‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? What if you need something and no one’s around to fetch it for you?’ Aunt Lydia fussed with pillows, while Annie brought in a tray with a fresh pot of tea and a rack of toast.
‘Then I’ll simply get off the couch and get it myself. The doctor said bed rest, but he didn’t say I couldn’t walk to the kitchen for tea.’ Cat leaned forward, holding her arm – immobilised in a sling – against her chest, as Lydia arranged her pillows. ‘I’m going back to him tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll say I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a powder for the pain?’ Annie poured out tea for Cat.
‘She’s trying to be tough,’ Lydia said. ‘She’s probably concussed, her shoulder’s pounding with pain, but she’s being stubborn.’
Annie got one of the packets of the powders the doctor had prescribed for pain and set it on the table by the sofa, along with a fresh pitcher of water. ‘I’ll just leave this here in case you change your mind.’
Lydia looked at Cat with a worried expression on her face. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go.’
The altercation with Marlena X had left Cat with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion, but she was on the mend and was craving a bit of time to herself. The doctor had put her under an anaesthetic, and while she slept, he’d popped the shoulder back in place. She’d woken up sore, but had been allowed to go home the next day, provided that she rested until he released her from care.
Since then, Annie and Aunt Lydia had fussed over Cat constantly. She spent the better part of her day on the couch in Lydia’s studio, where she dozed and read and listened to Annie and Lydia while they painted. Annie had proven an excellent student. She listened well and asked thoughtful questions. While Cat was grateful for their care, she was craving a bit of quiet. She didn’t dare get off the couch while Annie and Aunt Lydia were near. They would flock over like a gaggle of geese, trying to make Cat’s convalescence easier, not aware that they were smothering her in the process.
Alicia Montrose also stopped by every day, bringing a different gift with her each time, and staying long enough to visit. The room was awash in flower arrangements, boxes of biscuits and chocolates, and a quantity of magazines – none of which caught Cat’s interest.
She questioned the events of the past week, replaying everything in her mind to try to find answers. She hadn’t heard from Chloe or Reginald. She didn’t expect to hear from Thomas Charles, but surely someone would tell her how things had ended. What had happened to Blackie? Did Marlena confess to killing Ben? And Marie? How was she? Would she go to prison? Cat couldn’t fathom all that had happened in the past week. The life she had known in Kensington was no more. She would bury her husband, put her best face forward, and would probably never see any of the well-heeled Kensington set that she and Benton had called their friends again.
‘Catherine, are you even listening to us?’ Lydia and Annie stood side by side, staring at Cat with concern in their eyes.
‘I’m not, actually,’ Cat said. ‘You’ve both been so good to me, and I appreciate it more than you will know. Go enjoy yourselves for a couple of hours. I’ll be fine.’ When the door shut behind them, Cat breathed a sigh of relief. Blessed silence. She lay back on the couch. The sun came in the window. The beams warmed her face. Soon she dozed. And dreamt.
The grim reaper was near her, with his long flowing black cloak, the cavernous hood that hid his face and hair. He carried a scythe. In her dream the blade glistened in the moonlight, rapier sharp, as relentless as death itself. She was at a cemetery near a church; fog swirled around gothic tombstones in the exaggerated curlicues of a stage play. Cat walked through the evanescent mist, but every step she took seemed to take her further away from her destination. The reaper’s footsteps echoed her own. She stopped and turned to face him. He moved towards her, floating over the ground until he hovered so near Cat she could feel the cold death as it encircled her.
She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She turned to run, but found her feet frozen, stuck to the ground. The reaper’s breath came forth in a hypnotic, rhythmic cadence. She reached out her arms and flung the reaper’s hood back, the black of it like inky water in her hands. Isobel Carlisle’s cold angry eyes stared at her. The knocking sound of death came from somewhere in the distance, soft but relentless. Isobel turned her head in the direction of it and disappeared. The mist disappeared; the cemetery vanished.
Cat woke up and pulled herself out of the darkness of the dream. She sat up, taking in the familiar surroundings of Aunt Lydia’s living room. Awake now, Cat realised that someone was indeed knocking on the front door.
‘Coming,’ she called out. The knocking stopped. Cat stood up, careful to hold the sling that held her arm steady in place. She opened the front door, surprised to see Thomas Charles standing there, holding a large bouquet of yellow roses and a parcel wrapped in gold paper.
‘Mr Charles,’ Cat said. ‘What a surprise.’
Thomas Charles had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘I’ve come bearing gifts.’
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’m in here.’
He followed her into Aunt Lydia’s studio.
‘Your aunt’s studio?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My aunt and Annie have put me up in here, so they can keep an eye on me. They’re gone now. Would you like tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said. He walked to the wall where Lydia’s pictures hung. While he studied the paintings, Cat studied him. He had the upright posture of a solider or a horseman. She visualised him in an ancient portrait, with a lacy collar round his neck and sword in his belt.
‘You can use that chair.’ Cat pointed to a maple chair that sat at Lydia’s work table. Thomas grabbed it and set it near the couch, while Cat grabbed an empty vase from a shelf and poured water from the pitcher. That complete, she plunked the flowers in the water.
‘This’ll do for now. I’ll trim them up and arrange them later.’
‘How’s the shoulder? How are you?’
‘On the mend,’ she said. ‘They feared I had a slight concussion. The shoulder was dislocated. It’s fixed now. I’m a bit sore, but other than that I’m fine. What’s in the package?’
‘A small gift for you,’ Thomas said. He handed the wrapped package to Cat. ‘It comes with an explanation and a proposition. Open it.’
Cat tore the paper away. Inside was a slim book entitled, A Photo History of Historical Churches and Cemeteries, by Thomas Charles.
‘So you really are a historian,’ Cat said. ‘I thought that might be a cover for your real job.’
‘It is, so to speak,’ Thomas said. He stared at the book in her hand, as if deciding just what to say. ‘It started out as a cover, but I’ve actually come to enjoy the research and the writing. That book has garnered me some critical acclaim. More importantly, it has allowed me to travel extensively, under the guise of a mild-mannered writer.’
Cat raised her eyebrows. Mr Charles hardly seemed the mild-mannered writer to her, with his grey eyes and handsome face, with its knowing expression. She had never really studied his face before. Now, in the quiet of her aunt’s studio, she saw pain and a fair measure of suffering reflected there. She wondered at the cause of it.
‘I can’t help but feel that Reginald made use of me,’ Cat said.
‘Although I don’t approve of his noted absence, you shouldn’t blame him. There are political machinations in play now. Reginald can’t be seen to have any involvement with this. This business doesn’t offer a lot of explanations, Mrs Carlisle. If you’re going to continue in it, you’ll need to learn to work with the information you’re given without much question. It’s better that way, safer. I will tell you that Marie is recovering. Marlena X claims she didn’t kill Benton, and I tend to believe her.
‘We’ve managed to keep Marie’s involvement with German intelligence off the front page of the newspapers, thank God. Chief Inspector Bellerose has leads he’s pursuing in connection with Benton’s murder. He hasn’t shared that information with me. He has requested – rather emphatically, I may add – we now leave the murder investigation to him. He will not allow any more interference from me. He’s hinted that he’s onto a promising lead.’
‘Freddy Sykes, I’m sure of it.’ Cat said.
‘Best not to think about that,’ Thomas said. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your future. I’d like you to continue with me, if you’re so inclined. Your connections could open doors. I assure you that I will make myself more available than my predecessors.’
‘I’m interested,’ Cat said. She didn’t have to think about it. For the first time in her life, Cat Carlisle felt useful. ‘Who’s “us”?’
‘I’ll tell you everything in good time. There are procedures to be followed. You’re going to have to trust me.’
‘Reginald said that,’ Cat said. ‘Tell me about you and Marlena.’
Thomas stared at her. Cat waited.
‘My partner and I were following her. She led us to her room. Her husband was killed. She blames me. She killed my partner and when that didn’t satisfy her need for revenge, she vowed to kill anyone I ever cared about …’
Cat wanted to say to something, but she didn’t know what.
‘Enough of that. Here’s my idea: You and I need to concoct a friendship that your friends and family will believe in. I’ve given you this book thinking you can develop an interest in historical churches and cemeteries. When you’re ready, I can offer you a job as my assistant. That will allow us to work together, and travel together, if need be, without raising too many questions.’
Cat took the book and thumbed through it. ‘Did you take these pictures?’
‘Afraid so,’ Thomas said. ‘I’m not very good at it.’
‘They’re not half bad.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ll look forward to working with you.’
Thomas smiled and shook it.
‘One more question, Mr Charles. What’s happened to the man who was posing as Michael Blackwell?’
‘Dieter Reinsinger? He suffered a complete mental breakdown, I’m afraid to say. He’s at a sanatorium having a rest cure. With time, he should recover.’
‘They won’t send him back to Germany, will they?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Thomas said.
‘Why aren’t the newspapers reporting on Hitler? I’ve been reading everything I could find, trying to find some hint of what he’s up to. There’s nothing.’
‘I have no idea, only speculation. Let’s not bother with that now.’ Thomas said. ‘You rest and get better. I’ll send you more reading material.’
Cat thought of the day she went to meet Reginald in the park and had asked God for a way out of her life. Cat shook her head.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘Not five days ago, I was setting off to meet Reginald. I actually asked for a sign.’ She laughed. ‘Look at all that’s happened.’
‘It seems as though your prayers were answered, Mrs Carlisle,’ Thomas said.
‘Indeed it does,’ Cat said.