," Marigold giggled. "Passed out, you mean," 
Lily said, lighting another cigarette. "Oh, my dear, I wish you 
wouldn't." Miss Petunia was moved

to make one of her rare protests. "You don't want to shorten your life."

"Be quiet!" Lily ordered roughly.

"It's only for your own good, dear." Miss Petunia was hurt. "Not that, 
Pet -" Lily gestured towards the front of the house.

"I mean, listen . . "Yes, I can hear something!" Marigold gasped, her 
eyes widening. "It's the car! Of course, I took the keys away from him
because he was in no fit condition to drive. That was when he got upset 
all over again. Then I threw the keys into the bushes when he was 
gaining on me, in order to distract him. He must have found them and 
gone back for the car. Oh, I hope he doesn't kill someone!"

"He's racing the motor," Lily judged. "He's heading this way There was a 
tremendous crash at the front door. "He's ram-raiding us!" Marigold 
shrieked. "I'll put a stop to this!" Lily snarled. They all rushed out 
into the front hall.

The door was half off its hinges; the motor car blocked any hope of 
getting past it. As they stared aghast, it burst into flames.

"That does it!" Lily roared. "The man is a menace and must be stopped. 
Marigold, ring the fire brigade. I'll take care of Colonel Battersby!" 
She led them into the front parlour and opened the window.

"Battersby, you old fool!" she bellowed. "You're under arrest! This is a 
Citizen's Arrest! I demand that you step forward and surrender immed

The rock struck her on the temple with great force, hurling her back 
into the room where she lay motionless.

"Lily! Lily!" Miss Petunia knelt beside her. "Speak to me!" "Oh, Petunia 
- "Marigold put down the telephone, her hands shaking. "There's no 
answer. There's not even a dial tone. Colonel Battersby must have cut 
the wires. The line is dead!"

"So is Lily," Miss Petunia said grimly.

"What?" Marigold rushed over to stand beside her, looking down at her 
fallen sister. "You can't mean it!"

"Thus was Goliath slain!" Miss Petunia rose to her feet, one hand 
clasping Marigold for support. Suddenly she felt quite giddy. "Colonel 
Battersby has gone too far!"

"Oh, Petunia, what are you going to do?" "Lily shall be avenged! 
Marigold, run upstairs and get me Daddy's old Service revolver. We have 
always kept it well cleaned and oiled in his memory. Now we are forced 
to take the law into our own hands!"

Marigold left the door ajar as she dashed from the room and Miss Petunia 
became aware of grey tendrils of smoke curling along the floor. As soon 
as she had dealt with Colonel Battersby, it might be wise to leave the 
cottage, as it seemed to be alight.

In the distance, she could hear Marigold coughing as she stumbled up the 
stairs.

"Be careful!" she called out instinctively. Marigold always dashed about 
So impetuously. Already she must have found the gun, for she was now 
hurrying back downstairs. The smoke was thicker.

Marigold must have been halfway down the stairs when there was a squeal 
and a shot rang out. There was the sound of a body - Marigold's body - 
falling down the stairs.

"Marigold!" Miss Petunia dashed into the front hall to find Marigold, as 
she had feared, lying at the foot of the stairs. Daddy's gun was still 
clasped to her bosom, above it a dark-red stain blossomed.

"Oh, Petunia," Marigold said faintly. "I tripped." And said no more.

Tears, as well as smoke, blinding her eyes, Miss Petunia dragged 
Marigold's body into the parlour to lie beside Lily's. She could not 
bring herself to remove the gun from Marigold's hands.

She was alone now and must face her fate as best she might. The hallway, 
she had noticed, was alight at both ends. Colonel Battersby had 
obviously set another fire by the back door to trap them in the house.

There was only the window for escape. Coughing, she made her way to it. 
Strange, how difficult it was becoming to walk.

The window was still open, curtains fluttering in the breeze. Was that 
wise? Wasn't there something about not creating a draught in a house 
that was on fire? Perhaps she should close the window...

No! No! She must get out through the window. Laboriously, she threw one 
knee up on the sill and - 

The rock crashed into her temple. Ah, but her head was harder than 
Lily's, she congratulated herself, even as she was being borne backwards 
by the force of the blow.

She fell across Lily and Marigold and rested on them a moment, fighting 
for breath. The room was completely fogged with smoke now. To think that 
she had reprimanded dear Lily for lighting a cigarette!

Smoke inhalation! She was being overcome by the smoke. Miss Petunia 
tried to push herself to her feet, even to her hands and knees, but she 
felt too giddy. She must try ... she must fight ... but...

As she collapsed again across her sisters' bodies, the thought came to 
her that this really was...

T h

e e n d

Lorinda Lucas slid the last page out of her typewriter with a feeling of 
peace and accomplishment.

Quickly, she rolled another page into the machine. While the euphoria 
lasted, she could force herself to put the repellent Petunia, the 
nauseating Marigold and the appalling Lily through a few more of their 
paces. Paces which, unfortunately, would leave them triumphantly alive 
and kicking and ready to trudge through the next book in the series.

She typed steadily for another hour, then pushed her chair away from the 
desk. She stood and crossed to the dark-red filing cabinet where she hid 
her guilty secret, the death-dealing chapter, in the increasingly 
thickening folder marked "FINAL CHAPTERS". Soon she would have to begin 
another file folder - if she kept on like this. And she probably would. 
Only to herself could she admit the deep satisfaction it gave her to 
dispose of the detestable Sibling Spinster Sleuths ("Try saying it 
quickly three times," a critic had written. "A few drinks may help, but 
you need a few drinks to pick up this sort of book in the first place.") 
in ever more lurid and gory detail. Other series writers might moan 
about how sick they were of their creations, but her own safety valve 
was blowing off steam quite nicely, thank you, as she wrote alternative
endings for each book, each story and, sometimes, each idea. Reichenbach 
Falls had nothing on this!

As she turned away from the filing cabinet, the view from the window 
caught her eye. A picture-postcard village of quaint cottages, several 
with thatched roofs, sprawled into the distance along both sides of a 
winding road. Beyond it, a curving river sparkled in the fading 
sunlight. On the other side of her house, she knew, the view was of the 
High Street, which had several shops too many for a real village; the 
place had ideas above its station and was aspiring to Town status.

Lorinda made a face at the olde-worlde prettiness displayed below her 
and turned away, conscious of a dissatisfaction that was not solely 
caused by her professional discontent.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. "I've made the 
discovery of a lifetime," Dorian had brayed over the bridge table a year 
ago. "Brimful Coffers. Delightful little village. Undiscovered, 
unspoiled, easy reach of London. Several highly desirable bijou 
residences going for a song because of the modernization they require. 
Cheap as they are, the natives can't afford 'em, but they'd just about 
come out of petty cash for us - and we'd always be sure of a fourth for
bridge."

Somehow, it had escaped her attention that she didn't care

all that much for bridge. After living here for six months, she wasn't 
sure that she cared all that much for her colleagues, either.

Dorian ICing, as befitted the creator of Field Marshal Sir Oliver
Aldershot, was a brilliant organizer. One by one, he had driven his 
chosen colleagues down to the village, introduced them to the local 
estate agent, accompanied them on their tours through the properties on 
offer, helpfully pointing out improvements that could be made... doing 
everything, in fact, except forcibly guiding their hands as they signed 
the contracts to purchase. Nor did he help with any mortgage 
arrangements, as it became clear to his victims that his idea of petty 
cash varied considerably from theirs.

Even so, it was, she had to admit, a lovely little cottage, and just 
what she had thought she wanted. Furthermore, the cats adored the garden 
and enjoyed exploring their immense new territory, revelling in a 
freedom that traffic had denied them heretofore. Another positive aspect 
was that there was no lack of cat-sitters or someone to pop in and feed 
them when she had to go up to town or off on a research trip. Nor did 
she mind being called upon in her turn to look after someone else's pet.
No, the growing unease went deeper than that, but it was early days yet 
and no doubt they would all soon settle down satisfactorily.


Flipflop ... flip-flop ... the familiar sound was followed by the thud 
of soft little paws on the stairs as the cats bounded up and headed 
unerringly for her study.

Had-I was in the lead, of course, with But-Known right behind her. They 
made a quick tour of inspection, then sat down side by side and regarded 
her with bright-eyed improbable innocence. She knew that look.

"Now what have you done?" She was instantly suspicious. Flip-flap ... 
flap ... flap, scrabble... "Aaarreeeooow... "Oh, not again!" she 
scolded.

"Meerryooowrrr.. ." The wail of distress soared upwards, filling the 
air, beginning to border on panic.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," she called. The cats rose to their 
feet and followed her down the stairs. "Let's go and see what the damage 
is," she told them.

The huge orange cat was well and truly jammed into the catflap. Head and 
shoulders protruded, wriggling, with one trapped paw waving under his 
chin. He looked up piteously at Lorinda and renewed his struggles, but 
he could move no farther forward, nor could he back out.

"Oh, Pudding," she said reproachfully. Pudding was not really his name, 
but it should be. He was sweet and thick. "Will you never learn?"

"Aaarrreeeoooww," he moaned, trying to twist around. "No, no, don't do 
that. You'll only make it worse." She stooped

to pet him comfortingly. "Just be calm and I'll get help." Had-I was 
going to be no help at all. Was she ever? With a disdainful look at the 
helpless captive, she strolled over to her bowl and ostentatiously began 
to munch.

"Meeeyyyaaooo..."

Had-I shot him a smug look and took another morsel, crunching it loudly. 
She was clearly saying, "Yum-yum-yummy.

"You stop taunting the poor thing!" Lorinda pushed Had-I aside, scooped 
up a few of the tiny fish-shapes and carried them over to the catflap.

"Here..." She popped one into the eager mouth and then another. He was 
calming down now, with his mouth full and a trusted figure stroking his 
fevered brow. "That's better." Lorinda went to the telephone in the 
living room and pushed the automatic dialling button for one of the
frequently called numbers. Then she held the receiver a safe distance 
from her ear, waiting for the shot that began the answer tape.

"BANG!! Ya missed me, sucker! You don't get Macho Magee that easy! I'm 
on the prowl down those mean streets with my trusty Roscoe, looking for 
trouble. Maybe I'll find it. If you want to find me, leave a message 
when the screaming dies.. ." A long shrill scream ended the 
announcement.

"You'd better come over here and pull out your trusty Roscoe," Lorinda 
announced briskly. "He's stuck in the catflap again."

"They do it deliberately." There was a click and the querulous voice 
began complaining. "I've seen them. Those wretched creatures of yours 
lead my poor Roscoe on.

It was too true to argue with. Had-I and But-Known all too clearly 
thought it was the best joke in town to lure poor Roscoe into their 
catflap and then laugh at him when he couldn't clear it and jammed 
halfway through. "He ought to know better by now," Lorinda said. "But 
he's well stuck in this time and I'm afraid of hurting him."

"Oh, all right. I'll be right there." He slammed down the phone and 
Lorinda went back into the kitchen.

"All right, Roscoe," she said carefully; she mustn't get caught calling 
him Pudding. "Daddy's on the way."

Still tranquillized by his snack, Roscoe regarded her amiably.
But-known, perhaps with a belated attack of conscience, was busily 
washing his face, which was also helping to soothe him. He had stopped 
struggling, but still looked terribly uncomfortable.

Had-I had abandoned her food bowl, finding no fun in it if Lorinda was 
going to be such a spoilsport as to share the munchies with Roscoe, and 
was perched on a chair watching the others. Now she lifted her head and 
turned towards the window, aware of an approaching presence before 
Lorinda could see or hear it. It had to be Macho. Taking her cue, 
Lorinda gently eased the door open, trying not to panic Roscoe.

"Steady on, boy. It's all right. Don't worry. Reassurances were useless. 
Roscoe let out an unearthly shriek

at discovering he was moving horizontally through the air at no volition 
of his own and without human arms around him.

"I'm coming! I'm coming, Roscoe!" The figure at the far end

of the garden broke into a shambling run and lurched forward
precipitously. "Hang in there!"

Really, there wasn't much else Roscoe could do. He swung, suspended by 
his ample middle, from the catflap, hind legs scrabbling for purchase 
and yowled his terror to the skies.

"Here I am! Daddy's here!" Macho Magee dropped to his knees beside his 
anxious pet and glared up at Lorinda. "I don't know why you have to have 
one of those porthole-type catflaps. It's antisocial!"

"It was here when I bought the house." Lorinda sighed, they had been 
through this before. "And my own cats," she pointed out, "have no 
trouble with it at all."

"Nevertheless, the thing is a menace. You should take it out and replace 
it with a square flap with one end flush with the floor. That's the best 
kind. It's what I have."

"It's draughtier," she said, without adding that she did not
particularly wish to allow Roscoe, however sweet he might be, unlimited 
access to her house. Nor did she think Had-I and But-Known would 
appreciate an interloper roaming through their territory at will, 
however well they got on with him.

Roscoe had begun purring trustfully and Macho Magee got

to his feet to assess the problem. "It looks pretty bad this time," he 
said fretfully, glaring at Lorinda as though it were her fault. "We may 
have to dismantle the flap.

"No," Lorinda said.

"Mmmm.. ." He walked around the door, checking both ends

of his cat. "Perhaps, if we grease him.. "We did that last time and he 
didn't like it." "True, and it took him days to get all the butter out 
of his fur." Macho took another turn around the door. Roscoe was
beginning to look anxious again.

"If you can work that paw loose from under his chin," Lorinda suggested, 
"you ought to be able to back him out then."

Had-I and But-Known just sat there and looked superior, quite as though 
they'd had nothing to do with luring Roscoe to his entrapment. "I don't 
know..." Macho knelt before his cat again and gently took hold of the 
paw. "Easy now... he soothed. "Easy... does It . . If his fans could see 
him now ... Lorinda thought, not for the first time. She looked down on 
the polished pink dome of the creator of the eponymous Macho Magee, 
arguably the hardest-boiled private eye in print; certainly the most 
politically incorrect. What Macho Magee hadn't blackmailed, stabbed,
strangled, set alight or blown away wasn't worth thinking about. He 
considered any book that didn't attract a minimum of fifty letters of 
complaint one that hadn't come up to scratch. The man's very name was a 
challenge. Deliberately so.

It had to be. His real name was Lancelot Dalrymple, a good enough name 
in ordinary life, but not one to stir the blood or set the cash 
registers jingling in the private-eye world, although it might do well 
in the realm of gardening books. A Dalrymple sounded as though he would 
be more at home mulching roses and bedding begonias rather than every 
tough blonde who strayed across his path.

"There, we've got it now." He freed the paw, easing it through

to the other side of the porthole. Roscoe immediately lunged forward, 
trying to get into the room with them.

"No, no, Roscoe." Macho restrained him. "Just cup his head

in your hands, will you?" he instructed Lorinda. "I'll go round and pull 
and you guide his head through. Mind that he doesn't catch his ears.

Lorinda crouched and encircled Roscoe's head, murmuring softly to soothe 
him as he began moving backwards, his eyes rolling wildly.

"Nearly there.. ." She protected his ears as his head vanished through 
the opening and the flap fell back into place.

"That's better. You're all right now." Roscoe reappeared, cradled in 
Macho's arms and Lorinda swung the door shut behind them.

"Come and have a drink," she invited. "You're through for the day now, 
aren't you?"

"I might do a bit more later but, basically, yes." He carried Roscoe 
into the living room and settled in an armchair. Had-I and But-Known 
trailed along in his wake, eyeing Roscoe thoughtfully.

The fictional Macho Magee drank nothing but the genuine Mexican tequila 
with the worm curled at the bottom of the bottle (often the closest he 
got to ingesting any protein in the course of an entire book). 
Fortunately, Lancelot Dalrymple was quite content with a dry sherry. 
Lorinda poured sherries for both of them and set a bowl of mixed nuts 
within easy reaching distance.

Had-I and But-Known moved forward to investigate the bowl and retreated, 
flinging Lorinda looks of utter disgust. No cheese! No pate! What was 
hospitality in this house coming to? They sat down together and 
concentrated their attention on Roscoe again.

Roscoe stirred restively in his owner's arms. "No, no, stay here." Macho 
tightened his grip. "Ignore them. You know they only lead you into 
trouble. Treacherous jades!"

His language might also surprise his fans, as would the Byronesque 
ponytail tied with a black velvet ribbon trailing down to his shoulders. 
Both were probably a legacy of his years as a history teacher and his 
abiding interest in the subject. "Book going well?" Ignoring his opinion 
of her cats (her own opinion of his wasn't all that high), Lorinda sank 
into the facing armchair and leaned back.

"Oh, well enough." Now it was Macho who appeared restive.

"I need to get the body count higher, but I should be able to take care 
of that in the next chapter."

"I'm sure you'll manage it," Lorinda agreed absently. She was mentally 
composing and discarding opening sentences, trying to find a subtle 
lead-in to the subject she wished to introduce. "I suppose you've heard 
the latest?" Macho had no such inhibitions. He leaned forward intently, 
loosening his hold on Roscoe, who promptly slid to the floor and ambled 
over to join Had-I and But-Known.

"Which latest?" The way gossip was proliferating in this village, there 
was a multiple choice.

"They've rented the last of the flats in Coffers Court. And guess who's 
got it?"

"Mmmm..." Macho was looking entirely too gleeful. "Why

do I get the feeling I'm not going to like the answer?" "Because you're 
not. Go ahead." He tugged at his goatee, pulling down his lower lip and 
disclosing a set of thin gnarled lower teeth. "Who's the last creature 
in the world you would care to tiptoe hand-in-hand into the sunset 
with?"

At the moment, Macho himself was becoming the leading contender in that 
category. Lorinda regarded him without fondness.

"There are so many," she murmured. And most of them seemed to be 
congregating in Brimful Coffers.

The absolute worst," he insisted. "Beside whom the Marquis

de Sade looks like St Francis of Assisi." "No!" Lorinda leaped to her 
feet. Had-I and But-Known had closed in on either side of Roscoe and 
were hustling him towards the kitchen. "Come back here! You're not going 
to jump him through the catflap again!"

They stopped short and gave her injured looks. How could she think such 
a thing of them?

"Just a minute, Macho." She hurried into the kitchen and turned the knob 
immobilizing the catflap. They could butt their heads against it in vain 
now.

"Roscoe! Come here, Roscoe!" Macho appeared in the doorway and advanced 
on his pet.

Roscoe evaded the outstretched arms and strolled over to the bowl of dry 
cat food and began to help himself. Had-I gave Lorinda a reproving look 
for spoiling all their fun and sat down and began to wash her face. 
But-Known went over to stand hopefully in front of the fridge.

"They're all right now," Lorinda said. "Come and finish your drink."

"I don't know." Macho settled back in his chair and allowed Lorinda to 
replenish his drink. "Sometimes I think I should just get myself a tank 
of goldfish."

"Not while Roscoe is still around," Lorinda said. "No, no. They wouldn't 
last ten minutes." Macho was instantly cheered by the thought of his 
pet's hunting prowess. "I only hope he never gets a chance at Dorian's 
tank of tropical fish."

"Amen, amen," Lorinda said fervently. The mere thought of Had-I and 
But-known getting within paw-dipping distance of Dorian's aquarium was 
enough to make her feel faint.

"Cold fish," Macho mused. "Dorian, I mean. It quite amazed me when he 
began lobbying for all of us to come and occupy the same village. He's 
the last person in the world I would have suspected of having any desire 
for the company of his colleagues - on a long-term basis, that is."
"Plantagenet!" Lorinda suddenly made the connection with Macho's earlier 
teasing. "Plantagenet Sutton! Tell me it isn't true!"

"True enough," he sighed. "Pity. Coffers Court must have been quite a 
respectable place when it was occupied by flint-hearted bank managers 
foreclosing on widows and orphans."

"How true," Lorinda agreed.

The decommissioned bank building had been designed with typical 
late-Victorian lavishness to resemble a wealthy land-owner's town house 
rather than a commercial establishment. Built of sandstone, now 
weathered to a rich gold, festooned with window boxes filled with 
seasonal blooms, it dominated one corner of the village green. Since the 
architect had been in the forefront of the technology of his time, along 
with the obligatory marble hall, it boasted a luxurious 
red-plush-and-mirrored lift with a padded bench curved invitingly around 
the walls. Thus patrons could be conveyed in solid comfort from the bank 
manager's office on the top floor to deposit their valuables in the 
basement vault. The vault had now been divided into a caretaker's flat 
and a series of boxrooms providing storage for the tenants of the other 
flats.

It was a beautiful building and had been transformed into a dream block 
of flats. Too bad about the people in it.

"The neighbourhood is really going down," Macho said. "I hadn't thought 
it could sink any lower after Gemma Duquette moved in - but now this!"

"Plantagenet Sutton," Lorinda mourned. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Ground-floor left-hand flat." Macho was certain of his facts.

"I saw the furniture being moved in this morning. No one could mistake 
that wing chair and lamp table. No one in the business, that is. It's 
practically his logo."

"That's pretty conclusive." She hadn't really doubted him; Macho was an 
expert gossip. Probably they all were. Keeping tabs on friends and 
neighbours could be looked on as an extension of their work. What was a 
book, after all, but the retailing of the alarms, excursions and 
minutiae of everyday life until it reached a conclusion tidier than any 
life usually provided? Did they become writers because they were so very 
interested in gossip? Or did being writers make them preternaturally 
interested in gossip?

Had-I and But-Known sauntered in and leaped up to sprawl out, one on 
each arm of Lorinda's chair. She stroked them absently. Roscoe followed 
and leaped up on Macho's lap. A faint concerted purr began to thrum as 
background music to their conversation. Outside, dusk began to settle 
over the village. It was all so comfortable and companionable... but for 
how much longer?

Plantagenet Sutton had come to live in their midst. Life could never be 
the same again.

"Perhaps he'll hate it here and won't stay long," she said hopefully.

"We can do our best," Macho said, "but the monster has the hide of a 
rhinoceros. Otherwise, he could never have survived this long."

"I suppose we'll have to be civil to him," Lorinda said. "After all, he 
hasn't retired yet, has he? Not like Gemma Duquette."

"No, her fangs have been drawn, but his are still in place and ever 
ready to go for the jugular." Macho's eyes narrowed. "I suspect we have 
her to thank for his being here. She must have told him about our 
burgeoning colony. After all, Brimful Coffers is not the first place 
that would spring to the mind of someone wishing to move to the 
country."

"How very true." Lorinda was beginning to wish she'd never heard of the 
place herself. The more colleagues and cohorts moved into the village, 
the less des. the res. seemed.

"If she did it," Macho brooded, "that's one more thing we have against 
her."

Lorinda nodded, although the main thing Macho had against Gemma Duquette 
was that she had, not surprisingly, never bought one of his books to 
serialize in her magazine, Woman's Place. Those who had been serialized 
carried far deeper grudges. Only an author who had seen her work 
butchered to fit into four to six weekly instalments could really 
comprehend the depths of hatred Gemma had inspired, especially as the 
pages sacrificed to expediency had inevitably contained the most
inspired passages, the best writing and the most vital plot points - 
thus making hash of the solution to the mystery. On the other hand, 
every suggestion of witless romance, or feeble intimation of sexual 
attraction and banal dialogue had been retained. Paragraphs disappeared 
between sentences, consecutive pages went missing between paragraphs - 
and the screams of anguished authors could be heard in the land. 
However, despite bitter vows of revenge and dire threats never to allow 
Woman's Place to desecrate another manuscript, those who could continued 
to sell it first serial rights. Money talked - take it and run and lick 
your wounds in privacy or in the company of other wounded victims. And 
Gemma Duquette was responsible for it all. Other magazines were able to 
publish more sensitive serializations, managing to retain most of the 
major characters, plot lines and all the other features that were the 
first things Gemma's deadly hatchet automatically attacked.

"We were so relieved when she retired," Lorinda remembered. "We thought 
we'd never have to deal with her again. And now she's moved into our 
midst."

"And brought Plantagenet Sutton along with her," Macho snarled.

Roscoe stirred restively in his lap and looked up at his master

in concern; he was not accustomed to hearing that snarl when Macho was 
away from his machine and no longer acting out his stories as he wrote 
them.

"Well, sometimes he gives a good review," Lorinda said delicately. It 
was common knowledge that Macho had never received a good - or even a 
passable - review from Plantagenet Sutton. Quite the contrary, Sutton 
seemed to reserve his wittiest barbs and most poisonous venom for Macho 
Magee's books. Macho had good reason for bitterness.

"Sutton the sod!" Macho crossed and recrossed his legs violently. Roscoe 
bounced to the floor and stalked off to the kitchen, stiff-legged and 
affronted. Macho didn't notice, too absorbed in his own furious 
thoughts.

"Sutton the sot!" he hissed.

Lorinda nodded. She wasn't sure about the first accusation, but there 
was a certain amount of justice in the second. In fact, that might be 
the root cause of the problem. Plantagenet Sutton had always been a 
tough critic, but he had not turned into a hanging judge until he 
conceived the idea of combining book reviews with a wine column and 
moving to the Lifestyle pages of his Sunday newspaper. His "Through a 
Glass, Darkly" pages had been a great success

- with the public. The large photograph of Sutton relaxing in his wing 
chair, with the lamp table beside him, the lamp casting a benevolent 
glow over his features and the wide circular table holding a small stack 
of books, a decanter and half-filled glass, obviously touched a chord 
deep in the public heart - this was what they thought the Literary Life 
was like. The wine shippers had had no complaints (except for the 
occasional suggestion that a bottle might be used instead of a 
decanter), but the change had been greatly to the detriment of the 
mystery-writing community.

"Isn't it just our luck?" Fredericka Carlson had lamented. "Why couldn't 
the bastard have turned out to be a jovial drunk instead of a nasty 
one?" Others voiced the opinion - off the record, of course - that the 
steaming rancour had set in when Plantagenet Sutton realized that a good 
review of a wine was likely to bring him a case of the favoured 
beverage, while a good review for a book brought him no return at all. 
His opinion of every book had grown more and more venomous, every 
witticism at the author's expense, every verdict thumbs-down.

"I suppose there's no hope of him retiring?" Lorinda was momentarily 
wistful.

"Not while he can still lift a glass to his lips," Macho sneered.
"Anyway," Lorinda tried to look on the bright side, "in Coffers Court, 
they're only renting; they haven't bought the leaseholds yet. Maybe they 
won't stay."

"We can but do our best to ensure that." Macho's lips twisted
unpleasantly.

"We couldn't do that..." Lorinda said uncertainly. "Maybe you couldn't." 
She hadn't thought it possible, but Macho's smile became even more 
unpleasant. "But would you like to bet how forbearing Rhylla Montague is 
going to be? She took to her bed for three days after she saw what Gemma 
had done to her last opus. Then Sutton, in his infinite laziness,
reviewed the book from the potted version in the magazine - and 
slaughtered it. And they're all under the same roof now."

The urgent summons of the telephone saved Lorinda from having to reply. 
With relief, she rose and crossed to answer it, narrowly avoiding 
tripping over Roscoe, who had wandered back into the room to make sure 
he wasn't missing anything.

"Lorinda, have you heard?" Fredericka Carlson's voice was unnaturally 
shrill. "I can't believe it! What have we done to deserve this?"

"Steady, Freddie," Lorinda said. "Macho is here now. He's just told me. 
Come over and join us for drinks."

"We'll need them! Horrors to the right of me, horrors to the left of me 
- I don't know why I came to this place! I'll be right over!" Freddie 
slammed down the phone and it seemed only seconds before she was at the 
door.

"They're going to kill each other, you know," she announced. "It's only 
a question of time - and I'd rather not be around here when they do it."

"You're just trying to cheer us up, Macho said. "They're thick

as thieves. Lorinda and I were just saying that it must have been Gemma 
who told that - that churl - that there was a flat going spare at 
Coffers Court."

"Not them" Freddie threw Macho a withering look as she hurled herself 
into Lorinda's vacated chair and automatically began stroking the cats 
stretched along its arms. "That would be too much to hope for! I mean, 
my lot - the next-door neighbours, the other half of the house. I never 
should have let Dorian talk me into that semidetached. "They're 
Americans, so they'll only be here three or four months of the year, six 
at most," he said. "It will be like having a house all to yourself,
except that it will be cheaper than a detached," he said. Hah! Bloody 
hah!"

Had-I and But-Known turned to her with comforting purrs. Roscoe came 
over to rub against her ankles. As a stray human, owned by no 
proprietary feline, but always ready to welcome a visiting cat with 
warmth, snacks and cuddles, she was extremely popular with them.

"Aaah... thanks." She accepted the glass of deep amber liquid and 
slipped off her shoes, absently scratching Roscoe's neck with a 
stockinged toe. Relaxation was setting in.

"Are the neighbours being difficult again?" Lorinda looked at Freddie 
with some concern. Freddie's hairdo was in a disintegrating preshampoo 
condition, not helped by the way she was running her hands through it, 
and there were dark circles under her eyes.

"All night," Freddie sighed. "Shouting, screaming and throwing things. I 
didn't get a wink of sleep. Every time it got quiet and I started to 
doze, they began again." "Poor Freddie," Macho sympathized. "You should 
have banged on the wall."

"I couldn't!" Freddie said. "They'd die if they thought I could hear 
them so clearly. Especially with some of the home truths they were 
hurling at each other. We'd never be able to look each other in the face 
again."

"You're going to have to do something," Lorinda said. "You can't go on 
like this. Especially if it's true that they're going to stay here year 
round this year."

"Oh, it's true, all right." Freddie shuddered. "They're collaborating -
on a nonfiction book. One of those A year In... efforts with lots of 
photographs. Guess who's going to do all the work while he swans around 
pointing his camera at everything so that he'll get his name on the 
title page as coauthor. The last shot to save an ailing marriage. How 
many times have we seen it?" She shuddered again.

"I'm thinking of moving my bedroom," she went on. "If I clear the 
boxroom and move the bed in there, leaving the bedroom

- as a dressing room..."

"You can't squeeze yourself into the boxroom!" Lorinda was horrified. 
"There's no window - you'll have no air."

"Especially if I keep the door closed, which I shall have to do

to keep it soundproof." Freddie nodded gloomily. "Damn Dorian and all 
his machinations!"

"Dorian can't be blamed if the Jackley marriage is breaking up." Lorinda 
was assailed by sudden doubt. "Can he?"

"I wouldn't like to swear to anything." Freddie was suddenly very 
interested in her drink. "It's possible that they've just discovered
they can't stand each other."

"And who can blame them?" Macho murmured. Diplomatic relations had been 
strained ever since Jack Jackley had pointed out the antiquity of much 
of his hard-boiled American slang. He had been particularly annoyed to 
be told that "roscoe' was even worse than "gat" for a gun. Nor was 
Jackley's humour appreciated when he suggested alternative names for 
Roscoe. Nothing on earth could induce Macho to change Roscoe's name to 
Capone. "I was so exhausted by the time they decided to call it a 
night," Freddie went on, "that I overslept disgracefully this morning. I

I didn't wake up until Karla threw the toaster at the wall."

"How do you know it was the toaster?" Macho always liked

to get these little points clear. "I heard Jack shout, "You'll 
electrocute yourself!" and then, "Those were the last two slices of 
bread." It wasn't hard to deduce - that is our business, you know."

"True." Lorinda and Macho nodded.

"Then there was a long silence. I hoped one of them was strangling the 
other with the electric cord, but no such luck. I looked out of the 
window a while later and saw them setting off for the shops. They had 
their shopping basket with them She forestalled Macho's next question.

"Anyway, I took advantage of the quiet to get some work done. When I 
heard doors slamming over there again, I decided to get out and do some 
shopping myself. I had nearly finished and was walking down the High 
Street when I saw that - that toad!" She spat the word out and the cats 
turned their heads to look at her with a wary interest bordering on 
alarm. They were not accustomed to that tone of voice from her.

"He was hopping out of the wine merchant's - wouldn't you know it? - and 
looking too pleased with himself to be true. I'd hoped I was 
hallucinating, but he spoke to me and said he'd just moved in to Coffers 
Court and was looking forward to living here amongst all his old friends 
and colleagues."

"You should have spat in his face!" Macho was overidentifying with his 
character again, although the fictional Macho wouldn't have stopped at 
mere spittle, a few broken teeth were more his style.

"I have a book coming out next month," Freddie apologized. "Maybe he'll 
be nicer when he realizes that he has to live among us and meet us every 
day." Lorinda tried to look on the bright - or, at least, hopeful - 
side.

"Hah!" Macho spat.

Had-I and But-Known jumped down from the arms of the chair and Roscoe 
joined them on their tactical retreat into the kitchen; the atmosphere 
was getting too violent around here for a respectable cat to 
countenance. They didn't even look back when the telephone rang again.

Lorinda recognized the voice the instant it greeted her in the unctuous 
tones it used when being introduced on television or radio (the 
waspishness came later, when he launched into the actual reviews). She 
leaned weakly against the wall, faintly echoing the more pertinent of 
his remarks, aware that her breathless audience was hanging on every 
word.

"Yes ... yes, I'd heard." She could not bring herself to say, Welcome to 
Brimful Coffers. Apart from anything else, that audience might lynch her 
if she tried.

"Ye - oh ... No, no, they're here with me now, as a matter of fact." She 
nodded to the semaphoring arms wildly instructing, Don't ask him round.

"Oh, how - how nice ... Yes, I'll ask them. Just a moment." She took the 
precaution of covering the mouthpiece before announcing, "Plantagenet is 
inviting us to a party on Saturday night. He's having a house-warming."

"Warm it?" Macho was still posturing. "I'd rather burn it down!"

"Oh, hell," Freddie moaned. "I suppose we'll have to go." "They'd be 
delighted," Lorinda said firmly into the phone. "Eight o'clock? Yes, 
we'll all be there. Thank you so much." She managed to replace the 
receiver before the chorus of groans and complaints broke out.

A sudden gust of wind tore a shower of leaves from the trees and hurled 
them against the windows like hail. Lorinda watched gloomily as a 
splattering of raindrops joined them.

It was going to be a long winter.

2

Saturday Came all too soon, however. They foregathered at Macho's for a 
preliminary drink to brace themselves for the house-warming party.

"House-warming!" Freddie snorted. "Danegeld is what it amounts to."

"I'd like to geld him," Macho muttered.

"Anyway," Freddie went on cheerfully, "I found the perfect present for 
him at the antique shop. On the principle of sweets for the sweet..."

"An antique pendant?" Macho murmured hopefully. "Better than that. An 
old gargoyle beer mug! Not only is it hideous, but we all know he 
wouldn't be caught dead drinking beer. And, since it's an antique and 
cost quite a bit, he'll never be sure whether I was getting at him or 
not." "Oh, well played!" Lorinda applauded. "I wasn't nearly so
adventurous. I got him an eighteenth-century ship's decanter."
Unimaginative but safe, she hoped.

"The antique shop has been doing a rushing business." Macho's eyes 
gleamed wickedly. "I got him a framed print of the Spanish Inquisition - 
Torquemada doing his stuff. He can make what he likes of that."

Roscoe, mindful of his duties as co-host, was padding from guest to 
guest offering help in disposing of any unwanted items - like the last 
bite on the cocktail stick. He was not importunate

about it - Macho would not have stinted him in the kitchen - he simply 
wished to remind everyone that further handouts were always welcomed and 
appreciated.

Lorinda sighed and surrendered to the hopeful eyes, handing over a 
bacon-wrapped chicken liver she had barely nibbled. Roscoe made quick 
work of it and looked around for more. No wonder he wouldn't fit through 
a catflap.

"I wish we didn't have to go," Freddie said. "I wish we could stay right 
here and have a pleasant evening."

"Think of it as part of the job," Lorinda advised. "Like signing
sessions and speaking at libraries, schools and clubs."

"All right for some," Macho said darkly, and Lorinda realized she had 
been tactless. It was well known that no school or club in its right 
mind would invite what it imagined Macho Magee's creator to be like to 
come and address their tender charges.

"She means libraries," Freddie said helpfully, earning another dark 
look. The only time Macho had spoken at a library he had nearly been 
hooted off the stage by some louts who had strayed in to see what he 
looked like and commented loudly and freely on their disappointment and 
his deficiencies. The creator of the mountainous bully was not expected 
to be a weedy individual who could have passed for a university lecturer 
or tax inspector. In a way, Macho had brought it on himself. When his 
publishers had insisted on a photograph for the book jacket, Macho, 
conscious that he might not be exactly what his fans expected, had taken 
a leaf from the late Craig Rices book when she was faced with a similar 
problem and wished to conceal the fact that she was a woman. Thus, coat 
collar turned up, bundled up in a scarf, hat pulled low and pipe jutting 
out to mark the approximate location of mouth in a deeply shadowed 
atmospheric photograph, Macho had presented himself to the world. People
could imagine any features or height they liked. And, judging from the 
behaviour of the louts, apparently they had.

After that dire appearance, Macho had refused all further speaking 
engagements and confined his bookshop cooperation to signing bookplates. 
The reclusive reputation he was gaining had done nothing to limit the 
popularity of his books, and certain of the newer and more studiedly 
intellectual of the critics were beginning to refer to him as the J. D. 
Salinger of the mystery world.

"Not now, Roscoe." Macho deftly caught Roscoe in mid-leap

to his lap. "We have to go out." He glanced at his colleagues for
confirmation. "We do have to go?"

"Much as I hate to admit it, we do," Freddie said. "Come on, bite the 
bullet. At least the wine ought to be good. And maybe even the food."

"Better a meal of bitter herbs with my friends," Macho said darkly, 
"than a feast with my enemies. Or however it goes.

"Oh, come now," Lorinda protested. "It isn't that bad. Most of the 
guests are our friends."

Macho deposited Roscoe on the carpet, brushed a few red hairs from his 
trousers, carefully removed the cocktail sticks from the last two 
chicken livers and carried the sticks into the kitchen. They heard the 
clatter of the swing-lid rubbish bin.

"We'll be back soon." Returning, Macho bent to stroke Roscoe and set the 
saucer of leftovers in front of him. "Perhaps very soon".

Plantagenet Sutton was greeting his guests expansively at the front door 
of Coffers Court itself, giving the impression that he was master of all 
he surveyed and not just one of the flats. He was holding his party in 
the marble-clad entrance hall, which was bedecked with flowers.

The arrivals from London were suitably impressed, while the inhabitants 
of Brimful Coffers exchanged wry glances.

"Welcome, welcome, so glad you could come!" He greeted them 
enthusiastically, shaking hands with Macho, planting kisses on Lorinda 
and Freddie's cheeks. "Oh, for me? You shouldn't have! It wasn't 
necessary.

Lorinda noticed that there was a pile of gift-wrapped parcels

on the little table beside him. It might not have been necessary, but it 
was advisable.

"How well you look," Freddie cooed insincerely, handing over her 
Danegeld.

"Ah, Freddie." He took the gift, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand. 
"You have a new one out any moment, haven't you?"

"Next month," she said.

"Ah, yes. I thought I'd seen it. Well, have a good time." He turned to 
the next in line. "And Lorinda, ah, thank you. And how is the criminous 
little world of St Waldemar Boniface?"

"Oh.. ." She tried for a becoming show of modesty. "Still chugging
along."

"Now, now, don't sell them short. Why, some of your scenes are almost 
believable." He released her hand just as it clenched and greeted Macho.

"Ah, Magee. Same as ever, I see." "Why shouldn't I be?"

They faced each other warily, like two mongrel curs, fur bristling, but 
neither ready to make the first move to attack.

They were too much alike, Lorinda thought, that was part of the problem. 
Both the same physical type: weedy, undersized, bald and 
overcompensating by too much facial hair and those ridiculous ponytails. 
On a dark night, it might be hard for the casual observer to tell them 
apart unless one of them spoke.

On closer observation, it could be noticed that Plantagenet had gone one 
step beyond Macho, growing the hair on one side of his head much longer 
and combing it across his dome, giving the impression from the front 
that he still had some hair there. The longer hair at the back was 
gathered into a ponytail, tied with a black velvet ribbon to match his 
black velvet smoking jacket.

A sudden explosion of light blinded Lorinda and left her blinking into a 
whirlpool of swirling black dots.

"Tchaaah!" With an exclamation of fury, Macho moved away rapidly, his 
face suffused with rage.

"Don't move!" Jack Jackley called out. "Get back where you were. I want 
one more of the two of you together."

Macho stalked to the other side of the room, seething. "He's a bit 
camera-shy, you know," Plantagenet said, not trying to hide his 
amusement. Everyone except the Jackleys knew that Macho would go to any 
lengths to avoid being photographed. "You'll have to watch your camera 
now, or he'll have the film out of it and exposed before you know it."

"The hell he will!" Jackley clutched his camera protectively. "Nobody 
touches this camera but me. This little baby is going to provide the 
complete record of a literary year in England. And this is our first 
literary soiree." He whirled suddenly, aimed at a group just entering 
and unleashed the flash, leaving the new guests blinded, disoriented and 
blinking on the doorstep.

"Another London train has just come in, I see." Freddie surveyed the 
newcomers.

"Representing books or booze?" Lorinda wondered. Both women slid 
cautiously out of the range of Plantagenet's bonhomie and Jackley's 
camera.

"Bit of both, I should say." Freddie frowned judiciously. "Hard

to tell. So many new people are coming along now and a lot of the others 
are falling by the wayside or retiring. It's one of those Changing of 
the Guards times. End of an era and all that."

Lorinda nodded, only half paying attention. They were standing by the 
door of Gemma Duquette's flat and whining, snuffling sounds, punctuated 
by the occasional yap, could be heard. It was only a matter of time 
before the yapping became more imperious.

"I hope they're not going to let those dogs out," Lorinda said. "They're 
bound to," Freddie said resignedly. "Some sentimental ass will insist on 
it. Probably Gemma herself." The yaps grew more excited.

"They know we're here. Move away." Lorinda suited the action to the 
suggestion. "Maybe they'll calm down.

"Over here!" Professor Borley, standing by the drinks table, hailed 
them. "You haven't got your drinks yet. Let me give you a little tip." 
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "There's a choice of champagne 
or red or white wine. I understand this is a classic ploy in wine 
circles. Those who don't know any better choose the champagne, leaving 
the truly fine wines for the connoisseur." He nodded at them wisely.

"Oh, yes?" Freddie looked at the murky red wine swirling in his own 
glass. "And who told you that?"

"Why, Plantagenet himself, I'm proud to say. I took it as a word to the 
wise." He nodded again for emphasis and took a sip from his glass. "This 
is very ... full-blooded... memorable." He paused. "But perhaps you 
ladies might find the white more to your taste." Lorinda and Freddie 
exchanged glances, immediately suspicious. It would be just like 
Plantagenet Sutton to spread such a story to get rid of his unpalatable 
rejects. "Actually," Freddie said, "I'm afraid my palate isn't very 
educated and it's too late to send it to school now. I think I'll just
settle for the champagne.

"So will I." Looking around, Lorinda observed several
knowledgable-looking strangers holding champagne flutes. A good
nonvintage was preferable to an unknown red or white.

"Well, I did tip you off." Professor Borley took another sip of his red 
and nodded appreciatively, but one corner of his mouth twitched in a 
wince.

"We appreciate it," Lorinda assured him, registering the waiter's nod of 
 approval as he handed her the glass of champagne.

"Isn't this exciting?" Gemma Duquette came up behind them. "At last, a 
proper writers' colony in England! And more and more of our colleagues 
will join us as they realize that. Mark



my words, Brimful Coffers will become a magnet to everyone in the 
field." "Did she say maggot?" Freddie muttered in Lorinda's ear. "Shhh!" 
Lorinda nudged her. "Behave!"

"And what is this I hear?" Gemma cooed. "There's an exciting rumour 
afoot that you're thinking of killing off your series character and 
starting afresh."

"What?" Freddie stiffened. "Where did you hear that ridiculous idea? You 
must be thinking of a couple of other people."

Lorinda froze. It was a long moment before she was able to lift the 
glass to her lips and take what she hoped looked like an unconcerned sip 
of champagne.

"You mean it isn't true? Oh, I'm so glad." Gemma gave her a
soul-stripping look. "Because it doesn't work, you know, my dear. Conan 
Doyle had to bring back Sherlock Holmes. That should have been the 
definitive lesson to all of you. You mustn't muck around with a good 
thing. Your public won't allow it. I realize that the temptation is 
strong sometimes, but you must not think you know better than your 
public."

"I'm going to kill her," Freddie muttered under her breath. "No jury on 
earth would convict me.

"Steady on." Lorinda was barely in control of her own voice.

It was true, she brooded. All those joking remarks she had heard at 
American conventions weren't jokes at all, but the literal truth. "You 
can be alone in your own room at midnight in an empty house," they ran, 
"and sneeze. And first thing in the morning, one of the colleagues will 
be on the telephone asking how your cold is."

The mystery world was such a small community to begin with, had it been 
wise to narrow the boundaries still more by moving here to Brimful 
Coffers?

Too late to ask oneself that now. The move had been made, the mortgage 
was in place, the die was cast. She had to learn to live with it. With 
them. Spasmodic flashes of brilliance lit up the reception area like
heat lightning on a summer's day. Lorinda noticed that she was not the 
only one keeping a wary eye on Jackley as he circled the marble hall 
looking for fresh victims. Macho had manoeuvred himself behind him while 
edging closer to the door.

"Not thinking of leaving?" She slid away from the others and moved to 
cut him off.

"I've been thinking of nothing else all day." He gave her a hangdog 
look. "Too soon, you think?"

"We've only just arrived."

"Really? It seems like hours." He sighed and allowed her to lead him 
over to her group.

Karla, clutching a glass and with an expression of desperate gaiety on 
her face, also joined the group, obviously positioning herself for the 
next photograph. Macho quivered and Lorinda caught his arm before he 
could bolt.

"We were just saying' Gemma greeted Karla with a bright smile, conscious 
of the approaching camera herself - "that it's so easy to become fed up 
with your series characters that the temptation to kill them off becomes 
intense. Don't you find that?"

"Not yet," Karla said. "But I might if I were stuck with the same one 
for any length of time. As it is.. ." She shrugged. "I've got to clear 
up a three-book contract completing the unfinished manuscript Aimee 
Dorrow left behind her when she died and writing the next two from her 
notes, all featuring the endless dreary detections of Miss Mudd. And 
then there's this nonfiction account of our year in England." Her voice 
rose as her husband approached. "Heaven knows when I'll be able to get 
back to my own Terri and Toni series again."

"Smile, everybody!" Jack ordered. "Show 'em what a great time we're 
having." He levelled the camera at them.

Macho ducked behind Freddie just as she raised her eyebrows and gave 
Lorinda a meaningful look. Precisely what it was supposed to mean, 
Lorinda wasn't sure.

"Reverting to what we were just saying' - Freddie smiled dangerously - 
"I agree that it isn't done to kill off one's series character. Not fair 
on the readers, they take it so seriously, poor darlings - look at 
Holmes, look at Van der Valk. But have you noticed the increasing trend 
to kill off the character's spouse or partner?"

Really, it was unspeakably wicked of Freddie. She even widened her eyes 
innocently at the Jackleys as she said it. Jack lowered his camera and 
there was an awkward pause before he laughed loudly. Too loudly.

"Well, we've got the expert on that right here!" He indicated Macho. 
"None of his heroines ever make it through the final chapter to get as 
far as the altar."

Or, if they did, they were killed off in the first chapter of the next 
book to provide Macho Magee with a mission of revenge in tracking down 
the killer and administering his own brand of rough justice.

A ripple of amusement eased the tension. Even Macho joined in, although 
his face darkened.

"Oh, how delicious they look! I really shouldn't!" Gemma's practised 
cries of delight welcomed the appearance of one of the catering staff 
bearing a tray of rather ambitious canapes. Leave it to Plantagenet 
Sutton to have his party professionally catered. Although, Lorinda 
noticed, he was using the local caterers, thereby ensuring local 
goodwill while saving on London prices.

"Hey, that looks good enough to eat!" Jack Jackley laughed immoderately 
at his own wit. Karla gave a strained smile.

They all gazed in admiration on the neat rows of assorted delicacies 
before swooping to demolish them. The pinwheel sandwiches of smoked 
salmon and cream cheese melted like snow in the sun, the flaky oblong 
boats of creamed chicken and the prawn vol-au-vents also vanished 
rapidly.

"Don't go 'way." Jackley caught the waitress's arm as she turned. "Stay 
right here. We can finish these all by ourselves."

"Jack!" Karla's whisper was anguished. "Please!" "What's the matter? 
That's what they're here for: to eat. We're not depriving anybody. 
There's plenty to go round." He indicated more waitresses moving into 
the throng, offering their trays to other guests. "Eat up - and we'll 
send her back for a refill."

Macho didn't need urging. He was steadily devouring one canape after 
another with the grim expression of a man determined to salvage what he 
could from this ghastly evening.

Lorinda helped herself to a round greyish mass, almost the only item 
left on the tray, and nibbled it cautiously: a marinated mushroom 
stuffed with crabmeat and tasting, thank heavens, a great deal better 
than it looked. "Freddie, darling!" One of the London crowd materialized
beside them. "What a fantastic place. You could have written it
yourself!"

"She did." Suddenly, Dorian was there. "We all did. And now, like 
Brigadoon, it has appeared and we've moved in. Beware it doesn't 
disappear again tonight, taking all of you with it - into the fourth 
dimension!"

"Oh, Dorian!" The woman laughed skittishly. "You are a horror!" Her gaze 
shifted nervously to the world beyond the long windows and brightly 
blossoming window boxes, as though checking that it was still there. 
Dorian could have that effect on people.

"Only to those I love." He bussed her cheek smoothly. "I'm frighteningly 
polite to strangers and small children.

"Must you keep rubbing it in, Dorian?" Stately as the proverbial
galleon, Rhylla Montague glided into their midst and dropped anchor. 
"I'm trying to forget - and savour my last few days of freedom.

"Nonsense, Rhylla," Dorian said heartily. "You know you're looking 
forward to it enormously. Any doting granny would."

"Don't!" Rhylla shuddered. "A deadline and a granddaughter, both 
looming. How am I going to cope?"

"Here we are!" Betty Alvin appeared in their midst, bearing a laden 
tray. "I could see that some of you hadn't bothered with lunch, so I 
liberated this for you." The invaluable communal secretary thrust the 
tray at them.

"Hot dog!" Jackley said.

"Hot cocktail sausages, actually," Macho corrected. They both regarded 
the bounty for an appreciative moment before diving in. Hot cocktail 
sausages, satay chicken sticks, giant prawns, sweet-and-sour pork, steak 
medallions and bowls of tempting spicy dips. Heartier fare than that on 
the earlier tray.

"Betty, you're a lifesaver!" Rhylla breathed. "She's spoken for, 
remember," Dorian warned. "She's completely tied up preparing my final 
draft. There'll be no time for her to play nanny to your bratling."

"You can't work her twenty-four hours a day!" Rhylla shot him a 
poisonous glance.

"Neither can you!"

Betty swung the tray around the circle, a faintly anxious frown rippling 
across her forehead. Lorinda sympathized. It must have seemed like an 
ideal arrangement when Dorian persuaded Betty to move her freelance 
secretarial service into the attic flat at Coffers Court, asking only a 
peppercorn rent and promising an assured group of clients. Now it looked 
as though Betty was another one questioning the wisdom of having moved
into a situation from which there might be no easy escape.

"How thoughtful of you." Lorinda gave her a sympathetic look as >he 
managed to spear four giant prawns on one toothpick and stood holding 
them with an innocent expression while she tried to plot the logistics 
of transferring the toothpick into a napkin and then into her handbag 
unobserved. The lengths to which being a cat owner reduced one! But she 
could not pass up those tempting prawns when she imagined the delight of
Had-I and But-Known upon being presented with them when she returned. 
She noticed that Macho had also filled a cocktail stick with the 
luscious prawns and was gazing at it absently, obviously lost in the 
same calculations as she. Roscoe, too, loved prawns. It was not that 
they could not afford to buy them themselves for their pets, it was just 
that the sudden unexpected treat was greeted with such delight.

With a quick look around and a sudden decisive move, Macho rammed the 
prawn-laden cocktail stick into his jacket pocket. Lorinda winced. How 
lucky that Macho was currently between girlfriends. Otherwise some poor 
woman would have had a fit before delivering the jacket to the dry 
cleaners.

"Is there another emergency pending?" Betty asked uneasily. "Nothing to 
do with you," Dorian assured her. "Rhylla has carelessly allowed her son 
and daughter-in-law to dump the grandchild on her for the holidays. 
Again." He smirked heartlessly. "She's going to find it a little more 
difficult to entertain the child in a village than in the heart of 
Knightsbridge, where she could send her off with a pocketful of money 
and all the theatres, shops, museums and exhibitions of London at her
command. You may have to take some time out of your busy routine and 
actually hold a conversation or two with the child yourself, Rhylla."

"You know all about it yourself, of course," Rhylla snapped.

"A bachelor's children are always the best brought up. Lorinda noticed 
that Gemma had taken advantage of the fact that the others were absorbed 
in the altercation to quietly empty the plate of sirloin medallions into 
a plastic sandwich bag she had ready and waiting. Lionheart and 
Conqueror, the pug dogs, would also snack well this evening.

"I wish I'd thought of that," Lorinda murmured as Gemma caught her 
watching.

"Come prepared! That's the secret." With the conspiratorial wink of the 
veteran of a thousand PR launches, Gemma slipped an extra sandwich bag 
to her.

"One scavenger to a tray, that's the unwritten rule." Gemma gave her a 
gentle push towards a group across the room, who seemed to be London 
visitors unnaturally concerned about calories - in food, that is. They 
appeared to have no qualms about the caloric content of champagne.

Taking the hint, Lorinda began circling the room in a delicate stalking 
operation she recognized she had learned from observing Had-I, the 
peerless hunter of the two cats. But-Known's qualms about her sister's 
intrepid activities especially extended to the hunting procedure; 
although she knew in a vague way that hunting was a Good Thing, 
But-Known could not bring herself to hunt prey that had to be killed. 
She was exceptionally generous, however, in her gifts of pebbles, 
leaves, flowers and the occasional trifle pilfered from a guest's 
handbag or pocket. That was prowess enough for her.

Behind Lorinda, the heat lightning flashed again and she heard a low 
growl which, in the absence of any four-legged animals, she had to 
suspect had come from Macho Magee. But there was also a suppressed hiss 
among the reactions. Jack Jackley was getting on everyone's nerves. He 
could not be allowed to go on like this all winter, proposed book or 
not. Someone was going to have to speak to him about his neighbours' 
right to privacy. But would that really stop him? Sensitivity to the
opinion of others did not appear to loom large in his make-up.

"Lorinda Lucas!" Carelessly, she had passed too close to Professor 
Borley. He caught her arm and drew her into a corner. "I've been meaning 
to talk to you. Now that I'm all settled in, we must fix a time for me 
to interview you for my new book."

"Oh. Yes. We must." Anguished Lorinda watched the tray she had been 
stalking carried out of reach.

"Over here!" The professor noticed and gestured imperiously

to the waitress, who swerved and bore the tray over to them. "I can 
recommend the chicken," he beamed. "I think it's especially good."

"Oh. Thank you." Trapped, Lorinda took a satay stick and then stood 
holding it helplessly. She realized she could not slip it into the 
plastic bag with Professor Borley watching - and probably making mental 
notes for posterity.

"Try the peanut sauce," Professor Borley instructed. "Or the
sweet-and-sour." He indicated the bowls of dip. "They're both very 
good."

Recognizing defeat, Lorinda dipped the chicken into the peanut sauce and 
nibbled delicately. At the back of her mind, Had-I's accusing eyes 
watched every selfish bite. Had-I was particularly fond of chicken. 
But-Known favoured prawns. They both loved little surprises.

Don't worry, she promised silently. I'll bring you your share of the 
party.

"Shall we say Monday morning?" Professor Borley was caught up in his own 
concerns.

"Monday? Morning?"

"Afternoon, if you prefer. This will just be in the nature of a
preliminary interview, of course.

"Preliminary?" Lorinda wished she could stop sounding like

an echo. "I thought we'd start with an overall view of your career.
Then, in subsequent interviews, we can get down to the nitty-gritty."

"Subsequent? Nitty-gritty?" If only she could attribute that sinking 
feeling in her stomach to impending food poisoning, but she knew that 
the canapes were blameless. It was due to the prospect of not just one, 
but a series of interviews with an earnest American academic.

Damn Dorian! This was all his fault. During one of his American tours, 
he had met Professor Borley and learned of the projected scholarly tome 
on the wellsprings and influences of popular culture as evinced in the 
mystery field. With his penchant for collecting people who might be 
useful, Dorian had kept track of the professor's progress and written to 
suggest that a sojourn in Brimful Coffers, where he would be surrounded 
by actively creating mystery writers, might facilitate his research.
Naturally, Dorian hoped to figure prominently in the book, if not 
dominate it. Meanwhile, he had unleashed this ... this pest on the rest 
of them.


"I'm terribly busy right now." She mustered her defences. "Deadline 
coming up and all that, you know.

"I understand." He nodded for emphasis. "Fortunately, we have plenty of 
time in hand. I was lucky enough to be able to rent this superb 
accommodation for my full sabbatical year. I'm anxious to get on with my 
research, but I can start with one of the others and come back to you 
when you're less pressured."

"Yes, that would be fine." Lorinda felt faintly dizzy. All she wanted to 
come back to her was the tray of canapes now being carried to the far 
side of the room.

"Smile," Professor Borley warned suddenly, baring his teeth.

Too late. As she turned back to look at him, the flash bulb exploded in 
her face. Again, the after-brilliance and swirling black spots cut off 
all normal vision.

"That man is a menace," she muttered. "He doesn't seem the kind who'll 
improve on closer acquaintance," the professor agreed. "It's a pity his 
wife is so talented. No one would put up with him for a minute, 
otherwise."

"Please excuse me... The spots cleared enough for Lorinda

to see a waitress emerging from the improvised caterers' pantry, bearing 
a fresh tray of the coveted treats. If she moved quickly enough, she 
could intercept the waitress before the other guests began pillaging the 
tray.

"Yes, and I've got to.. ." Professor Borley nodded tacit agreement and 
slid away in the opposite direction, leaving Jack Jackley aiming his 
camera at thin air.

With a vague smile towards several London colleagues who were waving at 
her, Lorinda sidled along the marble wall until she reached an alcove 
suitable for lurking in to ambush the waitress. Around her, fragments of 
conversation rebounded off the marble walls from a group of critics 
standing nearby.

"Timetables, my dear, were what killed off the Golden Age. I couldn't 
believe it when I turned the page and found one in his latest book

"And genealogy - is there anything more deadly? I always feel as though 
I'm going to have to face an exam on the family relationships in the 
morning..."

"Series! How much longer is this mad craze for series going

to continue? I could upchuck every time I pick up a new book and see 
it's about the same old dreary...

"It's all due to the fragmentation of modern life in America. All those 
people, always on the move. They wake up in the morning and can never be 
sure who's still living in the house next door. Or maybe they're on the 
way to a new home themselves. A nation on the move - and we feel the 
reverberations in fiction on the other side of the Atlantic. It gives 
them the only permanence they have. Series characters are always there,
always the same, the community they used to be part of, but which no 
longer exists in reality - only in their dreams..."

"And the books they want to read. Fine for them, but the rest

of us have a lower threshold of boredom..." "Or a more stable home 
life..."

"Of course, that's why all those wretched radio and television soap 
operas are so popular, too. They help provide the stability so lacking 
in everyday life..." "How much longer can it go on, one asks oneself. 
Sooner or later, the public is bound to become satiated and the trend 
will collapse, the way the Gothic boom did when so many writers jumped 
on the bandwagon it buckled..."

"And horror. Don't forget horror...

"And private eyes. There can't be many of them left with a friend, 
relative or lover to call his own..."

Shrieks of laughter hit the marble walls and splintered into brittle 
shards of knifepoint-lethal cacophony.

The waitress appeared and Lorinda prepared to pounce. It was pounce or 
scream. At least three of the Judases in that coven of critics had 
hailed the advent of each of Miss Petunia's adventures with cries of 
seeming rapture. And this was what they really thought!

No wonder Victorian bank managers had had such a reputation for 
omniscience. Their customers could never have suspected the acoustical 
betrayal of those impressive marble walls. One careless word to an 
accompanying spouse or friend and their doom was sealed, with 
foreclosure and bankruptcy proceedings in their future.

"I have two cats at home." With a charming smile to the waitress, 
Lorinda shamelessly plotted to denude the tray. "And they'd never 
forgive me if I didn't bring home some treats for them."

"Oh, I know." The waitress smiled back and Lorinda vaguely recognized 
her as one of the assistants in the local hairdressing salon. "You've 
got those two lovely splashy-coloured cats."

"That's right. The tortoiseshell is Had-I and the calico is But-Known.
They're sisters." Lorinda piled chicken, beef and even cocktail sausages 
into the thoughtfully provided napkin, prior to transfer into the 
plastic kitty-bag. For good measure, she took a couple of 
cheese-and-onion miniature quiches and bit into one recklessly. The cats 
were indifferent to pastry.

"You want to take some more of these goodies home to your little 
kitties," Elsie - yes, that was her name, Elsie - said understandingly.
"There's heaps of food out back - they'll never eat it all. Look' - she 
thrust the tray at Lorinda - "you take this round and I'll go back and 
pack up a takeaway for you to bring home to your cats."

"Oh, well ... thank you." Lorinda caught the tray as Elsie rushed away. 
What a nice child. She hoped she had tipped her enough last time she'd 
had her hair done.

"Lorinda! They've pressed you into service, have they?" "Aren't you 
kind? How good everything looks." The group she had so lately been 
eavesdropping on greeted her with enthusiasm and took their pick of her 
wares.

"I hope this doesn't presage a career change for you," the scrawny 
female from the Sunday Special miaowed. "I'm so looking forward to the 
next delightful instalment from St Waldemar Boniface."

Lorinda bared her teeth at her, just managing to bite back a sharp 
retort that would betray that she knew what they had just been saying.

"Hold it! Don't move!" It was as well she had been warned or she might 
have dropped the tray. She clung to it grimly as the wild explosion of 
black dots blinded her again. Damn! If Karla really wanted to murder 
Jack, there would be no shortage of witnesses to swear that she had been 
sitting innocently at the bridge table with them at the crucial moment.

"Great! The murder writer as hostess! Would you take a canape from 
someone who's killed as many people as Lorinda Lucas has? It will make a 
great caption."

"Perhaps one of us should collapse at her feet," the Sunday Special 
suggested acidly. "That would make a great picture, too."

"Hey! Terrific!" Jack raised the camera, then lowered it again

as noone moved. "Oh, that was a joke, huh? But it's still a great idea. 
Why don't we do it?"

This time Lorinda moved, sliding quietly away from the group while Jack 
was still looking hopefully from face to face. Really, the man was 
impossible! What had Karla ever seen in him in the first place?

And what was taking Elsie so long? She had to get rid of this tray 
before Jack came after her again. Lorinda veered over to a marble table 
that was so much a part of the wall that it seemed to be growing out of 
it and rested her tray on it, shoving aside two bowls of olives, an 
ashtray, a saucer of peanuts and a flower arrangement.

"Good work!" She was not alone. Macho materialized at her side, eyes 
gleaming as he reached for a napkin and began loading it up with chicken 
kebabs. "Clever you!" Gemma appeared on her other side and reached for 
the medallions of beef. "Just what we needed - a tray of our own.

"For heaven's sake!" They were shameless. Lorinda cast an anxious glance 
around to make sure they were unobserved - at least by their host. "Be 
careful!" "I don't care who sees me," Macho said defiantly, but he took

an uneasy look over his shoulder. "What about who photographs you?" 
Lorinda pointed out, as

a series of flashes went off in the distance. "Talk about grounds for 
blackmail!"

"He'd better not try it," Macho growled. "Anyway, there's nothing 
blackmailable about it. It's not a criminal offence."

"Quite right." Freddie appeared behind them. "It may be impolite, - in 
bad taste and a trifle shoddy, but it's not an indictable offence."

"It's always nice to know what your friends really think of you," Macho 
said sourly.

The others regarded Freddie unmoved. It was all right for her, she was 
petless at the moment. There would be no hopeful little eyes to greet 
her when she returned home.

"Sorry you disapprove," Gemma said. "We can't put any canapes back now 
though, it would look even worse - and so would they."

"Never mind." Freddie shrugged and turned to Lorinda. "The great 
Plantagenet sent me over to fetch you. Your editor wants to talk to 
you." "Where is she?" Lorinda looked around. "I didn't see her here."

A strange man was talking to Plantagenet Sutton, but the familiar face 
she expected to see was nowhere in sight.

"It's a New York editor, I think," Freddie said vaguely. "A new one."

"Oh, not another new one!" She might have guessed; the permanent tan on 
the stranger's face marked him out as trans-atlantic. "Every time I get 
a letter from New York, there's a different signature. Can't these 
people ever stay put?"

"It's happening here, too, these days," Freddie said. "Just remember the 
old adage: Be nice to the people you meet on the way up, you'll meet 
them again on the way down - and they'll be even more in need of 
kindness then."

Plantagenet Sutton and the new editor were both looking in her direction 
now. Lorinda waved to them and nodded to signal that the message had 
been received and would be acted upon as soon as possible. Out of the 
corner of her eye, she saw Elsie approaching with a freshly laden tray 
and winced inwardly. She moved slightly to one side, so that Macho was 
shielding her, and hoped the transfer of booty could be made 
inconspicuously.

"There you are," Elsie greeted her, and leaned closer to whisper

in her ear. "Too many people around. I'll fill one of those little
plastic tubs and leave it outside the back door. You can pick it up on 
your way home."

"Wonderful!" Lorinda beamed at her gratefully and went to meet her new 
editor unburdened and with a moderately clear conscience.

By the time she was able to get away, the party was breaking up. Freddie 
and Macho were nowhere in sight. The local catering staff had also 
disappeared and only Betty Alvin and Gordie Crane were still on duty, 
looking tired and tight-lipped, collecting up the used glasses as soon 
as they were set down and carrying them away to the improvised pantry 
behind the screens. A clear signal the party was over.

Plantagenet Sutton's wavering gaze did not quite focus on Lorinda as she 
thanked him for a delightful party and made her escape.

Outside, she hesitated. The night seemed extraordinarily dark and a 
chill wind was rising. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, 
presaging rain, and trees and bushes rustled ominously. She shivered 
involuntarily.

The streetlamp marking the turning into the narrow aperture that was 
Coffers Passage seemed to have burned out. No wonder the night seemed so 
much darker.

It took her a long moment to argue herself into taking the short cut. 
Yes, it was dark. Yes, it looked sinister. Yes, it was the sort of thing 
she groaned about when one of the colleagues sent the heroine into such 
a foolhardy venture. But this was real life; this was Brimful Coffers, 
not some urban jungle with danger lurking around every corner. Of 
course, it was a perfectly safe thing to do and it would enable her to 
pick up the cats' treats and get home so much more quickly.

She was halfway down Coffers Passage when she heard the faint echoing 
footsteps.

They were so faint... even furtive ... that she could not tell whether 
they were behind her or in front of her.

She looked over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the long dark alley 
behind her. Nor did anything seem to be looming menacingly in the 
shadows ahead.

There was a perfectly simple explanation. The last guests were still 
leaving the party, she was hearing their footsteps as they walked along 
the pavement outside Coffers Court. Sounds carried strangely in the 
still night air, often distorted and seeming to come from a different 
direction.

Nevertheless, she quickened her own steps, instinctively tilting forward 
on to her toes to minimize any sounds she might make. The end of the 
passage seemed an endless length away; she moved towards it steadily, 
forcing herself not to run.

As she reached the end of the passage and turned into the back street, 
she realized that the footsteps were no longer audible. - The relief 
that swept over her left her feeling silly. There had never been any 
threat in them - why had she allowed them to disturb her so? The dark 
night and restless wind preying upon her imagination probably, not to 
mention the lavishness with which the catering staff had dispensed the 
champagne.

She walked purposefully along the vine-covered wall that enclosed the 
back garden of Coffers Court and opened the narrow wooden door set 
discreetly into the wall. It was usually kept locked, but not tonight; 
the caterers and delivery people would have needed access all evening.

The little round white plastic carton was waiting in a corner

of the top step, right where Elsie had promised it would be, just
visible in the dim glow of the light from the windows looking on to the 
garden.

It was heavier than she expected, Elsie must have crammed

it full. Just as she began to pick it up, there was a sudden
high-pitched burst of unamused laughter from somewhere eerily close at 
hand. Lorinda nearly dropped the carton. As it slipped, she heard a
faint clink - what else had she dropped? Her groping hand encountered 
something small and flat and cold. Automatically, she gathered up the 
object and squinted at it in disbelief.

Pince-nez... bold-rimmed pince-nez... their broken cord dangling from 
one side. "There was only one person she had ever known - or, rather, 
imagined - who wore pince-nez...

The high-pitched mocking laughter sounded again, fading into the 
distance.

Lorinda thrust the pince-nez into her coat pocket and stumbled down the 
flagstone path to the door in the wall.

It was some sort of joke. Not funny and in poor taste - as though the 
autocratic Miss Petunia intended to reprimand her for ... for...?

Impossible! She really had drunk too deeply of Plantagenet Sutton's 
champagne to let it affect her like this.

She did not even try to muffle her footsteps as she gained the street 
and turned towards home. This time she ran.


3

 CHAPTER TWENTY

"Oooh!" Marigold squealed, clapping her hands girlishly. "It all looks 
so beautiful! Like Fairyland!"

"Not bad, if I do say so myself." Lily descended the stepladder, hammer 
swinging carelessly in her hand.

"A beautiful job, my dear." The vicar's wife always seemed to speak 
through clenched teeth. "Although you shouldn't have gone to all that 
trouble. My husband had planned to -

"No trouble at all." Lily beamed. "Looks good." Streamers stretched 
across the ceiling, clusters of balloons bloomed in every corner and 
fairy lights sparkled everywhere.

"Oh, very good," the vicar's wife agreed quickly, smartly stepping. back 
out of range of the swinging hammer.

"Yes," Miss Petunia approved. "This is going to be one of our most 
successful bazaars. I can feel it."

The church hall had never looked so attractive, if one did say

so oneself. The tables were laden with needlework, knitting, homemade 
cakes, jams and preserves, books, bric-a-brac, and all the hundreds of 
offerings designed to charm the pennies and pounds out of pockets and 
purses.

In one corner an artfully draped sheet represented a gypsy tent, within 
which lurked a heavily made-up volunteer who (on the strength of having 
read the two books on graphology and card tricks that comprised the 
library's entire stock of unorthodoxy) was going to tell fortunes. In 
the opposite corner, the tombola spun merrily behind a table filled with 
numbered prizes to be won. A door in the far corner led to the little 
side room where teas were to be served and the last corner held the 
steps leading up to the stage where the judging was to be held. The long 
trestle table was set out on the stage, laden with the pies, cakes, 
preserves and jams, ready for the solemn procession of judges to taste 
and pronounce their verdict upon.

"Best part of the whole day," Lily said, looking around with
satisfaction. "Too bad we have to let the public in to mess it all up.

Everybody laughed heartily. They always laughed heartily at Lily's 
jokes. Which was just as well. Lily could become ... difficult ... if 
she thought she wasn't appreciated.

"Let me relieve you of that heavy old thing." Deftly, Mrs Reverend
Christian abstracted the hammer from Lily's hand. "Now that you've 
finished with it." Still laughing gaily, she carried it into the 
tearoom.

"I do feel the Reverend Christian is most fortunate in his choice

of a life's mate," Miss Petunia said, watching her go. "We must keep 
watch carefully. Nothing like last year's unfortunate happening must be 
allowed to mar today's festival."

"Rotten hard luck on the vicar's wife," Lily agreed. "A duff mushroom in 
the mushrooms a la Grecque could happen to anyone."

"Rather harder luck on poor Mr Mallory," Marigold twinkled. "Still, it 
was a lovely funeral."

"Although a most premature one," Miss Petunia said severely. "Oh, but, 
Pet, he was dead." Marigold's eyes widened earnestly. "Everyone said 
so."

"I am not questioning the fact of his death." Petunia lowered her voice 
and her sisters moved closer in order to hear. "But the manner of it!"

"A duff mushroom in the mushrooms a la Grecque could happen

to anyone." Lily persisted stubbornly in her defence of the vicar's
wife.

"That is why it was such a brilliant method of murder!" Miss Petunia 
pointed out triumphantly.

"Murder!" Lily's eyes gleamed. "I say, Pet, are we on the trail again?"

"But who -?" Marigold breathed.

"The least likely suspect, of course." Lily looked around the hall 
thoughtfully. "How about the gypsy fortune teller? Bad lot, those 
gypsies, anyway.

"She wasn't here last year, dear," Miss Petunia reminded her sister. 
"Besides, she's not a real gypsy, she's Miss Plotz, the librarian."

"Then who?" Lily's eyes narrowed, the tip of her nose twitched. Everyone 
was under suspicion now.

"You will remember that I was one of the judges last year," Miss Petunia 
said. "After Lady Mallerwynn opened the bazaar and did her usual round 
of the stands, thoughtfully buying something at each, she then went 
directly to the judging platform on the stage. You might not have 
noticed it, but she had brought her own silver spoon and silver pickle 
fork to use in the tastings. The mushrooms a la Grecque were the first 
of the picklings to be judged. They were opened in her presence. When
she removed the pickle fork from her capacious handbag, I noticed that 
there was something soft and small stuck on the tines - so that she 
shouldn't inadvertently stab herself if she groped quickly for a 
handkerchief, she said."

"You mean that Lady Mallerwynn?" Marigold gasped. "Precisely! She was, 
of course, the first to taste - and it would

be quite easy for her to add a mushroom as well as take one out! Then it 
was my turn to taste but - as everyone knows - ever since that terrible 
holiday we had in Athens, I have never been able to stomach Greek food. 
So I simply pretended to taste the mushrooms although, naturally, I gave 
Mrs Christian the highest mark on my scoring pad, for everyone knows 
she's a wonderful cook. Then poor Mr Mallory actually did bite into his 
mushroom - and we all know the consequences!"

"Lady Mallerwynn!" Lily's fists clenched. "And she let the vicar's wife 
take the blame!"

"Oh, it's so unfair!" Marigold cried. "Especially as poor Mrs Christian 
is such a martyr to neuralgia!"

"Is she?" Miss Petunia was intrigued. "How do you know that, Marigold?"

"Haven't you noticed? I have. Every time we're talking together like 
this and I glance over at Mrs Christian, she's grimacing - bravely 
trying to hide her pain."

With one accord, all three turned their heads to stare at Mrs Christian. 
Sure enough, she was grimacing, wincing - in fact, she flinched.

"Poor woman!" Lily said. "We must do all we can to help her." "Indeed," 
Miss Petunia agreed. "That is why we are here. We must keep careful 
watch today and miss nothing."

"But, Pet," Marigold demurred. "Lady Mallerwynn isn't here this year, so 
how could anything go wrong? Besides' - her eyes clouded - "why on earth 
should she have wanted to kill poor old Mr Mallory?"

"Ah!" Miss Petunia adjusted her pince-nez and looked at her sister 
meaningly. "Just consider the similarity of their two names. It is my 
suspicion that Mr Mallory, recently retired from a life in the merchant 
navy, was really the rightful Lord Mallerwynn and heir to all the 
fortune and estates. Since returning to his native village of St 
Waldemar Boniface and taking up a hobby of genealogy, he would have 
begun to realize this and be making plans to lay his claims. If that 
happened, Lady Mallerwynn would be a Lady no longer, she would be forced 
to leave the Manor and move to a smaller house, the money would no 
longer belong to her, her sons would no longer be the heirs apparent.. 
." Miss Petunia lowered her voice. "She might even have to remove them 
from Eton. That, surely is a motive worth murdering for!"

"Oh, Pet," Marigold sighed. "You're so clever!" "Brilliant!" Lily 
agreed.

"To your stations, girls. They're about to open the doors and let the 
public in. We'll have a proper Council of War over tea this evening."

As Miss Petunia walked past Mrs Christian on her way to stand beneath 
the stage, she noticed that the vicar's wife was wincing again.

"Jolly good, this." Lily spread more rosehip jelly on her toasted
muffin. "Different, but good."

"Delicious." Marigold helped herself to more. "Such a subtle flavour. I 
believe there's a hint of almonds in it. Where did you get it, Lily? I 
didn't see anything like this on the preserves stand."

"Vicar's wife gave it to me herself. A new recipe she's trying out for 
next year. Wanted us to try it. Said she'd value our opinions.

"How kind of her. Do try some, Pet."

"No, thank you." Miss Petunia yawned. It had been an exhausting day, 
with only a few more suspicions to show for it. "It sounds more like 
something for spreading on your face than eating. I'll stick with this 
lovely bramble jam. Is this from the vicar's wife, too?"

"Right you are." Lily's mouth twitched suddenly. "Another experimental 
recipe - in case we didn't fancy the rosehips."

"Yes ... there is something different in it." Miss Petunia yawned again. 
"I can't quite place it..."

"And there's such a dear little drawing of bramble leaves on the label-" 
Marigold grimaced suddenly. "But they don't quite look like bramble 
leaves, do they?"

"Not... quite..." Miss Petunia blinked and tried to focus on the label. 
The drawing reminded her of something ... but she was so tired. She felt 
that she could fall asleep ... right here in this chair...

Strangely, both Marigold and Lily appeared to have suddenly become 
hyperactive. Miss Petunia peered at them muzzily, thinking that they 
seemed quite revived after their exertions of the afternoon. Even as she 
watched, Lily leaped to her feet, knocking her chair over, and proceeded 
to bend over backwards. So athletic, dear Lily!

At the same time, Marigold shrieked and hurled her jelly-laden muffin 
from her, seeming to go into some form of St Vitus dance. "The jam!" she 
shrieked. "The almonds! It wasn't almonds, it was - aaargh!" She pitched 
to the floor and, after a bit more twitching, lay still.

Lily now appeared to be doing a Conga on all fours, but was gamely 
attempting to get to the telephone. She was making strange noises, 
apparently under the impression that she was communicating something to 
her sisters.

Miss Petunia watched her progress with interest, gradually realizing 
that Marigold and Lily had been poisoned by the rosehip jelly. How very 
fortunate that she had chosen the bramble jam herself.

Just as soon as she could overcome this strange lethargy, she must rise 
and go to the telephone and summon the doctor. But she could not seem to 
force herself to move. How odd!

Her vision cleared momentarily and she found that she was staring at the 
label on the bramble jam. Marigold was right - it was not a drawing of 
bramble leaves and berries. Miss Petunia frowned at it. It looked 
familiar ... it was surely...

Yes ... it was. Deadly nightshade!

But why? And the vicar's wife! Who could have imagined it? Then... 
possibly... that mushroom last year had been meant for her, Miss 
Petunia, and not for Mr Mallory at all. But why? Why should the vicar's 
wife ... want to kill her? And Lily? And Marigold?

In her dying moments, Miss Petunia Pettifogg had discovered

a new mystery. It was one she carried with her to...

THE END

Lorinda straightened and flexed her tightened muscles. Had-I, stretched 
across her shoulders, mewled a protest and scrambled to a sitting 
position. But-Known, sprawled across her feet, slid to the floor and 
stretched. Lorinda gathered up the pages without her usual feeling of
satisfaction. The uneasiness of last night had not quite left her. The 
gold-rimmed pince-nez, wrapped in a tissue, were filed in the FINAL 
CHAPTERS folder; she could not wait to bury them under more chapters and 
forget them.

The phone tweetled abruptly, startling them all. Had-I leaped to the 
desk and watched the phone intently; she had long suspected that there 
was a bird in there somewhere. Only the obvious fact that it was 
completely inedible had kept her from killing and dismembering it. 
But-Known regarded her sister's posturings with a jaundiced eye; even if 
there had been a bird in there, it was safe from But-Known. "Hello?" 
Lorinda fended Had-I away from the cradle before she disconnected the 
call.

"Sanctuary," Freddie croaked piteously. "I crave sanctuary." "Poor 
Freddie," Lorinda said automatically. "Come round and have a drink."

"I was hoping you'd say that. I'll be right over." The cats raced each 
other into the kitchen where they took

up positions in front of the fridge. Two tiny pink tongues flicked out 
and moved from left to right in unison. They watched Lorinda with greedy 
anticipation. There was still plenty of booty left from last night's 
party and they knew it.

"Oh, all right." She had to open the fridge to get the ice cubes,
anyway. The carton of goodies was still embarrassingly heavy. She hoped 
Plantagenet Sutton never learned how thoroughly his canapes had been 
plundered. It would not endear his new neighbours to him.

Had-I and But-Known threw themselves enthusiastically into disposing of 
the evidence, crooning with delight. Lorinda put the carton back into 
the fridge just as Freddie tapped at the back door.

"Stop me if I'm becoming a bore on the subject," Freddie said, "but I 
think it's getting to be an obsession. I've always heard that there are 
people who can get along on only three or four hours' sleep a night - 
isn't it just my luck that a pair of them have moved into the other half 
of my semi?"

Lorinda thrust a large gin and tonic into Freddie's hand. It was the 
most sympathetic rejoinder she could think of at the moment.

"Thanks." Freddie took a deep pull at it and barely paused

to swallow before going on with her complaints. "I've stopped worrying 
about them killing each other - now I'm afraid they won't. It may be my 
only hope for a peaceful life again."

"Perhaps they'll split up and both go away." Lorinda led the way into 
the living room. The cats were down to polishing their dishes now and 
casting hopeful glances; they needed a clear signal that they'd had 
their lot for the time being.

"That will never happen." Freddie settled into an armchair. "They're 
together until death do them part. Believe me, I've heard enough to 
know.

"Oh, well." Lorinda curled up in one corner of the sofa. "If that's so, 
it will certainly provide all of us with a lot of fresh material."

"All useless," Freddie said dismissively. "Most murders are domestic, 
one spouse killing the other in real life. We all know that. Nothing 
more boring. No suspense, no questions about whodunit. Open-and-shut 
case. Straight police procedural and they're yawning all the way to the 
jail. Nothing in it for us at all."

"Oh, I don't know," Lorinda said. "The way Jack was carrying on last 
night, I think suspicion might be spread around half a dozen or more 
people. By the time I left, everyone was going out of their way to avoid 
him and/or spoil his picture, which was just as good. I thought Macho 
might brain him with a blunt instrument after he caught him unawares and 
actually got a full-face shot. He'll give poor Macho a nervous 
breakdown, if he keeps on like that." "That's what the fight was all 
about when they got home," Freddie said. "Karla was furious about the 
way he'd been behaving and threatened to expose the films he'd taken. 
Told him it was an invasion of privacy and betrayal of hospitality - 
which it was - as though he knew about such niceties. Or cared. "He flew 
off the handle and accused her of trying to blight his promising career. 
His promising career - hah!" Freddie snorted. "He buys a camera and he 
thinks he's Henri Cartier-Bresson and Richard Avedon rolled into one. 
Does he imagine anyone would care about his amateur shots if Karla 
weren't supplying the words?"

"Someone is going to have to have a word with him," Lorinda said. "Apart 
from his wife, that is. She appears to have no effect at all." "She 
maddens him - that's her effect." Freddie grimaced. "And vice versa, I'd 
say."

"Who'll bell the cat?" Lorinda absently watched Had-I and But-Known 
stroll into the room, sit down and begin to wash their faces. "I'd say 
Dorian - he's their friend, he's the one who brought them into our 
midst. It's up to him to sort them out. We can't go on like this all 
winter."

"Dorian, yes. He got us into this," Freddie brooded. "I could strangle 
him for it."

"He does seem to have a lot to answer for," Lorinda agreed. "More every 
day. I hope he doesn't have anything else up his sleeve. Anyway" - 
Freddie brightened - "I don't think there are any more properties to be 
sold or let in the village. No more strangers in our midst-"

The sharp peal of the doorbell cut her off. The cats looked up and raced 
to leap on to the windowsill, jostling the curtain aside as they looked 
out to see who was at the door. Someone stepped closer to the window and 
peered in at the cats, then looked beyond them into the room and waved.

"Only me," she called.

"Speak of the devil!" Freddie said. "And she's seen us. There's no 
escape.

Lorinda got up and went to open the door to Karla Jackley, who followed 
her back into the living room, happily unaware that she was not the most 
welcome of guests.

"I knew you were over here," she greeted Freddie. "I saw you cutting 
across the back gardens. I wanted to talk to you, both of you, so - "Gin 
and tonic all right?" Lorinda asked. "That's what we're drinking."

"Just fine, thanks." She gave Lorinda a grateful smile before
continuing. "I rang Macho, but he had his answering machine on and I 
don't know whether he was there or not. Or if he was busy working. Oh, 
thanks." She accepted her drink and took the other armchair.

"I hope you don't mind my dropping in like this, but I wanted

to apologize. For Jack. He was pretty impossible last night. I know he 
got everybody mad at him."

There was an awkward silence while they tried to think of something 
polite and vaguely comforting to say to her, but not so polite or 
comforting that she would think it was permissible for her husband to 
continue in that way.

"It's all right," Karla said. "I know. I told him so. I-" She stopped 
and took an unsteady breath, perhaps dangerously close to tears. Thank 
heavens for the cats. With more tact than the humans, they advanced on 
Karla. Had-I jumped into her lap, But-Known rubbed against her ankles.

"Aren't they darlings?" As Karla bent to stroke the cats, her hair slid 
forward, masking her expression, but revealing a long horizontal bruise 
on her neck.

Lorinda and Freddie just had time to exchange a significant look before 
Karla straightened and faced them again. "Anyway, just because Jack took 
the pictures doesn't mean we're going to use them. He'll probably be 
taking hundreds this winter." "Oh, God!" Freddie moaned.

"I know. He's taking them of me, too. I daren't even go down

to breakfast without full make-up and not a hair out of place. I'm 
getting sick of it already. I wish I'd never given him the idea, but 
he's got the bit in his teeth now and I can't stop him. Believe me, I've 
been trying to."

"I believe you," Freddie said grimly. "Oh!" Karla wasn't dumb. "Have we 
been disturbing you? I've wondered how thick the walls really are."

"Not thick enough." Caught, Freddie admitted it. "Not that I hear much," 
she lied hastily. "Just the occasional thud or crash."

"I try to keep the noise level down, honestly, I do," Karla said 
earnestly. "But when he gets into one of his aggressive moods..." She 
let the thought trail off, unconsciously raising her hand to rub at the 
bruise on her neck, now hidden again by her hair. How did a nice woman 
like you ever link up with a boor and a brute like that? But it was not 
a question that could be asked, even though Karla might be willing to 
try to answer it in one of those exhaustive and comprehensive 
soul-searchings some Americans indulged in. A more neutral question was 
safer.

"Where did you meet Dorian?" Lorinda asked instead. "Oh!" From the way 
Karla jumped, she might just as well have asked the original question. 
"In New York last year, when he came over to do that signing tour. We 
have the same publisher and we were at a few book stores together. We 
sort of got to know each other." She appeared flustered and - was that a
blush? She dipped her head again, swinging her hair forward to shield 
her face. But-Known allowed one more stroke then obviously decided that 
her hostess duty was done and strolled over to leap up on the sofa 
beside Lorinda. Had-I settled down comfortably in Karla's lap, pinning 
her to the chair.

"He made England sound so ... so attractive. I'd always wanted to come 
over and spend some time here and really get to know it. Then, when he 
wrote and told us about this place, a whole group of mystery writers 
living together-" She blushed again. "I mean, in the same community, 
like the Pre-Raphaelites or the Bloomsbury Set, all like-minded people, 
friends and colleagues, being creative ... Oh, I'm not explaining it 
well."

"Well enough," Freddie said dryly. "Don't forget, we were taken in, 
too."

"Anyway, Jack had just lost his job ... again." She half swallowed the 
word. "So he was free to travel and looking for something to do. I'd 
just been offered the assignment to complete the book Aimee Dorrow had 
been working on when she died so suddenly and do another one to see if 
we couldn't keep the Miss Mudd series going without her, as it was so 
successful. Jack put the idea of a Literary Winter/Year in England to 
them and they were interested - provided that I was spending that winter 
working on My Name Is Mudd. To tell the truth, I'm not sure they would 
have taken Jack's idea on its own, but lumping the three books together 
in a package, he had a deal."

"How are you getting on with it?" Freddie asked curiously. "I mean, 
someone else's idea, someone else's characters. Doesn't it bother you at 
all?" "No.. ." Karla paused and considered the question. "It's rather
refreshing, in a way ... perhaps liberating is what I mean. It's a 
challenge to keep a popular series alive, despite the death of the 
originating author. And it's giving me a chance to try things that would 
not have been possible within the structure of my own series. Tell me" - 
she looked at them artlessly - "don't you ever get tired of your own 
characters?"

"Do I ever!" Freddie rolled her eyes heavenwards. "There are days when I 
could strangle the dear girl with my own hands if she were to appear 
before me in the flesh. That remark is off the record, of course." 
Belatedly, she appeared to remember that Karla might be taking notes for 
her projected nonfiction book.

"I think everyone must feel that way at some time," Lorinda said 
carefully. She shot Freddie a look of complicity. Jack's activities 
would be relatively easy to monitor, Karla's were going to be a lot 
trickier. "There's the classic story of Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. 
Sayers comparing notes on a railway journey and agreeing that they were 
heartily sick of Hercule Poirot and Lord Peter Wimsey."

"It goes with the territory, I suppose." Karla shrugged. "I'm lucky to 
have a chance to escape the mould for a bit, even though I don't break 
out of it."

"Have you ever thought of creating a new series?" Freddie's caution was 
no match for her curiosity. "A completely new and different character, 
as opposite as possible to the old one?"

"Perhaps even living in a different country," Karla agreed eagerly. "Or 
even a different century, historicals are big now. Of course I have. 
Hasn't everyone? The trouble is, one gets so dreadfully locked in. 
Agents and publishers are convinced the public is too infantile to cope 
with anything new or different."

"Unless you use a different name, too," Lorinda said. "Then you're faced 
with building up a new audience all over again," Freddie pointed out. 
"Unless they use one of those weasel lines saying, "Lorinda Lucas 
writing as..." Which rather negates the object of the exercise, I would 
think." "You always hope they know what they're doing," Karla sighed. 
"But I sometimes wonder ... Oh!"

The telephone rang suddenly and Karla jumped, nearly dislodging Had-I 
from her lap. Had-I gave her an offended look, jumped to the floor and 
started for Lorinda, who was rising to answer the telephone. Very 
unsatisfactory. Had-I settled for leaping to the arm of Freddie's chair, 
as though that had been her intended destination all along.

"I'm sorry," Karla apologized, as much to Had-I as to anyone else. "My 
nerves are shot to hell these days. I mean' - she gave a wan smile - 
"I'm so exhausted from all the packing and travelling and settling in to 
new surroundings. I'm just not the person I used to be at all. I'm 
hoping a quiet winter here will soothe me down and recharge my 
batteries."

"Hello, Dorian." Lorinda turned her back to the others, mostly

to block off the meaning glances from Freddie. Karla was going to 
notice, if Freddie wasn't more discreet. "Dorian?" Karla wasn't noticing 
anything else at the moment. "I've been trying to get through to him. I 
want to talk to him."

"Yes, it was a lovely party," Lorinda agreed. "Just a minute, Dorian, 
Karla's here and she wants to talk to you." Karla was already snatching 
at the phone.

"Oh, God!" Dorian groaned. "I haven't time right now to- "Dore?" Karla 
had possession of the phone. Lorinda stepped back. "Do you keep that 
damned answering machine on twenty-four hours a day? I've been trying to 
get through to you..."

"Freshen your drink?" Lorinda bowed to the inevitable and left the phone 
to Karla, going over to take the glass Freddie extended. Had-I moved 
into Freddie's lap and demanded attention, which Freddie duly supplied. 
Behind them, the conversation - or argument - continued.

"London? I told you I wanted to go up to London the next time you -" 
Karla stopped, obviously choked off by the retort from the other end of 
the line. "But you promised..." she wailed.

Freddie winked at Lorinda and bent over Had-I, shaking her hair in a 
wicked parody of Karla's mannerism. Had-I stretched up a paw and swiped 
at a lock of hair as though sharing in the joke. Lorinda caught back a 
laugh and moved hastily towards the kitchen.

When she returned, Karla was still in possession of the phone, but 
seemed calmer. Dorian was always at his best when spreading oil on 
troubled waters. Possibly that was all he had been doing in New York and 
Karla had misinterpreted it as some sort of personal invitation to join 
him in England and... who knew what? Jack's presence would put a damper 
on most plans.

"Yes, it does sound like fun," Karla was admitting grudgingly now. "You 
won't mind if Jack brings the camera along and records it? I'll try to 
see that he doesn't overdo the shooting - he just got sort of carried 
away last night." There was a short silence while Karla nodded agreement 
to whatever was being said on the other end of the line, then she turned 
to Lorinda. "He wants to talk to you," she said, holding out the phone.

Not surprisingly, since he had telephoned her in the first place. "Thank 
you," Lorinda said dryly, taking the phone.

"Lorinda?" Dorian asked cautiously. "Have I got you now?" "Yes, Dorian." 
Lorinda watched Karla resume her seat. "What

is it?" "Forgive the informality, but it's an invitation. I've decided 
to have a little Guy Fawkes party on November fifth. Small and
old-fashioned. Just our crowd, potatoes roasting in the bonfire, loads 
of sausages, perhaps a few sparklers but no fireworks. I thought those 
of you with beasties could bring them along to share the sausages - so 
much less messy than trying to wrap up titbits to take home to them, 
don't you think?"

"How kind." So he'd noticed that and was going to rub it in. He wouldn't 
say anything to Plantagenet Sutton, of course, but he was not above 
insinuating that he might. Dorian liked to keep people off-balance. She 
wondered if he had been responsible for those pince-nez. It was just the 
sort of thing he might do.

"It sounds like a lovely party. I'll be delighted, but I think the cats 
had better stay at home. You might not have fireworks, but others in the 
village undoubtedly will. I don't want them frightened or worried." Or 
startled into running away in territory that was still unfamiliar to 
them. Dorian didn't have to worry about such problems with his tropical 
fish, but pet owners with lively four-legged companions were in a 
different category.

"I suppose you know best." Dorian obviously didn't believe it for a 
moment. "Pity. I thought they'd enjoy it."

"Another time, perhaps, when the proceedings aren't likely

to get so noisy."

Had-I and But-Known came over to sit at her feet, blinking

at her as though realizing they were being discussed. Lorinda blinked 
back and it seemed to satisfy them. They slumped down into a sleeping 
position and closed their eyes.

"Yes, Freddie's here, too." Lorinda answered Dorian's next question. "Do 
you want to speak to her or shall I just pass your invitation along?"

"I've already heard it," Freddie said. "And, yes, thanks, I'll go

to his party. There obviously isn't going to be anyplace else to go that 
night." Karla drew in her breath in a shocked hiss. Lorinda nodded and 
conveyed Freddie's acceptance, suitably bowdlerized.

"Ooops!" Freddie gave Karla a severe look. "That was off the record, you 
understand."

"Look," Karla said, "I'm beginning to get a pretty good idea of what you 
think of me and I'm not happy about it. Jack and I are two different 
people, you know. I don't approve of everything he does and he -" She 
broke off and lurched to her feet.

"I'm sorry. I told you my nerves - She raised a hand to her head. "And 
I'm getting a ghastly headache, it keeps coming and going ... I can't 
get rid of it."

"I'm sorry," Freddie apologized in turn. "It's the idea that you're 
doing a book about your winter with us that's unnerving me. Plus the 
fact that we have Professor Borley prowling around with the same 
intention. I'm not very tactful and I know it. I don't like the feeling 
that I've got to watch everything I say."

"You might trust me more," Karla said reproachfully. "I wouldn't do that 
to you - any of you. I'm not some kind of investigative reporter. It's 
just going to be a light-hearted informal history of a year in England. 
And I'll make sure Jack clears the photos with you before we use any of 
them."

"That's something." Lorinda and Freddie exchanged glances, repressing 
the information that Macho would never authorize any picture of himself 
for publication.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if we passed the word along, Freddie 
said helpfully. "It might make life easier."

"Oh, would you?" Karla asked gratefully. "I'd try to tell people myself, 
but I don't often get a chance to get out without Jack. He'd kill me if 
he knew I was apologizing for him and making promises about his 
photographs."

"We'll take care of it," Freddie assured her. "Everyone will be glad to 
know that they're not going to spend the winter under two microscopes. 
Professor Borley and his interviews will be bad enough."

Lorinda felt an uneasy qualm. Something about this situation was...

"Thank you. Oh, thank you," Karla said. "I'd be so grateful. After all, 
I - I don't have any friends here yet. And I do want people to like me."

"Of course." There was something quizzical about Freddie's smile, but 
only someone familiar with her expressions would know that.

"Well..." Karla looked around restlessly. "I'm sorry, but my headache is 
getting so much worse. There's nothing for it but to go home and lie 
down in a darkened room. But I'm so glad to have had this talk with you 
both." "Yes." Lorinda and the cats escorted her to the door and saw her 
out.

"Poor dear," Lorinda said, returning to the living room. "She hasn't a 
clue about Dorian's "arrangements", has she? Or do you think he's ready 
to turn over a new leaf and settle down?"

Freddie snorted. "I think our Dorian prizes the quiet life too much to 
change it now. And he's too much of a snob to swap a titled lady in 
London for a not-yet-divorced American termagant."

"You don't think you might be too hard on her? She's trying

so desperately to fit in. And she is rather sweet, isn't she?" "Oh, 
absolutely charming," Freddie agreed. "You'd never dream that she'd even 
heard some of the words that have come through my walls when she's in 
full screech."

"We can all have a surprising vocabulary when we lose our tempers - and 
that husband doesn't seem to bring out the best in her." "That's the 
understatement of the year. Only..." Freddie looked thoughtful.

"Yes?" Lorinda prompted.

"Do you ever get the feeling that you've just been very cleverly
manipulated?"

4

By the fifth of November, Lorinda was in no mood for a party. Not after 
the week she had just endured.

First, Had-I had suddenly begun moping about the house, resisting 
But-Known's invitations to play, picking at her food and sleeping most 
of the time. Just as Lorinda was about to take her to the vet, she had 
begun retching and heaving and had slowly disgorged an enormous 
hairball. No wonder she had been so uncomfortable.

Then Freddie had dropped in frequently with further complaints about the 
Jackleys. So had Macho, who couldn't stop worrying about the pictures 
that Jack had taken.

"I've got to get those photographs," he brooded. "And the negatives. My 
Macho Magee would break in, burgle the house, take what he wanted and 
perhaps smash up some of the furniture as well - but I haven't had any 
experience in that sort of thing. Do you think I should send Jackley a 
solicitor's letter?"

Now, at her feet, But-Known looked up anxiously and gave

an experimental little throat-clearing cough. After all, she might be 
incubating a hairball, too. "Oh, But-But, baby." Lorinda stooped and 
gathered the little calico into her arms. "Haven't you been getting your 
fair share of attention this week? I'll try to do better, I promise." In 
the distance, a string of firecrackers rat-tat-tatted into the dusk and 
But-Known flinched.

"All right," Lorinda soothed, holding her close. "It's all right."
Nearer to the house, a rocket hissed up into the darkening sky. Had-I 
leaped up on the windowsill and hissed back. The rocket burst with a 
thunderclap into a shower of scintillating multicoloured sparks. Had-I 
jumped down, skittered across the room, leaped to the top of the desk 
and gazed up at Lorinda indignantly.

"Sorry, my darlings." Still cuddling But-Known, she reached out a hand 
to ruffle Had-I's fur gently. "I'd stop it if I could, but it's out of 
my control. This is Guy Fawkes Night."

And she had promised to go to Dorian's party. Now that the night had 
arrived, she would have preferred to spend a quiet evening with the 
cats, providing a reassuring presence against their fears. However, it 
was not to be. Dorian had rung from London last night to assure everyone 
that he would be back today and remind them that he was expecting them 
at the party. The best she could do was to shut the cats in the bedroom 
with plenty of food, close the curtains and leave the party early to get 
back to them. Not the most satisfactory solution, but it would have to 
do.

She carried But-Known into the bedroom, Had-I followed close at her 
heels. They both settled at the foot of the bed while she changed. A 
hasty phone consultation with Rhylla and Freddie that morning had 
resulted in general agreement that trousers and heavy pullovers under 
jackets would be the most suitable clothes against the chilly night. If 
the festivities moved indoors, the jackets could be removed.

The cats sniffed suspiciously at the gourmet cat food she set out for 
them and turned their backs on it. She was going out against their 
wishes and bribes were not going to pacify them - at least not while she 
was watching. "Suit yourselves," she said, as they leaped back on the 
bed and settled down. "It's there when you want it. I'll get back as
soon as I can."

Lorinda had just added a gold chain around her neck and freshened her 
lipstick when the doorbell rang. She went downstairs
 
to greet Freddie and Macho, who had come to collect her.

"I must admit," Freddie said, as they crossed the High Street,

"it is rather nice to be able to walk to places." "No need to worry 
about your drink when you're not driving," Macho agreed. "I'll wager 
Sutton takes full advantage of it tonight."

"No takers," Freddie said. "That's a sucker bet, if I ever heard one.

"Yoo-hoo, wait a minute!" a voice called out behind them. Gemma Duquette 
bustled up. "Oh, good, now we can all arrive together. I hate making an 
entrance on my own.

"Join the club." Freddie moved over.

"Trust Dorian," Macho said bitterly, as they climbed the hill

on the other side of the High Street, "to ensconce himself in the Manor 
House before any of the rest of us got a look-in at the property market 
in the town."

"It's only a small manor house," Gemma said defensively. "And he's 
worked very hard."

"So have we," Freddie said with a trace of belligerency. "Of course, of 
course, Gemma said hastily. "I'm just so delighted and grateful that 
Dorian thought of me when he found that Coffers Court still had some 
flats available. I can't tell you how good it is to be able to settle 
down among the friends and colleagues I've always worked with."

"Better than ICing's Langley, I suppose," Freddie muttered. "What? Oh, 
Dorian -" He had opened the door to them. "What

a splendid idea for a party. Guy Fawkes Night - how I've been looking 
forward to it?"

"About as original as most of his ideas," Macho grumbled sotto voce, 
before advancing to offer a limp handshake and even limper smile.

"Come in ... come in..." Dorian looked beyond them with

a slightly nervous air, then seemed to relax as he realized no one else 
was with them. "Drinks are being served out on the terrace ... just make 
your way through."

The drawing room doors opened out on to the long paved terrace with its 
stone balustrade and steps leading down to the lawn where an enormous 
stack of wood larded with rolled newspapers, kindling and magazines 
waited. On top, the traditional dummy sprawled uncomfortably awaiting 
its fate.

The drawing room doors were wide open - so much for any idea of taking 
off their jackets; it was nearly as cold inside as out. A fire was laid 
in the fireplace, but not yet lit.

Lorinda was relieved to see that a barbecue had been set up

in a corner of the terrace; they were not going to have to stand at the 
edge of a roaring conflagration waving their sausages on toasting forks 
and trying to dodge stray spurts of flame. Foil-wrapped potatoes nestled 
among the burning coals; obviously they had been cooked in a proper oven 
and the baking process was being finished in the barbecue, no waiting 
until the bonfire died down and then scrabbling in the ashes for 
potatoes which might be only half baked.

"How civilized." The relief in Freddie's voice betrayed that she also 
had had her reservations about an old-fashioned Guy Fawkes party. "Leave 
it to Dorian. We can eat properly and enjoy the bonfire without having 
to play around its edges."

"Over here?" Plantagenet Sutton, presiding over the bar, called
imperiously. "What are you having?" Three drinks trolleys had been 
pushed together to form a bar on which was displayed practically every 
liquor known to man. "Name - dare I say? - your poison.

"Oh, no," Freddie groaned. "How I hate coyness. Especially in
postmenopausal males."

"Not so loud," Lorinda cautioned. "You're up for review next."

A fugitive gleam in Gemma's eye reminded her that any incautious remark 
might be repeated later, probably with embellishments, to the person 
concerned. There was also the possibility that Gemma would take 
inspiration from the activity around her and decide to write her 
memoirs.

"We know what yours is," Plantagenet smirked, waving a bottle of tequila 
at Macho. The worm curled up at the bottom rolled about wildly.

"Not tonight," Macho growled, hunching his shoulders defensively. "I'm 
in a bourbon mood tonight."

"Still a good Macho choice, eh?" Plantagenet winked, reaching for the 
Wild Turkey. He left the tequila ostentatiously in the front row of 
bottles, where everyone could see that it had never been opened. In 
sharp contrast, the Wild Turkey was well depleted.

Macho snatched his drink with a growl of acknowledgement which was not 
quite thanks.

"Now I'll serve the ladies - sorry, women." Plantagenet turned

to them with a beaming smile. "No sexist nonsense here, I hope you 
notice. Macho made a decision, so he was served first. Have you browsed 
around all these fascinating bottles enough yet to have made your 
choices?"

"I'll stick to gin and tonic, thanks," Lorinda said quickly, before

an enraged Freddie could say something she'd be sorry for later. "Oh, 
perhaps just a teeny splash from that rather exotic purple curlicue 
bottle." Gemma evidently felt that she had to live up - or down - to the 
Little Woman typecasting. She knew her Woman's Place, as she often used 
to jest. Lorinda wouldn't have risked it herself, that bottle looked too 
exotic; she wouldn't put it past either Dorian or Plantagenet, or both, 
to have slipped a few perfume bottles in amongst the collection.

"I'll have a whisky mac," Freddie said, "on a night like this."

A cold wind gusted across the terrace, in the distance more fireworks 
exploded and stray rockets soared into the sky.

"Ah, yes." Plantagenet distributed the requested drinks. "Nice night for 
a murder, eh? With all the background noise, no one would notice the 
proverbial shots ringing out."

"Red herrings," Macho growled. "Check out that dummy on top of the 
bonfire first."

"What a good idea." Plantagenet beamed at him, carefully refilling his 
own glass from a bottle secreted on the lower shelf of a trolley. "Why 
don't you climb up and make sure? Be careful, that structure looks quite 
rickety to me. And, of course, you mustn't let yourself be trapped on 
top when the torch is set to the kindling at the base."

"I know who I'd like to see on top of that bonfire," Freddie muttered.

They all turned to survey the bonfire, instinctively looking at the 
sprawled dummy. A sudden flash brought on the familiar light-splattered 
blindness.

"Great shot?" Jack Jackley shouted. He and Karla had obviously been 
circling the bonfire, taking shots from different angles, and had come 
round it in time to catch the group on the terrace looking at it.

"Alternatively," Plantagenet said thoughtfully, "you could strangle the 
victim with his own camera strap. You wouldn't need background 
explosions to cover that. It would be nice and quiet - and a public 
service."

Hmmm, interesting to know that Jack was also getting on Plantagenet's 
nerves. One would never suspect him of objecting to being photographed 
anywhere, any time. Perhaps he felt he wasn't looking his best tonight.

Trailing in the wake of the Jackleys, more guests appeared; Rhylla 
Montague, talking with Professor Borley and Jennifer Lane, who owned the 
village bookshop. There were several other villagers as well, who had 
already learned that it was safer to be behind Jack and his camera than 
in front of him. Karla made a helpless apologetic gesture as she and 
Jack stepped up on to the terrace. Lorinda noticed that, although Karla 
seemed to wish to dissociate herself from her husband, they were wearing 
matching outfits. Both were dressed in cream-coloured jeans, cream 
turtleneck pullovers and fawn jackets, making them faintly ghostlike in 
the darkness. They obviously had no idea of the effect on their costumes 
of the smuts and ashes that would be flying through the air as soon as 
the bonfire was lit. The others were sensibly dressed in dark clothing 
and wore amused expressions every time they glanced at the Jackleys.

"I got some great shots of that Guy Fawkes dummy," Jack said
complacently. "It sure looks lifelike."

"Come and get your drink now," Plantagenet invited, becoming more 
proprietorial by the moment. Perhaps he had refilled his own glass often 
enough to forget where he was and actually did think he was the host.

"OI<," Jack said. "I guess I've got both hands free for a little while 
now.

"No more pictures until they light the bonfire," Karla said. "Remember, 
you promised."

"Not unless something happens that's too good to miss," Jack said. "I've 
got to keep alert, you don't get second chances on a really good shot."

"What do you think might happen?" Karla exhaled a long breath of 
exasperation. "Freddie's going to dance naked on a tabletop?"

"Not tonight," Freddie said, "it's too cold." "Here we are?" Dorian 
appeared in the far doorway and marched through the drawing room, 
holding aloft a flaming torch.

"Oh, gawd?" Freddie said. "He thinks he's lighting the Olympic flame."

Nevertheless, it was quite an entrance. He had taken all the attention 
away from Plantagenet Sutton and reclaimed his rightful position as host 
and Master of the Revels.

Dorian was followed by Betty Alvin and Gordie Crane, who were almost 
staggering under the weight of enormous trays laden with dishes piled 
with sausages, each pile thoughtfully labelled with a brief description 
of the sausages on offer. It was clear that Dorian had spent part of his 
time in London at a gourmet sausage establishment. Trust Dorian - no 
common-or- garden-variety bangers at his Bonfire Night.

"On the table," Dorian directed, indicating the long trestle table up 
 beside the barbecue. "Everyone can choose their own and have them 
 cooked to order." He stepped back and leaned against the stone railing, 
 obviously gratified as his guests crowded round with cries of 
 appreciation.

"Burgundy pistachio sausage..." Freddie began reading the tags. "Pork, 
prune and cognac ... steak and Guinness stout ... duck with apricot and 
orange ... smoked salmon ... venison and wild mushroom ... wild boar 
with Calvados and apple ... There's something for everyone here."

"There's even a green sausage?" Jack Jackley peered at it mistrustfully.
"I'm not eating that. How long have you had these things? Is your 
refrigeration working?"

"That's John Nott's sausage." Dorian was amused and superior;

it was obviously a reaction he had hoped for. "From his Cooks Diary of 
1720. The green is fresh spinach and it also contains eggs, marjoram and 
savory. You'll be missing a treat if you don't try one.

"Jackley walked right into that one," Macho said with satisfaction.
"Dorian was hoping someone would fall for it. Did you notice how he had 
the recipe right on the tip of his tongue?"

"Yeah?" Jackley had noticed, too. "Well, whatever it is, you can find 
another sucker." I'm not eating anything that gives me cold chills to 
look at it."

"I'll try one." Karla gave her spouse a dismissive glance. "It's hard to 
know what to choose," Professor Borley said. "They all look 
fantastically exotic. But, tell me, what do vegetarians do on Bonfire 
Night?"

"Here comes the vegetarian selection now," Dorian said, as Betty Alvin 
reappeared with another tray. "You'll find mushroom and tarragon 
sausage, chestnut and orange ... a Welsh sausage of Caerphilly cheese 
and leek... then there's one made with courgette, coconut and spices..."

"Sorry I asked." Professor Borley held up his hand as though

quelling an unruly classroom. "I think I'll settle for the venison and 
wild mushroom.

"I intend to have a bite of everything," Rhylla Montague announced. 
"This spread must have cost dear Dorian a fortune and the least we can 
do is take advantage of it so that he can charge it up to research."

"Dear Rhylla, how kind of you to be so concerned about my finances," 
Dorian murmured. For a moment, their glances crossed like swords.

"Well," Rhylla said, "are you going to stand there like a human torchere 
all evening, or are you going to light the bonfire?"

"Oh, I'm going to light it." Dorian swept a glance around the terrace. 
"In fact, I think it's time. Jack," he called, "are you ready to record 
the great moment?" "Yeah. Sure. Coming." Jack brought up his camera in a 
reflex action as Dorian flourished his torch, sending a shower of sparks
into the air.

"I'd better go with them," Karla said. "It's supposed to be the record 
of my year. I mean, our year. One of us ought to be in the picture." She 
hurried away to join the group following Dorian down the steps and on to 
the lawn.

"I wouldn't want to get too close to that bonfire myself." Rhylla set 
her drink down on the stone balustrade and surveyed the scene below. "It 
looks as though it might collapse if someone sneezed on it."

"Dorian should stick to his level of competence," Macho said. "He's just 
about adequate as a writer; he has no flair at all for carpentry or 
building.

"Actually, that bonfire is quite well constructed." Gordie Crane joined 
them. "I built most of it myself. It only looks so ramshackle because he 
allowed the local children to come along and throw their contributions 
on to it. That's why it has all those bits sticking out in odd places."

"Children?" Rhylla looked around nervously. "Where?"

"Oh, his hospitality didn't extend to inviting them to the party." There 
was a trace of bitterness in Gordie's voice, perhaps because he wasn't a 
guest himself. "He fobbed them off by saying that their parents would 
have their own plans for private parties, but they must be sure to look 
out of their windows when the bonfire was going well and they'd be able 
to see the guy burn."

"All heart, our Dorian," Rhylla said.

"I hope he has that dummy firmly anchored in place. It would ruin his 
evening if it slid to the ground without catching fire." Macho sounded 
as though he hoped the opposite; it would not ruin his evening if 
Dorian's plans went awry.

"It will remain in place, I assure you." Gordie seemed to resent the 
implied slur on his handiwork. As well he might. His expertise in all 
practical fields was the reason he was here. One of the truly useful 
people Dorian had collected, he was able to build bookcases, solve 
electrical problems, fix the plumbing and deal with all the other 
mechanical faults that baffled the rest of them. ("Invaluable," Dorian 
had said. "He can even mend broken-down typewriters. If the part isn't 
available any more, he'll hand-craft it himself." To writers nursing 
along obsolete machines to avoid the day they had to grapple with new 
technology, it was the major point in Gordie's favour.) Dorian had used 
his influence to have Gordie installed in the basement flat at Coffers 
Court as resident caretaker, on call for any emergencies among the rest 
of the literary inhabitants of Brimful Coffers. Gordie's only flaw was 
that he cherished ambitions to be a writer himself and imagined that 
living in their midst would help him achieve his goal. It was a delusion 
Dorian encouraged for fear of losing the services of such a peerless 
handyman.

"The dummy will stay in place," Gordie insisted firmly. "I made sure 
none of the children got near it."

"Children?" Rhylla sighed.

"Your granddaughter must be due any moment now, isn't she?" Lorinda 
obligingly picked up the cue.

"Three suitcases arrived this morning. Can Clarice be far behind?"

They watched as Dorian circled the bonfire, his torch dipping
rhythmically to ignite the firelighters strategically concealed at
intervals around the perimeter. Camera flashes recorded each flare of 
tinder and kindling. Crackling noises began to drown out the laughter 
and comments below.

"Gordie! The sausages are burning?" Betty Alvin's sharp cry made Gordie 
whirl about and dash for the barbecue grill where the first sausages 
were blackening and splitting.

"Oh, don't let Dorian see them?" Betty wailed in dismay. "They cost a 
fortune - he'll be furious. Here, hide them in the warming cabinet. 
We'll eat them ourselves later."

"I'll take one," Macho said. "I like them well done and crispy, anyway."

"I'll help dispose of the evidence," Freddie agreed. "We all will." 
Lorinda could say no less.

"Oh, bless you?" Betty Alvin looked at them hopefully. "You needn't 
actually eat them. Perhaps you could take them home for your cats."

"Oh, I don't think so." Lorinda looked at the blackened lumps and 
shuddered. She was in enough trouble with the cats for leaving them 
tonight. Their probable reaction if she brought home such burnt 
offerings made her cringe. They wouldn't speak to her for a week.

"No, no, won't be necessary," Macho agreed quickly. His Roscoe was also 
accustomed to much better fare. "We'll eat them ourselves."

"And that won't be necessary, either." Gordie forked the ruined sausages 
into a pile and concealed them in a paper napkin. "I'll slip down and 
throw them on the bonfire later."

"Oh, that's a good idea?" Betty Alvin's relief betrayed that she hadn't 
been looking forward to choking down the burnt food herself. "Don't get 
caught. Wait till Dorian is out of the way. He's sure to take some of 
the guests into his study to show off his tropical fish. That will be 
the best time to make a move. Then he won't get furious over the waste

"He can afford it." Grimly, Gordie whisked the greasy bundle out of 
sight and set out a fresh row of assorted sausages on the grill just as 
the others returned to the terrace.

"It's well alight." Dorian surveyed the scene below with the
satisfaction of one who had done an excellent job. As a finishing touch, 
he had rammed the point of his torch into the ground beside the bonfire 
to burn itself out. "Now, how are things proceeding here?" He cast an 
expert eye over the grill. "Ah, splendid?"

Gordie nodded acknowledgement, his mouth a tight line. Much too soon, he 
turned the sausages over, frowning with a concentration that proclaimed 
he was too busy to talk.

"More drinks?" Dorian ordered. "Bartender?" It was not quite a joke. 
"You're falling down on the job. Fresh drinks for everyone?"

"Coming right up?" Plantagenet bared his teeth at the guests crowding 
round the bar. "Step up and name your poison?" There was no doubt who he 
would like to poison.

Dorian smiled blandly and stepped back, not relinquishing his own glass 
to be refilled.

"Keep the home fires burning, dear boy," he murmured to Gordie. "I think 
I'll slip into my study for a few quiet moments and feed the fish." He 
moved away.

"Feed himself, he means," Betty Alvin translated when he was safely out 
of earshot. "His ulcer has been acting up again. He has a plate of 
sandwiches waiting in there for him. These sausages are too rich and 
spicy for him to risk."

"He'll be out of the way for a while, then." Gordie handed the barbecue 
fork to Betty. "Hold the fort while I dispose of the corpus delicti." He 
retrieved the guilty bundle from its hiding place and started down the 
terrace steps with it.

Lorinda was not the only person to have noticed the byplay. As Gordie 
stooped to bury his parcel in the bonfire, a flash illumined the scene. 
Gordie straightened up in a whiplash motion and whirled to glare up at 
the terrace.

"Good one." Jack lowered the camera and gave him a cheery wave. "You're 
doing a great job," he called. "Keep that fire stoked."

Gordie's lips moved; it was probably just as well that his voice didn't 
reach the terrace. He pushed the bundle farther into the bonfire with a 
stick and kicked a few embers over it before returning to the terrace 
and resuming his place at the grill.

Jack had wandered away and was taking more pictures, his earlier promise 
to Karla evidently forgotten - if he had intended to keep it at all. 
Karla, deep in conversation with Rhylla, did not appear to notice.

"If he comes near me, I'll break his camera," Macho said, moving 
defensively behind Lorinda. "How much longer do we have to stay? I'm 
ready to leave now."

"Have something to eat first," Freddie soothed. "They've begun serving. 
Look! Jack's first in line. He won't be able to eat and take pictures at 
the same time. You're safe for another half hour. Come on, it's better 
than going home to the microwave.

She had used a telling argument. Macho followed her meekly. Lorinda, 
swerving to avoid Karla, ran straight into Professor Borley.

"Allow me." He took possession of her glass and passed it to
Plantagenet. "How is the book coming along?"

That was a question she did not wish to answer. She smiled vaguely and 
was rewarded with another question she did not want to answer.

"Is it possible to set a time for our interview?" How about when hell 
freezes over? "Oh, not just yet," she said quickly. "I'm at rather a 
tricky bit just now.

"And you don't want your concentration broken." He nodded sagely. "Well, 
just let me know when you're ready. I hope it will be soon.

Lorinda smiled falsely again and accepted her now-refilled glass. The 
urge to kill was rising in her. She wondered whether she could strangle 
Miss Petunia with her own pince-nez cord.

Then she wished she hadn't thought of that. The spectre of those 
pince-nez, the broken cord dangling, rose at the back of her mind. 
Perhaps someone had already tried ... NO! No, it wasn't possible. She 
took a deep breath as the world seemed to tilt suddenly and reality 
began to slide away.

"Are you all right?" Professor Borley asked anxiously. "You've gone so 
pale."

Freddie and Macho walked past, laden with booty from the barbecue, and 
signalled to her. They were reality. She watched them take over the 
stone bench set against the wall of the house at the other end of the 
terrace, where they would have the best view of the proceedings while 
remaining apart from them.

"Can I get you anything?" Professor Borley put a steadying hand on her 
arm. "You're not going to faint?"

"No, no, I'm all right." She was suddenly aware that Plantagenet Sutton 
was watching her with a sardonic smile. Was it possible that he had put 
something in her drink?

"I just felt a little faint." If he had, she was not going to give him 
the satisfaction of letting him see that it had affected her. "The ... 
the smell..."

The bonfire was burning merrily and crackling festively, but the smell 
of scorched meat wafting from it was slightly repugnant. She was not the 
only one fanning the air with a protesting hand. She watched as the 
flames licked upwards towards the sprawled dummy.

"Lorinda," Freddie called. "Your sausages are getting cold." "Perhaps I 
ought to sit down," Lorinda excused herself, sliding away from his 
grasp.

"A. B." Gemma was ready to pounce; she pronounced it Abbey.

"Come and get your bonfire food. It's delicious." Hand on Professor 
Borley's elbow, she firmly guided him over to the grill.

Plantagenet had abandoned his post and was helping himself

to a selection of sausages. Betty Alvin was looking around to make sure 
the others had all been served. They had.

Dorian had rejoined the party, wandering about amiably,

 holding a plate with a safe bland baked potato and a small sausage he 
had no intention of eating. He appeared faintly on edge, with a 
curiously expectant air.

"He's up to something." Freddie had noticed it, too. She looked around 
suspiciously. "What's the betting?"

"No takers." Macho narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "He was being very 
insistent that we should bring the cats along - as though I'd let Roscoe 
out on a night like this. Do you think that might have something to do 
with it?"

"It might. He seemed quite annoyed," Lorinda remembered, "when I told 
him Had-I and But-Known were staying in their own home with 
tranquillizing saucers of cream tonight."

"Gemma didn't fall for it, either," Freddie said. "And thank heavens for 
that. A couple of overexcited pugs chasing around would be all we 
needed."

"He probably hoped they'd start chasing the cats and add a bit of 
excitement to the party." Macho was darkly suspicious. "Not that this 
party couldn't use something to liven it up."

"Oh, it's not that bad," Freddie defended. "The food is good.

It isn't actually raining and, so long as we stick together, the company 
is agreeable."

"That's about to change," Macho said darkly, as Plantagenet Sutton 
headed towards them.

"Anyone want a fresh drink?" he offered. "We're switching to wine now. 
Dorian wasn't sure what to serve but, for an outdoor occasion like this, 
I advised a good rough chianti or rioja - about the only wines tough 
enough to hold their own with spicy sausages.

"What a good idea," Lorinda responded automatically, realizing that the 
others, their eyes glazing over with boredom, were not going to bother 
to answer.

"Yes. Yes, he was a trifle disappointed, I fear. It's his first big
party here, isn't it? He wanted to make a splash, but it would be an 
insult to good wine to waste it on - A high piercing scream cut him off. 
All eyes turned to mid-terrace where Jennifer Lane was pointing to the 
top of the bonfire, still screaming.

"Oh, my God?" Freddie gasped.

The dummy on top of the bonfire was moving. Slowly at first, it writhed 
on the blazing pyre, then began jerking as though in agony as the flames 
engulfed it. A strange hissing sound came from it, like the whistling 
exhalation of a thousand last breaths. The stench of burning meat became
overpowering.

"Do something?" Jackley bellowed, leading the rush from the terrace.

The women screaming, the men shouting, they dashed to the base of the 
bonfire, then wavered, unable to approach closer because of the heat and 
the flames.

"Hang on a minute." Freddie caught Lorinda's arm as she started to run. 
Macho and Plantagenet had already bolted along the terrace and down the 
steps.

"But we've got to do something," Lorinda protested. "We've got to try-

"Steady on," Freddie said. "I'll panic when Mine Host does." She nodded 
towards Dorian, who was standing at the top of the steps, sipping his 
drink and looking down with amusement at the scene below. Some of the 
men had begun kicking at the wood at the base

of the fire, trying to collapse it. Jack and Karla glimmered like twin 
ghosts as they ran around to the other side of the bonfire, obviously 
hoping that it wasn't burning so furiously there.

"Where's the garden hose?" someone shouted. Gordie broke away and ran 
towards the garden shed.

"Call the Fire Brigade?" someone else shouted. Dorian gave a wave of 
acknowledgement and stayed where he was. "Nice night for a murder," 
Freddie said between clenched teeth. "But not even Dorian would have the 
nerve to

With a gigantic roar, the dummy burst apart, sending rockets thundering 
in every direction. Most of them erupted into the sky, but some fell 
back and slithered down the bonfire or snaked along the lawn. The 
explosions were deafening.

The world was a sudden terrifying nightmare, a war zone thrust into 
their midst. Abruptly, everyone deserted the bonfire and, covering their 
ears or trying to shield their faces, ran for the shelter of the house 
as out-of-control rockets showered their coloured starbursts all around 
them. The sky was alight with a display that must have been visible 
miles away. An ear-splittingly noisy display. If it had this effect on 
humans...

"And Dorian wanted us to bring our pets along," Lorinda said bitterly. 
The mental pictures running through her mind didn't bear watching: Had-I 
and But-Known, Roscoe, Lionheart and Conqueror, terrified out of their 
wits, bolting away into the darkness, running for safety and winding up 
lost, alone, frightened, hungry...

"Relax." Freddie patted her arm. "It didn't happen. You're all nice 
responsible pet owners, so Dorian didn't get his cheap laugh. What does 
he know about pets and responsibility? That tank of stupid fish is just 
about right for him - he's a cold fish himself."

The excitement was almost over now. Only a sporadic rocket issued from 
the heap of rags to explode against the sky. Shrieks and gasps were 
giving way to nervous ripples of laughter.

"That was quite a show, Dorian. You really had them going for a minute." 
Plantagenet spoke as though he hadn't joined the panic-stricken rush to 
rescue the dummy himself. He was busy behind the bar again. Not 
surprisingly, there was a rush for more drinks.

"I can see that having you around is going to liven up the village no 
end." Jennifer Lane spoke with a certain amount of reserve. Lorinda 
remembered that the bookshop had a resident cat; had Jennifer been urged 
to bring it along? "You're going to keep us on our toes.

Dorian was smiling blandly, nodding approval as Gordie spread the last 
of the sausages on the grill. Betty Alvin appeared from the kitchen 
regions carrying a tray of fruit-and-whipped-cream tarts, to be greeted 
with appreciative cries. The bonfire was dying down, the flickering glow 
not quite lighting the terrace any more. Most of the light was streaming 
out from the drawing room, most of the guests were gravitating to the
warmth and comfort inside, where someone had ignited the logs in the 
fireplace. One of them cast a lingering glance back to the guttering 
bonfire. Once again, shrill screams rang through the night. This time
the finger was pointing to the pale ghostlike figure lying face down in 
the smouldering embers of the dying bonfire.

In that silent horrified moment before people began dashing forward, the 
edges of the fawn jacket smouldered, blackened and lit with a pale 
flickering flame.

"I wish I didn't feel so damned guilty," Freddie said. "Here I've been 
moaning for weeks about all the noise and fighting and wishing for some 
peace and quiet - and now that I've got it, do I feel pleased? No, I 
just feel guilty." "It wasn't your fault," Macho said. "And it isn't as 
if he were dead. It's a good thing he threw up his arm to protect his 
face as he fell. The arm is badly burned, but he'll be able to use it
again ... eventually. And," he added with satisfaction, "the camera is a 
complete write-off."

"But," Freddie said, "there's such a thing as ill-wishing." "In that 
case, it's my fault," Macho said. "I'll guarantee I wished him iller 
than you did."

"Oh, stop it, both of you?" Absently, Lorinda held out a potato crisp 
for Roscoe to nibble. "You're beginning to sound like Dame Isolde 
Llewellyn?"

"You needn't be insulting," Freddie said.

Dame Isolde Llewellyn was Rhylla Montague's series character,

a concert harpsichordist and possibly a spy, and, even more possibly, a 
white witch with a sideline of dabbling in spells and mixing strange 
potions to ensure love or other useful reactions. (How else had she been 
created a Dame before her fortieth birthday?)

"Poor Rhylla." Macho was diverted. "Imagine having a grandchild
descending and a deadline in the same month."

"I saw her driving past this morning, looking rather martyred," Lorinda 
said.

"She's gone full-tilt at the martyr's crown," Freddie said. "She even 
stopped to pick up Karla to drop her off at the hospital on her way to 
the station to collect Clarice. Karla will take a taxi back when she's 
had enough of cheering the patient. That shouldn't take long. Since the 
accident didn't actually kill him, she's pretty annoyed with him for his 
clumsiness."

Had-I and But-Known strolled in from the kitchen, where they had been 
sampling Roscoe's rations, licking their chops. Had-I halted abruptly as 
she saw Lorinda cosseting Roscoe; her eyes narrowed. Ostentatiously, she 
marched over to Macho and jumped into his lap. Automatically, he began 
stroking her.

But-Known reacted more with sorrow than anger. She gave Lorinda an 
accusing look, then slowly walked over to leap up on to the arm of 
Freddie's chair. Equally automatically, Freddie reached out to rub her 
ears.

"God, how I miss my darling little Horatio," she sighed. Her eyes misted 
over. "It's all very well having your darlings come visiting, but I want 
a cat of my own." She brightened. "Now that we're getting settled in, 
perhaps I could manage one. If you'd be willing to look after it 
occasionally when I have to go up to London or over to New York?"

"No trouble at all," Macho agreed quickly. There was a moment's silence, 
while Freddie blinked several times, as though restraining tears. Macho 
visibly grew more nervous; he hated tears.

The throb of a diesel engine outside broke into the uneasy atmosphere, 
promising relief.

"A taxi?" Macho leaped out of his chair, sending a protesting Had-I 
tumbling to the floor. "That must be Karla. Why don't we invite her to 
join us for tea?" He dashed for his front door and they heard him 
hailing her.

"A cup of tea and the company of friends." Karla smiled at them as Macho 
shepherded her into the room. "Just what I need right now.

"How is Jack?" Lorinda asked.

"Jack?" Karla looked at her blankly. "Oh, Jack! That stumblebum! As well 
as can be expected, what else? If he'd been paying attention to what he 
was doing for one moment, it would never have happened." She flung 
herself into an armchair and closed her eyes.

The others took the opportunity to raise eyebrows at each other. The 
verdict seemed a bit unfair on poor Jack, who had been trying to rescue 
what he thought was a live victim on top of the bonfire. He hadn't even 
paused to take any pictures. Roscoe was more forgiving. He abandoned 
Lorinda abruptly to scramble on to the arm of Karla's chair and rub 
against her bowed head. Like Macho, he hated tears and emotional upsets. 
His anxious chirrup penetrated her gloom.

"Hello, sweetheart." She reached for him. Roscoe braced himself against 
her grappling embrace and gave her a friendly head-butt on the chin.

"It was careless of Dorian to plant that torch where someone could trip 
over it," Lorinda said.

"No one else fell over it," Karla said broodingly. "Only idiot-boy."

"You're sure tea will be enough?" Macho returned from the kitchen with 
another cup and saucer. "If you'd like something stronger...?"

"Tea will be fine," Karla said. "I'm not that devastated. I'm just
damned annoyed."

"At least Jack's being taken care of on the National Health." Freddie 
offered comfort. "Just imagine if this had happened in New York."

"Don't?" Karla shuddered so violently that Roscoe meowed in protest. "He 
let our health insurance lapse! That's another little gem he sprang on 
me just before we left the States. He forgot to pay the premiums - he 
says?" Freddie whistled softly and looked quizzically into her own cup, 
as though hoping the tea leaves might reveal what some of the other gems 
had been. "Well, you won't need it this year," Macho said cheerfully.
"You can pick it up again when you go back-" He broke off; Karla's look 
of fury had struck him like a blow across the face.

"Tell me -" Lorinda tried to lower the temperature by changing the 
subject. "How are you getting along with Miss Mudd?"

"Don't ask me?" Karla swung violently to face her. Roscoe protested 
faintly. "I hate the damned creature! I always did?"

"Then why did you take on the series?" It was a tactless question, but 
it slipped out before Lorinda could stop it.

"Money, of course." Karla's face shuttered. "And ... there were other 
considerations."

"The Mudd books are money-spinners," Macho conceded. "I'm not surprised 
the publishers want to keep them going. There's a lot of that about 
these days. They've even been reviving long-defunct series characters 
and farming them out to new writers."

"New writers, I can understand." Freddie surveyed Karla thoughtfully. 
"Anything to get a foot in the door. But you have a successful series of 
your own. You can't need to take on someone else's."

"Oh, yes. Toni and Terri - the all-American backpackers, hiking their 
way around the world and into adventure and murder." Karla gave a short 
mirthless bark of laughter. Roscoe twitched uneasily. "How I've grown to 
hate the little bastards?"

"We all feel like that at times, I'm sure." Lorinda tried not to think 
of the guilty chapters lurking in her filing cabinet.

"You have no children of your own?" Freddie asked. "No teenagers? No 
adolescents you've left behind in boarding school?"

"You mean, am I sublimating? Are my backpackers really the kids I never 
had?" Karla laughed bitterly. "No, we had a son. He was killed in a car 
crash when he was ten. Jack was driving. Everything began going downhill 
after that."

"I'm sorry," Freddie said inadequately, obviously regretting ever having 
raised the subject.

"What about you?" Karla challenged her. "All of you? I know your work, 
but I don't know anything about any of you personally. Just the little 
bits I've been able to piece together since we moved here. If you're 
going to question me, fair's fair. Freddie, you've obviously spent some 
time in the States - there's a trace of a familiar accent, plus an 
Americanism every now and then. What about you?"

"You got me?" Freddie grimaced. "I did a stint in advertising

in New York. Had quite a pleasant life there for nearly a decade: plenty 
of money, nice apartment, darling cat, not to mention the obligatory 
affair. Then -" she shrugged - "everything seemed to go wrong at once. 
The cat died, the lover went off with a new and improved younger model, 
the landlord raised the rent to an even more extortionate level - and 
the advertising agency was taken over, with the usual claims that 
nothing was going to change, even as the new upper echelon began eyeing 
the existing talent to see who they could do without. I can read the
handwriting on the wall as well as anyone else. I had enough put by to 
support me for a couple of years while I found out whether I could 
really write a book. I took the money and ran. Back here, where I still 
had some family and friends."

And where she could lick her wounds in privacy and rebuild her life, 
Lorinda thought. It was more than she had ever heard Freddie tell about 
herself, although she had pieced most of it together from hints Freddie 
had let drop. That was really the proper way to find out about other 
people, she felt, not this pouring out of facts Americans seemed to 
require.

"And you?" Lorinda flinched as Karla faced her relentlessly. "There 
isn't much to tell," Lorinda said slowly. "I was a late child, an only 
child. My parents were nearly fifty so I came as quite a surprise to 
them. By the time I'd graduated from university, my mother was quite ill 
and my father couldn't cope. Fortunately, I was able to write while I 
looked after them. I did a few other books before I dreamed up Miss 
Petunia and her sisters. They did well enough here and were a great hit 
in the States. So that's what I've been doing ever since. Between that
and caring for my parents, it rather cut me off from my own generation 
and ... well..." She emulated Freddie's shrug. "Eventually my parents 
died ... and here I am."

"How sad." Karla's perfunctory tone really meant, "How boring.". She 
turned avidly to Macho and waited expectantly.

"This is rather painful ... I don't usually talk about it." He was not 
going to disappoint her. He took a deep breath and sent the ghost of a 
wink to Freddie and Lorinda.

"My wife and I were teachers at a mission school in Africa. This was 
some years ago and we had no idea of the underlying tensions that were 
about to tear the Continent apart. Even when the revolutions and 
uprisings began, they were in distant parts of the country. Oh, we heard 
the usual rumours of atrocities and, as the unrest crept closer to our 
territory, we even began to discuss the advisability of returning to 
England. But it still didn't seem quite possible that it could happen to 
us ... and so ... we left it too late." He shuddered and covered his 
eyes with one hand, head bowed.

"We were armed by then, of course. We weren't complete fools. We knew 
trouble was coming closer every day. We sent out a call for help just as 
the Mission compound was besieged - and then we prayed. As the days 
dragged past and our supplies

grew low, we began to fear that no one had heard our pleas for help. Our 
ammunition was even lower than the food - and we'd maddened the rebels 
by our resistance. There would be no mercy for us when they broke 
through our defences.

"How terrible?" Karla's eyes were round, her breath ragged. "But you 
made it all right. You're here."

"I'm here," Macho said brokenly. "But my wife ... and not just mine. You 
see ... we knew ... the drill. You loved her, so you saved the last 
bullet ... for her."

"No?" Karla's eyes opened even wider.

"We all knew what had to be done. When the terrorists breached the 
barricades and swarmed into the compound, we retreated into an inner 
room ... and then..." He had not uncovered his eyes, his voice quavered.

"Then I put the gun to her temple ... she smiled at me ... I pulled the 
trigger. All around me, I could hear the other shots and the crash of 
the front door being broken down. Then ... I ... we ... heard the sound 
of helicopters swooping down on us. Help had arrived ... too late."

"Oh, my God?" Karla gasped in horror. Why didn't we think of something 
like that? Lorinda and Freddie met each other's eyes in gleeful 
collusion. Good for Macho! It was a lot more exciting than admitting 
that he had been a schoolmaster teaching history in a minor public 
school when his wife ran away with his best friend.

"Oh, you poor-" Karla began.

"Please -" Macho lurched to his feet and waved a hand, stopping her. "I 
... I'm afraid I ... It's brought it all back. Forgive me -" He rushed 
from the room.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Karla began apologizing to those remaining.

"I didn't mean to upset him. I had no idea Roscoe gave her an accusing 
look and jumped from her lap, pursuing Macho into the kitchen.

"Now even the cat is mad at me," Karla mourned. "I think it will be 
better if we never speak of this again," Freddie said gravely.

"Yes, of course. I agree." Karla was still shaken, her own troubles
forgotten. "I'm so sorry. I wouldn't for the world have "

There was a muffled clatter from the kitchen, followed by the sharp 
crack of an ice-cube tray being broached. Had-I and But-Known were 
instantly alert. That meant the fridge door had been opened and Roscoe 
was already on the scene and might be getting treats. They abandoned 
their posts and headed purposefully for the kitchen.

"I think maybe -" Karla stood, then hovered indecisively. "Maybe I ought 
to leave now? Maybe we all ought to?"

"No need for that." Freddie was settled comfortably and had identified 
the activity around the fridge as surely as the cats had. "Macho will be 
all right. And we can't leave him now ... to his memories." "Oh! Maybe 
that wouldn't be kind... ?" Karla looked to Lorinda for confirmation.


"Here we are." Macho returned, carrying a tray with ice bucket, glasses, 
cheeseboard and crackers. Roscoe sauntered along beside him, waving his 
tail complacently, as though he had organized the refreshments all by 
himself. Had-I and But-Known followed behind, their gaze firmly fixed on 
the large chunk of cheddar that they especially favoured.

"Oh, well..." Karla sat down again.

"Time for something stronger than tea," Macho announced, setting his 
tray down on the coffee table. The cats moved forward and began circling 
the table in an elaborately casual manner while Macho mixed the drinks.

"Have some cheese," he urged. "Not you?" He pushed Roscoe's questing 
muzzle away. "Guests first. Where are your manners?"

"Oh... thank you." Karla cut a triangle of cheddar nervously, obviously 
not accustomed to three pairs of little eyes watching her every 
movement. They were waiting for her to drop it. Had-I spoke sharply and 
she obliged.

"Oh, I'm sorry.

"Quite all right," Macho said cheerfully. "Won't be wasted." Three blurs 
of fur pounced, proving him right. "Nothing to clean up, either. Quick, 
cut yourself another piece while they're busy."

"Uh -" She wasn't fast enough. Three little heads were craning over the 
rim of the coffee table, watching her avidly. Happy the cats with a 
clumsy and easily unnerved guest. "I'm not really hungry, thanks."

"Come here, you little bully," Freddie said, unfairly sweeping
But-Known, the least aggressive of the lot, into her lap.

"That goes for you, too." Lorinda captured Had-I, immediately negating 
the reprimand by slicing off a sliver of cheese and holding it for her 
to nibble at.

Roscoe crouched and soared into Macho's lap the instant he sat down. 
There was a generous chunk of cheddar waiting for him.

Contented purrs provided background music as the welltrained humans 
finally got to their own cheese and drinks.

"This is nice," Karla admitted. "I've never seen so many cats

all together at the same time. Don't they get on well together?" "Had-I 
and But-Known are females," Lorinda pointed out. "So Roscoe thinks 
they're his harem - and they think he's there to do their bidding. It 
works out very well." "Yes, but aren't they all -?" Karla looked 
uncomfortable. "Well, fixed?"

"What has that got to do with it?" Freddie asked. "All their instincts 
are firmly in place. The fact that the apparatus has been removed and 
they can't do anything about it is largely immaterial. They're all quite 
happy. They enjoy each other's company and they don't know anything 
different."

"Yes, I've heard people say that before. But what if something upsets 
the balance? I mean," Karla persisted, "Rhylla was saying that her 
granddaughter was bringing her own pet along. The kid has only had it a 
short time and it probably hasn't had anything done to it yet. Won't 
that upset the applecart?"

There was a thoughtful silence. Rhylla hadn't told any of them about 
that. Perhaps an entire cat - whether male or female - might indeed 
upset the delicate balance. "Anyway, it's only temporary." Freddie tried 
for the silver lining. "Child, plus pet, will only be here two or three 
weeks until she's sent off to her parents and new school in the States.
Not much can go wrong in that length of time."

There was another thoughtful silence. A cat could be mortally offended 
in ten seconds flat - and carry a grudge for years. It would be too bad 
if the harmony were to be disturbed for the sake of a transient child.

"I'll ring Rhylla in the morning," Lorinda said. "Clarice will probably
want to keep her little darling indoors for the first few days anyway, 
while it gets used to new surroundings. It's only sensible."

"Of course -" Macho began, then stopped abruptly. "Yes?" Freddie 
encouraged.

"No, nothing. Just a stray thought." Macho shook his head and leaned 
forward to cut off another chunk of cheddar, which he shared with 
Roscoe. "I'll save it for the next book," he said, using the formula 
they had evolved for evading awkward moments.

"Yes, and what about the next book?" Karla's glass was empty; she raised 
it to her lips in a draining motion and Macho leaped to refill it. "Are 
you still doing that stupid Macho Magee - and how much longer do you 
think you can get away with it?"

It was the first indication they had had that she had been drinking 
before she joined them.

"Long enough." Macho regarded her impassively. "I have enough put by now 
to see me through comfortably, even if political correctness finishes 
off Macho Magee.

"Are you sure that's good enough?" Karla asked earnestly. "Would that 
satisfy you? Would that make you happy? Could you bear not writing any 
more? Or.. ." She paused and regarded him challengingly. "Or are you 
secretly planning another series ... like so many of us?"

She had hit a nerve. Freddie stirred restively. Lorinda looked

off into the distance. It was not only the cats, she thought, who might 
find a disruptive influence in their midst. And they had thought the 
danger might come from Gemma and Plantagenet.

"I feel I might be able.. ." Macho spoke slowly... . to spread myself 
further. Perhaps one always wonders whether there might be ... another 
string to one's bow."

"You can say that again?" Freddie leaned forward. "Sometimes I get so 
fed up with Wraith O'Reilly, I could kill her?" She paused, as though 
listening to what she had just said, then shrugged. "Not that it would 
make much difference - the damned creature's half a ghost already."

It was so true, they were glad Freddie had said it herself. Wraith
O'Reilly, an orphaned flame-haired Irish girl, living in New York City, 
but with her heart back in Ireland, drifted through the dark canyons of 
the city only half aware of the perilous shadows around her. Her hobby 
was exploring old graveyards, collecting epitaphs. Protected only by her 
innocence and a thoroughly unwarranted belief in the goodness of human 
nature (the girl never learned!), she encountered the dregs of society 
and the Four Hundred, treated them equally and solved their murders
largely through a fey intuition before drifting on to the next case,
still wondering whether the rose bushes she had planted in the garden of 
the little cottage in Galway Bay were still flourishing.

"Sometimes I think I should go the whole hog," Freddie said, "and have a 
real ghost to take on the cases. How would that be for retribution from 
beyond the grave? Nothing too gory or recent, of course." Her eyes grew 
thoughtful. "A revenant from an earlier century - and aristocratic, of 
course. An English title, that always goes down well. Duke the Spook. 
He's been lounging around the ancestral pile a few centuries, getting 
more and more bored. Then an American heiress rents the castle for the
summer and moves in with her not-so-loving family and hangers-on. One of 
whom is trying to murder her. She doesn't realize this, but the Duke 
does."

Lorinda realized with surprise that Freddie had actually given

a great deal of thought to the subject; she was seriously considering a 
new series.

"Although the heiress doesn't know it, she's a bit psychic - and this 
draws the Duke to her side. What he finds going on around her, keeps him 
there." Freddie leaned forward, eyes sparkling, her residual American 
accent became more pronounced, her hands waved in great swooping 
gestures. She must have looked like that when she was pitching ideas at 
the advertising agency.

"You see, the Duke was done in by a relative he'd thought

he could trust, so this gives him motivation. He wasn't able to save 
himself, but he ought to be able to save her."

"Especially with the supernatural powers he'll have at his disposal."
Macho nodded, catching her enthusiasm. "It would work."

"Naturally, as he grows fonder of her, he has to fight the temptation to 
say, "The hell with it," and let her cross over to his side where they 
can be together in a way they can't be if she lives. But she's young and 
she's got a long life ahead of her - and he's got nothing to do but hang 
around anyway. He can wait and, now that he's found her, life - or what 
passes for it with him - isn't so dull any more.

"So he saves her life, traps the villain and waves her goodbye

as she flies back to New York. But the bond between them is too strong 
ever to be broken. The next time she needs him, he's there. And the 
next, and the next. Neither time nor distance can part them. And the 
beauty of it is, the Duke provides a continuing love interest while 
allowing her to have a fresh romance with each book - which comes more 
or less to grief because the Duke is so jealous that he ruins it for 
her, which allows her to have a new heart interest in the next book 
without doing anything so crude as killing off the last one. (Sorry, 
Macho.) "So there you are-" Freddie spread her hands in a finale. "How 
does that sound for a new series?"

"It sounds like The Canterville Ghost meets Blithe Spirit," Karla said 
briskly. "With perhaps a touch of Mrs Muir thrown in."

"Oh?" Freddie blinked and reared back, like a cat who had just had a 
bucket of cold water thrown over it.

"Nothing wrong with that," Macho said quickly. "Everyone knows there's 
nothing new under the sun - and it didn't sound all that familiar to me. 
By the time Freddie has fleshed out the characters and background, it 
will be completely original. And a lot better than taking over someone 
else's character or- "So that's what you think of me?" Karla flushed a 
dull red. "No, no?" Macho was aghast. "I wasn't getting at you. I was
just speaking generally. I mean, look at all the Sherlock Holmes books 
there have been since he went out of copyright. He's become a minor 
cottage industry - even more so than in his heyday when only Conan Doyle 
was writing him."

"And hating him," Lorinda could not stop herself from pointing out, even 
as she decided it would be more tactful to move on to a safer subject. 
"Then there are all the actual historical figures some authors are 
turning into detectives; they're resurrecting anyone they can think of. 
The poor old Prince of Wales, before he became Edward VII, has been 
waltzed around so many mysteries, I've lost track. And he featured in a 
stage play about the Baccarat Scandal, too."

"I've considered the Prince of Wales myself," Karla said thoughtfully. 
"Not that one, the one who became Duke of Windsor. It's a great period' 
and he had an American wife. But they've been used in several books 
already - usually wartime thrillers."

"Yes..." Macho frowned. "But those are hit-and-run affairs,

as it were. If you were to try to settle down to using them as
continuing characters, you might run into difficulties."

"It's safer to take a peripheral character and push them to the front," 
Karla agreed. "And just use the serious historical figures for walk-on 
parts. That's why I thought it might be a great idea to -" She stopped 
and actually looked over her shoulder before continuing. "To use Aunt 
Bessie as the detective?"

"Who?" Macho looked blank.

"Wallis Simpson's Aunt Bessie. Just think of it, there she sat

in Baltimore while her dear niece pours out her soul to her in all those 
letters she wrote constantly because Aunt Bessie was the only person she 
could truly confide in. All that intrigue and plotting going on around 
her, too much for her to make sense of because she was right in the 
middle of it and most of the plotting was against her. But Aunt Bessie 
could read between the lines and recognize the assassination plot 
forming

"What assassination plot?" Macho looked dazed. "Surely somebody would 
have had the bright idea that, if they killed Wallis, the King would 
come back in line and their troubles would be over. But astute Aunt 
Bessie, the careful reader, foils the plot and the Duke and Duchess sail 
off happily into the sunset - and Aunt Bessie visits them frequently in 
their exile. Do you realize they were actually living in Nassau at the 
time of Sir Harry Oakes's murder? Why couldn't Aunt Bessie solve that? - 
everybody else has. And then they lived in postwar New York and Paris?" 
Karla sighed happily. "The possibilities are endless."

"Maybe." Freddie threw her own bucket of cold water. "But can you get 
control of the Aunt Bessie character?"

"I'll have to look into that. But I can't do anything about it right 
now." Karla looked over her shoulder again and then, mistrustfully, back 
at them.

"This is all highly confidential, you know," she said earnestly. "You're 
not to mention it to a living soul. Especially, Jack. So far as he's 
concerned, I'm deep in the Miss Mudd books and haven't another idea in 
my head. I don't want him to know I'm even thinking about a new series."

"Fine with me." Freddie shrugged. "So long as you keep your mouth shut 
about Duke the Spook."

"Deal?" Karla held out her hand and they shook hands briefly. "And you 
two?"

"I wouldn't dream of mentioning anything under discussion this 
afternoon." Macho ran his finger down Roscoe's spine and Roscoe's 
answering rumble seemed to agree. But-Known, stretched along the back of 
Macho's chair, reached out a paw to toy with the black velvet ribbon 
tying his ponytail. "I'm not going to say anything." Lorinda hugged 
Had-I a bit tighter. Certainly, she had nothing to say to Jack; they all 
spent most of their time avoiding him - and his camera.

"When is Jack coming home?" Freddie voiced the question lurking at the 
back of their minds.

"Soon. Too soon." Karla's face shuttered. "Whenever it is, it will be 
too soon. It's so nice and peaceful without him."

Freddie nodded agreement before catching herself. Fortunately, Karla 
hadn't noticed. It was obviously more peaceful living next door to Karla 
on her own, but what would happen when Jack came back again? Jack, in a 
weakened state, no longer so well able to defend himself against Karla's 
violent attacks?

And, thinking of attacks ... had Jack really tripped over Dorian's 
abandoned torch? Or had he been pushed?

6

CHAPTER TWENTY

Miss Petunia adjusted her pince-nez and glanced at the fob watch pinned 
to her lapel. She knew this was a very busy day for them, but surely 
Lily and Marigold were unusually late in returning home from Saints 
Etheldreda & Dowsabel Abbey, the foremost Academy for Young Ladies in 
all the British Isles, where they had the great honour to reign as gym 
mistress and art mistress, respectively.

If they didn't hurry, they wouldn't have time for tea before they had to 
go down to Peppercorn Meadow, where the start of the Hot Air Balloon 
Race would mark the opening of the annual and greatly anticipated St 
Waldemar's Fayre. And this year they were all invited to ride in the 
Saints Etheldreda & Dowsabel Abbey balloon. So exciting!

Then the front door slammed and Miss Petunia smiled fondly

as her sisters bounded down the hallway and into the room like overgrown 
puppies.

"The afternoon post has come! And we've each got a letter!" Marigold 
squealed in girlish excitement, waving the letters. "They must be 
invitations! Just look at that lovely formal handwriting, sort of a 
cross between backhand and copperplate. How I wish my pupils could write 
as artistically as that." She tore her envelope open, the others opened 
theirs more sedately ... then a curious silence filled the room.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Marigold crumpled her missive in both hands and hurled it 
from her, bursting into tears.

"AAAARRGH!" Lily gave one bellow of rage and went pale.

She looked around the room as though seeking something - or someone - to 
kick.

Miss Petunia closed her eyes, her lips tightened, but she remained 
completely silent. The enormity of the situation was too great for 
words.

Only the sound of Marigold's sobs rent the air. "I take it -" Miss 
Petunia brought herself to speak at last. "I take it that we have all 
received the same sort of insult?"

"It says-" Marigold choked. "It says that everybody in town knows that 
I'm bone-stupid and that I dye my hair!" She burst into a fresh torrent 
of tears.

"What nonsense!" Miss Petunia comforted. "Everyone knows that you are 
extremely bright and talented."

"Your hair colour is natural," Lily growled. "No one could possibly have 
any doubt about that. It hasn't changed a bit since we were children."

"I don't dye my hair!" Marigold shook her head vehemently, sending the 
red-gold curls bouncing. "I don't need to! My hairdresser gives it only 
the teeniest brightening rinse - to enhance its natural colour." Her 
lower lip quivered piteously. "It isn't dye. I would never stoop to 
dyeing my hair!" "There, there," Miss Petunia soothed. "It's just silly 
spiteful malice. No one could possibly believe a word of it." She took a
deep breath and turned to Lily. "What does your letter say?"

"Spite ... malice ... just like you said." Lily shuffled her feet
uneasily and looked away. "Calls me a psychopath ... brings up that slur 
about Old Gumboots." Her hands clenched convulsively.

"How beastly! How horrid!" Marigold forgot her own troubles. "Miss 
Gumbrell slipped on that treacherous cliffside path. Everyone knows 
that. It was the merest coincidence that it happened so soon after your 
quarrel and that you were standing nearby with your vaulting pole."

"Indeed!" Miss Petunia said severely. "Only a sick mind could put any 
other interpretation on the accident. Why, you and the headmistress are 
on the best of terms. She even gave you the promotion you wanted and so 
richly deserved as soon as she got out of hospital."

"No hard feelings. Proves it, doesn't it?" Lily relaxed somewhat and 
looked Miss Petunia squarely in the eyes for the first time. "And what 
does your letter say?" she inquired innocently.

Miss Petunia closed her eyes and shuddered. Although she had taken only 
one quick look at that scurrilous letter, it seemed that every 
outrageous word was printed in letters of flame across her mind. She 
shrank from communicating it, but Lily and Marigold had confided in her 
- they had a right to know.

"It said that I was an evil, obnoxious, wicked, nosy, interfering old 
bitch, forever shoving her nose into things that were none of my 
business." "You're not old!" Marigold cried loyally.

"The idea!" Lily growled. "Look at all the crimes in St Waldemar 
Boniface that would have gone unnoticed - and unpunished - if it hadn't 
been for you."

"And," Miss Petunia continued grimly, "that the world would

be a better place without me." "That's right!" Marigold's eyes widened 
with recognition. "I forgot. Mine ended that way, too.

"So did mine." Lily was still growling. "Do you think it's a threat? 
Think we ought to call the police?"

"Oh, no!" Marigold protested, horrified. "We might have to show them the 
letters. I couldn't bear it!"

"You're right, dear," Miss Petunia said. "We don't want to bring the 
police into this."

"Handle it ourselves, then?" Lily's eyes gleamed. "Put our heads 
together and

Oh, the hell with it! It was too beautiful a day to kill anyone - even 
Miss Petunia.

Lorinda pushed back her chair and filed the uncompleted chapter. The 
cats had disappeared ages ago, obviously out and about their own 
business. She didn't blame them. The day was bright and clear, the air 
crisp and invigorating. They were heading into winter and there might 
not be many more days like this. It would be a shame to waste it. She 
collected her wheeled wicker shopping basket and set out for the High 
Street.

Everyone seemed of the same opinion. The High Street was bustling. 
Before she had reached the greengrocer's, she had exchanged greetings 
with several villagers, waved to Freddie, who was across the street, 
standing in front of the bookshop watching Jennifer Lane assemble a new 
window display, and observed Plantagenet Sutton going into the wine 
merchant's.

Wheeling her basket out of the dark fragrant cavern of the
greengrocer's, she nearly ran down Macho, who was too busy trying to 
control a struggling, protesting Roscoe to watch where he was going.
"There you are!" He greeted her as though she had just returned from the 
missing. "We've got to have a Council of War. I can't believe Rhylla 
wouldn't have warned us. It was the least she could do. She must be out 
of her mind."

"Mrreow-aaaoeh-rraarr..." Roscoe also decided she was the right person 
to register a complaint with. He struggled briefly again to escape 
Macho's tight clasp.

"Irresponsible!" Macho brooded.

"Mrrrr-rrrrm-mmrrr... Neither of them were happy. "What is it?" Lorinda 
looked from one angry face to the other. "What's happened?"

"I didn't think you knew," Macho said. "And you ought to. It's your 
problem, too. You're going to have to lock up Had-I and But-Known. I'm 
taking Roscoe home now to shut him in - and he isn't going to like it."
"What's wrong?"

"Rhylla's monstrous grandchild. Have you seen her pet?" "No." It was a 
rhetorical question, but Lorinda answered it anyway, ghastly visions 
forming in her imagination. "What is it - a pit bull?" "The police could 
deal with that." Macho dismissed such a puerile worry. "It's worse, much 
worse.

"For heaven's sake, tell me!" Sometimes she could shake him.
"Rrrreeeoowww..." Obviously, Roscoe felt the same way. "That revolting 
child has for a pet.. ." Macho paused for dramatic effect. "A white rat! 
And she walks around with it perched on her shoulder."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes! Fortunately, I was doing some shopping when I saw Roscoe ... 
acting suspiciously ... trailing the child down the High Street. Then I 
saw why."

Roscoe hunkered down in his master's arms and closed his eyes, absenting 
himself from the situation. He continued to emit a low rumbling sound 
that was not quite a growl, but definitely was not a purr.

 "I caught him in mid-air as he sprang." Macho shuddered. "If he had 
landed with all claws extended on that rat .. . on that child's 
shoulder..."

"Oh, dear!" The picture was clear and irresistible. "I'm glad you think 
it's so funny," Macho said coldly. "Have

a real laugh: your two are staking out Coffers Court right now, waiting 
for the child to return. If they catch her, it could be the start of our 
first village feud."

That wiped the smile off Lorinda's face. "I'd better get over there," 
she said.

"Yes, you really had." Macho, having spread alarm and despondency, now 
seemed in a better mood. The same could not be said for Roscoe, who was 
still bemoaning lost opportunity. "Ring me when you've got them safely 
locked up. Someone is going to have to have a serious talk with Rhylla."
Had-I and But-Known were perched in the window box outside Gemma 
Duquette's living room, whiling away the time by tormenting the maddened 
pug dogs inside.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" she asked sternly. Had-I gave 
her an innocent look and flicked an insouciant tail, sending the pugs 
into fresh paroxysms of yapping. But-Known tugged a petal off one of the 
chrysanthemums and offered it to her placatingly.

"Well, you can stop that right now and come home." But it was easier 
said than done. She could not carry two cats and pull the wheeled basket 
at the same time. It was no use putting them into the basket, they knew 
how to flip the lid back and escape. Jumping in and out of the basket 
was one of their favourite games on a wet afternoon and, if they were 
home when she returned from shopping trips, they always rushed to claw 
open the lid and inspect her purchases.

They eyed the basket now, with some interest, but not enough

to deflect them from their original plans. They remained firmly rooted 
in the window box, Had-I squashing a few small asters beneath her rump.

"Home," Lorinda repeated with more firmness than she felt. They knew she 
was in no position to enforce her command.

Inside, the yapping grew to a crescendo and the window was opened 
suddenly. Gemma leaned out to see what was disturbing her pets. She did 
not look well.

"Shoo! Scat!" She waved her hands at the cats before noticing Lorinda, 
then stopped guiltily. "Sorry," she said, "but they're upsetting the 
dogs. Come in, why don't you, and have a cup of coffee?"

"Oh, I don't think-" But the cats had already accepted the invitation. 
They leaped through the open window and there were sounds of canine 
hysteria at this brazen invasion of their territory.

"Oh, God!" Gemma's head disappeared as she turned to join

in the fray. "Conqueror! Lionheart! Stop it! Stop it this minute!"
Lorinda sighed and moved on to the imposing front door. It was locked. 
She pushed the doorbell for Gemma's flat, but the noise of skirmish 
could be heard out here; there was little chance that Gemma would hear 
the bell or remember that Lorinda was there until things quieted down.

"Allow me." Plantagenet Sutton came up behind her silently and inserted 
his key in the lock. There was a clank of bottles from his basket as he 
swung open the door. "Visiting someone?"

"Gemma," she replied. "I'm afraid my cats are already in there.

It was useless to pretend otherwise - the noises behind the other door 
were quite explicit.

"Those damned mutts!" He frowned. "This wouldn't be such

a bad place if only it were quiet." He lingered as Lorinda knocked
loudly on Gemma's door.

"You'll never make her hear that way," he remarked, always

a critic. He took out a wine bottle and hammered on Gemma's door with 
it.

"All right! All right! I'm coming!" The door opened and Gemma stood 
there, distraught and harassed. "Oh, it's you. What do you want?" She 
glared at Plantagenet Sutton.

"A little peace and quiet," he replied. Lorinda scuttled around him; the 
battle inside the flat promised to be more manageable.

"I'm sorry," Gemma said, "but they're overexcited and "That's all very 
well, but they're always overexcited. You ought to have some 
consideration for your neighbours. If you can't control your animals, at 
least you might cut their vocal cords!"

"Well, really!" Gemma gasped in outrage. "If you weren't in the throes 
of a perpetual hangover, a little healthy noise wouldn't bother you!"

It was definitely safer inside; it even sounded quieter now. Lorinda 
parked her shopping basket in the tiny entrance hall while Gemma and 
Plantagenet continued to trade insults. The dogs advanced into the 
hallway to reinforce their mistress. Had-I and But-Known had sprawled in 
a corner of the sofa, well pleased with their bit of excitement.

"You're disgraceful," Lorinda told them. "Absolutely disgraceful."

The door slammed and Gemma marched back into the living room, quivering 
with indignation and flanked by Conqueror and Lionheart.

"This was such a nice place before he moved in!" She sank into one of 
the armchairs, leaned back and closed her eyes. Suddenly she looked 
drained, her brief spurt of energy exhausted. Her hair was dishevelled 
and she was still wearing her dressing gown.

"Are you all right?" Lorinda felt vaguely alarmed. "It was something I 
ate yesterday, I think." Gemma spoke without opening her eyes. "I'm 
better now, but I had a terrible night. I'd only just got to sleep when 
the dogs woke me."

"I'm sorry." Lorinda apologized for her cats. The dogs settled 
themselves, one on each side of Gemma's chair and looked up at her. 
Conqueror whimpered anxiously.

"Are you sure you're all right? Did you call the doctor? Can

I get you anything?" Lorinda's unease grew. Gemma did not look better, 
she seemed to be getting paler.

"No, no. Just let me rest for a minute. Plantagenet is so exhausting. Oh 
-" Gemma's eyes opened. "Actually, there is something you could do, if 
you wouldn't mind-?"

"Yes? What?"

"Would you take Conqueror and Lionheart walkies? Poor dears, we've 
usually been out hours ago. Just down to the end of the High Street and 
back will do." "Of course." Lorinda would have agreed to far more than 
that. "No, don't get up. Just tell me where you keep their leashes."

"They're hanging on the hook underneath my raincoat. Thanks awfully." 
Gemma smiled weakly. "I'll have that coffee I promised you ready when 
you get back."

"Don't bother, it's all right. Why don't you go back to bed? You look as 
though you could do with some more rest." Lorinda found the leads and 
attached them to the dogs' collars while Had-I and But-Known looked on 
with interest and a certain air of superiority. They didn't need to be 
tethered to a human before being allowed out of the house.

"Coming?" Lorinda asked them.

Had-I yawned and stretched out on the cushions. It was nap time. 
But-Known wavered, but yawns were catching; she gave one of her own and 
slumped down atop her sister.

"They're all right." Gemma also yawned. "Let them stay." "They're just 
going to sleep now," Lorinda agreed. "I'll collect them when I bring the 
dogs back." The dogs were already prancing and pawing at the carpet, 
eager to be off. "Come on, you lot."

Three lampposts along the High Street, Lorinda saw Freddie walking 
slowly towards them with a strange look on her face.

"You're not going by the old graveyard, are you?" she greeted Lorinda.

"I wouldn't dream of it." It was a popular dog-walk with some villagers, 
but Lorinda felt it lacked respect. "Why? Is Clarice in there?"

"Clarice? What's she got to do with anything?" Freddie looked puzzled, 
then her face cleared. "Oh, is she one of those ghastly children who 
like to play tricks?" She seemed quite happy with the thought.

"Not that I know of. She has other alarming traits. Apparently, she has 
a white rat for a pet and likes to carry it around on her shoulder." 
Lorinda reined in the pugs who were sniffing enthusiastically at 
Freddie's shoes.

"That's going to add some spice to life around here," Freddie said. 
"What are you going to do about the cats?"

"It won't be easy." Lorinda sighed. "I just hope Clarice's parents
settle down quickly in the States and send for her in very short order."

"I wouldn't trust those dogs with a rat, either." Freddie looked

at them critically. "They may not be terriers, but they still have the 
hunting instinct. What are you doing with them, anyway?"

"Walking them for Gemma. She isn't well. Something she ate, she thinks."

"People aren't careful enough about refrigeration in this country." 
Freddie still seemed preoccupied by problems of her own. "I'm always 
seeing packets of frozen food abandoned on supermarket shelves by 
dimwits who've changed their minds. Then some even dimmer employee comes 
along and puts them back into the freezer without knowing how long 
they've been sitting there and whether they've defrosted or not. I'm 
only surprised there aren't mass outbreaks of food poisoning. They
haven't a clue here."

"I see what you mean.

"They haven't a clue!" Freddie laughed mirthlessly. "I should talk. 
Neither have I. I'm stuck in Chapter Six and I don't know what that 
damned Wraith O'Reilly is going to do next - and neither does she. It's 
beginning to haunt me." Freddie glanced over her shoulder in the 
direction of the old graveyard. "Sometimes I think she's beginning to 
haunt me."

Lionheart tugged at his leash, Conqueror whined his impatience. They 
were ready for the next lamppost, making their wishes clear by pacing 
about restlessly.

"You'll feel better as "soon as you get into the next scene," Lorinda 
comforted. "I always do."

"If I ever get into the next scene." Freddie's despondency was not to be 
dismissed so lightly. She seemed to be leading up to something.

Ordinarily, Lorinda would have waited and encouraged the impending 
confidence, but Conqueror chose that moment to dart behind her, looping 
his leash around her ankles and pulling it tight. She caught at 
Freddie's arm to steady herself as Lionheart began to circle in the 
opposite direction.

"I'd better get along and let you finish with those brutes and take them 
back where they belong," Freddie said.

"I would like to get rid of them," Lorinda agreed, trying to untangle 
herself. "This dog-walking is trickier than it looks."

"You're spoiled because cats take care of themselves. And I'd advise you 
to stick to cats." Freddie watched critically as she struggled to 
extricate herself. "You're better off."

"I'll be all right so long as we don't run into Clarice and her white 
rat. I'm not sure I could control them then."

"I'm not sure you can control them now." But Freddie did not offer any 
help. In fact, she began backing away. "Well ... good luck."

At the end of the High Street, the dogs were still restless and
unwilling to turn back. She knew that Gemma often set them free to run 
in the woods, but she didn't dare; they might not return when she called 
- and how could she go back to Gemma and confess that she had lost the 
dogs? "Come on!" She tugged at the leashes, half dragging the pugs

as they stiffened their legs and tried to make a dash for the woods. 
"Come on...

"Having trouble?" She hadn't seen Professor Borley approaching. "Allow 
me." He took a leash in each hand, gave them a sharp jerk and announced, 
"Heel!"

The pugs looked up at him in surprise and decided to obey. "Right," he 
said. "Where are we heading?" "Back to Coffers Court." Lorinda fell into 
step beside him. "I want to get them home before Gemma starts worrying."

But Gemma was asleep when they entered the flat. She did not appear to 
have moved since Lorinda had left.

The cats were also where she had last seen them - fast asleep on the 
sofa - although, typically, Had-I had struggled out from under and was 
now on top of But-Known.

"Those cats have the loudest purrs I've ever heard." Professor Borley 
had released the pugs and they scampered into the room ahead of him, 
charging straight for Gemma.

"That's not the cats," Lorinda said. "It's Gemma snoring." "Snoring?" 
Professor Borley crossed to the chair where Gemma slumped.

Conqueror pushed a wet nose against the limp hand dangling off the arm 
of the chair and seemed upset when there was no answering caress. He 
began to whimper on a sharply rising note of panic. But-Known sat up 
abruptly, tumbling Had-I to one side. Both cats became wide-eyed and 
still, watching.

Lionheart jumped into Gemma's lap and began to lick her face 
frantically.

Gemma did not stir; the heavy stertorous breathing continued.

"It was something she ate." The tension began to infect Lorinda. "She 
said she'd been sick all night, but that she was better now. Surely, it 
can't still be affecting her?"

"That depends on what she ate." Professor Borley's face was grim as he 
laid the back of his hand lightly against Gemma's grey, clammy face.

"Who's her doctor?" he asked. "I don't know." "Then who's yours?"

"I don't have one here. Yet. Perhaps she hasn't one, either. We haven't 
lived here all that long, you know. We're still in the process of 
getting ourselves organized."

Professor Borley's look told her she wasn't doing a very good job of it. 
Lorinda felt herself growing defensive.

"What makes you think Gemma needs a doctor? She told me she'd had a 
terrible night; she needs all the sleep she can get to catch up. "Sleep, 
yes. A coma, no. Professor Borley frowned at her. "What number do you 
ring for an ambulance?"

"An ambulance?" Lorinda shrank from the thought. "Surely, that's a bit 
excessive? Gemma...?" She moved over to look down at the woman. 
"Gemma...? Gemma... can you hear me? Do you want an ambulance?"

"Do you want the responsibility of denying her medical aid?" Professor 
Borley asked sternly. "You can't do anything to help her. Can you?"

The ambulance arrived quickly, the paramedics were swift and efficient. 
Gemma looked a little better even as they lifted the stretcher and 
carried her outside, but her eyes were still closed.

"Any idea what she might have taken?" The steely glance accompanying the 
question left no doubt of the medic's meaning.

"Taken?" Lorinda looked at him blankly. "She said it was something she 
ate. She thought it was food poisoning."

"Hmmm." His eyes were openly suspicious. "We'll see." "She might have 
taken something by mistake," Lorinda said. "When she got up in the 
night. If she didn't put the light on ... an accident..." "Another 
accident? Pretty careless people around here." He could be right. A cold 
chill swept over Lorinda as she looked at the situation from his point 
of view. This was the second time an ambulance had sped to Brimful 
Coffers to carry away one of its newer residents.

"The rest of you better start being more careful," he said. "Things come 
in threes, you know."

"That's the sort of superstitious remark I wouldn't expect from

a medical man," Professor Borley said, but the medic had gone. They 
heard the ambulance door slam, the engine start, then the whine and 
whoop of the siren as it drove away.

Conqueror gave a mournful howl and Lionheart crouched with a pitiful 
whimper.

"What is it? What was that?" The door across the magnificent marble 
entrance hall opened and Plantagenet Sutton stood in the doorway of his 
flat, blinking. "What's going on here?"

"They've just taken Gemma away in the ambulance," Lorinda said. The 
siren must have roused him, although it was strange that he could have 
slept through its arrival and the noisy invasion of the paramedics.

"Gemma? Gemma?" He might never have heard of her. He blinked again, 
reinforcing the appearance of someone who had just woken up.

Conqueror emitted another howl; Lionheart decided to join in.

"For God's sake!" Plantagenet winced and raised one hand to his head. 
"Can't you shut those mutts up?"

"Maybe you'd like to try," Professor Borley challenged. Plantagenet 
lifted his head and directed a venomous glance

at the academic, who smiled blandly back. Plantagenet scowled, obviously 
realizing that he could not exact vengeance on someone whose work never 
came to him for review. He shifted his threatening gaze to Lorinda.

It told her she was doomed. Guilt by association. In the unlikely event 
of her next book winning the Nobel Prize, Plantagenet Sutton would still 
revile it as the most meretricious, unworthy, inept, misbegotten piece 
of arrogance that the world had ever had foisted on it. He would be 
merciless and utterly damning - and all because she had had the 
misfortune to witness him bested by Professor Borley.

"You do well to raise the subject." Borley was not through yet. "What is 
going to happen to the dogs while their mistress is in hospital? Someone 
is going to have to take care of them. "Don't look at me!" Plantagenet 
retreated into his flat, slamming the door behind him.

Lorinda realized that Professor Borley was now looking at her.

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "I can't take them. I have the cats."
"That's what I thought," he said gloomily, following her into Gemma's 
flat. The pugs scampered ahead of them, going straight to Gemma's chair. 
Despite the fact that they had just seen her carried out and loaded into 
the ambulance, they still seemed to expect to find her there.

"They're missing her already," the professor said mournfully. "Poor 
things."

Had-I turned to her sister and made an obviously uncomplimentary remark. 
But-Known agreed. They eyed the dogs coldly.

"If you took the dogs home with you," Borley tried again, "you could 
keep them outside in the garden. The cats wouldn't mind that, would 
they?"

Had-I and But-Known turned to stare at him with incredulous icy 
contempt.

"Sorry," he apologized to them quickly. "It was just a thought." "Think 
again," Lorinda said. "What about Gordie? He'll have duplicate keys to 
all the flats - and it's his job to look after everything. Surely, he 
can feed and walk the dogs for a few days?"

"I'm afraid Gordie isn't the pillar of reliability he used to be, now 
that he's got that new red-headed girlfriend. You'll notice there's been 
no sign of him, despite all the commotion here." Professor Borley 
frowned uneasily. "She's much too old for him, of course, but they seem 
to be quite happy. I suppose one shouldn't be judgemental about such 
things. It's their business, after all."

"Quite right," Lorinda agreed abstractedly. Had-I and But-Known were 
sliding cushionwards again, ready to go back to sleep.

"No, you don't," she warned them. "We're going home." "Betty Alvin!" 
Borley said, on a note of inspiration. "She'll take care of the dogs.

"Betty already has her hands full," Lorinda said. "Dorian is coming to 
the end of his new book." There might be more demanding employers than 
Dorian, but not many. He monopolized Betty at the best of times; now 
that he was coming to the end of a book, he undoubtedly turned into the 
proverbial Fiend in Human Form. Perhaps they all did. It was a wonder 
poor Betty was able to stand it. It was certainly unfair to expect her
to take on any more tasks at such a time. "In any case, I'm not going to 
be here next week. I have business to attend to in London and I'm 
leaving in the morning." It was a spur of the moment decision but, as 
soon as she said it, she knew it was the right one. She needed a 
respite. When she returned, she would be better able to usher those 
ghastly Sibling Spinster Sleuths to the victorious conclusion of another
case and a happy ending for everyone except the trapped villain.

"Tomorrow?" Professor Borley looked aghast, realization seeping in that 
he was going to be left holding the pugs.

"Home," Lorinda said sternly to the cats. Had-I twitched an ear and 
wriggled deeper into the cushions. Lorinda sighed and started for the 
door.

"You can't leave them here!" Professor Borley sounded close

to panic at the thought of yet more animals to look after. "I don't 
intend to." Lorinda reclaimed her shopping trolley from the hall and 
wheeled it back into the living room. She positioned it beside the sofa 
and flipped back the lid. But-Known opened one wary eye and closed it 
again.

"Inside," Lorinda ordered. Both cats remained motionless. She knew they 
were aware of her because they had stopped purring.

"All right, we'll do it this way." She lifted Had-I and lowered her into 
the basket. But-Known gave a faint mewling protest at receiving the same 
treatment, then they both moulded themselves to the lumpy bags of 
vegetables and returned to their semicomatose state. Lorinda lowered the 
lid and wheeled the basket towards the door.

"Umm.. ." Professor Borley was at the window and appeared

to be about to say something, then changed his mind. "I suppose," he 
offered instead, "I could walk the dogs before bedtime tonight ... and 
open a can of dog food."

"That would be fine," Lorinda agreed. "Gemma may be able

to come home by tomorrow. It might just be a case of having her stomach 
pumped and then they'll release her to recuperate at home. I'll ring the 
hospital later and find out how she is." "I hope you're right," he said 
gloomily. "She looked pretty awful to me."

Since Lorinda was the one moving, both dogs followed her hopefully to 
the door. Perhaps she could be persuaded to take them for another walk.

"Ummm... Again, Professor Borley seemed about to say something. He 
trailed after the dogs, looking undecided.

"It might be a good idea to open that dog food now," Lorinda suggested. 
"Fill their bowls and then you can slip out while they're eating."

"That wasn't what -" He stepped back nimbly, trying to restrain the pugs 
as she swung the door open and wheeled the shopping basket into the 
marble hall.

And halted abruptly. Clarice was crossing the hall to the lift, her 
white rat perched on her shoulder, its little red eyes gleaming wickedly 
as it turned its head to look at Lorinda.

"Hello." Clarice changed course, veering over to the group in the 
doorway.

"No!" Lorinda gasped. "No, go back!"

"Don't you like rats?" Clarice asked innocently, delighted with the 
effect she was creating. "Boswell won't hurt you. He's really quite 
tame. He won't bite. Wouldn't you like to pet him?"

"No." Lorinda backed into Professor Borley as she tried to pull the 
shopping basket back into Gemma's flat.

Too late. The lid on the basket began bouncing as strong little legs 
fought to brace themselves on the vegetables and leap upwards. Two 
indignant yowls told Clarice what they'd like to do to Boswell. The dogs 
added their yelps. "Back! Get back!" Lorinda pushed at the little 
muzzles thrusting out of the basket.

"Steady, boys." Professor Borley fought to keep the dogs from rushing 
into the hall. "Steady there."

"Oohhh..." Clarice began backing away. The rat squeaked, recognizing 
danger, and tried to burrow down the neck of Clarice's sweater.

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 towards 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.

7

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 imaaination - 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.

Miss Petunia had come back to reclaim her property!

Lorinda pushed the thought away. She must not give in to such an idea. 
She was not completely mad. Not yet. While she could still function, she 
must. And when she found the perpetrator of this abysmal joke...

She thrust the file back into place and took a large manila envelope 
instead. She put the counterfeit chapter into it and looked around for a 
safe place to hide it.

The cats watched with great interest as she pried up a corner

of the carpet and slid the envelope to lie flat beneath it. Not very 
original, perhaps, but what was the point of that when the joker who 
wrote those pages probably knew as much about crime and concealment as 
she did?

She should have hidden the pince-nez better. She should never have put 
them in that file. She had put them there, hadn't she? Without them, she 
could not prove they had ever existed. But they had. She could not have 
hallucinated such a thing. Could she? She could see them now, even down 
to the tiny "I k' imprinted in the gold rim.

Unfortunately, no one else could see what was in her mind's eye. And she 
would sound like a fool if she tried to tell anyone about it. That was 
what the joker would be counting on.

Had-I walked gingerly over the replaced carpet, testing it with
tentative paws, as though it might collapse beneath her. But-Known sat 
on the desk, looking down on her intrepid sister and giving her familiar 
impression of a Victorian Miss wringing her paws at the recklessness of 
a daredevil.

Lorinda tested that patch of carpet herself, treading on it firmly. 
There was no telltale rustle of paper and no obvious difference in the 
thickness of the carpet. It would do.

The best way to handle the situation now was to ignore it, give no sign 
that she had ever seen those pages, and disappoint whomever was waiting 
for some sort of reaction from her.

An unpleasant feeling remained with her. Perhaps because Someone had 
violated the privacy of her home as surely as any burglar: sat at her 
desk, written on her machine - hijacked her characters. Although the 
escapade could be written off as a joke if anyone admitted it, there was 
an underlying malice that was disquieting. Someone had read through her 
files, invaded her home in her absence.

Who? Not Freddie. Automatically, she exonerated her friend. But who?

She had been in London for the past week, attending to all the errands 
she had been postponing since her move to the country. A visit to her 
dentist, giving a talk at a suburban library, lunch with her agent, 
doing research at the London Library, dinners with friends and catching 
up with theatregoing. She had even done some Christmas shopping. The 
week had sped past and she had enjoyed it thoroughly, knowing that 
Freddie would be looking after the cats.

It had never occurred to her that someone might be needed

to watch the house. Freddie had the only duplicate keys. She would never 
have allowed a stranger inside, probably not even a friend. Of course, 
there was always that time-honoured pretext: "I loaned her a book and I 
need it back." Yes, even Freddie might have fallen for that one. She 
would have to find out if anyone had tried it.

If anyone else was involved. The quiet terror stirred at the back of her 
mind again. If she hadn't written that chapter herself before she went 
up to London and then forgotten about it, blotted it out of her memory. 
People could do things like that.

But they were cases of split personalities, perhaps even multiple 
personalities. Fighting against themselves, hating themselves, doing 
strange things to punish themselves for transgressions only they knew or 
cared about. She couldn't be one of those - could she? She drew a deep, 
unsteady breath; then another, somewhat steadier. She must not give in 
to these thoughts. That way lay madness. If madness was not already...

Had-I and But-Known, who had been curled up on the corner

of the desk, suddenly sat up and turned towards the doorway, eyes bright 
and alert, seeing, as cats do, something invisible to the human eye. The 
back of her neck prickled. She watched the empty doorway with 
apprehension.

Had-I abruptly stood and leaped to the floor, followed by But-Known. 
They advanced to the door in time to greet Roscoe as he sauntered in and 
touched noses with them. "Oh, Pud." Lorinda went limp with relief. "I 
didn't hear the catflap." Left to himself and without being harried by 
his female friends, Roscoe could negotiate the catflap, moving slowly 
and taking his time.

The wild thought swept into her mind and she dismissed it instantly. Of 
course, it wasn't possible for anyone to squeeze in through the catflap. 
Poor Roscoe could barely make it himself and he was nowhere near the 
size of an adult human being - or even an adolescent human. Apart from 
which, adolescents entered with intent to remove, not add to, the 
contents of a house.

The cats finished their silent communion and turned to look

at her with faintly accusing stares. What had they been saying to each 
other? And why were we wasting so much time, energy and money in trying 
to contact whatever might exist in outer space when we couldn't even 
communicate properly with the warm friendly creatures living beside us?

I can explain everything, she felt like saying defensively. But she knew 
that she couldn't - and so did they.

The ring of the telephone came as a lifeline. She snatched it up 
quickly. "Hello?"

"Oh, good, you are back. Freddie wasn't quite sure - "Macho, yes." She 
had not realized how much she had tensed until she felt herself relax. 
"Yes, I got back late last night. And I've been out shopping this 
morning, replenishing the larder."

"Good ... good." Macho sounded somewhat abstracted. "Er ... have a nice 
time in London?"

"Oh, yes. Saw a lot of friends, got a lot of things done. I'm glad to be 
back, though." Surprisingly, she found that she meant it; the place was 
beginning to feel like home. At least, it had been. "I haven't caught up 
with Freddie yet. What's been happening while I've been gone? Have I 
missed anything interesting?"

There was a curious silence at the other end of the line. "Oh ... 
nothing much," he said eventually. "We've all got invitations to an 
early Christmas Party at Dorian's on the nineteenth, because he's off on 
a cruise over the holidays. If yours hasn't arrived-"

"I haven't gone through my post yet." She glanced at the pile of 
envelopes on her desk. "I was planning to do that this evening."

"Oh ... good, you'll find it then. he was elaborately casual. "I don't 
suppose you've seen Roscoe anywhere around?"

"He's right here with the girls," she said. "He came in a few minutes 
ago.

There was an explosive exhalation of relief. "Macho, what is it?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. I'm glad to know he's there. I haven't seen him 
all afternoon. I was getting - I mean

"I was just about to open some of the gourmet cat food I brought back 
from London for a treat for them," she said. "Why don't you come over? 
You can have a drink, of course.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I will. Thanks. I'll be right over." He put the phone 
down.

She had just reached the kitchen when he appeared at the back door. He 
looked over his shoulder, then caught the door before she opened it 
fully and slid through the narrow aperture. Inside, he stood with his 
back against the wall and slowly turned his head to scan the room.

"Macho, what's wrong?" She was shocked by the change in his appearance. 
In the week since she had last seen him, he had grown haggard with dark 
shadows under his eyes. Furthermore, although it was a pleasantly misty 
mid-December day outside, with the red tinge of the setting sun 
colouring the mist, Macho was behaving like someone out of a film noir.

"Wrong?" For a moment, he was his old fussy self. "Why should you think 
there's anything wrong?" Then the invisible atmosphere settled round him 
again. He stared at the far doorway with haunted eyes, a fugitive 
wrapped in the deep gloom of a perpetual midnight, with danger lurking 
in every shadow. "Ah! There you are!" He dashed across the room as the 
cats appeared in the doorway and scooped up Roscoe, holding him close. 
"I haven't seen you for hours."

Roscoe looked up in mild surprise at finding himself thus clasped to his 
master's bosom. He stretched up to touch noses with Macho and began 
purring.

Had-I and But-Known strolled over to sit at Lorinda's feet and stare 
meaningly at the small stack of gourmet cat-food trays she had brought 
them. If it was cocktail time for humans, it was treats time for 
felines.

"Game with turkey." Lorinda picked up the top container and read the 
contents. "How does that sound to you?"

It sounded good to Roscoe. He twisted free of Macho's arms and hit the 
floor, bouncing over to take his place beside the others.

"So, what's been going on while I've been away?" Lorinda divided the cat 
food into three neat portions, then glanced down doubtfully at Roscoe. 
He was watching her in bright-eyed anticipation, licking his chops. He 
could polish off one of those small containers all by himself.

"Hasn't Freddie filled you in yet?" Macho sounded surprised. "I still 
haven't seen Freddie." And that was unusual; she had expected to see or 
hear from Freddie before this. Of course, she had arrived home last 
night too late for visiting and perhaps Freddie had rung this morning 
while she was out shopping.

"Freddie isn't looking too well lately," Macho said. "She seems

a bit .. . stressed." "Oh?" That was surely the pot calling the kettle 
black. Perhaps Macho hadn't looked in a mirror lately. Lorinda set the 
saucers down on the floor. Had-I inspected the size of her portion and
gave her a wounded look. "You can have seconds, if you want," she told 
her, then led Macho into the sitting room while the cats hunched over 
their treat.

"What would you like?" If she poured fast, they might have time for a 
few sips before the cats came in to demand more.

"What do you have?" He peered suspiciously at the small collection of 
bottles. "There's no tequila there, is there?"

"Sorry, no. Do you want some?"

"God, no!" He shuddered. "I never want to see or hear of the stuff 
again!" He spoke with bitter vehemence and looked over his shoulder 
again as he did so. Lorinda wondered if that was becoming a nervous tic.

"I'll have a dry sherry," he decided. "A large one." "Trouble with the 
new book?" she asked sympathetically, handing it to him and pouring one 
for herself.

"The publishers want to call it Blondes Die Screaming"." He took

a deep swallow and brooded into his glass. There's no blonde in the book 
and I told them anyone would die screaming when a serial rapist-murderer 
went to work on them." "What did you want to call it?"

"Does that matter?" He was in a mood. "I'm only the author." He flung 
himself into an armchair and stared into space. After a moment, he 
twitched and looked over his shoulder. "What was that?"

It was only the sound of cats' dishes moving around the kitchen floor as 
tongues scraped to get every last morsel off them. If Macho couldn't 
identify that familiar sound, he must be in a bad way.

"Macho, what is it?" She tried again. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Do? Do?" He gave a snarling bark of mirthless laughter worthy of his PI 
hero in a cornered moment. "There's nothing anyone can do. Except -" He 
raised his head and looked at her strangely.

"Yes?" she encouraged.

"Lorinda, if anything ... happened to me, you'd take care of Roscoe, 
wouldn't you? I mean, adopt him. He gets on so well with your two, it 
wouldn't be like going to a stranger. I think he'd be happy here.

"Macho, are you ill?" Dying? she meant. Had he been informed that some 
fatal disease was unexpectedly numbering his days?

"No, no." He caught her thought. "Not that. It's just that I may

be put - have to go - away." "Put away?" She pounced on his slip of the 
tongue. "Macho, what is it? What have you done?" He was an erratic 
driver, but usually quite careful. Had he killed someone in a moment of
inattention in the night fog? A hit-and-run? She could visualize him 
panicking when he realized his victim was dead and instinctively bolting 
for home and safety. Then, with time for reflection, realizing the full 
horror of his position (MAcHo MAGEE RUNs AND HIDEs, the tabloids would 
scream) would dawn on him. With his knowledge of police procedures, 
knowing that they were waiting for the results of their forensic tests 
to filter through, wondering what evidence he might have left behind - 
flecks of paint, tyre treadmarks, hairs from his beard - that

would lead inexorably to him, there was no wonder he was a nervous 
wreck, constantly looking over his shoulder.

"Nothing!" he declared vehemently, as though suspecting the trend of her 
thoughts. "I've done nothing. Yet. And nothing may ever happen. But, if 
it should -" He looked at her pleadingly, "Roscoe-?"

"Prrrvaaa??" Roscoe padded into the room, drawn by the sound of his 
name. He leapt into Macho's lap and settled down purring. Had-I and 
But-Known were right behind him. They looked at Lorinda thoughtfully, 
then settled on the hearthrug in front of the fire. They had obviously 
decided against agitating for any more food right now, realizing that 
they would have to share it with Roscoe if they did.

"Of course I'll take him." She could reassure Macho on that point. "It 
will be no trouble at all." Apart from having to get a larger catflap 
installed.

"Thank you." He sank back in his chair, running his fingers through 
Roscoe's fur. "It may never happen," he muttered. "It may all be just my 
imagina'

"Macho!" There was something terribly familiar in his attitude. "What-?"

The back door slammed. "Had-I! But-But!" Freddie's voice carolled. "Come 
and get it!" The cats rose unhurriedly and strolled towards the kitchen.

"We're in here, Freddie," Lorinda called. "Come and have a drink."

"Oh, no!" Freddie appeared in the doorway, looking guilty. "You're back. 
I'm sorry, I wouldn't have burst in like that if I'd known. I thought 
you were coming back tonight."

"Last night," Lorinda said. "Don't worry, it's all right." What was not 
all right was Freddie's appearance. She looked grey and drawn. What was 
going on around here?

The cats, sensing that they were not about to get another feed, turned 
and went back to their spot before the fire.

"Are the Jackleys still fighting?" Lorinda asked. "They're trying, but 
some of the old fire has gone." Freddie curled up on the sofa. "Jack 
still has one arm in bandages - he can't throw things the way he used 
to."

"Maybe not, but they're obviously disturbing your sleep again."

"If you think I look bad," Freddie said. "Wait till you see the others. 
Gemma looks terrible - I think they let her out of hospital too soon."

"What was wrong?" Lorinda felt guilty; she ought to have rung Gemma this 
morning.

"Nothing the medics seemed to be definite about. They halfway agreed 
with her own diagnosis of something she ate, but they didn't rule out an 
extreme allergic reaction to something, or even one of the new mystery 
viruses that are breaking out all over." "No one else seems to have 
caught it," Macho said. "So it was probably an allergy."

"And Rhylla is really in trouble." Freddie dismissed Gemma's problem as 
inconsequential. "Her son and daughter-in-law telephoned last week to 
say they were having such a good time without the sprog that they've 
booked themselves a second-honeymoon skiing holiday in Colorado over New 
Year. She's stuck with the brat and the rat until well into January - 
and I don't know which is upsetting her more."

"Oh, no!" Lorinda was horrified. "What will that do to her deadline?"

"Nothing good," Freddie said gloomily.

"Look on the bright side." Macho cheered up for the first time

all afternoon. "It may upset Rhylla - but it will drive Plantagenet
Sutton absolutely crazy.

"That's right." Freddie also brightened. "He hates rats. Funny that, 
you'd think he'd have some fellow-feeling for them."

Had-I's ears twitched and she raised her head. "Go back to sleep," 
Lorinda advised. "Boswell is out of bounds." Had-I lowered her head 
slowly, with the air of a cat who had her own ideas about that.

"I thought I'd drive over to Marketown for some shopping," Freddie 
announced. "Either of you care to come along?"

"Now?" Macho looked askance. He might have a hero who acted on impulse - 
a door kicked down here, a jaw broken there - but he preferred to plan 
his own days well in advance. "Say . .. ten minutes?" Freddie offered.

"Two will do it." Lorinda was already on her feet. "Just let me grab my 
coat and bag and I'll be right with you."

"Sorry-" she heard Macho say as she left the room. "But I want to finish 
a chapter before dinner. Another time..."

it was not until Lorinda was safely tucked into the passenger seat 
beside Freddie that it occurred to her that it might not be wise to 
leave the house unattended. Dear as the cats were, they were of no use 
as watchdogs.

But the car was rolling smoothly down the High Street and

it was too late to do anything about the situation except worry. She 
wished she had not thought of it. She turned to make a remark to Freddie 
and gave a muffled shriek.

Freddie was driving with her eyes closed. "What is it?" Freddie's eyes 
flew open, she looked fearfully in the direction of the graveyard they 
were passing. The car swerved. "Did you see it?"

"See what?" Lorinda was startled. There was genuine terror in Freddie's 
eyes as she stared deep into the old graveyard where the mist was 
thickest. "Freddie, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing!" There was an echo of Macho's anxious evasion in 
Freddie's immediate defensive denial. "Why should anything be wrong?"

"Freddie! Watch the road!" The front tyres scraped against the kerb.

"Sorry." Freddie braked violently, then they lurched backwards. "Not 
paying attention. I'll be all right as soon as we get on the open road."

"I hope so." Lorinda bit down on a sharper remark. Freddie was still 
looking fearfully over her shoulder at the old graveyard. It was clearly 
not a moment for either levity or reproach. Freddie was deeply 
disturbed.

"Freddie -" A sudden thought disquieted her. "Don't tell me the old 
graveyard is haunted!"

"All right." Freddie returned her attention to the road. They rounded a 
bend and the graveyard was out of sight. "I won't tell you."

"Well . . . is it?" She remembered Freddie's strange attitude towards 
the graveyard when she had been walking Gemma's dogs, just before she 
went up to London.

"Who knows?" Freddie shrugged. "Stranger things may have happened in 
Brimful Coffers. I wouldn't put anything past this bloody place."

"But what is it?" She tried to pin Freddie down. "If there were any sort 
of legend about the place, surely Dorian would have told us about it?"

"Told us? He'd have seen to it that we were charged extra for the 
privilege." Freddie's bravado was growing, the farther away from the 
graveyard they travelled.

"Have you seen whatever it is?" Lorinda would not be diverted. "Has 
anyone else seen it?"

"No one is admitting it, not that I'd blame them." Freddie shrugged 
again. "In fact, the subject has never been raised. I don't blame anyone 
for that either."

"But is there anything to talk about?" A spectral sighting might explain 
Macho's curious behaviour - although not, perhaps, his intense anxiety 
over Roscoe. In the annals of haunting, human beings were often menaced, 
but not animals. It took vampires for that.

"Perhaps someone is playing jokes." Lorinda put forward the idea 
cautiously. Misery loves company and she realized that she would be a 
lot happier if she thought she wasn't the prankster's only target.

"Ha-ha-ha," Freddie said bitterly. "I may die laughing." "But what 
exactly have you?" - Freddie swerved the car sharply, throwing her 
against the seatbelt, cutting off her breath.

"You had the right idea," Freddie said. "Get out of this place for a 
while, sweep the cobwebs out of your brain and come back with a fresh 
perspective."

"I'm not sure I could claim-"

"Maybe I ought to go up to London for a week or two myself." Having 
changed the subject, Freddie was not going to go back to it. "Tell me 
what show I ought to see.

,8

It was days before Lorinda could force herself to take up work on the 
book again. Had-I and But-Known watched with interest as she approached 
the desk, taking one step backward for every two steps forward. They had 
not seen this performance before.

"All right, all right," she assured them. "I'll get there. Don't rush 
me."

It didn't help that the cats had decided that their favourite spot to 
curl up was the place on the carpet beneath which the envelope lay 
hidden. They weren't trying to keep her attention focused on the spot, 
she knew, and no one who came into the study would think anything 
untoward about it. They were probably settled there because the envelope 
and pages provided another layer of insulation, making that spot on the 
carpet slightly warmer than the rest of it.

She hesitated over the pile of paper beside her typewriter, and lifted 
the top sheet with a hand that trembled only slightly. It was blank. She 
quickly riffled through the other pages. Blank, all blank. She exhaled a 
quiet sigh of relief. The cats shifted into a more comfortable position 
and waited for her to sit down in her office chair. They seemed to relax
when she did so. It had been several days since she had occupied her 
familiar place. All was right with their world again. What about hers?

Cautiously, she began to tap at the keys, still half fearful that 
control might be snatched away from her. After a few paragraphs, the 
knot in the pit of her stomach began to loosen. Miss Petunia settled her 
pince-nez firmly on the narrow bridge of her long thin nose, Lily 
growled, Marigold tossed her red-gold curls and burbled, and none of 
them showed any signs of taking on a sinister life of their own.

With increasing confidence, Lorinda settled down to making up for lost 
time. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, she scarcely noticed when the 
sky began growing darker.

The cats grew restive. Had-I strolled over, head-butted her ankles and 
eyed her lap, inaccessible since the chair was pushed well under the 
desk.

"Later," she said absently to Had-I's protest. But-Known knew better 
than to try to disturb her, but was equally disgruntled. Nose to nose, 
the cats communed for a moment, then turned and left the room 
purposefully. Lorinda barely registered the subsequent plop of the 
catflap as she contiued working.

When, at last, she raised her head and came back to the present, the 
room beyond the desk lamp was dark. In the early-night blackness 
outside, lighted windows glowed in Macho's cottage and in the larger 
semidetached occupied by Freddie and the Jackleys.

Lorinda sighed, stretched and pushed back her chair. As though that were 
a signal, the doorbell and the telephone rang simultaneously.

"Hello?" The phone was nearest. "Hold on a minute, will you? The 
doorbell's ringing. I'll answer it and get straight back to you.

"Oh-oh!" It was unmistakably Freddie's voice. "I'll get right over 
there. You may need reinforcements.

"What?" But Freddie had already rung off. The doorbell rang again, more 
insistently.

"I'm coming!" she called, hurrying down the stairs to throw open the 
door.

"I thought you might need some help." Macho stepped inside and looked 
around - at floor level. "Where are they?"

"What on earth -?" She could see Freddie hurrying up the path with an 
anxious expression on her face.

"keep calm and don't worry," Freddie said quickly. "If the pugs had done 
it, Gemma might be in trouble but, remember, a cat owner is not 
responsible for anything her cats do. That's the law."

"Do? Law?" That sinking feeling was back in the pit of her stomach. 
"What have they done now?"

"She doesn't know yet," Macho said. "They haven't.." Flip-flop... 
flip-flop... The catflap sent its familiar message, followed by a 
questing, "Mrraahhqarrmm?"

"In here -" Lorinda began, but Freddie and Macho were already rushing 
for the kitchen door. She followed, more slowly, in their wake. "Not in 
here, you little wretch!" Freddie said. "Not on the nice clean carpet."

There was a muffled indignant feline protest as Freddie executed some 
fancy footwork, blocking the threshold.

"Oh, no!" Lorinda had a full view of the scene now: two triumphant cats 
standing over one plump furry white body with glazing red eyes.

"i saw it from across the street," Macho said. "I shouted at them, but 
they paid no attention."

"They wouldn't," Freddie said. "Not even Lorinda could have stopped them 
at that point."

"You saw it, too?" Lorinda asked faintly.

"It was hard to miss. Clarice's screams were enough to wake the dead."

"Oh, no!" Lorinda flinched as the telephone shrilled. "If that's Rhylla, 
what can I say?"

"Just grovel," Freddie advised. "And remember, it's not your fault."

"Hello...?" Lorinda breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, Elsie ... Yes ... 
yes, I know. They've just come in with it ... yes. Yes, it looks very 
dead ... Well, thanks for trying to warn me." She had barely replaced 
the receiver when the phone rang again.

"Hello... ? Oh, Jennifer... right past the bookshop, did they? Yes, yes, 
of course I want to know. They're back now and they've brought it with 
them. Thanks, anyway." She began to replace the receiver, then thought 
better of it and set it down beside its base.

"What did you do?" she asked the cats bitterly. "Take a lap of honour 
with the damned thing?"

Had-I wriggled her shoulders and preened; she was delighted with 
herself. But-Known sensed criticism and moved a few inches away from her 
sister, distancing herself.

"Prt'ryaaaah?" Had-I began to notice that she was not receiving the 
appreciation that was her due. She reached out and prodded the limp 
white lump. "Prrrraaaah?"

"Yes, yes, good girl." Macho bent and patted her head consolingly. It 
was all right for him, he didn't have to face the full brunt of the 
social horrors in store. Lorinda shuddered.

"Well, she is," Macho defended. "If the place were overrun by

an infestation of rats, you'd be bloody glad to have her on duty. She 
isn't to know the difference between a pet rat and a wild one. She might 
even have thought the rat was attacking Clarice. If it had been, she'd 
have been a heroine." "Good scenario," Freddie said. "Would you like to 
try to explain

it that way to little Clarice?" "Perhaps after she's calmed down a bit," 
Macho said. Lorinda shuddered again. The doorbell rang more insistently.
But-Known backed a little farther away from Had-I and her victim.

"I'll get the door," Freddie said.

"Now what do we do?" Lorinda asked despairingly. "When we lost one of 
the hamsters at school," Macho said, "we found it distracted the boys' 
attention wonderfully if we gave it a full military funeral. Matron," he 
added hopefully, "always sewed a nice black velvet shroud for it."

"You can forget that one," Freddie said, returning. "I wouldn't even sew 
for myself, let alone a dead rat. And neither would Lorinda."

"Who was it?" Lorinda asked.

"Nemesis!" Freddie rolled her eyes heavenwards. "We've just paused to 
blow our little nose and dry our tears. They'll be with us in a minute."
Had-I, with a thoughtful look, got up and strolled away. But-Known had 
already disappeared. The abandoned corpse lay in the centre of the 
kitchen floor.

"BoSWELL!" The agonized cry tore through the air, propelling Clarice 
into the room and to her knees by Boswell's side. She burst into noisy 
anguished sobs.

Rhylla came into the room more slowly, a long-suffering look on her 
face. She watched her granddaughter's histrionics with a certain wry 
amusement. "You wouldn't think, would you," she remarked sotto voce,
"that she's only had the thing three weeks? She originally wanted a Gila 
monster, but her mother, I'm happy to say, put her foot down."

"Boswell ... Boswell..." The broken-hearted wail rose and fell. "My poor 
little Boswell." The scene was rather marred by a sudden sidelong glance 
from Clarice to gauge the effect she was having on her audience.

"Is she going into the theatre when she grows up?" Freddie asked with 
interest. "She'd do a smashing Lady Macbeth."

"More of a touch of East Lynne there," Macho observed critically. 
""Dead, dead, and never called me Mother" - you know. The Drama Society 
did it at school one year.

Two small furry faces peeked around a corner and wisely decided to 
withdraw again. The sobbing continued unabated.

"Would she like a glass of water?" Lorinda offered diffidently.
"Fortunately, she's too young for anything else," Rhylla said.

"I, however, am not - and I would appreciate a large measure of the 
strongest liquid you have on hand. Or perhaps Macho would donate one of 
his slugs of tequila."

"That isn't funny!" The colour drained from Macho's face, his eyes 
blazed.

"Well, I'm sorry." Rhylla was taken aback. "I meant Macho, your 
character. I know you wouldn't have the stuff in your house."

"Who told you that?" His face burned with hostility. "You did." Rhylla 
was affronted. "Often."

They glared at each other wordlessly for a moment, while Clarice's sobs 
dwindled to an occasional hiccough as she became distracted by the 
sudden inexplicable animosity between the two adults. Lorinda took 
advantage of her distraction to slide a paper towel over the small 
corpse.

Clarice did not seem to notice. She rose slowly to her feet, seemingly 
absorbed in some new thought. She raised her head and faced her 
grandmother challengingly.

"Now can I have a Gila monster?" she demanded. "Over my dead body!" 
Rhylla snapped.

For an instant, something nasty flashed in the depths of Clarice's eyes. 
If looks could kill, that Gila monster would have been riding on her 
shoulder in the morning.

"Keep looking at me like that, young woman, and you won't get your 
pocket money, either!" Already in a bad mood from Macho's unwarranted 
attack, Rhylla was not prepared to tolerate dumb insolence.

Not for the first time, Lorinda envied the cats. How nice, how
wonderful, how peaceful to be able to melt away at times of strife and 
not reappear until the atmosphere cleared and the world was calm again.

While Clarice seethed, trying to settle on a form of mutiny that would 
not bring reprisals, Macho had recovered his composure. With a 
conspiratorial nod to Lorinda, he slipped behind Clarice, scooped up the 
remains of the late Boswe]l and made an inconspicuous exit through the 
back door, closing it silently behind him.

He need not have bothered. The battle order had changed and Clarice 
moved forward without a backward glance at her erstwhile pet. The threat 
to her pocket money outweighed all lesser considerations.

"I'll tell my mother," she threatened.

"Go right ahead," Rhylla said. "You can also tell her that I now
recognize some of the mistakes I made with her husband and I am not 
about to repeat them with you. The one consolation was that they were 
moving steadily towards the front door. If nothing impeded their 
progress, they would soon be gone.

"Who was it," Freddie murmured, "who said that children keep you young?"

"Someone who never had any!" Rhylla snapped, slamming the door behind 
them.

"All this," Freddie said into the silence, "and Dorian's party tomorrow 
night, too.

"I think I'll go back to London," Lorinda said. As though in protest, 
Had-I and But-Known reappeared. After

a quick, almost disinterested, glance at the empty spot on the kitchen 
linoleum, they cut their losses and followed Lorinda and Freddie into 
the living room where they made it clear that it was time for laps and 
loving. They barely contained their impatience while Lorinda poured 
drinks.

"I don't know," she sighed, as Had-I sprang into her lap and curled up. 
"I suppose Dorian meant well, but I don't think this was one of his 
better ideas."

"Only you could give Dorian credit for meaning well," Freddie said, 
shifting slightly to accommodate But-Known. "I must admit I'm not 
looking forward to this party. I keep remembering what happened at his 
last one."

"At least there won't be a bonfire for anyone to fall into."

"There's always the fireplace." Freddie would not be reassured. "He's 
sure to have a blazing fire in it."

The party went smoothly, however, helped by the fact that Jack Jackley 
was still unable to operate a camera. Unfortunately, he appeared to have 
developed a form of paranoia; he stood with his back against the wall, 
clutching a large drink he had poured from a fresh bottle, insisting on 
breaking the seal himself, and obviously intended nursing through the 
evening lest any other drink offered to him might be noxious.

"Honestly, he makes me sick!" Karla came up to Lorinda and Freddie, eyes 
flashing. "He's so afraid something's going to happen to him. He didn't 
even want to come tonight."

"Well, something did happen to him at the last party," Freddie said. 
"You can see his point."

"If he hadn't been so damned clumsy -" Karla gulped savagely

at her drink. "And then he tries to pretend he's not so stupid by 
claiming someone pushed him! Who'd want to? That's what I asked him - 
and he couldn't answer me. Lorinda and Freddie stared thoughtfully into 
middle distance, no more anxious to answer the question than Jack had 
been, even though they were not in such a vulnerable position for
reprisals.

"Dorian's parties are always so marvellous!" The uncritical voice at 
their elbows made them turn, and quick bright smiles spread across their 
faces. No author was going to dispute an issue with the proprietor of 
the town's only bookshop. Jennifer Lane beamed back at them. "He's 
certainly revitalized this town. He's so full of wonderful ideas!"

They all agreed automatically and with some relief. At least she was 
changing the subject. Not even Karla would continue her complaints in 
front of a third party who was so innocently sure that they were all one 
big happy family.

"Gemma, feeling better?" Lorinda turned her bright social smile on Gemma 
Duquette, who was wandering past, clutching a glass of white wine. "Oh, 
yes, thank you." Gemma joined the group gratefully. "I'm still being 
careful, though." She raised her glass. "This can't hurt me, I'm sure. 
I'd have had orange juice, but I'm afraid it's just that little bit too 
acid for my stomach right now."

"Can't be too careful," Freddie agreed. "You had a nasty do. What was 
it, do you know?"

"I wish I did. Probably some new virus going around." Gemma flinched as 
Betty Alvin appeared beside them with a tray. "Oh, no, I couldn't 
possibly dare!" She regarded the king prawns and spicy dip with horror. 
"It's more than my life's worth. I must be very careful, you know. I'm 
really still convalescent." The others had no such inhibitions and 
rapidly depleted the tray. "I'll get a refill," Betty said reassuringly. 
"There's plenty more out in the kitchen."

Perhaps there was, but the party was low on catering staff, Lorinda 
noticed. Poor Betty and Gordie were doing overtime... again. Betty 
didn't seem to mind, but Gordie appeared vaguely discontented. He 
hovered near Dorian, as though hoping for an introduction to the 
prosperous-looking strangers Dorian was being so attentive to that they 
had to be publishers. Poor Gordie. She wondered just what Dorian had 
promised him when he lured him into moving to Brimful Coffers and acting 
as general factotum, as well as his caretaking duties at Coffers Court.

There were fewer Londoners at this party. Presumably, now that the 
weather was worsening, with freezing conditions and even snow forecast 
for tonight, they preferred not to risk getting stranded in the country. 
They would undoubtedly be back in full force for any parties Dorian gave 
in the summer. There was, of course, a good sprinkling of townspeople.
Plantagenet Sutton, as had become usual, had usurped the bar, leaving 
Dorian free for socializing. Bursts of ostentatiously coarse laughter 
were resounding from another corner where three males from London were 
obviously recounting the latest dirty jokes.

A slight movement at waist level caught Lorinda's eye, and she saw 
Clarice edging closer to the riotous group, anxious to be in on any 
jokes going around. Since everyone had been invited to the party, there 
had been no baby-sitter available and Rhylla had had to bring her along. 
It was more than possible that Rhylla would regret it - especially if 
Clarice picked up any of those jokes. Professor Borley appeared to be in 
a quandary, looking from group to group, nearly overcome by an 
embarrassment of riches. So many authors at his fingertips, as it were. 
It was a hard choice to make; he swerved towards Lorinda's group, then 
detoured in response to something Plantagenet called to him. He went 
over to the bar and they conferred earnestly. Rhylla was trying to be 
nice to Jack Jackley, who did not appear to be appreciating her effort. 
He looked around restlessly and almost smiled.

Rhylla followed his gaze, arriving at the source of his amusement just 
as a further shout of raucous laughter brought a nervous, slightly 
puzzled smile to Clarice's face. Rhylla gasped and swooped across the 
room to snatch a protesting Clarice away from the circle of deeply 
embarrassed men who belatedly became aware of her presence.

"Wha-at?" Freddie's outraged squawk wrenched Lorinda's attention back to 
the group.

"Oh, yes." Jennifer smiled nervously. "Hasn't he mentioned it

to you yet? I believe he's going to announce it tonight. Just
informally, of course. He'll announce it again at a proper launch, with 
full media presence, once we have all the details finalized."

"I'll finalize him!" Freddie muttered.

"Oh, I don't know." Karla had brightened. "It sounds like a really great 
idea to me.

"You're not trying to work," Freddie said. "I beg your pardon!" Karla 
drew herself up huffily. "I am working my butt off. Especially since 
Jack got home. I practically have to feed him half the time. He can't 
even cut his meat, the way his hands are." There was more annoyance than 
sympathy in her voice. It was clear that any help Jack got from his wife
was reluctant and under protest.

Freddie twitched her eyebrows and looked away. "It won't be so bad," 
Jennifer said. "It shouldn't interfere with your work."

"I'm afraid I've missed something here," Lorinda said softly to Freddie. 
"What are we talking about?"

"I thought you were too calm." Freddie did not bother to lower her 
voice. "The crux of the matter is that Dorian is planning to turn 
Brimful Coffers into a sort of Literary Disneyland-Cum-Zoo. With us as 
unpaid employees and captive exhibits."

"Wha-at?" Lorinda found herself echoing Freddie's earlier incredulous 
gasp.

"No, no, nothing of the sort. Freddie exaggerates." Jennifer sent 
Freddie an impatient glance. "Honestly, the schedule won't be intrusive 
and you needn't participate in any of the events unless you want to. 
There'll be the usual signings at the book-shop as your new books are 
published - you'd do that anyway. And giving the occasional talk to 
tours passing through and perhaps joining them for drinks and dinner."

"What tours?" Freddie asked ominously.

"Oh, just fans." Jennifer shied back nervously. "People who really 
admire you and your works. They'll be small tours and only stay in town 
a night or two before going on to take in the usual historical sites and 
have a few days in London ... and meet other authors in other places..." 
She trailed off, perhaps sensing that her audience was not as 
enthusiastic as she was.

"Did she just say what I thought she said?" Unnoticed, Macho had joined 
the group.

"You heard." Freddie was grim.

"Did you just arrive?" Lorinda tried for a more social tone. "I had to 
... settle Roscoe first," Macho said. "Isn't he well?"

"He's fine - and he's going to stay that way." Macho's mouth tightened. 
"What I want to know is what's going on here?"

"We're just finding out ourselves," Lorinda said. "Treachery!" Freddie 
glowered at Jennifer. "Sheer outright treachery. We've been set up!"

"Oh, no, you mustn't think that." Jennifer was sinking under the 
combined weight of their disapproval. "I - I've explained it badly, 
that's all. When Dorian makes his announcement, it will all be much 
clearer. "Dorian.. ." Macho shifted his brooding gaze to their debonair
host, now raising his glass as though in a toast to his companions. "The 
plot thickens."

"Raising the time-honoured question: since when have you lisped?" 
Freddie also turned to glare at Dorian.

"Gad! He'll be running school parties round next!" "No, no, not for 
quite a long time yet, not until we really ... get... going." Jennifer 
faltered to a stop as she realized she was making things worse.

"I promise you -" She tried again. "It won't interfere with your work. 
You can just give them a talk at the library and later their teachers 
will take them on a walk around town. They'll enjoy seeing where all the 
real authors live."

"Maybe they'll enjoy seeing all the FoR SALE signs," Freddie snarled.

"Oh, no! You can't do that! Please!" Jennifer was stricken. "Hilda Saint 
has already taken out a second mortgage to enlarge and refurbish her 
guest house. And I've doubled my inventory in preparation." She was 
close to tears. "I may kill him," Macho said thoughtfully. "You'll have 
to get in line," Freddie snapped. Lorinda found herself too deep in 
gloom to say anything. It was all very well for Freddie to talk glibly 
of selling, but who could bear to go through all that upheaval again? 
Apart from which, who was going to buy? The housing market was currently
deader than the victims in their books. That was why they had been able 
to buy the desirable residences in Brimful Coffers at favourable prices. 
The market might recover in time, but right now there was unlikely to be 
anyone interested in buying.

"I don't know what you're all fussing about," Karla said. "I think it's 
a great idea. You English don't understand about publicity and public 
relations. It's not enough just to write the books any more - you have 
to get out there and sell them!"

"I'm willing to get out there," Freddie said. "I'm just not willing

to allow packs of strangers in here." Karla looked exasperated as the 
others nodded agreement. "You've got to make some concessions," she 
said. "Personally, I'll be delighted to go along with any arrangements 
Jennifer and Dorian care to make. And so will Jack."

"Jack?" Jennifer looked somewhat less than enchanted at this assurance. 
"does he write under his own name?"

"Not yet," Karla said. "He's concentrating on his photography right 
now."

He was concentrating on his drinking, actually. Jack and Plantagenet
were behind the makeshift bar and seemed to have struck up an unholy 
alliance. Sniggering like schoolboys, they were lifting up the less 
popular bottles, scrutinizing the labels carefully and pouring dollops 
into an array of glasses lined up before them. They appeared to be 
trying to invent a new cocktail. The contents of some of the glasses had 
already acquired a lethal colour. Lorinda made a mental note to stick to 
the champagne.

"Attention! Attention!" Dorian suddenly tapped the swizzle stick he 
affected against a bottle, calling them to order. "Attention, everyone!"

The hubbub of conversation died down and faces turned towards him 
expectantly.

"Here it comes," Freddie muttered.

"Some of you -" He frowned in their direction. "Some of you may think 
you already know what I'm going to say. But I think I may yet have a 
surprise in store for you. "Make a change from his books." Macho was 
muttering, too. "Shhh!" Karla hissed and moved away, virtuously 
distancing herself from her unruly companions. She turned her enraptured
gaze on Dorian, ostentatiously giving him her full attention.

"Crawler!" Freddie muttered.

"Shhh!" Gemma moved away to join Karla. Jennifer looked

as though she would like to, but the authors were part of her
stock-in-trade and she was caught in the proverbial cleft stick.

The bottles continued clinking at the bar, an occasional snicker also 
sounded. Jack and Plantagenet were having a wonderful time, perhaps a 
better time than anyone else at the party. Karla flicked a disapproving 
glance in their direction. Jack would undoubtedly hear more about this 
when she got him home.

"Yes, well ... for those of you who are interested -" Dorian dismissed 
them. "And this is of great import to the real authors amongst us

Jack raised his head and glared at Dorian; he considered that working 
with Karla made him an author, too. Gordie Crane flushed a deep red and 
set his tray down on the nearest table with a thud. Plantagenet Sutton 
seemed no less offended; presumably he felt that his two or three 
Christmas-stocking fillers - scarcely more than booklets copiously 
illustrated with whimsical drawings by his newspaper's top cartoonist - 
about wine put him in the "real' author category.

"We have an exciting year ahead of us..." Dorian, happier now that he 
had managed to offend a few guests, went on to announce what they had 
already heard.

Most of them. Rhylla, who had been kept fully occupied with Clarice and 
had not yet plugged into the gossip circuit, straightened abruptly. She 
looked over to Freddie, as though for confirmation, and her mouth 
tightened, her jaw jutted forward.

"But what you may not have heard," Dorian concluded, "is that our 
numbers are about to be swelled by yet another recruit to our happy 
colony. Unfortunately, she can't be here tonight so that I can introduce 
her personally, but she will be with us in the course of the week, 
direct from her triumphal tour of Australia and New Zealand. I know you 
will all be delighted to welcome Ondine van Zeet into our midst."

A bottle crashed to the floor and shattered. Heads turned towards the 
bar, but Jack and Plantagenet were both standing motionless and 
expressionless. It was impossible to tell which of them had dropped the 
bottle. The audience began an automatic round of applause as they
realized Dorian had finished his speech.

"Who?" Unfortunately, Karla's voice could still be heard. "Ondine van 
Zeet." Dorian strolled over to join them. "Otherwise known as the 
Un-woman," he added roguishly, anticipating her response.

"The Un-woman?" Karla walked right into it. "You mean -?" "No, no, 
nothing like that," he assured her. "You must know

of her and her Un-books." He waited and was not disappointed. "Un-books? 
You mean she isn't really an author, either?" "Don't be unfair," Freddie 
said to Dorian. "Ondine was just starting to be published in the States 
when I left. There wasn't the great storm of publicity she gets here 
she's just another author over there. It's not surprising if Karla 
hasn't caught up with her yet.

"Ah, yes," Dorian said. "Ondine is very popular in Britain and the 
Commonwealth, but it sometimes takes the Americans a long time to catch 
up with writers who aren't home-grown. As we all know to our cost."

"But all this Un stuff." Karla frowned. "Even her name "That's Ondine, 
actually. Although the Americans will probably change the spelling - 
they're good at that - so as not to confuse the readers. Keep it all of 
a piece, all Uns together."

"You must have seen some of her titles." Freddie took pity on Karla's 
bewilderment. "Unspilt Blood ... Unloving Thoughts..."

"Undying Enmity," Macho supplied. "Unwitting Accomplice..." Unlit 
Candles.. ." Even Lorinda was able to come up with the titles. 
"Untruths..

"Clever of her," Dorian said. "It's easier to keep up a series with 
titles featuring the same prefix, rather than the same word, as so many 
of them do. Gives her a lot more flexibility." "Terrible woman, 
terrible!" Plantagenet Sutton had come up behind them bearing a tray of 
his experimental cocktails. "Not even a proper crime writer. 
Three-quarters of her books are sloppy heavy-breathing romance. I'm 
surprised at you, Dorian, and not a little disappointed. What were you 
thinking of to allow her into our society?"

"She'll add a certain amount of lustre," Dorian said. "The locals and 
the Colonials will be impressed - and so will the Americans when she 
gets better known over there.

"I agree with Plantagenet." Rhylla had joined them and it was turning 
into an indignation meeting. "We were all settled down quite well and 
now you're bringing in a disruptive personality like her to join us."

"She's not that bad," Dorian placated. "Anyway, you know she spends most 
of her time out of the country. Now that she's trying to break into the 
American market, she'll be here even less. She'll really just use the 
flat as a base of operations."

"What flat?" Freddie asked suspiciously.

"She's taking the last vacant flat in Coffers Court." Dorian smiled 
uneasily as Gordie walked by him with a tray of canapes and a bitter 
glare. "Opposite Professor Borley - he'll be glad to see her move in."

"Hey, this is a party!" Jack interrupted. "We can worry about this dame 
later. Let's all have another drink now and relax and enjoy ourselves. 
Pass them round, Plan."

"Yes, yes." The venomous glare should have told Jack that Plantagenet 
did not like his name being shortened, but Jack was oblivious, intent on 
mischief.

"We have concocted cocktails in honour of your characters, dear 
friends," Plantagenet announced, distributing glasses of strangely 
coloured liquids that might have been the result of some ancient 
alchemist's failed experiments.

"A cider-based creation for our beloved Miss Petunia and her siblings -" 
He extended a glass to Lorinda.

"Thank you." Lorinda took the poisonous yellow substance, smelling of 
sour lemon, with a wan smile and looked around for the nearest potted 
plant.

"And a suitably ghostly concoction -" The next glass went to Freddie. 
How had he managed to get that sickly grey colour? "In homage to our 
dear Wraith."

"Did you say ghastly?" Freddie accepted it absently, her gaze already 
straying towards a nearby poinsettia.

There was a hiss of breath indrawn in wicked anticipation and a telling 
glitter in Jack's eyes as Plantagenet lifted another glass from the tray 
and turned to Macho.

"A really macho drink for' - his tone took on an exquisite irony - "a 
really macho man."

Recognizing mockery, susecting worse in store, Macho kept both hands 
twisted around the glass he already held and stared with hostility at 
the murky green liquid being offered to him.

"Go on," Jack urged, as Plantagenet held out the glass. "We made it just 
for you. We thought we might call it' - he sniggered - "the Tequila 
Torpedo." Macho stared at it in fascinated horror. Something lurked at
the bottom of the glass, rolling lazily when Plantagenet jiggled the 
glass like an impatient nanny forcing medicine upon a reluctant charge. 
Macho's jaw tightened, he quivered as he fought to keep his 
self-control. "You're gonna love it," Jack insisted. "Come on, we want 
to see you guzzle it like good old Macho Magee does: two or three long 
gulps, then crunch, crunch, crunch on the little critter at the bottom. 
"Best part of the drink," he always..."

Macho snatched the glass from Plantagenet's hand and hurled the viscous 
green liquid over both men. Something small and round shot from the 
glass and bounced across the floor to slither under a chair.

"Ooh!" Gasps of astonishment came from the onlookers, while the attacked 
were momentarily too shocked to speak.

"Damn it all, man!" Plantagenet slammed the tray with its remaining 
drinks down on a side table and began dabbing at the sticky green mess 
on his shirt with his handkerchief.

"For God's sake!" Jack used his tie to mop his chin. "It's only

a Brussels sprout! Haven't you got a sense of humour?" "No!" Macho 
shouted, turning and dashing for the door. "No,

I haven't!" The door slammed behind him with a force that rattled the 
glasses.

"You know he doesn't like tequila," Freddie said reproachfully into the 
silence.

9

CHAPTER TWENTY

"How can Lord Soddemall bear to live surrounded by the very water in 
which his dear wife breathed her last?" Marigold shuddered as they 
crossed the drawbridge to Soddemall Castle. "Surely, he ought to have 
drained the moat, if only for a few weeks, to show some proper respect."

"Since he was responsible for her death," Miss Petunia said, "the 
question of the delicacy of his behaviour is beside the point."

"Delicacy?" Lily hooted. "Him? He's moved the parlourmaid into the 
master bedroom and they say she's four months

preggers! Soddemall by name and Soddemall by nature." She gave every 
syllable full value.

"It's pronounced "Small", dear," Marigold corrected. "All the guide 
books say so.

"It will be pronounced "Felon" after we have given our proof of his 
guilt to the Nob Squad from Scotland Yard," Miss Petunia said sternly. 
She raised the heavy iron door knocker and let it fall like the knell of 
doom.

"Don't know why we had to meet them here," Lily grumbled. "A 
confrontation," Marigold said. "At the very place where poor Lady 
Soddemall was discovered afloat in the moat."

"Hello, you're right on time." They had not expected Lord Soddemall 
himself to answer the door. In the background lurked a young woman whose 
apron bulged forward suggestively. "We're all down in the dungeon. Do 
come in and Join us." He turned and pressed a concealed button, a panel 
swung inwards and they followed him through the secret door and down a
narrow stairway. Sure enough, the Nob Squad were all there.

"I trust you have considered my letter." Miss Petunia advanced upon 
Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing. "And the inescapable conclusion to 
be drawn from it?"

"Eh?" Lord Clandancing said abstractedly. He reluctantly withdrew his 
attention from the delicious curve of Lady Briony Fitzmelon's ear as she 
bent to the task of lightly dusting fingerprint powder over the surface 
of an exhibit case. How had he so carelessly allowed her to slip away 
into the uncaring arms of Viscount Unabridged, brilliant pathologist 
though he was? "The conclusion' - Miss Petunia saw no reason to beat 
about the bush - "that Lord Ferdinand Soddemall murdered his wife!"

"No, no! Ferdie is a Lord," Lord Clandancing said. "A Lord," he repeated 
slowly and distinctly. "He could never do such a thing. Not a Lord!"

"Generations of fine breeding are behind Lord Soddemall." Dear Lady 
Briony added her voice to his. "He is above suspicion!"

"Oh, I say," Lord Soddemall bleated. "Thanks, awfully." "Only natural, 
Ferdie," Lord Clandancing said with gentle reproof. "We could never 
suspect you.

"These outsiders just don't understand!" Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn
Monteryn, newest member of the Nob Squad, exclaimed.

They all turned and looked at her. There was an unpleasant silence.

"We ought to be able to sort this out in very short order," Viscount 
Unabridged said. No one quite knew what a pathologist who had already 
performed his allotted tasks was doing on the scene of an ongoing 
investigation. Perhaps the way he was looking at Police Photographer 
Faroness Silvergate might provide a clue to the initiated. It was not so 
long ago that he had saved her life by an emergency tracheotomy after 
some miscreant who objected to being photographed had shoved her zoom 
lens down her throat. He had been unable to get the memory of the 
bubbling gasp of her cut-glass voice and the slow bright welling of 
oxygenated blood from the slit in her throat out of his thoughts ever 
since. Oh, Sylvie...

"We can prove it!" Miss Petunia pulled the sheet of paper containing her 
notes on the case from her handbag and waved it at them, trying to 
distract their attention from each other. "Here now, what's all this?" 
Sergeant Sir Cuthbert detached the paper from her hand and perused it.

"They're trying to frame Lord Soddemall!" Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn 
cried. "How disgraceful!"

"Can't let "em get away with that," Sergeant Sir Cuthbert said. He 
looked to his superiors, but they were otherwise engaged.

"Briony, dearest Lady Briony," Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing
murmured brokenly. "How can I explain? That mad night at Le Caprice with 
Lady Laetitia meant nothing. Nothing..." "Unabridged," Lady Briony 
implored, ignoring Lord Clandancing. "Why did you never claim the last 
dance at the HuntBall.

"Sylvie," Viscount Unabridged whimpered. "I swear I never intended to 
insult your mother. How could I have known whose riding boot was 
thumping into my coccyx...?"

"Sir Cuthbert." Baroness Silvergate turned to him. "Although you rank 
below me, you fascinate me. No permanent alliance is possible, of 
course, but might we come to some temporary.

"Lady Briony.. ." Sergeant Sir Cuthbert's frame quivered with emotion as 
he momentarily broke free of discipline. "I know I am unworthy of an 
Earl's daughter, but my heart is as faithful as any.. ." He did not 
notice that Miss Petunia's piece of paper had slipped from his hand, nor 
that Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn had swooped upon it.

"I say," Lord Soddemall remarked brightly to Miss Petunia and her 
sisters. "Now that you're here, would you like a proper tour of the 
dungeon?" "Oh, yes, let's!" Marigold's eyes danced with excitement. "Oh,
thank you, Lord Soddemall."

"Call me Ferdie," he beamed.

"You two go ahead," Miss Petunia said, watching Sergeant the Hon. 
Jasmyn, who was perusing the paper with the carefully presented case 
against Lord Soddemall set out clearly on it.

The pregnant parlourmaid followed Ferdie, Lily and Marigold, blocking 
them off from Miss Petunia's view.

"All working models..." She could hear Lord Soddemall explaining. 
"Great-grandfather insisted on that when he inherited the title and 
estate and began restoring the Castle. "Must have a working dungeon," he 
said. "Never can tell when it will come in useful." Wise man, 
Great-grandfather..." "This is incredible!" Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn 
gasped. "It almost seems possible!" She lowered the paper and regarded
Miss Petunia earnestly. "Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing must see 
this!"

"Genuine guillotine," Lord Soddemall trumpeted. "Straight from the 
French Revolution. Small provincial model, I'm afraid, but it did the 
work, all the same. We demonstrate it with cabbages...

"Excuse me, sir." Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn approached her superior. "But 
I think this might be important, sir. It sets out all the salient points 
in the case -

"Case? Case?" Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing shifted his gaze from 
the soft beckoning curves of Lady Briony's cheeks, of Lady Briony's - 
dare he think it? - breasts. "What case?" "The case against Ferdie, 
sir."

"Ferdie? There can't possibly be a case against Ferdie. I know you're 
new to the game, Sergeant, but surely you of all people should 
understand that. Ferdie is a Lord!"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn flinched under his 
disapproval.

"Quaint padded kneeling bench ... really quite comfy, I'm told. If you'd 
like to try it..."

"Here!" The Hon. Jasmyn thrust the paper back at Miss Petunia. "Take 
this! It's useless! We need evidence that someone is trying to frame 
Ferdie."

"Some tourists try it... some don't. Superstitious about guillotines, I 
suppose ... Ladies must be allowed their little squeamishnesses...

"I'm no sissy!" Lily declared stoutly. "I'll try it!" "Lily!" Miss 
Petunia started towards her sisters. "Lily, I don't think that's a very 
good ide..."

THUd! A cabbage rolled across the dungeon floor. Only ... it wasn't a 
cabbage ... It was Lily's head.

"Damn!" Lord Soddema]l said. "Old Croakins has overoiled the mechanism 
again. How embarrassing. I say, I'm most terribly sorry."

"Oh, Ferdie, bad luck!" Baroness Silvergate rushed over to console him. 
"You must speak severely to Croakins."

"Quite right." Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing walked over more 
slowly, carefully avoiding getting blood on his hand-made Leather shoes. 
"Accidents happen in the home - and it's carelessness like that that's 
responsible."

"Better call the old quack, I suppose." Lord Soddemall glanced

at Lily's stricken sisters. "I say, don't despair. They do marvellous
things with microsurgery these days."

"Oh, yes, of course." Marigold brightened. "They're always sewing arms 
and legs back on." A faint doubt clouded her eyes. "But ... heads?"

"Umm, well..." Viscount Unabridged would not quite meet her eyes. "We'll 
do our best. You never can tell."

"It was murder!" Miss Petunia said. "Cold-blooded deliberate murder! 
Just as Lady Soddemall's death was murder!"

"Now, now, mustn't talk like that," Sergeant Sir Cuthhert frowned. 
"That's slander - and a very serious offence. I expect His Lordship will 
make allowances as you're upset, but you mustn't repeat the offence."

"Of course," Lord Soddemall said magnanimously. "Heat of the moment and 
all that, what? Why don't we ask Floribel to trot off and make you a 
nice cup of tea? You'll feel better then." He patted the parlourmaid's 
rump as she moved off obligingly.

"Lovely girl, Ferdie," Lord Clandancing said. "Isn't there something
familiar about her?"

"Ah, you noticed? She's Lord Dingdelling's youngest daughter

- on the wrong side of the blanket, but breeding will out. I'm

planning to make her Lady Soddemall next week. Hope you don't think 
that's too soon but, you see, we want the heir to be born in proper 
wedlock." "Ferdie! How marvellous!" ... "Well done, old man!" ... They
clustered around him, babbling congratulation. "You did say heir?"

"It's a boy." Ferdie blushed becomingly. "Floribel had a scan.

A son and heir. The future Lord Soddemall." So that was it! The motive 
for the disposal of the first Lady Soddemall, a woman who had borne no 
child, no heir. Miss Petunia's eyes narrowed. She looked at Marigold to 
make sure she had grasped the significance of what had just been 
revealed.

"Oh, Pet!" Marigold's eyes were misty. "Isn't it romantic?" "Don't drink 
the tea!" Miss Petunia whispered urgently as Floribel flounced back into 
the dungeon bearing a laden tray.

"Oh, but, Pet, that would be rude," Marigold said. "And after the future 
Lady Soddemall has gone to so much trouble."

Floribel set the tray down on an exhibit case and turned to blow a kiss 
to Ferdie. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them as she did 
so.

"Poor you." She turned to Marigold. "I must say, you're looking

a bit ragged. Would you like to freshen up?" "Oh!" Marigold's hands flew 
up to hide her burning face. Did she look so terrible that everyone had 
noticed. "Yes, I would."

"You wait here, Marigold," Miss Petunia ordered. "I must speak

to Lord Clandancing - and then I'll go with you." "No need to wait," 
Floribel said easily. "There's only room for one at a time in there 
anyway. You reach it through the Iron Maiden - there's a hinged door on 
the other side. Here, I'll show you. Just step inside..."

"Marigold!" Miss Petunia said warningly, spinning around just

in time to see her sister step into the Iron Maiden. "Oh, it's so dark 
in here!" Marigold gasped. "I hate to seem stupid, but I'm afraid I 
can't seem to find the catch

"Keep looking," Floribel said encouragingly. "It's right under your 
fingers.

Slowly, inexorably, the spiked door began to close. "But where? I can't 
see ... And it's getting darker ... Eeek!" "Marigold!" Miss Petunia 
tried to dash to her sister's side but, just as she passed Lord 
Soddemall, her feet went out from under her. He caught her as she fell 
and held her tightly. "Easy does it. We don't want anything to happen to 
you. "Let me go!" Miss Petunia struggled with him. "Help! Oh, help! 
Something's wrong with the mechanism!" Floribel clawed at the lid of the 
Iron Maiden, but seemed only to be hastening its closure, rather than 
preventing it. "EEEeeeeaaarrr,ah

"Sergeant!" Lord Clandancing ordered. "Do something!" Since

he hadn't specified which sergeant, they both reached the Iron Maiden 
just as the lid rammed home with a decisive thud.

Marigold stopped screaming.

"Good Lord!" Viscount Unabridged said. "It's just not your day, Ferdie!"

"Oh, dear!" Floribel burst into tears. "I couldn't stop it!" "Mustn't 
blame yourself, darling." Lord Soddemall dropped Miss Petunia and raced 
to his beloved's side. "These things happen."

"They happen rather often, it seems, in Soddemall Castle." Miss Petunia 
spoke through stiff lips.

"You're right." Lord Soddemall frowned. "I shall have to discipline
Croakins. He's been much too free with the oiling can. Lucky this didn't 
happen on a day when the public are allowed in."

"Croakins! That's it!" Lady Briony's eyes flared with inspiration. "He's 
the one who's been trying to frame you, Ferdie!"

"I believe you're right." Viscount Unabridged nodded. "Over-oiling the 
mechanisms like that. He wanted accidents to happen - so that Ferdie 
would be blamed." "And he killed Lady Soddemall!" Lady Briony could see 
it all now. "For years he had cherished a mad secret passion for her, as 
these peasants must when living in close proximity to the grace and 
breeding of their betters. At last, he could contain himself no longer. 
He followed her when she went for her nightly stroll around the 
battlements, declared himself and - and perhaps even dared to try to 
kiss her! And when she so rightly repulsed him - he threw her from the 
parapet to her death in the moat below."

"That's the solution!" Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing agreed. 
"Good work, Lady Briony! He won't escape us now. Ring for Croakins, 
Ferdie. We'll confront him with his villainy!"

"No, no," Miss Petunia protested. "You've got it all wrong. The true 
perpetrator of these hideous crimes is Lord Soddemall. Aided and abetted 
by his ... his paramour!"

"Pardon me for a moment, Lady Briony," Lord Clandancing said tenderly. 
"I must reason with this poor deluded creature.

"Noblesse oblige!" Lady Briony's eyes shone. "Don't be too hard on her, 
my dear. These people don't know any better."

"But," Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn said, "she has collected some evid.. ." 
She faltered to a halt as they all turned and glared at her.

"What do you know about it?" Lady Briony demanded. "You're the newest 
member of the team. You're here on sufferance, really."

"And off to a bad start," Lord Clandancing frowned. "I've been meaning 
to have a word with you about it. You aren't really entitled to call 
yourself an Honourable, you know. You're only the daughter of a Life 
Peer."

"Oh!" Sergeant Jasmyn was cut to the quick. "How can you?" She pressed 
her hand to her heart and paled.

"I say." Lord Soddemall was at Miss Petunia's side again. "You're 
looking a bit peaky. Have a cup of tea."

"Good thinking, Ferdie," Baroness Silvergate said. "We could

all do with a cup of tea." "Not you," Ferdie said quickly. "Thought I'd 
break out the Napoleon brandy and champagne for us. A cup of tea will do
the old dear nicely, then I'll have Croakins see her home. Get one last 
job out of him before he knows we've rumbled him."

"Good-oh!" Viscount Unabridged said happily. "I could do with

a drop of the old Napoleon." "Come upstairs," Floribel said. "We'll be 
so much more comfortable." She wrinkled her nose at the rivulets of 
blood on the floor. "It's getting rather untidy down here."

"That's right, my love," Lord Soddemall said. "Take our friends
upstairs. I'll join you as soon as I've given this woman her tea."

"No!" Miss Petunia tried to push away the hand bearing the cup to her 
lips. "Not the tea!"

The cup crashed against her clenched teeth, the liquid spil]ed into her 
mouth and cascaded down her chin. She fought in vain against swallowing 
as the tide of tannin swept down her throat.

"Help!" Miss Petunia gurgled feebly. "Help!" "My instincts are as fine 
as any of yours!" Jasmyn insisted as they filed from the dungeon. "I 
have even refused a man who dared offer me only mere wealth. "Marry you, 
a stockbroker?" I told him. "I may only be the daughter of a Life Peer, 
but I have some standards!"..."

"Help..." "Help..."

"Oh, well said!" Baroness Siivergate applauded. "We may make something 
of you yet. A suitable marriage ... A younger son, of course...
"Help..." Miss Petunia could barely whisper now. "Oh, thanks awfully,"  
Jasmyn said gratefully. She was the last

to follow the others up the stairs, as befitted her lowly rank. "Help.. 
." The cry was barely audible, but there was only Lord Soddemall to hear 
her. Miss Petunia felt herself being lowered to the floor. The voices in 
the distance faded. There was no help from that quarter ... if, indeed, 
there ever had been.

This was.

T

h

e

E

n

d

"Take that!" Lorinda said to the figments of her imagination, rolling 
the page out of her typewriter. Then, nervously, almost superstitiously, 
she hesitated and looked upwards. Just in case a thunderbolt was on its 
way. She was getting to be a bundle of nerves. Not as bad as Macho,
perhaps, as witness his performance the other night. Since then, he had 
been incommunicado, shutting himself away in his house, refusing to 
answer the doorbell or telephone. Even Roscoe hadn't been out and 
around.

For that matter, they had all pretty much kept themselves to themselves 
over the past few days. It was as though the party had drained away all 
the holiday spirit they might have had. Not a great deal, in any case.

Perhaps Dorian had had the right idea: escape to some foreign, warmer 
clime and leave the rest of the world behind. An airline limo had 
collected him shortly before the break of dawn this morning and he would 
be flown to some Caribbean port to connect with a cruise ship and spend 
the next fourteen days lazing in the sun.

On second thoughts, she was not so sure she would like it. While Dorian 
might escape the festivities ashore, he would be a captive audience for 
all the enforced holiday caperings aboard ship. The Christmas tree and 
crackers, paper hats and turkey dinner, games and merrymaking with 
strangers. In fact, it was most unlike Dorian to let himself in for such 
a series of events. He would have done better to shut himself away, like 
Macho, and let the holidays roll by without him. There also had to be 
the dark suspicion that, having gathered his friends and colleagues
around him, Dorian was finding anything preferable to their company.

Tap-tap. .. tap-tap. .. A light clatter downstairs caught her attention. 
Not the catflap, a sharper more definite sound. What on earth? She rose 
to her feet and went downstairs. The noise was coming from the other 
side of the front door. Not exactly someone knocking but ... tap-tap ... 
tap-tap ... something was going on. She turned the knob and swung open
the door.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you." Gordie stood there,

a hammer upraised in his hand. "It's supposed to be a surprise. Season's 
Greetings to you and the Pettifogg Sisters from Dorian and Field Marshal 
Sir Oliver Aldershot."

An enormous Christmas wreath swung crookedly on the door. Pine branches 
twisted into a circle, dotted with silver-painted pine cones, red holly 
berries, plaited with red and silver ribbons, deliciously fragrant, 
but...

"How ... kind of them," Lorinda said coldly. She had not planned to have 
a wreath this year - or any year. She had learned her lesson about 
wreaths. The cats considered a wreath a cross between a personal 
challenge and a mini-gymnasium. They leaped for it, swung on it, dragged 
it to the ground and tore it apart, trying to eat the berries and 
playing knock-them- down-the-steps-and-chase-them with the pine cones.

"Dorian wanted everybody to feel that he was here with them

in spirit," Gordie said. Behind him, a wheelbarrow was heaped high with 
wreaths. She was evidently the first stop on his rounds.

"Yes, well.. ." tap-tap. .. tap-tap... "I'll just finish up here and

be on my way. Unless there's anything else you'd like me to do," he 
added politely.

Lorinda watched in silence, shivering in the cold, as he finished 
securing the wreath to the front door. It was a good effort, but her 
money was on the cats.

"There!" He stepped back, admiring his handiwork since she obviously 
wasn't going to. Her silence seemed to unnerve him, as his expectant 
attitude always unnerved her. He seemed always to be waiting for pearls 
of wisdom to drop from her mouth, giving him the secret of being a 
successful writer. He did it with the others, too, she knew. It left 
them all feeling rather inadequate and unwilling to socialize with him 
as much as they might have otherwise. "Well." He gave a disappointed 
sigh. No secrets this time. "I'll get on to the next place then. It will 
look really nice when they're all up. Like a Christmas-card village."

"Yes," Lorinda said. "I can't wait to see what Dorian is going

to do with us in the summer. Presumably, he intends to enter us in the 
Prettiest Village in England Competition." "Er, I wouldn't know about 
that." Gordie slipped his hammer into a loop in his belt and returned to 
his wheelbarrow, tilted it up and trundled it off the premises. Lorinda 
gazed at the wreath thoughtfully, but decided to let Nature red in tooth 
and claw take its course. What a shame Dorian wouldn't be here to see 
what happened to his wreath. Perhaps Jack could take a picture of it.

She closed the door, chilled to the bone and not in a very good mood. 
She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Where were the cats? It 
was nearly lunch time and they were usually underfoot and nagging by 
this hour. She opened the refrigerator door, a sound guaranteed to bring 
them running if they were within earshot. Nothing happened.

She took a carton of fish chowder out of the freezer; that would do for 
all of them, and flipped on the radio for the midday news report. It was 
reassuring to discover that nothing of any great importance was 
happening anywhere in the world.

Flip-flop. flip-flop... Those were the sounds she had been waiting for. 
She turned to see Had-I and But-Known advance into the kitchen and head 
straight for her with little mewls of greeting.

"Just in time," she said. "Soup's on."

Had-I lifted her nose, inhaled deeply and expressed loud approval. 
But-Known's response was equally enthusiastic, but muffled, her mouth 
was already full.

"Oh, no! What have you got there?" Lorinda crouched down

to investigate. "Come on, let me see. But-Known backed away skittishly, 
ready for a game, but too proud of her prize to keep it up for long. She 
advanced again and allowed herself to be captured.

"Clever girl, let me see." Lorinda reached for it without fear.

In hunting matters, But-Known was a conscientious objector. Had-I was 
the one you had to watch. In any case, the worst was over; they had 
bagged Clarice's white rat. What further terrors could their scavenging 
hold?

"Macho's hair ribbon!" Whoops, how he would hate to hear

it described like that. She wondered absently just what he called it. 
But the narrow black ribbon he tied back his ponytail with was 
definitely a hair ribbon.

It was also cold and soaking wet. How long had they been playing with it 
before they brought it home? Lorinda examined it suspiciously for 
teethmarks. No, no telltale little pinpoint holes, no ravelled threads. 
She could drape it over a chairback to dry and return it to Macho 
without too many apologies. "Where did you get this?" she asked in mock 
reproof. "Did Macho lose it?" That would mean he had left his 
self-imposed imprisonment and was moving about the village again.

"Or.. ." Another thought occurred to her. "Have you been in visiting 
Roscoe and decided to do a bit of pilfering while you were there?" That 
was quite possible. They had been missing Roscoe lately, he usually came 
over to play with them every day. It was quite typical of them to go out 
to find him. Macho, of course, would have had no objection to opening 
the door to them, whatever he was feeling about his human acquaintances
these days.

But-Known purred and rubbed against her ankles. Had-I made a sharp 
remark and looked pointedly at the saucepan simmering on the electric 
coil and sending out delicious aromas.

"Quite right. I'm hungry, too. We can sort this out later." Cheered on 
by the cats, she dished out the fish chowder.

They were just finishing it when there was a clatter at the back door. 
Macho slithered into the room just as Lorinda called out, "Come in." He 
clutched Roscoe in his arms and nudged the door closed with his foot, 
looking over his shoulder.

"You should never leave a door unlocked like that," he said
ungratefully. "It isn't safe."

"It's perfectly safe." She didn't want to admit that she hadn't noticed 
the door was unlocked. Macho was nervous enough. "What's the matter with 
you?"

"Matter? I'll tell you what's the matter! Someone's hung a wreath on my 
door! I'm not dead yet." Roscoe gave a protesting yowl as the arms 
around him tightened uncomfortably. "He hasn't got me yet!"

"Macho, it's a Christmas wreath. We've all got them. A little present 
from Dorian." The import of his words hit her belatedly. "Who hasn't got 
you yet?"

"Aaarrreeoow..." Roscoe had had enough; he twisted from Macho's grip and 
dropped to the floor, immediately heading for the corner where Had-I and 
But-Known were hunched over their bowls. He made the mistake of trying 
to thrust his nose into Had-I's bowl and got a sharp clip across the 
ear. But-Known growled a warning and a brisk skirmish ensued. They 
didn't mind sharing the dry cat food with him, but luscious creamy fish 
chowder was something else again.

Macho recaptured Roscoe and murmured soothingly to him. They both 
sniffed the air wistfully.

"Have you had lunch?" Lorinda asked. Or even breakfast, she wondered. 
Macho was looking more haggard and unhappy than when she had last seen 
him.

"Er, no," he admitted. "I was going to, but I was distracted by the 
knocking at the front door. By the time I got there, I found the wreath 
hanging there and no one in sight. I got Roscoe and came over here to 
... to.. ." He seemed to have forgotten just why he had come.

"Sit down," Lorinda said. "I'll heat some more chowder, there's plenty 
in the freezer." And, after Macho had eaten and was more relaxed, 
perhaps he might be willing to tell her why he was so upset.

Roscoe stretched forward to sniff at the bowl Lorinda placed before 
Macho and drew back with an injured look at discovering that it was 
empty.

"Don't worry," she told him. "It will be ready soon." She placed an 
empty bowl for him on the floor. Had-I and But-Known promptly roamed 
over to check it. "You can have some more, too, if you like," she told 
them. "There's plenty for everybody."

The cats protested as she served Macho first, then settled down 
impatiently over their bowls waiting for the chowder to cool enough to 
eat. They probably envied Macho's ability to blow on each spoonful 
before ingesting it.

"By the way..." Lorinda lifted the black ribbon from the back

of Macho's chair and laid it beside his bowl. "I'm afraid But-Known owes 
you an apology.

"Little devil's been at it again, has she?" Macho said indulgently, his 
mood improving with every spoonful. He picked up the ribbon, then 
frowned.

"No apology due," he said. "That's not one of mine. I don't have any 
with silver threads running through them. Bit too excessive."

"Then where -? Oh, no!" She turned to But-Known in dismay. "You didn't 
nick it from Plantagenet Sutton!"

"There goes a good review on your next book." Macho was positively 
cheerful now.

"On the next five books," Lorinda said dolefully. "He doesn't like cats, 
anyway. Or dogs. Or children - although he may have a point where 
Clarice is concerned." Macho brooded for a moment. "Maybe he hasn't 
noticed it's missing. For God's sake, never admit the cat took it. If 
you take it back to Coffers Court and drop it just inside the door, he 
may think it fell off." "It must have fallen off," Lorinda said 
uneasily. "Otherwise, how would But-Known have got it?"

They looked at the cats, who had finished their chowder and were slumped 
together in a contented heap, replete and purring. Roscoe, eyes closed 
and with an expression of bliss, was being groomed by Had-I, with 
But-Known nestled under one forearm, already asleep.

"I'm sure he thinks your girls are his personal harem." Macho was 
bemused and perhaps a trifle envious. "And sometimes they act as though 
they think so, too."

"He's certainly sweet-natured. He doesn't even mind when they bully and 
tease him." Lorinda suddenly noticed that they had slipped into a 
variation on the theme of how well the cats got along together, the 
argument Macho had put to her when asking her to take over Roscoe - if 
anything happened to him. Had this anything to do with the way Macho 
kept looking over his shoulder, and the curious remark, "He hasn't got 
me ... yet," he made as he came through the door?

"Macho -" she began.

A sudden disturbing sound erupted into the silence. Distant,

at first, but rapidly approaching, a siren warning everyone out of its 
way. Urgent, demanding... ominous - and all too familiar these days.

"Ambulance!" Macho was on his feet. "No!" So was Lorinda. "Now what?"

They rushed to the living room windows. Behind them, the cats were all 
asleep now, undisturbed by the wailing siren. Not an ear twitched, not a 
whisker stirred. It had nothing to do with them.

Lorinda pulled the curtains back just as the ambulance roared past and 
turned at the corner leading up to the Manor House. Another burst of 
sound heralded its approach. She had heard once that the paramedics 
sometimes turned on the siren from some distance away, just to reassure 
the injured that help was on its way.

"Dorian!" she gasped. "He must have had an accident!" He should have 
been in mid-flight now - unless something had happened to him. If the 
airport limousine had called at the door and no one responded to the 
bell, they would probably have gone away again, cursing, but assuming 
some friend had volunteered to drive the passenger to the airport and no 
one had thought to cancel them.

"Get your coat!" Macho was already heading for the door. "Come on!"

The blast of cold air struck her like a blow in the face as she stepped 
outside. Frost dusted the trees and bushes; they might have a white 
Christmas in store but, right now, it was too cold to snow. She pulled 
her coat more tightly around her and they joined the straggle of people 
who had suddenly appeared from nowhere and were following in the wake of 
the ambulance.

"What the hell is happening now?" Jack came up behind them, pulling on 
his gloves. Karla was beside him, pale and speechless as she stared at 
the braking ambulance. "Dorian," she whispered. There was a deafening 
moment as a police car swept past them, siren blaring, after which no 
one spoke, they just walked faster. Nearly running, they reached the 
gate to the grounds of the Manor House where the two vehicles had pulled 
to a halt.

Doors slammed and uniformed people began piling out and along the grey 
stone wall to the gate. Gemma Duquette stood by the wrought-iron gate, 
dabbing at her face with a crumpled tissue. The dogs, strangely subdued, 
were sitting at her feet, but began to bark as the strangers ran past 
them.

"Gemma!" Betty Alvin dashed ahead of the others. "Are you

all right?" "I ... I found him," Gemma choked. "Rather, the dogs did. I
... I was walking them and ... they began pulling at their leads ... 
they wanted to come in here. They must have known She broke off and 
wielded the tissue again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorinda saw Freddie slip past and through 
the gate. She followed quietly while the others were waiting for Gemma 
to resume her story.

At first, all she saw was legs: the legs lying flat on the ground,
surrounded by the columns of other legs, upright legs, belonging to the 
emergency services rallying around him. Too late. He had been lying 
there a long time, probably all night. The frost outlined his form. A 
killing frost, literally. He would not get up - aided or unaided - and 
walk away.

Some of the legs moved aside as the paramedics shifted to crouch by the 
body. For a moment, there was a clear view.

He could have been sleeping, except that he looked far more dishevelled 
than one could have imagined him in lif. His Barbour jacket was awry, 
his tie askew and long untidy strands of limp grey hair straggled around 
his neck and spread out wildly behind his head.

"He -? He's dead?" Freddie wanted to be told it was all a mistake, that 
things weren't the way they looked, that the paramedics could load him 
into the ambulance, rush him off to the hospital and he would be 
bellowing for better service and claret in no time.

"I'm afraid so." Lorinda felt numb and it was not just from the cold. It 
was all very well to write glibly about the discovery of bodies, state 
of the corpse, and sundry matters, but it was quite another thing when 
the corpse was someone you knew personally.

"I wonder if he got his last column in." Freddie was recovering. "And 
who they'll get to replace him?"

Lorinda shook her head weakly. These were questions she could not deal 
with at the moment. She stared at the grey locks, rimed with frost and 
straggling out over the sered grass.

Had But-Known raked them out like that as she clawed her ribbon trophy 
from his ponytail?

"It's Plantagenet Sutton, isn't it?" Betty Alvin had come up behind 
them. "I knew I shouldn't have left him there." Her voice rose, wavering 
out of control. "I should have waited and walked him back to Coffers 
Court, no matter what Dorian said. He was in no condition to be left on 
his own." "You knew the deceased?" She had attracted the attention of
the police. One of them detached himself from the group around the body 
and came over to them. "Are you the person who made the telephone call 
to us?"

"No." Betty quailed under his frown. "No, that was Gemma. The lady with 
the dogs. She was walking them when she discovered

"Then perhaps you'll be good enough to clear the area." He lost interest 
in her. "All of you. Leave your names and addresses with the constable 
and we'll be around to talk to you later." He waited patiently, 
expressionless, obviously determined to see them off the scene.

They turned reluctantly and walked back through the gateposts to join 
the others on the pavement outside.

"Is he really dead?" Jack asked, earning an indignant look from Gemma, 
who had already told him so. "What happened?"

"Doornail," Freddie confirmed. "Don't know. There wasn't a mark on him. 
Not," she qualified cautiously, "that I could see.

"Yeah? Well, whatever happened to him, there'll be a lot of dancing in 
the streets when the word gets round."

"Jack!" Karla's protest was automatic; she looked anxiously at the 
others to see how they were taking his remark.

"I thought you got along very well with him," Macho said. "Hey, listen, 
I liked him OK. Don't get the wrong idea. But that Brussels sprout was 
his idea, you know." Jack paused thoughtfully. "You know, down deep, he 
had a lot of hostility towards you people."

"And vice versa," someone muttered, too low and too quickly

to be identified. "I don't think it's smart to make cracks like that 
with all these cops around," Karla said. "We don't know what happened to
him yet - and he wasn't the most popular guy around."

"Now who's making stupid remarks?" Jack looked over her shoulder at an 
approaching constable. "Considering the kind of books you people write, 
the last word in the world any of you should hint at is you-know-what. 
Oh, hello, Officer-" He gave a bright, nervous smile. "We aren't 
blocking the way, are we?"

"Good afternoon, sir." The words were unexceptional, the tone said, 
clear off, you lot. "Madam." He turned to Gemma, glancing down at the 
dogs, who were beginning to stir restively again. "I understand you 
reported this, er, incident?" "That's right," Gemma said. "We ... the 
dogs and I... found the-Found him."

Betty Alvin suddenly began to weep quietly. "Perhaps we could speak to 
the rest of you later." The constable was young enough to be 
uncomfortable. "If any of you have any relevant information, that is." 
His tone showed that he doubted it. They were just another crowd of 
bystanders trying to pretend they weren't just being nosy. "Come on." 
Impulsively, Karla threw an arm around Betty's shoulders. "Let's go back 
to my place and have coffee. All of you, she added. "I baked cookies 
yesterday; wasn't that lucky?"

"Honey," Jack protested in a warning tone. "I'm not sure we have enough 
cups.

"Then Freddie will help out, won't you, Freddie?"

"Sure," Freddie agreed promptly, a gleam in her eye. "No problem at all. 
What are neighbours for?"

"Gemma -" Karla called as they began walking away. "You come and join us 
when they've finished with you."

"Gemma -" Lorinda hung back. "Would you like me to take the dogs? You 
can collect them at Karla's."

"Oh, would you?" Gemma handed over the leashes gratefully. "They've had 
their walk. I don't want them to stay outside too long, they might catch 
a chill."

The dogs frisking in front of her, Lorinda did not catch up with the 
others until they reached the house.

"How charming," she said, looking around as Jack tethered the pugs to 
the banister and took her coat.

"Karla likes it." He shrugged. "But I feel like I'm drowning in chintz. 
No, I mean it," he answered her smile. "Some nights I really dream I'm 
sinking down through waves of chintz, past chintz rocks into a deep 
undersea cavern all swathed in chintz. I wake up choking and trying to 
breathe." "How uncomfortable." Lorinda had chintz curtains herself;
there wasn't much she could say. "Would you prefer leather?"

"What do you mean by that crack?" He glared at her suspiciously.

"Mean?" She raised an eyebrow and stared him down. "What could I mean?"

"Sorry," he muttered. "My nerves are shot to hell these days. Accidents 
all over the place - and then people dropping dead. I wish we'd never 
come here." Lorinda was spared trying to answer that by a kicking at the
base of the front door. Jack opened it to find Freddie, laden with a 
tray full of mugs, cups, saucers and glasses.

"You've got enough to supply an army there," he said. "Just wait," 
Freddie predicted. "We'll use them all." "Wait! Hold it!" Footsteps 
pounded down the path as Jack started to shut the door. Professor Borley 
appeared in the doorway. "What's going on?"

"You see?" Freddie said meaningly, carrying her tray through into the 
kitchen.

Jack took a quick nervous look around outside before stepping back 
smartly and almost slamming the door shut.

"I was working," Professor Borley explained earnestly to Lorinda, "so I 
was only vaguely aware of all the commotion. By "What did the police 
say?" Karla edged forward. "What happened to him? Was it his heart?"

"Heart? What heart?" Gemma stared at her, bewildered. "Well said," Macho 
applauded.

"Hey, come on, now," Jack protested. "Nil-boni-whatever-it-is. The guy's 
dead, after all."

"And not before time," Macho said. "It's easy for you to talk, you only 
met him socially. You were never reviewed by him."

"My books haven't been published in this country," Karla snapped. The 
vagaries of international publishing were always a delicate subject, as 
was the fact that Jack had not actually written any books himself. "They 
said no one would be interested in a couple of young American 
backpackers. They didn't think it would work, even if I turned them into 
Australians." She brooded quietly. "Not that I'd do that. There are so 
many differences -

"Oh!" Betty gave a choked sob. "How can-?" She broke off abruptly, but 
it wasn't hard to guess what she nearly said before recalling herself. 
Lorinda supposed that their preoccupation with their own characters and 
work must sound like untrammelled ego to other people.

"Take it easy. Here -" Jack thrust a glass into Betty's hand. "Drink up 
and you'll feel better."

"I think I need a drink more than she does." Gemma spoke with some 
asperity. "I was the one who found him, you know. And the police have 
been questioning me."

"Coming right up." Jack poured with a lavish hand, perhaps because he 
had some questions of his own. "What did you tell them? I mean, what did 
they tell you? Do they know what happened? Will they have an inquest? An 
autopsy?" He looked suddenly queasy and turned away to pour and gulp at 
a large drink for himself before serving anyone else.

They all knew too much about the inner workings of a police
investigation, Lorinda recognized sadly. It did not make for comfortable 
conversation or thoughts when those workings were being applied to 
someone they had actually known.

"They ... they think he was there all night," Gemma said slowly. Her 
reluctance was obviously because she did not wish to think about it 
herself, not because she was hesitant to share the information with 
them. "He... he would have died of hypothermia. Exposure, we used to 
call it. It was the coldest night of the year so far." "I knew it! I 
knew it!" Betty began sobbing uncontrollably again. "i shouldn't have 
left him! I shouldn't!"

"There, there." Professor Borley patted her shoulder ineffectually, but 
she broke away from him and hurled herself into a corner of the sofa, 
wailing incoherently.

"Pull yourself together!" Freddie had dealt with hysterics before, as 
evinced by the expert way she yanked Betty upright and shook her. "You 
are not responsible. You didn't go off and leave him lying on the 
ground, did you?"

"Of course not!" Betty was shocked into indignation. "I'd never

do a thing like that!" "Then where did you leave him?" Lorinda had the 
feeling that she already knew the answer.

"With Dorian." Betty hiccoughed and dabbed at her eyes. "I - I'd been up 
there helping him pack..." She'd been doing all the work, she meant. It 
was par for the course with Dorian; he'd use his part-time secretary as 
valet, waitress, chief cook and bottle-washer and anything else he
happened to be in need of. The thought caught Lorinda unawares. Anything 
else? She blinked and looked at Betty with a sudden question in her 
mind. "Mr Sutton ... Plantagenet... had come up to say Bon voyage

to Dorian and... and he'd brought a bottle of champagne with him. They 
... he... gave me a glass," she said defiantly, "while I was packing. We 
all drank the champagne - but it wasn't the first drink Plantagenet had 
had that night, I could tell." She sipped at her own drink again, as 
heads nodded in agreement.

"Then ... then the packing was finished. Except for the last-minute bits 
- toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, you know - to be tossed in in the 
morning... and I was ready to leave. I expected Plantagenet to come with 
me - we were both going back to Coffers Court and Dorian had to get up 
at the crack of dawn, but...but..."

"But you left alone." Lorinda had done her best to sound sympathetic, 
but Betty was looking for criticism.

"I did suggest ... but I couldn't insist. And ... and Dorian said he had 
this special bottle he wanted Plantagenet to sample ... but that I 
didn't have the taste buds to appreciate it. And... and... he'd ring me 
in the morning to come up for last-minute instructions and ... and to 
finish his packing. I knew they ... he... didn't want me around any more 
... in case they had to be polite and share their precious bottle with 
me. Well.. ." For an instant, something indescribably ugly flashed in 
her face. "It didn't do them any good, did it?"

She had been used and coldly dismissed until she was needed again. How 
typical of Dorian. And ... how unfortunate for Plantagenet Sutton.

"But I should have waited outside

"Don't be silly, you'd have caught pneumonia," Freddie said sensibly. 
"They could have lingered over that bottle for a couple of hours - and 
there was no guarantee that they wouldn't have opened another one. There 
was nothing you could have done."

"But - but that wasn't the worst," Betty wailed. "When I got home, I - I 
unplugged my telephone. So that Dorian couldn't call me at the crack of 
dawn."

"Good for you!" Karla said.

"I was going to tell him the phone was out of order. But, don't you see? 
If I'd gone up to do all those last-minute things, I'd have found 
Plantagenet hours earlier than he was found. I - I might have been in 
time to save him." "No, you wouldn't." Freddie was still being sensible. 
"A couple

of hours on that frozen ground would have been enough to finish him in 
last night's weather."

"Sure. Once he hit the ground and didn't get up right away,

he didn't have a chance." Jack quietly topped up Betty's glass. "And now 
Dorian will find out." Betty's real terror spilled over. "Dorian will 
know I did it deliberately. Unplugged the phone because I didn't want 
him to bother me. He - he'll sack me. I'll lose my job."

"So what?" Jack was puzzled. "He's not the only one paying you around 
here. The rest of us will still need you - and your hours will be a 
helluva lot better."

"But I'll lose my little home, too. I won't be able to stay in Coffers 
Court. It - it's a sort of a tied cottage." She began to cry again. "Oh, 
I wish I'd never done it! But I was so tired ... exhausted... I'd had 
all I could take. I couldn't stand even one morning more...

"Don't worry," Freddie said grimly. "You'll stay in Coffers Court. The 
rest of us will see to that."

"Anyway, Dorian will never know if you don't admit it," Macho pointed 
out. "There's no need for you to tell all these details to the police. 
All that's relevant is that you finished your job and left. Plantagenet 
wanted to stay and keep on drinking. It isn't as if you arrived together 
in the first place. You couldn't be expected to leave together." "Will 
the police make Dorian come back, though? He'll be furious. And -" Betty 
would not be comforted. "And he'll take it out on us ... on me. "I doubt 
that the police will have any inquiries that can't be handled by a 
telephone call," Lorinda said. "Given the circumstances, the verdict is 
sure to be "Misadventure"."

"That's right," Freddie agreed. "Once they get a reading on the alcohol 
level in his blood, the only mystery will be how he managed to stagger 
as far as he did."

 10

CHAPTER TWENTY

"I fear that my patience is becoming exhausted." Miss Petunia aimed the 
spray gun at the greenfly on the roses and wielded it violently. "You, 
Petunia?" Lily was incredulous. "But you're the one with all the 
patience. Got none myself, I know. And Marigold is too impetuous for her 
own good. You got the patience for all three of us. And the brains," she 
acknowledged humbly. "You can't run out of patience, it's practically 
your middle name.

"Perhaps - but I can be pushed too far. I have warned that woman!" ... 
squirt ... "I have given her every chance." ... squirt... "I have bent 
over backwards-" ... squirt...

"Oh, do be careful, Petunia." Marigold turned worried blue eyes on her 
eldest sister. "You're going to wrench that spray gun apart.

"I'll wrench her apart!"

"Petunia!" Marigold was scandalized.

"Action," Lily agreed. "That's what we need. Been rusticating too long. 
Nothing to get our teeth into. No action except for- She broke off and 
frowned, not wanting to admit the action they had been involved in, even 
to herself.

"Precisely!" Miss Petunia said.

"You mean ... Marigold quavered. "That terrible dream ... nightmare ... 
I had last night? The rest of you had it, too?"

"Precisely!"

"It won't do," Lily said. "Can't go on like this. Never knowing when a 
perfectly innocent investigation is going to explode in our faces.

"Precisely!" Miss Petunia took a deep breath and hurled the spray gun 
into the herbaceous border, something she had never done before. "The 
ingratitude of it all! We have fed her, clothed her, bought her a house, 
supported her for all these years - and now she turns on us like this!"

"Not good enough," Lily brooded.

"My whole body aches," Marigold said piteously. "And I'm afraid to look 
in the mirror for fear I'll discover I'm covered in ... In blood."

"Got a fearful pain in the neck," Lily agreed. Miss Petunia rubbed her 
stomach reflectively and said nothing; her expression was grim.

"I feel so peculiar," Marigold said. "As . .. as though ... I'm fading 
away.

"This cannot be allowed to go on," Miss Petunia proclaimed. "Quite 
right." Lily nodded. "Had enough." "But, Petunia..." Marigold quavered. 
"What can we do? We've already tried to plead our case with her."

"Fired a warning shot across her bows," Lily corrected. "Neither of 
which she heeded." Miss Petunia faced them implacably.

"Perhaps we should try again," Marigold said nervously. "Surely, we can 
make her understand."

"Waste of time," Lily said.

"Quite right. The woman is obtuse!" Miss Petunia declared. "Furthermore, 
she is completely self-obsessed. She does not care what happens to us.

"Thinks only of herself," Lily said. "Bone-selfish." "We have 
established that, dear," Miss Petunia said. "Now we must decide what to 
do about it."

"Chop!" Lily looked into the distance, her mouth pursed in a soundless 
whistle. Her hand came up to make a slashing motion across her throat. 
"Give her the chop!"

"Oh, no!" Marigold gasped. "No! That's too drastic!" "She's trying to do 
it to us," Lily reminded her. "I fear dear Lily is right," Miss Petunia 
said. "The time has come for decisive action. Before it is too late."

"Too late?" Marigold's eyes widened. "Oh, Petunia, whatever can you 
mean? However could it be too late?"

"Only too easily, I fear," Miss Petunia said. "Just suppose that our ... 
our Chronicler -" She gave the word an unpleasant sneering twist. "Our 
Author ... were to actually use one of those evil disgraceful chapters 
one day? Suppose that, either by accident or design, she ended the 
current book with it, sent it off to the publishers - and they published 
It?"

"Oh, Petunia!" Marigold reeled with dismay. "Surely they wouldn't do 
that! They'd expostulate with her, make her rewrite the ending ... 
Wouldn't they?"

"They might," Miss Petunia conceded. "Then again, they might not. They 
might consider that the publicity she would achieve by killing us off 
might outweigh the disadvantages." "Barmy bunch, publishers," Lily 
agreed. "Never can tell with them."

"But ... all those books.. ." Marigold did look as though she were 
fading. "All those years...

"Precisely," Miss Petunia said. "They might think we'd run our course."

"Outstayed our welcome," Lily said. "Time for a change." "Precisely! 
Especially if Lorinda Lucas has an idea for a new series. The publicity 
attendant upon our demise would get it off to a flying start." "And 
she'd never look back," Lily said.

"But ... but ... we'd be ... gone." Marigold could not encompass the 
thought. "Of course' - She brightened - "there are still all those 
previous books."

"Much good they'd do us," Lily said. "Oh, she could lean back and still 
collect royalties from them, but we'd be on the shelf. In our graves. "I 
fear dear Lily has put her finger on the nub of the matter. Miss Petunia 
adjusted her pince-nez and gazed sadly at her sisters.

"But..." Marigold was still unwilling to believe it. "Has Miss Lucas 
another series in mind? Surely, we'd know about it. I... I haven't 
received any intimations. Have you?" "That is why we must act now," Miss 
Petunia said. "Before she does. Her mind is a blank on other characters 
at the moment, but there are pernicious influences afoot. She is being 
unsettled by the company of her peers and all their dissatisfactions. 
Things have not been the same since the fateful day she moved to Brimful 
Coffers!"

"Then why don't we ask her to move away again?" Marigold suggested 
brightly. "Then everything can be the way it was before.

"No." Miss Petunia shook her head gravely. Even Lily was shaking her 
head. "The situation is too advanced. There can be no going back."

"No going back..." Lily echoed grimly.

"But..." Marigold's mood veered, now she seemed on the verge of tears. 
"But ... what can we do?"

"Now, Marigold," Miss Petunia said gently. "We have discussed this 
before. You know the options."

"But we can't!" Marigold wailed. "It would be too brutal ... too 
cruel..."

"Too soft-hearted for her own good," Lily snorted. "Any less brutal or 
less cruel than what she has been doing

to us?" Miss Petunia asked bluntly. "But ... but we have always stood 
for law and order." Marigold raised tear-drenched eyes. "For justice! We 
. . . we're the good guys!"

"Do it right," Lily muttered, "and nobody will ever suspect it was us.

"Quite right, dear," Miss Petunia approved. "As dear Marigold has 
pointed out, we are the "good guys". For that reason alone, no one would 
ever suspect us. Apart from other reasons... She let the thought trail 
off delicately.

"What other reasons?" Marigold asked innocently. "Well, dear, we are. . 
. after all . . ." Miss Petunia tried to think

of a tactful way of phrasing it. "Fictional." Lily had no such 
compunction. "Er, yes. We do exist ... for the most part ... on the 
printed page," Miss Petunia admitted reluctantly.

"Then ... then how are we going to do anything?" "We will find a way," 
Miss Petunia vowed. "Oh.. ." Marigold brightened. "You mean like "Love 
will find

a way"?" "Not exactly," Miss Petunia said. "In this case it's more like 
. . hate."

"No two ways about it," Lily said. "Only one thing to do."

Marigold covered her face with her hands and sobbed as her sisters 
chorused in unison:

"Lorinda Lucas m

u

 

S T d

I

e.

"I was shattered to get the news," Dorian said, squinting into his 
champagne glass. "Quite shattered. However, we can be thankful for one 
thing. He went the way he'd have wanted to go: drunk."

There was no doubt that he relished the shocked gasps from some of his 
audience; those who knew him well wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"That guy is beginning to get on my nerves, Jack snarled quietly to 
Lorinda. "It was nice and peaceful while he was away, now everybody's on 
edge again."

Lorinda nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement.

So far as she had noticed, life had not been especially peaceful in the 
two weeks that Dorian had been on his cruise, and everyone had been on 
edge well before his return. Freddie and Macho in particular. True, the 
holiday season had passed by quietly. Plantagenet's demise had put paid 
to any festive spirit that might have been stirring. Once the police had 
wrapped up their perfunctory (Plantagenet's reputation was well known; 
there were rumours the wine merchant was going to drape his windows in 
black) inquiries, those who could manage it escaped Brimful Coffers for 
their holidays. Rhylla Montague had picked up a last-minute reservation 
at a Country House Hotel and taken off for Devon with Clarice. Gemma 
Duquette and Betty Alvin had retreated to the respective family 
Christmases they had been congratulating themselves on avoiding before 
the prospect seemed an improvement on staying in a depleted Coffers 
Court. The Jackleys, in an excess of hospitality, or possibly because 
they couldn't face each other's unadulterated company, had invited 
Lorinda, Freddie, Macho and Professor Borley to Christmas dinner and
they had all found it the line of least resistance to accept.

Everyone was relieved when the holiday season ended and life began to 
chug slowly back to normal. Except ... except...

Lorinda tore her mind away from the thought of that new and menacing 
chapter she had discovered beside her typewriter. Her mind . . her mind 
...

"Oh, I'm sorry -" She became aware that Jack was staring at her 
questioningly. She hadn't heard a word he'd been saying. "I - I'm afraid 
I missed that. It's noisy in here, isn't it?" "That's OK. I'm getting 
used to it with you people. Either you snap my head off when I make a 
little joke, like Freddie. Or you look right through me, like Macho. And 
even my own wife. And the excuse is always you're thinking about the new 
book."

"I'm sorry." Lorinda was beginning to feel guilty about Jack and 
resented it. "But we are."

"Not your fault." His attention was on the group surrounding Dorian, 
where his wife was being breathlessly attentive. He gripped his new 
camera so tightly that he winced.

"Jeez!" he burst out. "I'd like to nail that guy. I'd like to get a
picture of him picking his nose, or something worse. I want him in 
pieces. I want him-"

Dead. The unsaid word hung in the air, resonating clearly. Jack darted a 
furtive look at her to see if she had heard it, too. She tried to keep 
her face blank and appear oblivious.

"Dorian's in great form." Freddie came up to them. "His cruise seems to 
have done him a world of good."

"Maybe we should all try it," Macho said, closing ranks on the other 
side. "We need something. There are still a couple of months of damp and 
fog until spring. I'm not looking forward to February here - or March, 
either." "Why don't we just send Dorian away again?" Jack was bitter.
"That would improve the atmosphere one hundred per cent for me.

"Shh!" Freddie said. "He's coming this way." "I don't care," Jack 
muttered, but he subsided. "Ah, a cluster of colleagues." Dorian was 
upon them, tanned,

fit, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. He glanced at 
Jack. "Almost," he added. Jack responded by stepping back swiftly, 
raising the camera and firing off a shot he obviously hoped would blind 
Dorian, but Dorian was too quick for him and shifted focus just in time.
Jack lowered the camera and walked over to join his wife.

"Freddie, you've lost weight," Dorian said. "You're growing positively 
Wraith-like." He chuckled at his own joke. No one else did.

"And Macho, how many blondes have you bedded and blasted while I've been 
away?" Again the joke fell flat.

"Lorinda, I won't try to equate you with any of your characters. You're 
still too pretty and too young ... perhaps in a few more years...

Lorinda stared at him as coldly as the others. The thought of tiptoeing 
into the sunset years with Dorian was chilling. How had they allowed 
themselves to be persuaded into this trap? On the other hand, Brimful 
Coffers was quite a pleasant village, most of the inhabitants were 
congenial... now that Plantagenet was no longer with them. It could be 
even pleasanter... without Dorian.

Dorian looked around with a vaguely dissatisfied air, probably wondering 
if there was anyone he hadn't insulted yet.

Lorinda saw Jack tense as Dorian looked his way then, with

a dismissive smile to the rest of them, stroll in that direction.
Karla's face lit up as she saw him coming; she, at least, was glad to 
see him. Jack raised his camera defensively, as though it were a shield.
"I don't know about Dorian," Freddie said reflectively, "but it
definitely looks as though absence has made Karla's heart grow fonder."

"Perhaps that was the idea," Macho said. "If there really is something 
going on between them, Karla may not have been moving fast enough to 
suit him."

"If he wants her to move." Freddie was still thoughtful. "He may have 
been hoping she'd cool down a bit. I think the situation suits him just 
the way it is; he doesn't want to formalize it. What Karla wants is 
another story." "I don't see why she doesn't just get a divorce," 
Lorinda said. "She hasn't any religious scruples about it, has she?"

"Religion doesn't come into it." Freddie gave her a pitying glance. 
"Unless you count Mammon as a religion."

"But she doesn't need to worry about alimony, does she? I'd have thought 
her sales were good enough to support her comfortably."

"Haven't you heard about Equal Rights?" Freddie raised an eyebrow. "The 
trouble is, as a lot of women are finding out, that it works both ways. 
It's not just the man who pays any more. If they divorce and he can 
show, as I'm sure he can, that he supported her through the early years 
of struggle, then he's entitled to a half share in her copyrights."

"Wha-at?" Macho squawked incredulously. "That's obscene!" Lorinda felt 
the blood drain from her face. "That's the law - and it's coming over 
here, too. Same principle as the Little Woman keeping house, raising the 
kids and providing a secure base while the Breadwinner goes out and
builds up his business, in which she's entitled to share because of her 
contribution to the joint welfare." Freddie shot Macho a sardonic look. 
"Lucky you got your divorce when you did, you could really be taken to 
the cleaners nowadays."

Macho took a deep gulp from his glass. For a moment he looked as though, 
if there had been a worm at the bottom of the glass, he would have 
crunched it.

"If you ask me," Freddie went on, "that's why Karla was so willing to 
take on the contract for the Miss Mudd books. There's no question of her 
holding any copyright in them and she can use them to mark time and 
provide some income while she decides what she wants to do about her 
situation. Either bite the bullet and divorce Jack or..." Freddie 
drained her own glass. "Shoot the bullet into him - which would be a lot 
neater and cheaper than a divorce."

"And Jack has already had one nasty "accident" that could have been 
fatal." It was unreal, perhaps surreal, to be standing in the gracious 
drawing room calmly speculating on whether people they knew socially 
might turn out to be killer and victim, but Lorinda could not keep her 
professional instincts from kicking in.

"Accident would be the best way." Macho narrowed his eyes. She was not 
the only one whose professionalism was showing.

They all surveyed the group across the room, coolly assessing the 
chances of real-life drama overtaking fiction.

"It's no use. Macho was the first to look away. "We're all too
civilized. We only do it on paper.

On paper. .. Lorinda gave an involuntary shudder. She could push her own 
preoccupations to the back of her mind ... her mind ... but they came 
back to haunt her at a careless word.

"I wouldn't bet on that." Freddie was still watching. "But I might give 
you short odds on Jack launching a murderous attack on Dorian, if he 
thought he could get away with it."

"That could hold true for a lot of people." Macho's gaze swung around 
the room from group to group. Viewing people as potential suspects, it 
was suddenly unnerving to realize that everyone had a sinister side to 
them.

Lorinda shuddered again and looked up to welcome the distraction of 
Betty Alvin and Jennifer Lane approaching. Betty kept looking back over 
her shoulder as though to ensure that she was putting adequate space 
between herself and Dorian. Of course, he would not easily forgive her 
for her defection on the morning he left and had to do his own 
last-minute packing.

"Where's the guest of honour?" Jennifer asked. "I thought she'd be here 
to greet us. Or is she planning a Grand Entrance?"

"What guest of honour?" Freddie looked affronted. "I didn't hear 
anything about that. Did you?" She glared at the others.

"I thought this was just Dorian giving himself a Welcome Home party," 
Lorinda said, refraining from adding: Since no one else was likely to.

"I thought it was just a belated New Year gathering," Macho said.

"I think Dorian wanted it to be a surprise for everyone." Betty hastened 
to spread oil on waters that were becoming troubled. "Of course, he had 
to tell Jennifer so that she could put some books on display."

"Hmmm," Freddie said, echoing their thoughts. No one had failed to 
notice that the new window display had featured an interloper.

"So we're finally to be honoured by a visitation from Ondine van Zeet, 
are we?" Macho did not look pleased. According to local rumour, the lady 
had moved into Coffers Court, and then promptly gone back to London, 
with no indication of when - or if - she would return. "Where's Rhylla?" 
Freddie looked around. "Does she know about this?"

"She's in Dorian's study." Macho had been keeping track. "I think she's 
trying to convince Clarice of the delights of keeping tropical fish."

"I wish her luck," Freddie said. "If you ask me, the kid is right.

A Gila monster is just about her speed." "AAH!" It was as much a fanfare 
as a greeting. "Ondine, my dear! How good of you to grace our little 
gathering!" Dorian swooped across the room to seize both her hands, 
somehow having disposed of his glass as he passed a side table. He 
raised both of her hands to his lips, in the manner of a monarch
conferring favour, but it was easy to see who outranked whom in the 
pecking order. "Dorian, dear boy." Ondine van Zeet freed her hands and 
used one to pat his cheek as she stepped back from further intimacies.
"How sweet of you to invite me."

"I think you know everyone here." He led her forward. "By reputation, if 
not personally."

"I'm sure I must." She glanced around without interest. Dorian 
repossessed his glass and signalled Gordie to bring his tray over to 
Ondine. Eagerly, Gordie rushed to their sides.

Gordie. Lorinda was assailed by a fresh attack of guilt. What had Gordie 
done over the holidays? They had all forgotten about him - although he 
would have been the first person they called for if anything had broken 
down. She made a weak resolution to try to be nicer to him. Ondine 
graciously accepted a glass of champagne from the tray with a mechanical 
smile and turned to survey the room. Was it Lorinda's imagination, or 
did several people shrink back, trying to make themselves smaller and 
inconspicuous?

This was in direct contrast to the very conspicuous Ondine, large and 
commanding in a shimmering iridescent silk kaftan, looking as though she 
were about to burst into an operatic aria. Lorinda remembered hearing, 
among other rumours, that Ondine van Zeet was one of those who had come 
to writing via an unsuccessful stage career - and she believed it. The 
other believable rumour was that, although the lady did not have the
necessary talent for the stage, she certainly had the temperament. She 
stood there, radiating ego.

"Somehow," Freddie muttered, "I don't get the impression that she's 
going to make a valuable addition to our little community."

"Don't look now," Macho said, as Dorian began waving imperiously to 
them, "but I think we're being summoned for an Audience." "Suddenly, I 
have another appointment." Freddie began edging backwards, slid behind a 
couple of Londoners and disappeared.

"We're going to have to meet her, sooner or later." Lorinda took a firm 
grip on Macho's elbow before he could follow Freddie, and urged him 
forward.

When Lorinda escaped shortly afterwards, it was with a sense of relief 
that was disproportionate to the occasion. Nothing awful had actually 
happened. Ondine had been neither as insulting nor as outrageous as her 
reputation had led everyone to expect. Nevertheless, Lorinda had been 
conscious of the uneasy feeling that the Sword of Damocles had been 
poised above them all. She breathed more easily as she and Macho
approached her front door.

"Coming in for a drink?"

"Thanks, not now." He also seemed uneasy and glanced around with 
foreboding. "I'll just collect my wandering boy and get back to my book, 
I think. I've been away from it all day."

Roscoe was still sleeping and barely blinked as Macho gathered him up. 
Had-I and But-Known were more alert; they eyed Lorinda hopefully, trying 
to decide whether she had brought any treats for them.

"Don't open the fridge door until I've got Roscoe out of here," Macho 
directed. He opened the back door, looked left and right as 
apprehensively as though he were about to step out on to a motorway, and 
left hurriedly.

Lorinda watched from the window until he reached his own house, sliding 
from shadow to shadow, acting like a fugitive and always looking back 
over his shoulder. Was he heading for a nervous breakdown? Or could 
there be some other explanation for his increasingly eccentric 
behaviour? Had his ex-wife surfaced again, possibly issuing some sort of 
writ he was trying to evade? Had-I made an impatient remark, pacing back 
and forth in front of the fridge. But-Known sat quietly with a trusting 
look on her face. In deference to that trust, Lorinda gave them rather
more tinned salmon than she had intended.

She had noticed the glow of the Message Waiting light on her answering 
machine earlier. With no sense of urgency, she strolled into the living 
room and proceeded to retrieve the message, hoping that there was one 
and that the light hadn't been lit by one of those technophobes who hung 
up on discovering that they were expected to converse with a machine.

For long moments, there was silence, then a voice spoke. It was a voice 
she had never heard before, but she recognized it instantly. It sounded 
just the way she had always thought it would.

"Oh, you are terrible!" it pouted. "You must stop, you really must! 
They're getting so angry. I can't reason with them much longer. They 
want to ... dispose of you ... before you dispose of us. They mean it. 
They won't believe me when I tell them you'd never do such a thing..." 
The voice wavered. "Would you? You wouldn't, would you? No, no, you 
couldn't! But they don't understand. They're plotting to finish you. 
Please, tell them you'll let us go on forever. Promise them you won't

"Marigold!" A sharp, autocratic, suspicious voice called imperiously in 
the background. Lorinda recognized that voice, too. "Marigold, what are 
you doing?"

"Nothing, Petunia," Marigold gasped guiltily. "Nothing at all. Please -" 
she whispered urgently. "Please-" The dial tone buzzed abruptly. She was 
gone.

Lorinda stood frozen, staring down at the machine in horror. The cats 
strolled into the room, licking their chops, and paused to watch her, 
sensing something wrong. Lorinda pushed the Rewind button, holding her 
breath as the message tape wound back into position. She took a deep 
breath and pushed the Play button.

Nothing happened.

The tape whirred quietly; no message emanated from the speaker. Lorinda 
let it run for a long time before pushing the Rewind and trying again.

Still there was no sound but the quiet whirr of tape. She spent several 
frantic minutes stabbing the Rewind and Play buttons alternately, but 
she could not retrieve the message. She could not make Marigold speak 
again.

If Marigold had ever spoken in the first place. She sank into the 
nearest chair, covering her face with her hands. The cats jumped into 
her lap anxiously, trying to comfort her. She clutched them to her, 
burying her face in their fur.

Her mind... her ....... she grieved quietly. What would she do without 
it?

In the morning, Lorinda woke late and reluctantly. A new day seemed 
almost too much to bear. She pulled aside the curtains to discover blue 
skies and such an aggressively brilliant sun that she nearly closed them 
again and went back to bed. That wouldn't solve anything. She forced 
herself to dress and go downstairs; she could not force herself to 
glance in the direction of the answering machine. The Message Waiting 
light would always signal terror to her from now on.

The cats were not in the kitchen. On a day like this, they would be 
disporting themselves outside, or perhaps lying in a patch of sunlight, 
enjoying the weather before it changed. Which was more than she could 
do.

Tea and toast did not really interest her, but were the line of least 
resistance; she ate automatically, trying to keep her mind a blank. Her 
mind... All last night's horrors rushed back into it. She got to her 
feet quickly and carried the dishes over to the sink. She would not
think about it. Not now ... not yet.

Keep busy, that was the thing. There was plenty to do. She could clean 
the house, do the shopping, work on the book No! No, she could not bring 
herself to go near her study, and the thought of having to write about 
the loathsome Miss Petunia made her mind recoil. Her mind...

Flip-flop... flip-flop. .. The familiar sound brought her back to
normality.

"There you are, my darlings." She turned to smile down on them. And 
froze.

They advanced towards her trustingly, well pleased with themselves. 
Especially But-Known, who had something long and black trailing out of 
her mouth.

"What have you got there?" She had a terrible feeling she already knew. 
"Come here, let me see it." She crouched down and tugged gently at one 
end. But-Known resisted playfully for a moment, then opened her mouth 
and let the ribbon slide over to Lorinda. Another ribbon ... "Where did 
you get this?" Having expected praise, But-Known started and backed away 
at Lorinda's tone. Had-I sat down and began washing her face, 
emphasizing that she had nothing to do with her sister's scavenging. She 
only brought home nice, sensible, edible offerings.

"Where ?" Lorinda pulled herself together and straightened up, still 
clutching the black velvet ribbon. But-Known couldn't answer and she was 
only frightening the poor darling.

"I'm sorry. Good girl. Come on." To make amends, she crossed

to the fridge and distributed largesse. She knew where But-Known must 
have got that ribbon. Only Macho wore such a ribbon now. The question 
was: what condition had he been in when she helped herself to it?

Lorinda looked down at the two sleek little heads bobbing over their 
saucers and poured some milk into their bowl, putting off the inevitable 
moment when she would have to do something.

She'd try it the easy way first. She went into the living room and 
dialled Macho's number. The phone rang just that couple of times too 
many before the click. "BANG! Ya missed me, sucker! You don't get - She 
replaced the receiver. He wasn't going to answer the phone. Perhaps he 
couldn't answer the phone. She was going to have to find out the hard 
way. But she didn't have to do it alone. She hoped. This time she tried 
Freddie's number.

"Hello?" Thank heavens Freddie was still answering the phone.

"Freddie ... have you seen Macho this morning?" "No. Why?" Freddie 
caught the uneasy note in her voice. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. It may be nothing. Only ... But-Known has just dragged in 
one of her offerings. It's Macho's ponytail ribbon. The last time she 
brought home a ribbon..."

"Oh, no!" She didn't need to finish, she had already told Freddie about 
that. "I'll meet you at Macho's. We'll break down the door, if we have 
to. Or climb in through the window. Or something." Freddie hung up 
abruptly.

As a precaution, Lorinda immobilized the catflap before leaving. Doing 
so gave her a strange pang. Would she be bringing Pud - Roscoe - back 
with her to take up residence? What had Macho foreseen in his future to 
wrest that promise from her?

"Hurry up!" Freddie was waiting impatiently, her face pale and drawn, at 
Macho's front door. "Let's get this over with." She began pushing at the 
door.

"Why don't we try the bell first?" Lorinda pushed it. "Just for form's 
sake."

"Form!" Freddie snorted. "At a time like this!" They were both taken 
aback when the door swung open suddenly and a stranger stood there. 
Macho hadn't mentioned that he was expecting a guest. The man looked 
vaguely familiar, perhaps a relative...

"Macho!" Freddie recognized him first. "You've cut your hair. And 
shaved. You do have a chin!"

"Come in." Macho stepped back. "And thank you for those kind words, 
Freddie. Of course I have a chin."

"With that beard, who could tell?" Freddie shrugged. "I thought you grew 
it because you were a chinless wonder."

"Hmmph!" They had a fine view of the back of his head as they followed 
him into the living room where Roscoe, obviously roused from his nap by 
the doorbell, yawned and chirruped a greeting to them.

"Macho." Lorinda eyed the uneven lengths of hair. He had clearly hacked 
it off himself, perhaps in a fit of temper. "What did you do with your 
ribbon?"

"Oh." He looked slightly abashed. "I gave it to But-Known, she always 
fancied it and I have no use for it any more.

"It's an improvement." Freddie eyed him critically. "At least,

it will be when you get those ends tidied up." Neither of them quite 
dared ask him why he had made this sudden drastic decision. There was an 
awkward silence.

Roscoe stretched and gave them a bright-eyed appreciative look. He knew 
what guests meant: food, drink, hospitality. He ambled towards the 
kitchen.

"Coffee?" Macho offered, reminded of his responsibilities. "Or ... 
something else?" He seemed to listen to himself and added quickly. 
"Sherry, I mean. Sherry? What time is it, anyway. I - I've lost track."

"Coffee will be fine," Lorinda said and Freddie nodded. "It's about 
eleven."

"Elevenses, of course." Macho nodded and seemed to get a firmer grip on 
the situation. "It will be instant, I'm afraid, but I do have some cream 
buns in the fridge."

They all headed towards the kitchen. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged 
glances behind Macho's back. Something was wrong here. Was Macho going 
to tell them about it?

"Now then..." It appeared not. Macho began fussing pleasantly with cups, 
saucers, plates, putting the kettle on. He looked younger without so 
much facial adornment - he'd left the moustache - and yet ... more 
careworn. The circles under his eyes were deeper and darker, his hands 
trembled slightly. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged another glance, this 
time with raised eyebrows, as he turned to the fridge.

"YAAAAAHHH!" A sudden cry of rage and despair brought them to their 
feet. Macho had opened the fridge door and a precariously balanced 
bottle had slid out and landed on his toe. He snatched it up and shook 
it with a violence disproportionate to the little accident. He could not 
have been seriously hurt. "You filthy -" They gaped in awe as they were 
treated to a three-minute display of Elizabethan and Georgian obscenity. 
At least, Lorinda thought that was what it was, there were few words she 
even recognized.

"It isn't what you say," Freddie observed as Macho slowed down, "it's 
the way you say it."

"Christ's blood!" They were the first intelligible words he had uttered. 
He shook the bottle savagely again, then took deliberate aim and hurled 
it at the window.

"You're through! Do you hear me?" he shouted. "You're through! You're 
history! History-!" He slumped into a chair, leaned forward and buried 
his face in his arms on the table.

"Macho!" Freddie deftly caught the bottle just before it crashed through 
the window.

"What's wrong?" Lorinda asked. "What is it?" "It's -" Freddie squinted 
at the bottle. "It's tequila! The stuff

he always said he wouldn't have in the house." "I wouldn't!" Macho 
choked. "I don't! Only ... I keep finding it. Hidden all over the place. 
Them - the bottles. And I never saw them before. I didn't buy them. I 
didn't!"

Roscoe padded over and stretched up, putting his forepaws on his 
master's knee with an anxious little mewl. Macho scooped him up and 
clutched him tightly.

"I'm starting a new series," he told them defiantly. "I'm going into 
historical mysteries. Listening to the rest of you talking about it set 
me thinking. History is my field. I'm ready to go back to it."

"That sounds like a good idea," Lorinda said cautiously. He seemed to 
have a precarious hold on his nerves now and she did not want to 
dislodge it. "History mystery is very popular right now. What period?"

"Sixteenth century. Venice, that's popular, too. And -" He drew a deep 
breath. "My private investigator will be Portia!"

"Portia?" Lorinda began to feel faintly giddy. "Portia who?" "I'll sort 
that out later." Macho brushed the question aside. "Will didn't 
specify."

"Will-?"

"If you're going to steal." Freddie was there ahead of her. "Steal from 
the best."

"Why not? He did." Macho was still defiant. "Only it's really borrowing 
... following on ... continuing the story...

"The story..." Lorinda said weakly.

"Yes. You see, Shylock was so impressed by her that, bearing no malice, 
he turns to her when he finds himself in fresh trouble. His dearly 
beloved daughter, Jessica, has disappeared. Dropped off the face of the 
earth. Lorenzo has been seen without her and claims they had a fight and 
she ran away from him and..."

Freddie set the bottle of tequila on the table in front of him with a 
decisive thud. He trailed off and stared at it unseeingly.

"I'll invent a new persona, too," he said. "For my author's biography, 
I'll be a lawyer turned journalist. You know how the media always hype 
books by one of their own, and lawyers buy like money is going out of 
fashion when one of their own has written a book. I suppose it's because 
both professions secretly think they could write bestsellers if they put 
their minds to it and it fuels their dreams when one of them 
succeeds..." Freddie tapped impatient fingernails on the bottle and 
waited. "There's another one under the sink," he sighed, admitting
defeat. He rubbed his forehead against Roscoe's head and closed his 
eyes.

Lorinda opened the cupboard under the sink and retrieved a tequila 
bottle. It was half full. She placed it on the table beside the other 
one.

"I also found one at the back of the broom cupboard." Macho spoke in a 
listless voice, as one not expecting to be believed. "It isn't the way 
you think."

There were two bottles in the broom cupboard, one in each far corner. 
Both had been opened and partly depleted. She placed them on the table 
beside the others.

"You might as well know the worst." Macho sighed again and pushed back 
his chair. Still clutching Roscoe, he led them into his study and 
stopped by the desk. "The bottom drawer," he croaked.

Expressionless, Freddie pulled out the drawer. There were two bottles of 
tequila, one nearly finished, one unopened, and a glass with a tiny 
puddle of liquor at the bottom of it. "That's new." Macho stared down 
moodily into the drawer. "He hasn't used a glass before." He raised his 
head and bellowed suddenly into the air, "Nice touch, you bastard!"

"Macho -" Lorinda started towards him. Roscoe twitched uneasily and 
looked thoughtfully towards the carpet.

"I never bought them," Macho said desperately. "I never drank any of it. 
I'd swear to it! And yet . .. if I didn't.. ." He glared at them, a 
cornered animal at bay. "Who did? Only one person drinks tequila around 
here!" He slumped down into his desk chair and slammed the drawer shut.

Lorinda realized abruptly that Freddie hadn't tried to catch her eye in 
quite some time.

"Don't you see?" he pleaded. "It has to be Macho Magee. He

- He's come to life. He's stalking me. He - He's moving in!" "That 
can't... really... be possible," Freddie said slowly. She did not sound 
entirely convinced.

"I haven't seen him yet," Macho said. "But the bottles are everywhere. 
Those aren't the only ones. I've thrown a lot away. But I keep finding 
more. If I leave them in place, the level keeps going down, as though 
someone has been drinking from them. And I've never touched the stuff! 
At least . . . I don't think I have."

Freddie opened the drawer again and took out the glass. She raised it to 
her nose and sniffed. Then she opened the bottle and carefully poured a 
few drops into the palm of her hand. She touched them with her tongue 
and grimaced.

"No, it isn't water," Macho said. "I checked. I'm not a complete fool, 
you know. It's the real - imported from Mexico - stuff - and that brand 
sells for about twenty quid a bottle."

"And we've found six bottles already," Lorinda said. "Which makes it a 
pretty expensive joke." Freddie whistled soundlessly.

"There'll be more bottles around. They keep turning up everywhere.
Places you can't imagine. I found one in the cistern. No one in their 
right mind would hide a bottle in a cistern -" Macho paused and seemed 
to listen to himself.

"No one in their right mind," he echoed. Roscoe gave a sudden indignant 
yowl and fought for freedom. Macho released him and watched him drop to 
the floor and walk some distance away before sitting down and beginning 
to wash his face.

"Remember -" Macho met Lorinda's eyes with desperate entreaty. "You said 
you'd take care of Roscoe if ... if anything ....... if they put me 
away. You promised you'd take him."

"And I will," Lorinda promised again. "Unless they put me in the padded 
cell next door to you. It looks as though it might fall to Freddie to 
take care of all three cats."

"Much as I'd like to oblige," Freddie said, "I wouldn't advise you to 
count on me. The way things are going, you'll find me in the padded cell 
on the other side." "What are you talking about?" Macho looked from one 
to the other with a faint puzzled hope beginning to dawn on his face.

"You find bottles." Since she had started it, Lorinda accepted that she 
should go first. "I found Miss Petunia's pince-nez, but they disappeared 
again and I keep finding chapters I haven't written." There was no need 
at the moment to confess to the chapters she had written. "And the 
latest wrinkle was a message from Marigold on my answering machine that 
disappeared when I tried to replay it."

"Then it's not just me." Macho quivered with relief. They both turned to 
look at Freddie.

"OK," Freddie said. "I can admit it now. Wraith O'Reilly has staked out 
the old graveyard. I keep seeing her there. Just glimpses, almost out of 
the corner of my eye, a flash of red hair, a flutter of the grey skirt. 
She's gone when I try to approach for a closer look. So far, she's 
confined herself to the graveyard, but I sometimes wonder for how much 
longer. It scares the hell out of me to think that I might turn around 
some day and find her in the house with me."

"That's it exactly!" Macho said. "Where is he? What is he doing? What 
does he want? There's no overt threat, but the feeling of menace is 
there underneath."

"Actually," Lorinda said, "mine are threatening. Miss Petunia and Lily 
are definitely out to get me. Marigold is softer and kinder, but she 
always is. Of course," she added apologetically, "I'm afraid I've given 
them good reason to be annoyed with me.

"Wait a minute," Freddie said. "Wait a minute. We're talking about 
fictional characters. These people are all figments of our imaginations. 
Let's all pull ourselves together and try to be sensible about this."

"That's right." Macho was looking better. "We can't all be going mad. 
And in the same way. Can we?"

"Highly unlikely," Freddie said. "Someone has to be behind this."

"A common enemy," Lorinda said, feeling both relieved and frightened by 
the thought.

"Who do we know who hates us all?" Macho asked. "One of us, perhaps. 
Possibly even two. But all three? And who would go to such lengths?"
"It's a rotten joke," Lorinda said.

"It's too nasty to be a joke. There's genuine malice there, Macho said.

"That's right," Freddie agreed. "Trying to make us think we're losing 
our sanity is hitting below the belt." She grimaced. "That didn't come 
out right, but you know what I mean.

"What enemy do we have in common?" Macho was single-minded in his 
determination to track down the culprit. "Think!"

"I wonder if there are any more," Lorinda said. "We each thought we were 
the only one it was happening to. Now that we've found we're not ... how 
many more of us do you think there are?"

"Not Karla," Freddie said, after a reflective moment. "She spends all 
her spare time locked in mortal combat with Jack. An army of backpackers 
could march through that house and neither of them would even notice."

"And Rhylla has Clarice living with her right now," Lorinda contributed. 
"She's completely caught up with trying to work and keep the child busy. 
Clarice also has sharp little eyes and an inquiring mind. No one could 
try any of these tricks with her around."

"Whereas we live alone," Macho said slowly. "When we're working, two or 
three days can pass without our seeing anyone. We don't have any human 
contact until we run out of supplies and have to go shopping. That makes 
us ... vulnerable ... to someone who is trying to turn our own 
imaginations against us."

"What about Dorian?" Lorinda had a sudden thought. "He lives alone, too. 
Perhaps that's why he went off on that cruise so suddenly. Things have 
been happening to him, too, and he decided to get away - as far as he 
could go.. ." She trailed off; Freddie was shaking her head with a 
slightly condescending smile.

"Haven't you sussed that one out? Our Dorian went on that cruise because 
the cruise line were paying him to go. He was a guest lecturer on the 
English mystery and doubled as detective on one of those Murder Mystery 
Cruises they run every so often. He got a free trip, expenses and a 
small honorarium for a very pleasant job." "Trust Dorian!" Macho said 
bitterly.

"I'm sure," Freddie added, "he also sold a good many of his own books to 
the happy holidaymakers and got in plenty of publicity for the tours 
he's planning to run through here."

"What a busy little beaver." Lorinda was bitter, too. "Right, but that 
also means he's too wrapped up in his own machinations to take time out 
to play games with us - or to notice anyone trying to play games with 
him."

"Then who hates us that much?" Lorinda felt chilled. "It keeps coming 
back to that."

"There is one person.. ." Macho said slowly. "Ask yourselves: who has 
always had it in for us? Who has jeered at and humiliated us at every 
opportunity? Who has a cruel and vicious streak in him? And' - Macho was 
warming to his theme - "who could very easily get his hands on a case of 
tequila - and probably at a discount?" "Plantagenet Sutton!" Lorinda 
identified correctly.

"Good thinking, chums." Freddie applauded silently. "There's just one 
little flaw in it. Plantagenet Sutton is dead."

"Yes..." Macho deflated slowly.

"And our problems are still going on," Freddie pointed out. "I take it 
that bottle of tequila wasn't in your refrigerator the last time you 
looked?"

"No," he admitted. "Of course it wasn't."

"My latest episode happened after his death," Lorinda agreed. "Well 
after. But they started before."

"That's right. So did mi' Macho broke off abruptly, staring

at Roscoe. Roscoe had halted his ablutions, one hind leg still pointing
skywards, and raised his head, ears cocked, listening intently to
something they could not hear.

"What is it, boy?" Macho looked around the room, looked over his 
shoulder, looked back to Roscoe. "What do you hear?"

After a moment, they heard it themselves. The all-too-familiar whoop of 
an approaching ambulance.

Roscoe scrambled for safety as they leaped out of their chairs and 
charged across the room.

"Whoa! Slow down!" Freddie recovered herself first. "We're

in the wrong business to be ambulance chasers." "It's stopped in front 
of Coffers Court." Macho reached the High Street first and reported back 
to them as they came panting up to join him.

"Maybe Rhylla has finally snapped and murdered that kid," Freddie 
suggested. Macho threw her an impatient look before turning and leading 
the way along the High Street.

They hurried towards Coffers Court, where a small cluster of onlookers 
had already materialized on the pavement outside. There was a buzz of 
excited speculation, fragments of which met their ears.

"Throat cut ear to ear..."

"No, burglary and they bludgeoned

"Gas fire exploded. Lucky the whole place didn't go up..." The rumour 
factory was working well, Lorinda realized, but hard facts did not 
appear to be available.

"Isn't it awful?" Jennifer Lane greeted them. "What happened?" Freddie 
asked.

"We're not quite sure yet." Jennifer watched avidly as one of the medics 
carried a stretcher in. "But something serious."

"Used to be a nice quiet village," someone muttered behind them. "Before 
that lot moved in."

"There's gratitude for you," Freddie observed, adding unfairly, "This 
place was a dead-and-alive hole before we moved in."

"Now dead is winning," the voice hit back. "Who's... hurt?" Lorinda 
intervened, trying to recall Freddie

to decorum. This was not the time to antagonize the villagers. "Has 
Gemma been taken ill again?" Gemma had never really looked quite well 
since her mysterious gastric upset. Lorinda stepped back and scanned the 
windows, but the curtains defeated her. In the absence of a light in 
Gemma's living room, nothing of the inside could be seen.

To her embarrassment, the curtain was pulled back abruptly and Gemma was 
staring out at her over the window box. She said something Lorinda could 
not hear and Karla appeared in the window beside her. Gemma battled 
briefly to open the window. Karla gesticulated frantically and 
puzzlingly over Gemma's shoulder.

"What's going on?" Gemma won and leaned out of the window. "Can you see? 
They won't let us out into the foyer." From somewhere behind her, there 
came the sound of sobbing.

"Listen, don't let them shove you around like that!" Karla said, shoving 
Gemma aside to take her place at the open window. "Come in here with us. 
Tell them you're visiting Gemma. And take a good look at what's going on 
as you come through the hall."

It sounded worth a try. Macho was already shouldering his way through 
the crowd. Lorinda and Freddie fell in behind him. After a momentary 
hesitation, Jennifer Lane followed them. You couldn't blame her for 
trying, either.

The paramedic just inside the door was not happy about allowing them 
through, but realized his authority did not extend to barring visitors 
to residents, especially as Gemma was standing in her open doorway 
beckoning them on.

Macho stood back and gallantly waved the women ahead of him, thus 
ensuring that he had more time to take in the situation. In her brief 
glimpse, Lorinda saw that two of the medical team were standing at the 
opened doors of the lift, leaning into it and looking down. The 
stretcher-bearers, led by an anxious Gordie wringing his hands, were 
being ushered to the stairs leading down to his quarters, the boxrooms - 
and the bottom of the lift shaft. Gemma let them into her flat, even 
Jennifer, then tried to bar the way to Macho. "I'm sorry," she said, 
"but this is a private -Oh!"

"That's right," Freddie turned back. "You do know him. Macho's just 
changing his image.

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry. Forgive me." Thoroughly flustered, Gemma 
closed the door behind them and leaned against it, still staring 
incredulously at Macho. "Uuuh, it's very effective."

"So you gotta haircut," Jack greeted him. "About time. And the beard is 
gone, too. Good. Hey, you do have a chin!"

"Yes." Macho ground his teeth, chin jutted forward. "Gonna keep the old 
soup-strainer, are you?" No one could ever accuse Jack of being 
sensitive to the nuances of a situation. Lorinda became aware of another 
set of teeth grinding. They were Karla's.

"Do you have to be such an asshole?" she snarled at her husband.

Now that they were in the living room, Lorinda could trace the source of 
the sobbing. Rhylla clasped a shuddering, shaking Clarice to her bosom, 
rocking her, patting her back, murmuring soothing meaningless sounds.

"I'm afraid poor little Clarice discovered the body," Professor Borley 
informed them in measured tones.

Betty Alvin was making no sound at all. She sat in a corner

of the room, her back to the wall, her face whiter than the paint on the 
woodwork. A glass of dark-brown liquid was clasped in her hands, 
unnoticed, untouched. She appeared to be in deep shock.

"Perhaps you could talk to Betty," Professor Borley said. "I just can't 
seem to get through to her."

"What's the matter with her?" Freddie asked. "I thought it was Clarice 
who found the body."

"Well, yes. But Betty was the last to see her alive." He lowered his 
voice. "I'm afraid Betty blames herself."

Betty Alvin seemed to make a habit of blaming herself, Lorinda thought 
in faint irritation. That was probably why Dorian liked having her 
around. Betty was one of life's martyrs, always ready to be put-upon, 
always ready to take any blame that was going around. And Dorian was 
very good at apportioning blame.

Outside, another siren sounded briefly, but was quickly silenced, as 
though acknowledging that there was no reason to hurry any more. Lorinda 
glanced out of the window in time to see a Fire Rescue van pull up in 
front of the building. A police car was immediately behind it.

Macho had been looking around the room like the teacher He once was, 
taking roll call. Now he turned to Gemma and asked, "Where's Ondine?"

The question brought a fresh paroxysm of tears from Clarice and a faint 
protesting moan from Betty. Rhylla hugged Clarice closer. Gemma bent to 
stroke the dogs at her feet. Professor Borley cleared his throat and 
looked thoughtful. No one seemed in any hurry to answer. "Well, hell, 
they're gonna have to know," Jack said. "Thing is, she's at the bottom 
of the elevator shaft."

"Wha-at?"

"Lift, you idiot!" Karla snapped. "They don't say elevator. She's

at the bottom of the lift shaft. Well, not exactly. The lift is at the 
bottom of the shaft, she fell on top of the lift."

"Hey!" Ignoring her criticism, Jack had stalked over to the window. 
"There's a Fire Rescue truck out there."

"Sure, there is," Karla said. "It's going to take some doing to get her 
out of the lift shaft. The ambulance people can't do it all by 
themselves." "It's all my fault," Betty Alvin moaned. "All my fault."
"Don't be silly, Betty," Gemma said. "You didn't push her ... Did you?"

"No, but I fought with her." Betty seemed to be recovering; she noticed 
the drink in her hand and took a swallow. "That is, she fought with me. 
I was trying to be reasonable and explain that I couldn't take on her 
work at a moment's notice. I had too much else to do. It's all piled up 
and I'm trying to get through it as fast as I can. I told her I was 
working on your book -" She glanced at Rhylla. "And Dorian brought 
stacks of notes back from that cruise and he wants them all sorted out.
Then I'm in touch with Plantagenet Sutton's sister-in-law about clearing 
the flat. She wants me to do it - but I don't have the time, I really 
don't."

"All right, all right," Professor Borley soothed. "Take it easy. We're 
on your side."

"Yes, I know. Thank you, Abbey." She smiled at him gratefully.

"Anyway, she kept trying to persuade me to drop Rhylla's work and do 
hers instead. When I wouldn't, she got angrier and angrier and ... more 
abusive. She began saying perfectly awful things to me - and, of course, 
that didn't make me want to help her at all. I - I'm afraid I was rather 
sharp with her."

"Quite right, too," Rhylla said. "Ondine was always a bully on any 
committee she sat on. And bad-tempered with it."

"That's right," Betty said. "She lost her temper completely and,
finally, she stormed out and I could hear her stamping down the stairs 
and the door at the foot of the stairs slammed. And ... and that must 
have been when it happened, but I didn't hear anything because I went 
into the bathroom to take a couple of aspirins. She must have tried to 
get into the lift on the floor below - that's as far as it comes up - 
they didn't bother about the attic when they put it in. I suppose it was 
only used to store old records in those days and it never occurred to 
anyone that the place wouldn't be a bank forever and that people might 
be living here some day.

"Oh, I'm not complaining," she added quickly. "I quite like the privacy 
of having my own little staircase. It gives me a bit of warning if 
someone is coming up to see me - Oh, not that I mind people coming 
unannounced! No one must think they're intruding -" She broke off in 
confusion, realizing how much she was betraying and took another 
swallow.

Now that it was called to Lorinda's attention, she realized she had been 
guilty of such behaviour herself. In the comparatively short time she 
had been living here, there had been more than one occasion when she had 
mounted those attic stairs unannounced with a small sheaf of letters to 
be properly transcribed and dispatched. She could tell from the 
expressions on Freddie's and Macho's faces that she had not been alone 
in this transgression.

"So Ondine van Zeet went plunging down the stairs in a rage and that was 
the last you knew about it." Professor Borley led Betty Alvin back to 
the subject gently.

"Yes . . . until I heard Clarice screaming. But that was some time 
later. I . . . I went downstairs to . . . to investigate. I . . . I
found Clarice standing in front of the lift. The doors were open, but 
the lift wasn't there. I pulled Clarice back and leaned forward and 
looked down myself and... and... I saw her. Dimly. Sprawled on ... on 
top of the lift." Betty gave up the battle, groped for her handkerchief 
and allowed the tears to flow.

Clarice, on the other hand, had become calmer. Listening to the events 
as recounted by Betty, she nodded agreement and pushed herself free of 
Rhylla, who let her go with obvious relief, flexing her cramped arms.

"It sounds typical," Rhylla said. "I heard the door to the attic stairs 
slam. I didn't think it was Betty, but I wasn't interested enough to 
care who it was, which is just as well. Ondine would have been, 
literally, in a blind fury. She must have seen the lift doors were open 
and quite naturally thought the lift was standing there. She'd have 
hurled herself into it and

"But -" It was Karla who asked the salient question. "Why were the lift 
doors open without the lift being there? That's dangerous. I know it's 
an ancient contraption, but I thought even in those days, they had 
safety rules. The doors shouldn't open unless the lift was at that 
floor."

"Kids!" A new bitter voice said. "You have kids around the place, you 
get them fooling around, messing up everything." An exhausted, harassed 
Gordie stood in the doorway, glaring at Clarice.

"I didn't!" Clarice screamed. "I never touched those doors! Why would I 
do a thing like that?"

"You're a kid," Gordie said. "Kids will do anything. You probably
thought it would be funny if someone fell down the lift shaft."

"No! I didn't! I didn't!" Clarice hurled herself back into her
grandmother's arms, bursting into tears.

"All right, that's enough!" Rhylla snapped at Gordie. "That's a serious 
accusation and you have no right to say such a thing. If you ever repeat 
it, I'll sue!" "Gordie, what are you doing here?" Gemma was staring at
him in some perplexity. "How did you get in?"

"Oh, the door was ajar." Gordie wrenched his baleful gaze away from 
Rhylla and Clarice, obviously struggling to bring his mind back to the 
more mundane subject. "I knocked, but nobody seemed to hear me so.. ." 
He shrugged.

"The Rescue Services sent me." His voice grew firmer as he cited a 
higher authority. "They want me to make sure everybody stays put for the 
next few minutes. They don't want anyone straying out into the main 
hall. You see' - he looked at them with grim relish - "they're bringing 
out the body now.

12

As soon as the ambulance had driven away from Coffers Court with its 
grim burden, the gathering split up abruptly. In the marble hall, the 
yellow tapes sealing off the area around the lift were an uneasy 
reminder that the police would be investigating this incident.

Gordie stood irresolutely by Gemma's door for a few minutes, but only 
Clarice paid any attention to him, sticking her tongue out as she passed 
him. Rhylla had noticed, but made no comment; she held Clarice's hand 
tightly as they started up the two flights of stairs to her flat.

"I'd better get back to my workroom," Gordie said, quite as though 
someone had invited him to stay. "I expect the police will want to talk 
to me." He sent a malevolent glance after Clarice. "They'll want to know 
what could have happened with the lift doors and all that." There was 
little doubt as to what he would tell them and who he would blame. It 
did not make anyone feel any more kindly disposed towards him and they
allowed him to depart unhindered.

Professor Borley swept Betty Alvin and Jennifer Lane up to his flat for 
further refreshment. Gemma decided that it was a matter of urgency that 
she walk the dogs at once.

Lorinda wanted to check on the cats and Freddie and Macho had naturally 
gravitated towards the house with her. Somehow, Karla and Jack had 
tagged along, happily unaware that they were blocking the conversation 
that would otherwise have ensued.

Had-I was furious and complaining, But-Known was resigned. Had-I marched 
over to the catflap and bumped her head against it several times, 
demonstrating the extent of her captivity and her annoyance. But-Known, 
curled up on a kitchen chair, watched with one open eye, waiting to see 
what would result.

Lorinda sighed and went to the fridge. Had-I slowed her tirade and began 
to relent. Oh, well, if she was going to apologize properly...

But-Known yawned, stretched and slithered to the floor, sauntering over 
to join Had-I at the fridge. This was more like it . Last night's 
leftovers were quite acceptable, thank you. They watched with approval 
and some surprise as she scraped out the casserole into their dishes. 
She hoped they weren't betraying the fact that, if she hadn't brought 
company back with her, she might have just put the casserole down and 
left it to their rough little tongues to do the scraping.

As it was, only Freddie had an amused smile. Karla and Jack obviously 
weren't attuned to feline attitudes and the cats' silent communication 
went over their heads. Macho was too bemused to notice. With relief, 
Lorinda led everyone into the living room and dispensed drinks, but 
first she snapped on all the lamps against the encroaching darkness.

"If you ask me, there are a helluva lot of accidents here for one little 
village," Jack said, rubbing his injured arm. "Now, if all this had 
happened in one of your books..." He let the uncomfortable thought lie 
there.

"Jerk!" Karla said. "Most of what happens in life is too unbelievable to 
put into a book. We all know that. We have to tone it down to make it 
seem real." "Coincidences abound in real life," Macho agreed, but looked

as though he might be having second thoughts about it. "At least, we 
always assume they're coincidences.

"Aaaaarrreeeooow.. ." The long plaintive wail rose outside the windows 
and Macho leapt to his feet.

"Roscoe!" He rushed to the window and threw it open. He was nearly 
knocked over as the large orange tom flew past him into the room.

"Roscoe.. ." He closed the window again and turned to stare

at his pet, who was now sitting complacently at his feet. "How did you 
get out?"

Because someone else got in? Lorinda wondered whether there was now 
another bottle of tequila lurking somewhere in Macho's house, waiting to 
be discovered. Or perhaps something worse. The fictional Macho Magee had 
an unfortunate disposition towards finding naked female corpses in 
various corners of his seedy office-cum-dwelling. It would be a natural 
progression of the harassment campaign being waged, but, if it had not 
occurred to him, she did not want to be the one to put it into his mind.

"That cat gets bigger every time I look at him," Jack said. "You got him 
on steroids, or something?"

"Don't be insulting," Macho huffed. "Some breeds are just naturally 
large."

Roscoe blinked amiably at them both. When neither food nor affection was 
forthcoming, he got up and ambled towards the kitchen where the faint 
sound of bowls scraping along the linoleum could be heard.

Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to question Roscoe's pedigree, but the 
doorbell cut across him. Before anyone could move to answer, it rang 
again. And again. Someone without much patience was intent on entry.

"Hello, Dorian." Lorinda opened the door, winning the mental bet with 
herself.

"Your telephone is out of order," he said irritably. "I've been trying 
to get you."

"Oh?" This was not the moment to explain that she had unplugged it when 
she went out. The fear of coming back to find another sinister message 
waiting had been too much for her. "Come in."

"Where's Betty?" Dorian halted in the doorway and looked around the room 
with dissatisfaction. "I thought she'd be here. I can't find her 
anywhere else." "She's with Professor Borley," Karla said. "At least, 
she was when we left."

"I've tried Abbey. He isn't there." Dorian looked at the glass

of Scotch Lorinda had automatically given him and tasted it
suspiciously. "Or else he isn't answering the telephone."

That was only too possible. Lorinda was in no hurry to plug hers back 
in.

"Perhaps they went out for a meal." Karla shrugged. "Or maybe they went 
back to the bookshop with Jennifer. She was there, too.

"Why does everybody call him Abbey?" The question had evidently been 
bothering Jack for some time. "I know his initials are A.B., which I'd 
pronounce Abie. So why the Abbey stuff?"

"Because his name is Borley," Dorian said impatiently. "Don't you see 
it?"

"See what?" It was clear he didn't.

"Borley Abbey," Freddie elucidated. "The most haunted place

in Britain." He still looked blank. "It's a joke," she explained. "An 
English joke." His voice was flat as he found the joke. "That's right, 
dear." With Dorian present, Karla cooed sweetly. "It's over your head."

"You didn't get it, either," he snarled. "And I'll give you odds Borley 
doesn't think it's funny.

"On the contrary," Dorian said. "He was quite amused. Once I'd explained 
it to him."

"I'll bet," Jack said. "The guy's got a proper name, hasn't he? Why the 
hell don't you let him use it?"

"Dorian -" Freddie broke into the dialogue. "You do know, don't you?"

"Know?" He looked blank. "About Ondine?"

"Oh, that. Yes. Gordie reported to me. That was why I was trying to get 
hold of Betty. We'll need to draft a press release. Notify her 
publishers, agent, relatives..." He faltered, perhaps sensing that he 
was not quite in accord with his audience. "It's all very sad," he said 
quickly. "But she wasn't a young woman, nor, I suspect, a particularly 
well one. It's just very unfortunate that it happened here, when she'd 
just moved in an -

The doorbell made them all jump. Lorinda hurried to answer

it. She was conscious of a muted yapping as she approached, so it was no 
surprise when she opened the door. "Hello, Gemma." The pugs at Gemma's 
feet surged forward, then stopped and moved back uneasily.

Lorinda glanced over her shoulder to see Had-I and But-Known advancing 
with a territorial glint in their eyes. Roscoe followed behind them, 
bristled up to nearly twice his size, clearly ready to do battle for his 
females.

"Come in," Lorinda invited, crossing her fingers and hoping for the 
best. Gemma looked even more upset than the last time she had seen her.

"Yes, thank you. Come on!" Gemma tugged at the leashes, but Conqueror 
and Lionheart had suddenly become reluctant to enter the hallway.

"Behave yourselves," Lorinda said over her shoulder to the cats. They 
paused and waited in ominous docility.

"I beg your pardon?" Gemma was startled. "Oh -" She looked beyond 
Lorinda. "I see. Come on. She tugged at the leashes again. "They're not 
going to bother you.

With faint apologetic whines and bellies low, Conqueror and Lionheart 
scurried past the cats, keeping close to Gemma's ankles for protection. 
The cats watched implacably.

"Stay there," Lorinda said to them, firmly closing the door behind her.

"I'm sorry," Gemma said. "I just couldn't go home. I tried. I got there 
just as the light over the front entrance went on, and - and I could see 
it! In big black letters! I couldn't walk under

it. I couldn't go in. "See what?" Lorinda asked. Behind her, the 
doorknob rattled. She tried to ignore it.

"The graffiti." Gemma looked frightened. "Someone has crossed out the 
"ERS" of COFFERS and written "IN" over it, so that the name reads COFFIN 
COURT. I couldn't- "So now it's vandalism!" Dorian exploded, more upset 
by that than he had been by Ondine's death.

There was a decisive click and Lorinda felt a draught on the back of her 
legs. The cats marched past her purposefully and took up commanding 
positions in front of the fireplace. The pugs cringed closer to Gemma, 
who was watching Dorian and didn't notice.

"Vandals!" Dorian raged. "They didn't chip off the bas-relief letters, 
did they?" he asked in sudden anxiety. "That would cost a fortune to 
repair. It was just the black paint?" "Feelings are running pretty high 
in this town," Jack said. "Next thing will be broken windows," he added, 
as Dorian winced. He didn't appear to find anything strange in Dorian's
attitude, but Lorinda was beginning to ask herself just why Dorian 
seemed to be taking it so personally.

"Just the paint," Gemma said. "I'm sure Gordie will be able to clean it 
up. It will be quite a job for him, though. He'll have to scrub for 
hours. It's very messy."

"If Gordie had been doing his duty, it wouldn't have happened

in the first place," Dorian snapped. "He should have been keeping watch 
at the door.

"Gordie has had his hands full today," Freddie pointed out. "He must be 
exhausted. I wouldn't blame him if he went to bed for the rest of the 
week with the covers pulled over his head."

"I'll go over there and speak to him now." There wasn't much chance of 
that with Dorian around. "If he starts on the graffiti now, he should 
have it cleaned up by morning."

"You expect him to work all night?" Karla was scandalized. "If he'd been 
doing his job properly, it wouldn't be necessary. He brought it on 
himself."

"An awful lot of people around here seem to bring things on themselves," 
Jack muttered. "At least, that's what other people keep telling them." 
He rubbed his arm and flexed his fingers experimentally. He looked from 
Dorian to his wife, suspicious and unforgiving.

But Dorian had been on the terrace when Jack fell or was pushed - into 
the bonfire. Hadn't he? Lorinda realized suddenly that they knew the 
moment Jack had been found smouldering in the ashes, but there was no 
conveniently broken watch to register the moment he actually had been 
pushed.

"You'd better leave poor Gordie alone for a while." There was

a distinctly bossy note in Karla's voice, perhaps she'd forgotten it was 
not her husband she was addressing. "Morning is time enough for him to 
worry about graffiti. He's going to have to clean up the top of the lift 
first, isn't he? Before it can be put back into service again."

Although both true and practical, the pragmatic statement was too 
graphic for its hearers. There was an abrupt deep imbibing of drink in 
the silence that followed.

Inadvertently, Lorinda intercepted the look Dorian shot at Karla. It 
went through her like an electric shock. It was as embarrassing as 
finding you'd opened someone else's letter by mistake, as disturbing as 
though that letter had been a piece of hate mail.

Lorinda recalled abruptly that Jack and Karla had been dressed alike on 
Bonfire Night. In the darkness and excitement, it would have been quite 
easy for the wrong Jackley to receive that nearly fatal push.

"SSSssss.. ." ... "RRrrreeeeeoooow.. ." ... "Aarrfff.. ." The uneasy 
truce was over. Hostilities broke out.

"No! Stop!" Gemma tugged at the leashes, ignoring the fact that the dogs 
were already scuttling for shelter behind her.

"Had-I, But-Known - No!" Lorinda tried, although she could see it was 
useless.

"Roscoe!" Macho frowned, but the effect was lost because his tone 
sounded admiring rather than censorious.

Paying no attention to human protests, the cats advanced on their prey. 
Almost languidly, Had-I stretched out a paw and raked the air an inch 
from Conqueror's nose. He backed away, yelping as though the claws had 
connected with his tender nose. Lionheart wriggled forward a bit, but 
Roscoe gave a warning growl and he retreated again. Even But-Known had 
the light of battle in her eyes; no canine was going to infringe on her
territory. She feinted wildly, with more enthusiasm than skill.
Conqueror yelped and reared back so sharply he pulled the end of his 
leash out of Gemma's hand. She turned to go after him and Lionheart got 
away.

"Back!" Gemma flapped her hands at the inexorably advancing cats. "Get 
back!"

But the only ones backing were the pugs. Not daring to take their eyes 
off the cats, they slunk backwards until their rumps collided with the 
wall and there was no escape.

"Had-I, that's enough! But-Known, stop it! You, too, Roscoe!" Lorinda 
might just as well have never spoken. She circled round behind the cats, 
waiting for her moment to swoop on Had-I, who was definitely the 
ringleader and bully-in-chief.

Gemma had abandoned her flapping motions and was making suggestive 
little movements of her feet.

Don't you dare! Lorinda shot her a look as menacing as any of the cats' 
and Gemma subsided into shuffling.

"I can't understand it," Gemma complained. "They all got on

so well in my place the other day." Because they were the invaders. But 
this was not the moment

to explain. "Throw a bucket of water over them!" Jack and Karla had
retreated to the far side of the room. It was clear that they were not 
going to get involved. Dorian had retreated just far enough to stay 
clear of the action, but not so far as to be suspected of opting out, 
although no one in their right mind ... mind ... would have looked for 
help from that quarter to begin with.

"Really, I think we'd better go now. Gemma tried to recapture the 
leashes. "Conqueror! Lionheart! Come along! Home!"

The dogs were more than willing, but the cats blocked their way. With an 
anxious whine, Conqueror tried to sidle along the wall, but Had-I cut 
him off. Roscoe kept Lionheart paralysed with a baleful stare.

"Call off your cats." Jack was full of bright suggestions. "Let the poor 
dogs go."

"Have you ever tried to call off a cat?" Freddie's question was
rhetorical. Jack obviously knew nothing about feline characteristics.

Abruptly, the final onslaught erupted in a flurry of slashing, flashing 
paws, against high-pitched yelps and scurryings. Hisses, yowls and 
spitting imprecations filled the air.

Conqueror was the first to crack. He slithered down and rolled over, 
belly up, waving helpless paws in the air. Lionheart hesitated only a 
second longer, then Roscoe's paw caught him across the nose and he 
joined Conqueror in abject surrender, whining.

"Those dogs' - Dorian looked down at them with distaste - "give an 
entirely new dimension to the expression pussy- whipped."

The cats hovered menacingly over the pugs for a moment longer then, 
honour satisfied and no doubt as to the victors, they exchanged glances 
and strolled away.

"Come along!" Gemma had the leashes now and tugged the dogs to their 
feet.

"I'll walk you back," Dorian said. "I want to have that talk with 
Gordie."

"I still think you should leave him alone for tonight," Karla
volunteered. "I told you, he's had a rotten day."

"And I think I'll go up to London for a few days tomorrow," Dorian added 
reflectively.

"Again?" Karla was indignant. "You're always going up to London. What's 
the big attraction up there?"

Dorian looked at her with almost as much distaste as he had shown for 
the cringing dogs. For a moment, Lorinda thought he might be going to 
tell her. "Work." He slid away from confrontation. "There are several
projects that require my attention."

"Yeah?" Karla's tone was unpleasant. "Did it ever occur to you that 
there might be a few projects around here that require your attention?"

Lorinda stooped and gathered up Had-I and But-Known, trying to pretend 
that the conversation was meaningless to her. It was so embarrassing 
when people thought that they were talking to each other in code, 
unaware that their listeners had long since cracked the code.

"I told you," Dorian said, a trifle testily. "I'll see to it that Gordie
cleans up the building immediately. That's the main priority. Anything 
else can wait until I get back."

"Don't be too sure of that." Karla was glaring at him. Jack was glaring, 
too, but probably for a different reason. Even the most untalented can 
eventually crack a code when it becomes blatant enough.

Lorinda hoped Dorian was learning his lesson and that this would be the 
last time he got involved with impressionable women he met abroad. She 
wondered whether there might be a further influx from the contacts he 
had made on his cruise. Dorian, pouring on that Olde-English charm and 
those tropical nights at sea, would undoubtedly have proved a dangerous 
combination on a shipful of vulnerable ladies looking for romance.

She had a further disquieting thought: with the deaths of Plantagenet 
Sutton and Ondine van Zeet, there was now accommodation available again 
at Coffers Court.

"The sooner that disgraceful mess over the entrance is removed, the 
better!" Gemma sailed through the front door as Dorian opened it for 
her. "And if you have to pay Gordie double for overtime, it will be 
worth it."

The door slammed behind them with a vehemence that betrayed Dorian's 
opinion of that idea. Gordie would be lucky to be paid at all; he was 
more likely to get a lecture on his carelessness in allowing the 
graffiti artist to operate in the first place.

"We'd better go, too." Jack had a firm grip on Karla's arm with his good 
hand. "Maybe I oughta get down and take a picture of the defaced 
building before Gordie gets scrubbing and destroys the evidence."

"Evidence? What are you talking about?" Karla was prepared

to fight about anything. Luckily, they kept moving towards the door. 
"What do you mean, evidence?"

"The way things are going around here, who can tell?" Jack opened the 
door.

"Yeah? Well, you'd better not let Dorian catch you taking any pictures. 
He wouldn't like it."

"Yeah? Well, maybe I don't care what Dorian likes. Some people around 
here may think he's God Almighty, but I sure as hell don't! He can -" 
The door slammed behind them. 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 licence by selling spirits to an underaged 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 oldfashioned 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 
successfu] 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."

 13

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. ....... 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?"

There was silence inside. They looked at each other uneasily. "If we 
were the police," Macho pointed out, "we'd be quite justified in 
investigating. It isn't as though we're breaking in. The windows are 
open and the circumstances are suspicious. The law is on our side."

"I'm not worried about the law," Freddie said. "I just don't want to 
confront Dorian in his dressing gown asking us what the hell we think 
we're doing trooping through his house."

"He said he was going up to London today," Lorinda remembered belatedly. 
"He may have caught an early train."

"That's right." Freddie's sigh of relief was audible. "So, the house is 
empty, the French window is open - and your cats have been helping 
themselves in the fish tank. Every reason in the world to check up on 
things. What are we waiting for? Let's go in and see what the damage 
is." "Perhaps we can replace the missing fish before Dorian returns." 
Macho saw a ray of hope. "Unless they ate a few others before they 
brought any home. I couldn't tell which ones are gone, though, could 
you?"

"Dorian?" Not dignifying that with an answer, Freddie advanced into the 
drawing room, still calling out - just in case. "Yoo-hoo... Dorian... 
anyone home?"

The drawing room was silent and empty, looking like a stage set waiting 
for the actors to appear. On the far side of the room, the door to 
Dorian's study was ajar - again, just enough to allow an enterprising 
cat to go in and out. "Dorian -?" Freddie crossed the room and rapped on 
the door. "Are you in there...?" Silence. Lorinda and Macho came up
behind her and waited.

"Oh, well," Freddie said. "In for a penny, in for a pound." She pushed 
the door open and they started in.

Lorinda had the sudden unnerving sensation of stepping into

a quagmire. The carpet gave way strangely under her foot and it had an 
odd spongy texture. She looked down to see tiny bubbles of water well up 
around her shoe.

"This carpet is soaking wet!" Macho discovered indignantly. "I can't see 
a thing." Freddie reached for the light switch on the wall, but Macho 
caught her hand.

"Don't touch an electric switch when you're standing in water!"

"Thanks, I wasn't thinking. I'll open the curtains instead." Freddie 
started across the room. "Uuggh! I've stepped on something!"

That was enough to discourage Lorinda from venturing further without 
light. She and Macho hovered just inside the doorway.

"There!" Freddie swept back the curtains and daylight flooded the room. 
They could now see the extent of the devastation. "Oh, my God!"

The carpet was littered with tiny dead fish, sprayed out across

it from the gaping jagged hole in the side of the glass tank. A few 
remaining fish - tiny Neons - darted about hysterically in the few 
inches of water at the bottom of the aquarium, dodging in and out around 
the glittering shards of glass that loomed like icebergs in their midst.

"Well..." Macho broke the stunned silence. "He can't blame the cats for 
that!"

"It must have happened hours ago." Lorinda began to recover. "Perhaps 
during the night. The carpet couldn't have got so saturated in any 
shorter space of time." She became aware that a steady trickle of water 
was still dribbling from the tank, emanating from the little device 
Dorian had installed to keep fresh water circulating for the fish. There 
was another faint background sound ... she looked around for the source.

"Oh, God!" Freddie found it first. She stared at the other side

of the room where Dorian's big desk skewed across a corner, where he 
could sit, back to the wall, commanding the room. He was slumped in his 
desk chair now, watching them through half-closed eyes.

"Dorian! We didn't realize you were here." No, that didn't sound right. 
Lorinda corrected hastily, "I mean, we thought you'd caught the early 
train to London -" No, that was worse. "I mean - "Frightfully sorry, old 
boy," Macho apologized. "We wouldn't have dreamed of intruding had we 
known you were still

"Gug..." Dorian said faintly. He seemed to be trying to rise. .... . ... 
. ..... ." He pitched forward, face down on the desk.

It was then that they could see the dark red smear congealing on the 
back of his head.

It was hours before they were able to return to their homes. First they 
had to wait for the ambulance and the police, carefully restraining 
themselves from touching anything except for Freddie, who wiped the 
squashed fish off the sole of her shoe and threw it into the 
wastebasket. (Something which required explanation when a policeman 
looked into the wastebasket and thought he had discovered a clue.)

Darkness had fallen on Brimful Coffers by the time they returned. They 
had followed the ambulance in Freddie's car, waited at the hospital 
while Dorian underwent emergency surgery, notified his sister when he 
was safely settled in intensive care, snatched a meal they had neither 
tasted nor noticed, and now looked without favour at the dark empty 
shells of their respective homes.

"All I want is to collapse." Freddie halted the car and rested her head 
on the steering wheel for a moment. "I want to fall into bed and sleep 
for a week."

"You do remember that you promised-" Macho began. "I promised to meet 
Dorian's sister at the train station in the morning and drive her to the 
hospital," Freddie said. "I know. Me and my big mouth."

"You'll feel stronger in the morning," Lorinda encouraged, opening the 
car door. Collapse suddenly sounded like the best idea she had ever 
heard. She felt so exhausted she wondered if she'd have the energy to 
change into her nightgown. "Don't bet on it." Freddie pulled her keys 
from the ignition and opened her own door, shuddering as she looked at 
the encroaching mist. "At least we got home before the worst of the fog 
sets in. It's going to be a filthy night."

"I hope Dorian lasts through it." Lorinda stepped out of the car and a 
movement beyond the mist drew her attention.

"He's pretty tough," Macho said. "And the doctor was what I'd call 
cautiously optimistic. But it was lucky for him we found him when we 
did."

"Thieving cats have their uses," Freddie said dryly. "If they hadn't 
filched those fish ... and speaking of devils

Three little forms bounded towards them, scolding. "Oh, darlings, have 
we gone away and left you all day?" Guiltily, Lorinda stooped and 
gathered up her two. There was always dry cat food left out for them to 
nibble, but they expected more than that in the course of a long day.

"Here, Roscoe. Come here, boy. What's the matter with you?" Each time 
Macho bent to pick up his cat, Roscoe evaded him, backing just out of 
reach, then returning when Macho straightened up. He was uttering 
plaintive little cries.

"That's odd," Macho said. "He usually only behaves this way when I'm 
going to take him to the vet."

"Why aren't you in the nice warm house?" Lorinda asked Had-I and 
But-Known. She ruffled their fur and frowned. "They're wet and cold. 
They didn't just run out to meet us they must have been outside for some 
time."

"Roscoe's wet, too." Macho finally captured his skittish friend. "He 
hates being wet or cold. Why isn't he inside?"

"You know' - Freddie closed her car door silently - "I think I'm going 
to revise my scenario. Suddenly, collapse doesn't seem like a very good 
plan. Not until we know what's going on around here. When 
comfort-loving, spoiled-rotten little creatures like yours take to the 
great outdoors on a night like this, there's got to be something nasty 
in the woodshed ... or in the house." They looked at the dark silent 
houses awaiting them. "Roscoe?" Macho sniffed sharply, lowered his nose 
to Roscoe's head and sniffed again. "Roscoe reeks of liquor." He looked
thoughtfully at his own house. "Probably tequila."

"I'm not going to sleep tonight," Freddie said, "until all our houses 
have been searched top to bottom.

"We'll have to search them ourselves," Lorinda said. "I'm not keen on 
the thought of what the police might say if we call them in for 
something as vague as this. I'm afraid they have a fairly low opinion of 
us already."

"In the best old tradition," Macho said.

"And I wouldn't like to tell them that story about us being haunted by 
our own characters, either," Freddie said. "Here, let me take one of the 
cats, you can't manage them both." She took But-Known into her own arms. 
"No, a story like that would be a one-way ticket to Colney Hatch."
"Which is undoubtedly what was intended - and why we tried to hide what 
was happening to us." Macho stared at the unresponsive facade of his 
cottage. "At best, people would think we're harmless lunatics; at worst, 
they'd suspect we're so disturbed that we're behind all the death and 
destruction in Brimful Coffers."

"Someone is." Lorinda knew there could be no doubt about that now.

"Yes - and our best suspects are dead. Or dying." Macho was grim. "I 
think we can consider Dorian exonerated ... the hard way. And 
Plantagenet has been dead for weeks."

"Again in the best tradition." Freddie shivered. "Look, I'd rather be 
doing something other than standing here catching pneumonia. Suppose we 
start with Macho's house and see if there's anything ... or anyone ... 
to find."

Roscoe twisted uneasily in Macho's arms and mewled distress

as they entered the house. Macho snapped on the front hall light. 
Nothing happened.

"Of course, the bulb was there when I moved in," Macho said.

"I suppose it could have burned out naturally." "Mmmm-hmmmm... Lorinda 
said. Freddie snorted.

There was nothing wrong with the living room lamp ... or the room, 
either. Roscoe renewed his struggles as they headed for the kitchen. 
Macho walked more warily.

The kitchen light responded to the click of the switch, flooding the 
kitchen with a harsh bright glare. Too harsh and too bright. They 
glanced upwards instinctively.

The frosted globe that diffused the light had been shattered, only a few 
jagged remnants still curved out from the fixture. The rest of the globe 
lay in a trail of shards across the floor, ending at the far wall where 
a broken tequila bottle lay in a reeking puddle.

On the kitchen table, another tequila bottle, two-thirds empty, stood 
beside a glass with an inch of liquid still remaining in it. The chair 
lay on the floor, as though it had been pushed back so roughly it had 
tipped over.

"Ah, yes." Macho took it in quietly. "A very pretty picture. Macho 
Magee, drunk as usual, hurls bottle at the light, possibly because pink 
elephants are lurking behind it, tips over chair and, presumably, 
staggers upstairs to bed. Through the pitch-black hallway." Macho 
crossed to a cupboard and took down a small flashlight.

"Shall we go upstairs and see what was waiting for him?" They didn't 
need to go upstairs. As Macho swept the beam

of light up the staircase, something glimmered at the top that shouldn't 
have been there.

"Ah, yes." Macho swung the light back to illuminate it. "Very neat." A 
transparent nylon cord stretched taut at ankle level across the top 
step.

"So drunken Macho stumbles at the top of the stairs and pitches 
backwards down them and, if the fall doesn't kill him, doubtless someone 
will be along to finish the job and remove the cord. Another tequila 
bottle will be found clutched in his hand, its contents liberally 
sprayed over and around him, as much as possible poured down his throat 
if he's in any condition to do any swallowing "Don't!" Freddie choked.

"There's a certain symmetry about it you have to admire," Macho said 
dispassionately. "An echo of the Plantagenet Sutton demise, as another 
drunk falls - literally - prey to the bottle. And note the similarity of 
the violence of broken glass and spilled liquids in Dorian's study and 
Macho's kitchen. I wouldn't be surprised if a few clues surfaced to 
point to Macho, in one of his uncontrollable rages, as the killer."
"Dorian isn't dead yet," Lorinda pointed out. "He's got a fighting
chance, thanks to our finding him when we did."

"Ah, yes. Someone's plans are going wildly awry - and all because the 
cats interfered in their own little way. No one could have foreseen 
that." Macho started forward.

"No, please!" Lorinda pulled him back, nearly dropping Had-I

as she did so. "Don't go up there. You don't know what else might be 
booby-trapped. Let's wait until morning."

"Morning?"  Freddie looked at her with a strange expression. "And how do 
we get through the night? I don't fancy being in my house alone - and 
you shouldn't, either. I think we ought to stick together for the rest 
of the night." "That's not a bad idea," Lorinda said. "Since I'm the 
only one with enough rooms, that makes it my place. I suggest you be my 
guests."

"It's a bloody great idea," Macho said. "You're on!" He started for the 
door.

"Don't you want to collect your pyjamas or anything?" "No, you're right 
- this is no time to go upstairs. Anyway, who's going to sleep?" Macho 
gave a lopsided grin. "You two can, but I'm doing guard duty."

"I'll just borrow something from you," Freddie said. "I'm not going near 
my place. I saw those next-door curtains twitch. The jackals are ready 
to pounce the instant I show up.

They saw the fog had closed in with deadly intent as they crossed the 
lawns between the houses. Another hour or so and it would be so thick 
someone could get lost crossing that short distance.

Lorinda held her breath for a moment, but her hall light went on without 
a blink. Everything looked the way she had left it.

Only the cats gave the game away. Had-I's ears pricked, But-Known 
twisted uneasily in Freddie's arms. Roscoe gave a menacing growl.

""Steady, the Light Brigade"," Macho said, stepping in front

of the women. As one, the cats tensed and leaped from their arms to the 
floor. Roscoe was not the only one growling now.

"Who's there?" Lorinda called.

Silence. Deadly silence? They could not be sure. The cats might be 
reacting to something that had already happened. A trap already set and 
waiting to be sprung, while the murderer was somewhere else ... 
establishing an alibi.

The lamps in the living room responded instantly when Lorinda flicked 
the wall switch. The room was empty... it appeared safe.

"In here..." She led the way. The cats brought up the rear, twitching 
and uneasy. They all looked around carefully.

Freddie peered behind every piece of furniture and even, with

an apologetic grimace, under them. Lorinda looked behind the drapes, 
then drew them closed. If the menace were lurking outside, it was better 
not to give him a clear view.

Or her, she thought suddenly, unnervingly. Lily could be as dangerous as 
any man. Once there, the thought would not go away.

"Would you like a drink?"  Lorinda tried to pretend it was the usual 
social gathering.

"Only from an unopened bottle," Macho growled, bringing her back to 
reality.

"Shouldn't we search the house before we relax?" Freddie asked.

They looked at each other. Beyond the pools of comforting light thrown 
out by the lamps, the rest of the house loomed large and dark.

"Oh, well, perhaps not." Freddie threw herself down on the sofa. 
"Personally, I'm quite happy to spend the rest of the night right here. 
Who needs a bed?"

"Quite right." Macho wandered over to the fireplace and picked up the 
poker, weighing it thoughtfully.

"The only unopened bottle is Scotch," Lorinda said. "Is that all right?" 
She began to break the seal.

"Grrrrrr..." All the hairs rose on Roscoe's back. "Sssss... haaaaah!" 
Had-I spat, her suddenly bushy tail lashing. But-Known's eyes seemed to 
grow to an enormous size as she stared at the doorway.

The cats were all watching the doorway and the shadows in the hall 
beyond it.

Lorinda took a tighter grip on the neck of the bottle. Freddie slid off 
the sofa, clutching a pillow defensively in front of her.

"You'd better come in," Macho said loudly. "We know you're out there!"

After a long hesitation, a female figure glided into view. She was 
wearing a long grey chiffon dress that seemed to float around her.

"Don't move," she whispered huskily. She was levelling an evil-looking 
black gun at them. She had red hair.

"Wraith!" Freddie gasped. "Wraith O'Reilly." "Marigold..." Lorinda said 
faintly.

"I think not." Macho had taken a colder more dispassionate look at the 
figure, had seen past the wig and noted the bulge of the ever-present 
hammer at the waist beneath the flowing chiffon, the hammer that had 
already smashed a fish tank - and a skull.

"Gordie," Macho said. ....... ... . ... . Gordie. Dorian tried

to tell us. "Very clever. No - don't move!" Incongruously, even though
he had been recognized, Gordie kept to the husky pseudo-female whisper. 
"Put down that poker."

"Make up your mind," Macho said. "Do you want me not to move? Or do you 
want me to put down the poker?"

"Put it down! Slowly! ... The bottle, too." The gun moved to aim at 
Lorinda.

He was mad, of course. And he hated them. All of them. Even

if they obeyed his every instruction, what chance did they have of 
surviving? Slowly, Lorinda set the bottle down on the table. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw Macho replacing the poker.

"Sit down!" The gun moved to indicate the sofa. "All of you. Together. 
Where -" He broke off, on guard as they moved towards the sofa.

Where I can keep an eye on you ... Where you'll make a better target... 
The unspoken endings to his sentence hung in the air.

Lorinda and Freddie sat on the sofa. Macho tried to perch on the arm.

"Down!" He didn't get away with it. The gun gestured imperiously. "On 
the cushions with the women.

But, having got them where he wanted them, Gordie didn't seem to know 
what he wanted to do with them.

"There are too many of you," he complained fretfully, brushing back a 
red lock. "What are you all doing here? Why aren't you in your own 
houses?" "We were invited here," Freddie responded. "Which is more than 
you can say."

"That's right! You never invited me anywhere! Any of you!"

It had been the wrong thing to say. It fuelled his grievance. "I was 
nothing but good old Gordie. I could repair your typewriters, mend your 
fuses, fix your plumbing - but I wasn't good enough to mix with 
socially."

"Oh, God! I've set him off." Freddie shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Macho patted her hand absently. "Dorian's,
perhaps ... all those unrealistic promises..."

"Dorian!" Gordie snarled, his voice roughened. "Dorian - the Great I-Am! 
I hope he rots in hell!"

"Well," Macho said mildly. "You did your best to send him there. I think 
I can understand ... up to a point. What I don't understand is why..."

"Why us?" Freddie cut in. "What did we ever do to you? All right, so we 
hadn't invited you anywhere. But it's early days yet. We haven't lived 
here all that long ourselves. We're still settling in. You might have 
given us a bit more time -

The gun swung to point at her forehead, silencing her. "I can write 
better than any of you!" He waited but, with the gun pointed in their 
direction, no one was going to give him an argument. "I could write 
Wraith O'Reilly!" He pointed the gun at Freddie, then moved it on to 
Macho. "I could write Macho Magee!" He aimed at Lorinda. "And I can 
write Miss Petunia!"

"You certainly can," Lorinda agreed. "I couldn't be sure I hadn't done 
those chapters myself."

"Yes, they were good, weren't they?" He preened. "Wait till you see the 
suicide note I've written for you. Only ... you won't see it. No one 
will now." His eyes shifted, as though he were listening to an inner 
voice.

"I can't do it that way now. You're all together." His voice took on a 
note of complaint. "You've ruined my plans."

"That just about breaks my heart," Freddie said. "It will have to be a 
double murder and suicide." Gordie looked

at them assessingly and nodded. "That will do." Lorinda felt soft fur 
brush her ankles from beneath the sofa where the cats had wisely 
retreated. It added to the unreality of the situation. How could this 
man be standing in front of them with a gun, calmly planning to kill 
them? And how long had he been planning it? He might be complaining now 
that they hadn't invited him into their lives, but that could not be the 
only reason. It was four months ago that he had taken her typewriter to 
do a minor repair and kept it longer than she had expected. He must have 
written the Miss Petunia chapters then. And the suicide note, too? They 
could have taken him to their bosoms and it wouldn't have made any 
difference, this had been cold-bloodedly plotted a long time before. But 
why? She remembered the argument for her death that had been voiced by 
his version of Miss Petunia. "You cannot seriously imagine," Lorinda 
said incredulously, "that if you kill us, you'll be asked to take over 
writing our series?"

"Why not? I'm a good writer. I've just never been given a chance. Now 
I'll be right here on the spot when your publishers come down to sift 
through your literary estates and find out if you've left anything fit 
for publication. I'll be able to talk to them ... show them examples of 
my work in your styles ... Oh, I have no doubt we'll come to a 
satisfactory arrangement, all right." He smiled into the future. "You 
won't be able to write all three series," Freddie objected. "Our styles 
are all too different. And it would be a back-breaking schedule."

"Oh, I expect I'll be able to take my choice," he said casually. "And 
you needn't talk to me about back-breaking. Anyone working for Dorian 
knows all about that."

Yes, the last straw must have been when Dorian insisted that Gordie 
ought to work all night to clean up the graffiti. If it hadn't had such 
nightmare consequences, Lorinda might almost have felt some sympathy.

"But why kill Ondine?" Macho asked. "She didn't have any series 
characters. Her gimmick was her Un-titles."

"Rotten, arrogant bitch!" Gordie spat. "She insulted me ... treated me 
like dirt. She was unbearable, uncivil, unkind, uncharitable, 
unforgivable ... and so -" he gave them a chilling smile - "she was 
undone."

Poor Ondine. Plunging down those attic stairs in a fury, bumping into 
Gordie, venting her wrath on him - and paying for it horribly. Lorinda 
shuddered.

"And Gemma had that odd, nearly fatal bout of food poisoning..." Freddie 
was following her own trail of thought.

"She rejected my short stories," Gordie snarled. "They were better than 
anything appearing in her miserable magazine, but she kept rejecting 
them. I didn't use enough poison," he brooded. "I didn't want it to be 
obvious and I undermeasured. She survived. Still' - he brightened - "she 
has nothing to do with the magazine any more. She doesn't matter."

"Plantagenet Sutton was pretty unbearable, too," Macho said
thoughtfully. "If that's part of the criteria. Or did he criticize one
of your unpublished manuscripts? The way he criticized, that would do 
it."

"I thought he was my friend." Gordie's eyes misted. "He was the only one 
who ever asked me in for a drink and talked to me about writing. He was 
going to help me get started. He got the case of tequila for me, he 
thought the idea was really funny. Upsetting all you people, using your 
own characters against you, destabilizing you... He wanted to see what 
effect it would have on your books."

"Yes," Macho said. "Plantagenet would think it was a howling great joke. 
I knew he was in it somewhere.

"Only... he lost his sense of humour." Gordie's eyes clouded. "He said I 
could have killed Jack, pushing him into that bonfire. He didn't 
understand..."

"I suppose Jack had insulted you, too," Freddie sighed. "What

a sensitive little flower you are." "Sutton said I was going too far ... 
getting too dangerous," Gordie complained. "He was going to tell Dorian, 
but not until he got back from the cruise. I followed him up to the 
Manor House that night - I knew he'd drink too much. And, if he didn't, 
he could always be persuaded to have another. He was glad to see me when 
he rolled out of Dorian's. He thought I'd help him home. He didn't 
notice that I kept him in the cold, talking. When he did, I offered him 
a flask. It only took a couple of swallows before he passed out. Then I 
lowered him to the ground and walked away. Nature did the rest. It's 
lucky it was such a cold night."

There was bemused silence at his idea of luck. "It keeps coming back to 
Dorian," Lorinda reflected. "He found you, brought you here, installed 
you as Jack of all Trades and resident caretaker at Coffers Court..." 
Gordie, who could deal with anything mechanical or electrical - even to 
the extent of rigging false messages on an answering machine and then 
wiping them.

"I thought I was going to be his protege," Gordie said. "But he only 
wanted a carpenter-mechanic who'd be on twenty-four-hour call."

"Have you got that mess over the doorway cleaned up yet?" Macho had 
evidently decided to try to rattle Gordie. For a moment, he even sounded 
like Dorian.

"Yes. No. It's good enough." Gordie looked at him with active hate. 
"Dorian isn't going to care any more.

"I don't see why Dorian cared so much in the first place," Lorinda said.

"That's right," Freddie agreed. "Why was he so concerned? What was it to 
him?"

"You don't know?" Gordie was gratified at being able to tell them. 
"Dorian owns ... owned ... Coffers Court. He bought it as an investment 
at the same time he bought the Manor House. He also bought a controlling 
interest in the estate agent's. He had his fingers in every pie in 
Brimful Coffers."

"Estate agent's! So that's why Dorian had the keys when he showed me the 
house," Lorinda remembered. "I thought he was just being very 
thoughtful. But he had a personal interest and.. ." She caught the smug 
expression crossing Gordie's face. "You have those duplicate keys now - 
that's how you got in here. How you got in everywhere."

"Who'd bother about good old Gordie roaming around doing his odd jobs? 
Not that anyone ever saw me going in and out. I made certain of that."

"In your usual efficient way," Freddie jibed. "That's enough!" He swung 
the gun from one to the other of them. "I know what you're doing. You're 
humouring me - playing for time. I've read this scene often enough in 
your books. But you could keep me talking all night and it wouldn't help
you. No one's coming to save you. You know everything now and-"

"Just how do you propose to explain why three reasonably happy and 
successful people should wind up in this ridiculous murder-and-suicide 
situation you're trying to set up?" Macho still had traces of Dorian's 
cold disdain in his speech.

"Happens all the time," Gordie said. "The Eternal Triangle ...

a crime passionnel Macho's guffaw cut him off. After a moment, Freddie 
joined

in the scornful laughter. "You'll never get away with that," Macho said. 
"It wouldn't stand up for ten minutes. If that's the best you can do, no
wonder you never sold a book."

"No, please -" Lorinda saw what he was doing. He was trying

to draw Gordie's fire, hoping it would give them a chance to escape. 
"Please, Lance-

"Lance?" That threw Gordie into more confusion than Macho's needling.

"My name is Lancelot Dalrymple." He met Gordie's eyes coldly.

"If you weren't so stupid, you'd know that no one could be named Macho 
Magee.

"Don't call me stu-"

The doorbell rang suddenly. The cats dashed for the door, knocking 
Gordie off-balance. His finger tightened on the trigger and the first 
shot went wild.

"Hey!" Fists began hammering on the door. "What's going on

in there? Open up!" Freddie threw a cushion at the gun and another shot 
went wide. Lorinda threw a cushion from the other side. Macho dived for 
the poker. There was a crash of breaking glass.

"Hey!" Jack Jackley thrust aside the drapes and stumbled into the room. 
"What the hell is going on here?"

"Grab him!" Macho shouted, as Gordie tried to run for the window. He 
lashed out with the poker, knocking the gun from Gordie's hand.

"Got him!" Jack and Macho wrestled Gordie to the floor and sat on him. 
The doorbell pealed again.

"Would somebody like to let Karla in," Jack said, "and tell us what the 
hell is going on?"

14

CHAPTeR TWENTY

"Oooohh, champagne!" Marigold gasped in excitement at the display in the 
centre of the tea table. "And caviar! In Daddy's silver ice bucket! Oh, 
Petunia, have we got another case? Is it a special case?" "We've got the 
rest of the case of champagne," Lily said. "I saw it when I was putting 
my bicycle on the back porch. Gift from a grateful client, was it?"

"No." Miss Petunia drew a deep breath. "I bought it myself." "Petunia!" 
Marigold said reproachfully. "And you're the one who's always lecturing 
me about our budget!"

"We have no budget any more, my dears," Miss Petunia said. "We'll never 
have to pinch a penny again. We're rich!"

"Petunia! Whatever can you mean?"

"Great-great-grandpa's South Sea Bubble shares come good

at last have they?" Lily frowned in thought. "Or was it the Groundnut 
Scheme?"

"My dears." Miss Petunia beamed upon her sisters. "I am delighted to be 
able to tell you that the Blossom Cottage Syndicate has won the 
Lottery!"

"The Lottery, eh?" Lily took it calmly. "I thought some of those numbers 
sounded familiar the other night."

"Did they?" Marigold wrinkled her brow. "Oh, dear, I just have no head 
for figures at all."

"I didn't want to draw your attention to it until I was absolutely 
certain, but now I have had confirmation." Miss Petunia adjusted her 
pince-nez and took a deep breath. There were still moments when she felt 
slightly giddy. "There is no doubt about it. We have won ten million 
pounds!" "Ten?" Marigold's eyes grew huge. "Ten million oooh..." "Catch 
her, Lily," Miss Petunia said.

After Marigold revived, they opened the champagne and began making 
plans.

"Won't have to move, will we?" Lily asked anxiously. "Rather like the 
old cottage. Used to it."

"Oh, no!" Marigold cried. "I couldn't bear to live anywhere else!"

"No, no," Miss Petunia reassured them.  she had been giving the matter 
some thought. "Of course we'll stay here. We might, however, add on to 
it a bit. Or buy some of the vacant land behind the cottage and build a 
studio for Marigold to paint in and a gymnasium for you, Lily."

"Oh, and a lovely laboratory for you, Petunia!" Marigold's eyes glowed. 
"Just what you need to help you solve the awful crimes we stumble over."

"Are we going to keep on solving crimes now?" Lily asked. "We won't need 
to, you know. Not if we're rich. Are we going to retire?" "It would be 
rather nice not to have to go to Saints Etheldreda and Dowsabel every 
day," Marigold said wistfully.

"Mmmm, yes, but I'd rather miss the old place. Wouldn't like

to break all the ties." Lily brightened. "Perhaps we could cut down to 
two or three days a week."

"I'm sure you can do better than that," Miss Petunia said. "When they 
hear about our stroke of luck, I wouldn't be at all surprised if they 
allowed you to take early retirement and then invited you to serve on 
the Board of Governors.

"Oh, what fun! We could give out the prizes at Prize Day!" Marigold 
clapped her hands. "Oh - and we could even donate some of the prizes!"

"Steady on, old girl," Lily said. "Don't want to go too far. Must say, 
though, can't wait to see Old Gumboots's face when she hears the news.

"We can make all these decisions later," Miss Petunia said. "Before 
that, I think we should give ourselves a glorious holiday. What would 
you say to a round-the-world cruise?"

"Oh, yes! Yes!" Marigold began dancing around the room in

her excitement.

"What a wonderful idea!" Her eyes grew dreamy. "Just think of those 
tropical nights, with all those handsome ship's officers, and a full 
moon, and a romantic port, and..."

"Have to keep a sharp eye out for fortune hunters now." Lily gave her 
sisters a sharp look.

"I'm aware of that, dear," Miss Petunia said. "You needn't worry, we 
won't let anything separate us.

"What about staterooms? Only take two people, don't they?" "We shall 
reserve the penthouse suite ... with its own balcony." Miss Petunia gave 
a happy sigh. "Expense is no longer a consideration. We'll have a 
wonderful time."

"They have a gym on board, haven't they? And deck games ... tours of the 
engine room ... the bridge..." Lily began to get enthusiastic.

"Shopping on shore excursions," Marigold said. "And we won't have to 
worry about how much things cost. Then there'll be cocktails with the 
Captain. Oh! - and we might even sit at his table."

"With ten million pounds, I should think we might." Miss Petunia 
bestowed a fond smile on her sisters. It would be a very pleasant trip. 
There would be a library on board, guest lecturers, the latest films, 
craft courses, talks for hobbyists...

Yes, and who knew? There might even be a mystery or two

to solve. Many people travelled ... and for many different reasons. It 
was not beyond the realm of possibility.

"Fill the glasses again, Lily, dear," Miss Petunia said. "And we will 
drink a toast to the future. This isn't the end of our little
adventures. It is -

the beginning

Lorinda pulled the page from the typewriter and looked over her 
shoulder. Nothing moved in the shadows of the room as she snapped on her 
desk lamp. The only sound in the study was Had-I's contented purr from 
the corner of the desk where she lay curled. But-Known sat at her feet, 
looking hopeful. The finality with which Lorinda had torn the page from 
the machine had told her that the day's stint was over and food was
imminent.

"Just wait a minute," Lorinda told her. "I just want to do one more 
thing before I go out..."

Freddie was giving a Farewell Party for the Jackleys, who were leaving 
for the Continent in the morning. It would be a small party, comprising 
of those who were left. Rhylla had already taken Clarice and departed 
for the States, considering a trip to Disneyland a small price to pay 
for the relief of delivering Clarice back to her reluctant parents. 
Dorian would not be there, either; his sister had taken him home with 
her to complete his convalescence. Somehow, in relating this to Karla, 
Freddie had made it sound as though Dorian would never fully recover and
would require nursing for the rest of his life.

It was amazing how quickly Karla's ardour had cooled. It seemed like 
only the next day that she and Jack had decided that they ought to visit 
the mainland of Europe, since they were so close to it - and it would 
make for a better travel book than a rather parochial story of a year in 
a sleepy English village. Later, perhaps, they might make more of their 
stay in Brimful Coffers but, with Gordie likely to be judged unfit to 
plead, the excitement and publicity surrounding the recent events was
already dying down.

Lorinda looked over her shoulder again. Nothing. She listened, but heard 
only Had-I's purr. It was silly of her, of course - it had all been 
Gordie's doing. The Spinster Sibling Sleuths would not return to wreak 
vengeance on her - now or ever. But it was better to be .......

After a long pause, she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the
typewriter and began.

CHAPTER ONE

The sun sparkled in a bright blue sky and a spanking new carriage waited 
outside the front door. It was a splendid morning for a new enterprise.

All was in readiness and the woman smiled to herself as she fitted the 
newly engraved cards into her card case. In her mind was the list of the 
houses where she would call to leave her card. Someone in each house 
would have good reason to be interested.

A sweet and thrilling excitement rose in her, sweeping away the doubts 
to which she had been prey. Alas for the ingratitude of humankind; she 
had been snatched back from the depths, she had been lifted to a 
position of respectability and honour and ... Bah! she had been bored.

If all went well from this day onwards, however, she need never know 
tedium again. She gazed fondly at the black copper-plate engraving on 
the top card before she closed the lid of her card case. It read:

Becky Sharpe Discreet Enquiries Undertaken