Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

At least she was still alive. If only just.

I stared down at the supine motionless form, cocooned in bandages, sustained by tubes and wires. I couldn't see her breathing, but the flickering line on the display panel of one of the battery of machines at her bedside appeared to be monitoring her respiration.

She was getting the best medical attention that money could buy. Her employer could do no less. He'd better not.

I took a step closer, but did not need the warning gesture from the young doctor to restrain me. I wasn't going to touch her. I was afraid to. She looked so fragile — a shattered doll that had been jigsawed back into a semblance of its former shape, but which might disintegrate beyond restoration if breathed on too heavily.

'Hi there, Nessa.' I settled for vocal contact instead, in the voice we so nearly shared. 'Your other half is here. It's going to be all right now.'

The doctor glanced at me quickly and then glanced away again. He didn't contradict me, but his expression was not optimistic.

'You're going to be all right now.' I spoke with more firmness than I felt. My knees were turning to jelly, something twisted in the pit of my stomach. She was so pale ... so still.

'What happened?' I asked. The garbled message that had reached me had told me little. Only that she needed me. I had abandoned my plans for a leisurely sea voyage back to England and caught the first jet instead.

'She fell from a considerable height, I understand. I'm told she was in the habit of wandering along the battlements when she couldn't sleep at night. She must have missed her footing.'

'Whoever told you that was ... mistaken. She was afraid of heights. She'd never have done that.' It was one of the few points where we diverged. Heights didn't bother me. But she had been afraid with good reason, it seemed now. Had that fear been a presentiment of what lay in her future?

'Well ...' His face shadowed, he pointed out the irrefutable. 'It happened. She's lucky the patrol dogs found her in the dry moat beneath the battlements. Otherwise, she might have lain there all night. That would have ...' He let the thought trail off. I could finish the sentence for myself.

'At least she has a fighting chance now.' I wasn't going to give up and I knew that she wouldn't.

'We'll do our best.' Against my will, I identified the expression that flitted across his face: it was pity.

'She'll be all right,' I said. 'She's a fighter.' And so am I. I wanted to know how this could have happened to her.

'Er ...' He cast a worried glance at the information registering on the various screens. 'It might be better if we left her to rest now.' He led the way outside.

'She's going to be all right,' I insisted. 'There are two of us fighting now.'

'You know ...' He assessed me carefully. 'You're not what I expected.'

'I know,' I said. 'I'm never what anyone expected. But enough of me. Nessa is the important one here. What else is being done for her? Are there any specialists we can call in? Does she need a blood transfusion? We match, of course.'

'Everything possible is being done. Mr Oversall has seen to that. It's a question of time now.'

'And does Mr Oversall know that? I rang his office for information as soon as I got to London. They didn't give me the impression that Nessa's condition was serious at all. They made it sound as though they expected her back at work in a couple of days.'

'Ah, yes.' He looked embarrassed. 'Our Mr Oversall is notoriously optimistic. He's had to be — or he wouldn't be where he is today.'

One of the richest men in the world. Notorious, indeed, for investing in schemes wiser men shunned, like backing dubious freedom fighters in areas of upheaval, or buying up mineworkings popularly supposed to be exhausted which subsequently turned out to have hidden resources unsuspected by the owners who had sold them to him. A lucky man — or one with impeccable sources of information.

'People tend to tell Mr Oversall what he wants to hear.' He was apologetic. 'I'm the junior doctor in this practice. I couldn't contradict what the senior partner said.'

The man who pays the piper is the man who calls the tune. And Mr Oversall paid well. But what would he say if the tune became discordant, the music jangled ... the patient died?

I wasn't going to let myself think that but, just for a moment, I faltered.

'I won't deny I'm not entirely happy,' he went on. 'I ... I've met Nessa ... several times. I ... I liked her. I'd formed the opinion that she was a calm and sensible person — unlike most of Mr Oversall's ...'

'Harem.' I supplied the word he had baulked at. It had been used often enough in the tabloids. The more discreet broadsheets usually opted for 'Amazon Army' to describe the plethora of nubile females surrounding the billionaire.

'I wasn't suggesting your sister —'

'I should hope not! Nessa was — is — a proper employee. Mr Oversall's Personal Assistant. She has no connection with the ... the ladies ... who make up his entourage.'

'Exactly!' He nodded vehemently. 'Nessa is different ... special ...'

'Exactly!' I nodded in turn, beginning to wonder about his relationship with my twin. Interested? Smitten? Or ...? 'I think I'd like to have a few words with your senior partner,' I said.

'Unfortunately, that's not possible.' He was on the defensive again. 'I mean, Dr Ranjit is out on a call. I don't know when he'll be back.'

'I can wait.'

'I doubt it. He's on his way to Saudi Arabia. There's been some sort of outbreak at one of the installations. They're hoping to avoid an epidemic.'

'I take it the installation belongs to Mr Oversall.' It wasn't a question.

'Right. Our ... our practice ... is largely ... er ... involved ... with Oversall Enterprises. We have very few National Health or private patients.'

Why was I not surprised? It all made perfect sense. Of course, Mr Oversall would maintain his own medical unit for his far-flung empire. So much easier than having to deal with all the local regulations, restrictions and native doctors.

'And I suppose the police have not been informed about Nessa's ... accident?' It was another question to which I already knew the answer.

'Police?' He recoiled. 'What have they to do with it? They aren't automatically called to the scene of every accident. Our own paramedics got there faster than any other ambulance could have. I assure you, she's having the best of care.'

'Of course.' Just as I had suspected. No names, no pack drill ... no record. Whatever had happened was going to be swept under the carpet — a very expensive, highest-quality Oriental carpet, but a carpet nonetheless. Whatever had happened to her, for whatever reason, was going to be swept away. Lost, as she might be ...

'I want to know what happened,' I said. 'From the very beginning.'

'I wouldn't mind knowing myself,' he admitted. 'If she recovers enough to tell us ...'

'No.' I stood there, all my energy concentrated on sending out a mental call to Nessa to respond. It had often worked in the past, no matter how far apart we had been. Not this time. She was too far away, whatever spark she had was curled up in the centre of her being, fighting to survive, to return to life. She needed all her own energy for that. I cut off the signal, it wasn't fair to ask her to dissipate any energy that was left to her.

'No.' I stood there, limp and empty but for a growing rage. 'I can't wait that long.'

'And even if ... when ... she recovers consciousness —' he was having trouble treading the line between honesty and optimism; just as well Mr Oversall wasn't here —'we don't know how much brain damage there might be. There's usually short-term memory loss in cases like this, especially about events just before the accident. She may never be able to tell you anything about it.'

'Amnesia ...' I said. 'Temporary amnesia.'

'It might be permanent,' he warned.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had known that: read it, heard it, learned it in some long-ago psychology course. A plan began to form in my mind. Or had it been there all along?

'Have you mentioned this to anyone at Friary Keep?'

'Not really.' He looked uncomfortable. 'No one's asked. Apart from Mr Oversall, of course, and my senior partner handled that ... before he went away.'

'Poor Nessa ...' There had been vague intimations in some of her letters. Bitch! The echo of that hateful whisper surfaced faintly in my mind. 'Not very popular, was she?'

'No one was.' His mouth twisted wryly. 'It's everyone for themselves in that set-up. Nothing to take personally.'

'A strange ménage.' He couldn't deny it. 'So no one knows, or particularly cares about, the actual position. Except for the optimistic Mr Oversall, who is expecting Nessa back on duty in very short order.'

'I'm afraid that sums it up.'

'And now your senior has gone away and you're the one left to tell Mr Oversall the unpalatable truth.'

'Yes.' He knew it. He'd known it all along, but he didn't like having it pointed out to him.

'Mr Oversall isn't going to like it.'

'No, but they don't kill the messenger any more.' His uncertain smile said he wished he could be sure of that.

'I wouldn't bet on it.' Shamelessly, I preyed on his fears.

'I understand Mr Oversall can be quite nasty when thwarted.'

'One hears rumours.' He lost a little more colour. 'But even a billionaire has to face reality occasionally.' Mortality, he meant.

'Not necessarily. I think we should send Nessa back to him. A little the worse for wear, perhaps, and not quite up to the job for a while longer. In need of rest — but able to learn quite a lot while she takes her time recovering.'

'What do you mean? She can't possibly be moved. You've seen —' He broke off, looking at me with growing — and justified — suspicion.

'I'll take her place. We're twins, remember.'

'But — but — you can't!'

'With your help, I can. Just make sure everyone knows that I'm suffering from amnesia. I think we'll make that total amnesia, not just the short-term kind.'

'But —'

I smiled. The gowns, the wigs, the glitter, the glamour that comprised my stage persona, Gloriana, were all packed away in the theatrical trunks following me in the hold of the liner I had intended to sail in, but who needed them? I half-turned, moistened my lips and gave him a smouldering look.

'You — you're —' He choked.

'Go ahead, say it.' I shrugged languorously. 'I've been called obscene before.' It was his own reaction that had shocked him, I knew. That split second in which he had felt the pull, glimpsed the dark side of the moon.

'I didn't mean that,' he said. 'I mean, you'll never get away with it!'

'Oh, yes, I will!' I dropped the coquetry and let my face reveal the depth of my fury — and my determination. Someone had tried to kill Nessa and I intended to find out who. 'All you have to do is sell them the amnesia story. You can do that, can't you?'

'Yes, but — you — He shook his head. 'You're —'

'I'll tell you what I am,' I snapped. 'Twindom apart, I'm the best damned female impersonator in the business!'

The guard dogs began baying as the car swung through the wrought-iron gates and up the long curving tree-lined drive. I knew, from Nessa's letters, that the kennels were sited along the outer wall, the better to discourage prospective trespassers. At night, the dogs were freed to roam the grounds — except for the more dangerous ones, who patrolled with the armed guards.

Friary Keep lurched, rather than sprawled, across the top of the low hill like a mad Disneyland extravaganza. At one end, a tower masquerading as a Norman keep rising out of a moat stood guard over a terraced conglomeration of buildings, starting with a medieval manor, which blended into a half- timbered Tudor town house, which melded in turn into a red- brick mullion-windowed Elizabethan manor. At the very end, standing on its own in another moat, a Gothic tower balanced the arrangement. I wondered which tower Nessa had fallen — or been pushed — from.

'The cloisters are around at the back,' Dr Anderson said, as he drove around the end of the tower. 'That's where they have the guest rooms and the superior staff quarters. You have a small suite of your own.' He had refused the offer of a chauffeur to collect me and elected to drive me himself, so that I could have a last-minute briefing. The amnesia could account for anything he had missed.

'Where are the inferior staff quarters?'

'In the Norman tower,' he answered seriously. 'The Gothic tower is just for show. A folly, really.'

'It all looks like a folly to me. It must be like living in an architectural historian's nightmare.'

'It's all a Victorian fake,' he assured me. 'But it's been brought right up to date. Behind the pseudo-period features, it's all mod cons and the latest technology. You can sit in the anchorite's cell one minute and surf the Internet the next.'

'There's a cell, too?'

'What cloister would be without something so atmospheric? I understand the original Victorian owner even had a wax dummy installed — which looked so real it frightened the servants. Except for the butler, who decided the cell was an ideal place to commit suicide and was discovered hanging there in the robes he'd stripped from the dummy. After that, rumours began that the place was haunted.'

'It was a superstitious age,' I said absently. Heat-sensitive lights had blazed into life as we drew up in front of an iron- studded heavy oak door. Something moved behind the small glass panel at one side and the door swung open as we got out of the car.

'Vanessa?' The figure was shadowy with the light behind her, but her voice seemed warm and concerned. I braced myself for my first hurdle.

'Mrs Chandler, the housekeeper,' Dr Anderson cued me softly.

He meant well, but I ignored the information. If I greeted her by name, the idea might get around that my amnesia was not so complete as someone might have hoped. Memory had to return gradually — if at all.

'Vanessa!' She stopped short of embracing me, noting my obvious fragility. 'I'm so glad you're back. How are you?'

'I'm not sure ...' I smiled vaguely at the maternal figure.

'I'm afraid ... she's a long way from being ... her old self,' Dr Anderson said carefully, making sure he was using the correct pronoun.

'I understand.' She nodded, accepting the hesitancy as his delicacy in offering any sort of diagnosis in front of the patient. 'You'll do better, now that we have you back home, my dear. We'll have you on your feet in no time.'

'Thank you, Ms ...?' I might as well hammer it home right from the beginning.

'Oh!' Her hand fluttered up to her heart, she looked across me to the doctor. 'I — I knew, of course. I — I supposed I hadn't really understood —'

'Vanessa, this is Monica Chandler, the housekeeper.' He introduced me formally. 'She'll take good care of you.' He met the woman's anxious eyes. 'And she'll introduce you to the others,' he underlined.

'Oh ... yes. Yes, of course.' She was out of her depth. She'd obviously had to deal with a great many problems during her long domestic career, but never anything like this before. 'I'm sorry.'

'So am I.' Smiling weakly, I swayed against Dr Anderson, who tensed slightly before ostentatiously offering his arm.

'Perhaps we should get her to her quarters,' he said. 'She ought to lie down now.'

'Of course.' She led the way along a corridor lit by electric candles which flickered realistically and didn't give off enough light to illuminate the dark corners. Atmospheric was the obvious intention. 'Spooky,' Nessa had called it in one of her letters to me.

Her letters — why had I thrown so many of them away so blithely? Three moves are as good as a fire, they say, and I was always on the move. True, most of our correspondence had been frittered into cyberspace but, when she was really disturbed, Nessa found the old-fashioned pen-to-paper routine the best therapy for her anxiety. I should have paid more attention to her fears.

Somewhere behind us, I caught the sound of a door opening and closing quietly. Someone taking a furtive peek at the returning outpatient?

'Here we are!' We had reached the end of the cloister and another iron-bound oak door blocked our way. Monica Chandler pulled a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. 'Here are your quarters!' She swung the door wide, giving me a hopeful look, as though the sight of my private domain might instantly restore my memory and we could all have a good laugh.

---

Excerpted from "Only the Cat Knows"
by .
Copyright © 2007 Marian Babson.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---