Annabel Hinchly-Smythe, who makes a living selling hot items to gossip columns, is worrying about money during a particularly dry social season when a chance encounter with wealthy computer magnate Arthur Arbuthnot leads to the promise of a lucrative job. Arbuthnot, mistaking Annabel's profession, wants her to redecorate his dreary flat, and Annabel, though more accustomed to collecting tidbits of scandal than swatches of fabric, decides to give it a go. Meeting the ghastly assortment of staff and family surrounding Arbuthnot, Annabel observes that only the tycoon's cat, Sally, seems genuinely fond of him. When Arbuthnot meets an apparently accidental death, it looks as if Annabel will have to go back to the columns. But then the tycoon's officious secretary attempts to lure Sally to her death, and Annabel sneaks the feline safely off the premises and is drawn into dastardly doings. After Arbuthnot's will truly puts the pigeon among the cats--by naming Sally as his chief heir--Annabel must sniff out the truth behind his death in order to keep Sally from using up her nine lives. The humor is playful rather than clawed in this slinky feline extravaganza from veteran author Babson (Canapes for the Kitties, etc.). (Mar.)
The Company of Cats
Narrated by Sarah Nichols
Marian BabsonUnabridged — 5 hours, 44 minutes
The Company of Cats
Narrated by Sarah Nichols
Marian BabsonUnabridged — 5 hours, 44 minutes
Overview
A millionaire's pet tabby is the only witness to his catty murder ...
When millionaire Arthur Arbuthnot mistakes gossip maven Annabel Hinchby-Smythe for a decorator-and hires her to redecorate his apartment-the fiscally challenged Annabel can't refuse. When she sees Arbuthnot's tatty London flat, she knows anything will be an improvement. And any gossip she can dig up will be pure gold for the tabloids. But when Arthur is found dead, his frisky relatives begin to lick their chops.
Arbuthnot's beloved tabby, Sally, was the only witness to the homicide-and the sole heir to his estate. Suddenly, cat-hating family members are eager to claim her and control the family fortune. Annabel's only hope to save the cat and catch a killer is to kidnap Sally-and see who comes sniffing around. Once the cat's out of the bag, murder is sure to follow ...
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169606973 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Blackstone Audio, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 08/09/2016 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Perhaps, if it hadn't been for that morning's flurry of bills cascading through the letter box, she would never have got involved. She stared unbelievingly at the telephone bill, midway between despair and fury. Couldn't that idiot who had rented her cottage pick up the telephone even once without dialling the International Exchange? Just look at the size of that bill!
Annabel Hinchby-Smythe closed her eyes, tossed back the remains of her martini and took a deep breath and then a deeper one.
Oh, the creature was probably honest enough and would pay the bill eventually. Meanwhile, however, she had to pay it herself or risk having the phone cut off — and he would expect to find it in working order when he returned from his trip to Italy.
Annabel frowned and absently poured herself another martini. It was just unfortunate that money was so tight at the moment. It seemed as though every company in her slim portfolio of stockholdings had issued a profits warning and notice of decreased dividends. The stock market appeared to be going through another of its periodic crises.
Furthermore, her lucrative little sideline of supplying items to the gossip columns appeared to have dried up. Either everyone had started behaving themselves, which was improbable, or they were lying exceptionally low. Also, most of her generation had sown their wild oats, reaped their whirlwinds and were now quietly breeding polo ponies in Argentina, raising sheep in Australia or — in one notorious case — writing poetry in a cloistered monastery.
Annabel drummed her fingers on her glass, setting the clear liquid rippling. Obviously, she needed to widen her circle of friends and acquaintances.
So it was just as well that she had agreed to attend that party being given by some highly dubious social climbers tonight. It was also fortunate that the opportunity to sublet her cottage had arisen at the same time that dear Dinah, who was taking a three-month cruise in the Far East to recover from the stress of recent events, had offered her the Cosgreave pied-à-terre in Knightsbridge. Lady Cosgreave could be benevolent — in her own way — or perhaps she considered it further assurance against Annabel's changing her mind about selling that very interesting story to the newspapers. So far, Dinah had done a sterling job at covering up the scandal.
Not that Annabel would dream of doing any such thing — and Dinah should have had more faith in her — but it was useful to have a rent-free Central London base while she collected rent on the short-term let of her own cottage.
That helped — quite a bit. Now, if only she could unearth a few juicy items to sell to the gossip columns ... it had been so long since some of them had heard from her that they might be forgetting she existed — and that would never do.
The grandmother clock in the front hall chimed suddenly, startling her and reminding her that it was time to get changed for that cocktail party.
Initially, the party was disappointing. She had gleaned only one item she could sell on to a column and collected two leads to possibly developing stories she needed to keep an eye on. Nothing spectacular, though, nor even very interesting, just column-fillers for those dull days when nothing much was happening. On the other hand there seemed to be an awful lot of those days. She could not escape the feeling that the progeny of her own generation were a lot less enterprising, not to mention entertaining, than their parents and even grandparents had been.
It was borne in upon her gradually that a man on the fringe of her group was watching her intently and had been since she had been the centre of another group she had been regaling with a second — or perhaps even third-hand — anecdote about Sybil Colefax, the famous between-the-wars society hostess and interior designer. After the laughter had died down and the group broke up and re-formed, he had followed her to stand on the edge of her new group, watching and listening.
Absently, Annabel wondered if she had picked up a stalker and, if so, whether the information would be of any value — or interest — to one of the gossip columns.
As this group broke up, the man finally made eye contact with her and moved closer to speak to her.
`You're an interior designer, I gather,' he said. `I heard you talking about it. I've been thinking about doing up my place lately, but I keep putting it off because I never quite knew who I ought to get to do it. I wonder if you'd be interested in taking on the job, er, assignment?'
`Ummmm ...' Annabel went through the pantomime of reluctance, although it was the best offer she'd had in months. `Actually, I am rather busy just now ...' She gave him an encouraging smile. How difficult could interior designing be? `But I might be able to squeeze in a preliminary consultation. Er, my rates are rather high, you realize?' She tilted her head so that her diamond earrings flashed at him.
`Of course.' Gold glittered at his cuffs as he swept aside her demur. `They would be. Anyone who worked with Sybil Colefax ...'
`Mmmm.' How old did he think she was? His attitude was cheering, however. Numbers obviously meant little to him, whether in terms of money or years. She mentally doubled the amount she had thought of quoting; if he blanched, it could always be lowered.
He simply nodded, however, and handed her his card, then hesitated expectantly.
`Oh, I'm afraid I don't have my card with me,' Annabel said haughtily. `This is a social occasion, after all.' She raised an eyebrow in faint reproof. (It was all coming back to her — those few occasions when she had seen interior designers in action in the homes of her friends: the customer is always wrong.) `I wasn't expecting to do any business here.'
`Of course, of course ... I'm sorry.' He was immediately cowed, contrite and apologetic — all the hallmarks of the perfect client.
`It is possible,' she forgave him graciously, `that I might be able to fit you in between two other clients. One is off to Bermuda for six months, so there's no desperate urgency about her country house ...'
`I'd be most grateful if you could,' he said humbly. `I'm sure you know how it is. One drifts along for ages thinking vaguely "I must do something about this place." Then, suddenly, the opportunity presents itself and you can't wait to get it done.'
`So many clients feel that way.' The Opportunity smiled graciously, working herself deeper into the part with every passing moment, while calculating rapidly. She could get to the library first thing in the morning and take out a selection of books on interior design, bone up on them over lunch and get the patter — not that he was likely to know the difference.
`You'll want to inspect the flat. Let me—' He retrieved his card and scribbled something on the back of it. `This will get you in if I'm not there.' He hesitated. `I'm afraid it's rather ghastly. I didn't realize how bad it was until Sally moved in — not that she's critical, she's too polite for that. But it's amazing the way you can tell what she's thinking.'
`Women are more sensitive to their surroundings,' Annabel agreed.
`All females are, I suppose.' He looked faintly surprised. `I never thought of it that way before. Er ... how soon do you think you might ...?'
`Perhaps I might find time to take a quick look tomorrow afternoon — lateish, of course, before I meet friends for dinner.'
As soon as she got back to Lady Cosgreave's flat, she reached for the telephone and dialled one of her sources. There was no point in doing all this homework without making sure that it was going to be worth the effort.
`Arthur Arbuthnot?' Xanthippe's Diary responded enthusiastically. `The rumour is that Croesus is his middle name. You mean you've got something on him?'
`No,' Annabel admitted regretfully, noting that it sounded as though it would be very worth her while to keep her eyes open while she went about her new business. `I, um, was thinking of entering a business arrangement with him and, since I'd never heard of the man, I thought I'd do a bit of checking. Make sure he's solvent ... and honest ... and all that.'
`No worries on the first score. Otherwise, I suppose he's as honest as any billionaire — if that's saying much. He's a bit of a dark horse, our Arthur. Nothing much known about him, dull as ditchwater. So dull' — the voice brightened — `that there well could be something going on below the surface. You're sure you're not on to something?'
`Not really ...' Annabel had a sudden doubt. Hadn't Arthur Arbuthnot said something about how shabby the place looked when seen through the eyes of the lady who had moved in? What lady? `Anyway,' she added tantalizingly, `it's far too early to say.'
`Remember,' Xanthippe purred, `we'd pay very well.'
`If I find anything, you'll be the first to know,' Annabel promised.
Chapter Two
The address was close to Regent's Park. Not, unfortunately, one of the lovely Nash Terraces, but one of the great Victorian mansion blocks set farther back from the park. Behind the wrought-iron-gate-protected glass-fronted door, the dark oak-panelled lobby was not exactly welcoming.
The man sitting behind the reception desk was even less so. He glared at her with such open hostility that she had to make an effort not to step back.
`I'm here to see Mr Arbuthnot,' Annabel said crisply, holding her ground. `I'm expected.'
`Name?' It was a surly drawl. He knew who she was.
`Annabel Hinchby-Smythe.' There was no point in antagonizing him, he might be useful in the future, however unlikely it might seem. She gave him a perfunctory smile.
`Top floor,' he admitted grudgingly. `Lift over there.'
As he pushed himself away from the desk to indicate the location of the lift, Annabel realized that he was in a wheelchair. One leg ended just above the knee. He could not be more than twenty-six.
So it was nothing personal then. He just hated the world. She couldn't blame him for that. Everyone did at some point in their lives. It was obvious that he had better reason than most.
The moment she was ushered into the dark gloomy hallway, Annabel knew that she was on to a winner. Anything anyone did to this dump would be an improvement.
Antlered skulls lined both sides of the long narrow corridor — which would not be so narrow if all those antlers were not branching out into the overhead space like perverted trees. Just clearing them out would work wonders and then a lick of paint and perhaps a few pictures would transform the hallway into a more cheerful place.
There was a new lightness in Annabel's step as she followed the tall thin woman, who had not yet spoken a word to her, around the corner into a further long corridor, as gloomy and antler-ridden as the first.
The woman disappeared abruptly through a doorway on one side, without a backward glance and giving no indication as to whether or not Annabel was expected to keep following. Annabel began to get the feeling that she was not exactly welcome here.
Since all the other doors along the hallway were firmly closed, Annabel followed her reluctant guide into a small office where a large mahogany desk was placed in front of a window, so that its occupant could face the hallway. If the door remained open — and, somehow, Annabel got the feeling that it was never quite closed — everyone coming and going could be noted.
`I don't know why Mr Arbuthnot has bothered you,' the Broomstick-in-a-skirt said pettishly. `There is nothing wrong with this flat the way it is. Is there, Wystan?'
For the first time, Annabel realized that someone else was in the room. He stood with his back to the window, his face in the shadows, and yet Annabel knew that he was looking at her. She stiffened as his gaze struck her like a jet of ice water and flowed down her body from face to feet. She felt that he was assessing her age, sex appeal and ... possible child-bearing capacity.
`Now, now, nothing to worry about, Dora,' he said soothingly. `The place could do with a bit of brightening up.'
She had obviously been judged and found wanting, negligible or, worse, perfectly safe. Annabel's face froze. This Wystan might not know it, but he had come perilously close to making an enemy. And she wasn't that fond of the Broomstick, either.
`If Mr Arbuthnot really feels the need to have something done,' the woman said coldly, `we can get the painters in. Although I don't see why we should.' She looked at the dingy grey-green walls with complacency. `Everything is fine just the way it is.'
The woman was a dark silhouette against the light of the window, dominating the room. Behind her, shadows swooped and fluttered as a pigeon landed on the windowsill.
`Get out!' She whirled and struck the windowpane a savage blow, sending the pigeon streaking off in terror. `Flying vermin!' she muttered. `Too much vermin around here already.'
`My appointment is with Mr Arbuthnot.' Annabel used her highest cut-crystal tones; for emphasis, she moved her hand so that her diamonds sparkled in the light. `Perhaps you would be ... good enough ... to let him know that I have arrived.'
`I'll take her in.' Wystan, whoever he was, moved forward hastily, perhaps even nervously, as the Broomstick whirled to face back into the room, radiating fury and annoyance.
`Come along.' Wystan stepped between them. `I know Arthur is looking forward to your visit, er, consultation.' He grasped Annabel's elbow tentatively and led her from the office.
`You mustn't mind Dora,' he murmured as soon as they were safely out of earshot. `She's worked here so long she almost thinks the place belongs to her. Old retainer and all that, you know how it is.'
`Too tiresome.' Annabel forced an understanding smile to mask her dislike. Wystan was obviously the sort who perched on the fence, swaying first to one side and then to the other, depending on who seemed to be winning at the time. She had met that type before. Often, in fact.
`Means no harm,' he vouched improbably. The Broomstick would do all the harm she could — and delight in it, in the unlikely event that delight came within the scope of her vocabulary, not to mention her emotional range.
Wystan gave a perfunctory tap on the door at the end of the hallway and swung it open. `Your decorator is here, Arthur,' he announced.
This was a room she would not dare touch — nor would she be required to. Computer terminals hummed in every corner, flickering screens threw up and discarded images faster than the eye could focus on them, a constant procession of figures marched across other screens, a low-level susurration of irregular signals — probably a code, but quantum leaps beyond Morse — throbbed somewhere in the depths of all the high-tech apparatus.
The Heart of Empire, Annabel thought irreverently, but a business empire, overbearing, multinational and whispering of wealth beyond avarice. The diffident little Mr Arbuthnot was obviously far far more important than she had ever imagined. No wonder Xanthippe was so interested.
`Oh, splendid, splendid.' Arthur Arbuthnot rose and advanced, hand outstretched to greet her, but with the weight of empire still riding on his shoulders. `I'm sorry. I intended to meet you at the door but' — he waved his hand about with an apologetic grimace — `one gets so caught up in the daily grind that one loses track of time.'
`Quite all right,' Annabel cooed forgivingly, but she was not deceived. For a moment, before he began to speak, his face had been a cold robotic mask, as much a part of the machines as though he had been plugged into one of the electric outlets himself. Loss of humanity might be the price of being an emperor in the brave new electronic world.
`No, no, I should have ...' Even now he could not quite make the transition to the human, flesh-and-blood world; he was much more comfortable interacting with machines. He never made the wrong move there.
`No problem at all, Arthur,' Wystan said soothingly. `Dora and I were there to let her in. No harm done. Not as though' — the soothing tone tilted over into one less comforting — `you'd pressed the wrong button on one of your computers and wiped out the Hang Seng Index.'
`Thank you, Uncle Wystan.' Arthur's voice was carefully neutral, but it was clear that he was displeased. There were some things one did not joke about. `I appreciate your looking after my guest for me.'
`Be careful! Don't let her in!' the Broomstick shrieked suddenly from across the hall.
Annabel stiffened again. This was carrying antipathy too far. The woman must be mad. `I'm perfectly able to see that you won't want this room touched,' she said coldly.
`Hah!' Arthur Arbuthnot made a sudden dive at her ankles and she barely repressed a scream. Were they all mad? And why hadn't she left a note telling someone where she was going? It could be days before she was missed and then no one would know where to begin looking for the body.
`Got her!' He straightened up triumphantly, clutching a squirming armload of dappled brown fur. `She knows this is the one room she isn't allowed into,' he explained apologetically to Annabel. `Cats are full of static electricity — that's why they aren't allowed near ammunition dumps or any sensitive areas.'
`Oh, yes, I see.' Annabel could feel her eyes widening. She looked at the array of mysterious machines crowding the room, at the cat, at the rather weird Arthur Arbuthnot and mentally began formulating excuses about too much work to take on any more, or perhaps a sudden summons to fly to some distant part of the globe to the help of an existing client. Money wasn't everything.
`And then there are all those little hairs flying about.' He gave the cat a friendly jiggle and it began purring. `They can wreak havoc with delicate machinery. This is the only room barred to her so, naturally, it's the one she's determined to get into. There are moments when she makes me feel like Bluebeard.' He stepped forward, leading them out of the nerve centre of his empire, and closed the door firmly behind him. `Shall we adjourn to the parlour? We'll be more comfortable there.'
`Of course.' Annabel followed him along the corridor, noting that the route was carrying them well away from the office where the Broomstick lurked. A shadow moved uneasily behind that half-open door, as though perturbed that the action was moving out of range of her sphere of observation. Annabel decided that it would be a delight to redesign the Broomstick's office, turning her desk around so that she faced the window with her back to the door. Venetian blinds over the window and quaint old Victorian screens blocking the door might also be a good idea. Poor Arthur Arbuthnot! Did he occasionally long for the happy bygone days of Machiavelli, when leaders could employ blind secretaries and deaf-mute personal assistants to carry out their orders?
`In here.' Mr Arbuthnot swung open a door at the end of the corridor, ushering her into what once must have been a grand drawing room with a magnificent view over the treetops of Regent's Park. Pity about the view inside the room. Still, it cheered Annabel.
Safely away from the faintly sinister humming lair of Future World, her spirits were lifting and this helped even more. Never had she seen a place so badly in need of redecoration. It couldn't have been touched since the 1890s, although an Art-Deco cocktail cabinet and a couple of uncomfortable-looking chromium-and-leather chairs gave mute evidence of a desperate attempt at modernization sometime around the mid- 1930s.
`Do sit down.' Mr Arbuthnot began to wave her towards one of the chromium monstrosities, then realized his mistake and indicated a Victorian gossip-bench instead.
Annabel perched on one seat of the S-shaped contraption and found herself almost cheek-to-jowl with Uncle Wystan, who had taken the other half of the perch. She hadn't realized he was still with them.
`Er...' Neither, apparently, had Mr Arbuthnot. `Was there something you wanted to see me about, "Uncle" Wystan?' This time, there could be no mistake: there was a certain ironic stress on the word `Uncle'.
`Oh, um ...' Uncle Wystan appeared rather confused, but gave the impression that this was a natural state with him. `I, er, just thought you might like me to sit in on the session, give the benefit of my advice, perhaps. Artistic strain runs in my family, you know. My Aunt Etta painted watercolours, exhibited in the Royal Academy Summer Show every year up to the war, when they put her in the Camouflage Corps.' He sighed deeply. `Ruined her technique, blighted a promising career.'
`I think I'll stick to professional advice.' Mr Arbuthnot spoke with elaborate patience. `If you don't mind, Uncle Wystan.'
`Oh, certainly, certainly. Don't buy a dog and bark yourself, eh? Oh, sorry.' He blinked at Annabel. `No offence intended.'
`None taken,' Annabel said graciously. Inwardly, she squirmed a bit. What if Mr Arbuthnot ever found out the truth about her professionalism?
`That's settled then.' Mr Arbuthnot looked pointedly towards the door. In his arms, the cat narrowed her eyes at Uncle Wystan, her tail lashing menacingly.
`Oh, er ...' Faced with their combined disapproval, Uncle Wystan twisted around and struggled to his feet. `I suppose I ought to go and find Zenia, although she told me—' He broke off unhappily, as though realizing that whatever he had been told was not for public consumption.
`There you are, Wystan!' The voice from the doorway cut across his discomfiture. If the glasses in the cocktail cabinet had been more fragile, it would have shattered them. The cat twitched her ears and emitted a protesting grumble.
`And there you are, Aunt Zenia.' Mr Arbuthnot had no need to turn around, there was a resigned note in his voice.
Annabel had a clear view of the woman in the doorway; carefully, she kept her facial muscles motionless. `Uncle' Wystan was explained — and not as some late-arriving progeny of the Arbuthnot family. Aunt Zenia was of a suitable age to be an aunt to Arthur Arbuthnot, Wystan was clearly her superannuated toy boy, their union only slightly dignified by marriage. No wonder Wystan was younger than his `nephew'. No wonder Mr Arbuthnot got that strange note in his voice when he addressed his `uncle'. In years gone past, and without an obliging woman to support him, Wystan would have been a remittance man.
`Hmmmph!' The woman had been observing Annabel as closely as Annabel had been observing her, but with considerably less subtlety. The slightly bulging brown eyes blinked and dismissed her, turning to Arthur Arbuthnot. She was nearly as thin as the Broomstick, but it was a carefully sculpted, expensively maintained thinness, set off by a suit from the latest fashionable designer. Annabel could not quite name the designer, but she was certain that the price would have been in the four figures; she was equally certain that Wystan had not been the one to pay for it.
`I'd like to speak to you, Arthur,' Aunt Zenia said. `I do wish you'd put that cat outside — you know how flying fur reacts on me.'
`You can always go back downstairs to your own quarters,' Arthur said mildly. `Sally lives here and she can shed her fur anywhere she likes. This is her home.'
`I must speak to you, Arthur!' An impatient hand waved away any more of his protests. `Perhaps Miss Thingee, here, can take the cat outside for a few minutes.'
`It's Mrs Hinchby-Smythe, actually.' Annabel bared her teeth at the revolting woman.
`Really?' The note of surprised disbelief was obviously intended to be insulting — and succeeded. Even Uncle Wystan looked embarrassed.
`I do apologize for my family,' Mr Arbuthnot said quickly. The look he gave his aunt left no doubt about what would have happened to her had she not been family. Unfortunately, one can't fire one's aunt.
`Quite all right,' Annabel said brightly. `There's no need to apologize for family — everyone understands that you're not responsible.'
Zenia drew herself up but, before she could speak, her husband intervened hastily.
`Where's Neville? I thought he was supposed to be here today.'
If he had been trying to change to a more pleasant subject, he had evidently chosen unwisely. Mr Arbuthnot abruptly looked as though he had bitten into something sour.
`Are you expecting Cousin Neville, Aunt Zenia?' His voice was carefully controlled. `I thought he'd settled in Manchester.'
`He still has his own room in my flat. He won't impinge on you in any way.' Zenia was quickly on the defensive, Annabel noted. Was there, perhaps, some difficulty about her son? Possibly, even, a scandal?
If so, was it one Xanthippe might be interested in? Apart from the lure of extra cash for any juicy little snippets, Annabel would love to see Aunt Zenia in some sort of difficulty. She was already working up a strong dislike for the woman and would be prepared to bet that Zenia did not improve on further acquaintance.
In fact, there was no one in this flat she did like, apart from Arthur Arbuthnot and, possibly, his cat. The humans were a dead loss.
`What a beautiful cat.' Annabel smiled at the complacent tabby lounging in Mr Arbuthnot's arms.
`She is, isn't she? So beautiful she's made me take a new look at our surroundings.' Mr Arbuthnot stroked the cat's throat, eliciting a loud purr. `I decided her setting ought to be worthy of her.'
Zenia had a nice line in snorts. She treated them to another.
Annabel choked back her own gurgle of amusement. So Arthur wanted his flat redecorated to set off not a woman he treasured but a cat.
`And I called her Sally,' he continued, `because of the song. And because I found her in the alley, you see.'
`Yes.' Zenia's glittering eyes looked directly from the cat to Annabel. `As you may have noticed, Arthur has a penchant for alley cats.'
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