The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare (20 page)

Qwilleran explained briefly and directed him to the kitchen. In a moment Dr. Hal returned. “Better drive her to the hospital. Where’s your phone? I’ll order a private room.”

“I don’t know what it’s all about,” Qwilleran said in a low voice, “but her husband might go looking for her. I think you should specify no visitors.”

He helped Dr. Hal walk the patient to the back door.

“I’ll need –some things,” she said faintly.

“We’ll pack a bag and send it to the hospital. Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Cobb.” Qwilleran would never be able to call her Mrs. Hackpole.

The houseman brought the car up, and Qwilleran said to him, “While I’m gone, would you go to the Little Stone Church and catch Mrs. Fulgrove when the service is over? Ask her to come and pack Mrs. Cobb’s personal things for a short hospital stay.”

The drive to the hospital was done in silence except for an occasional sob. “I’m so much trouble for you.”

“Not at all. You were wise to come back to the house.”

When he returned from delivering the patient, Mrs. Fulgrove was bustling about with importance. “I packed all what I could think of,” she said, “which it ain’t easy seein’ as how I never been in hospital myself, God be praised, but I put in what I thought was right and the little radio near her bed, and I looked for a Bible but I couldn’t find one, which I packed my own and it should be a comfort to her.”

“Had Mrs. Cobb asked you to work tonight during the reception, Mrs. Fulgrove?”

“That she did, but seein’ as how it’s Sunday – which I don’t do work on the Lord’s day – I couldn’t take money for it, but I’ll help out and pleased to do it, seein’ as how the poor soul is in hospital and I’m thankful for my health.”

Qwilleran asked the houseman to deliver Mrs. Cobb’s necessities to the hospital. “Do you think we can manage the reception without her, Mr. O’Dell?”

“Sure an’ it’s our best we’ll be doin’. The club ladies will be after needin’ help with the punch bowl and the likes o’ that. And should I take the little ones across the yard before the party starts, now?”

“I don’t believe so. The cats enjoy a party. Let them stay in the house.”

“When the club ladies leave for the concert, I’ll be lockin’ up and goin’ to the church for a little, but I’ll be comin’ back before it’s over. Mrs. Cobb was for turnin’ on all the lights and lightin’ all the fireplaces. Too bad she won’t be enjoyin’ it now. What is it that’s ailin’ herself?”

“Some kind of virus,” Qwilleran said.

Around noon the telephone rang, and a thick voice demanded, “Where is she? Where’s my wife?”

“Is this Mr. Hackpole?” Qwilleran asked. “Didn’t you know? She’s in the hospital. She had some kind of attack, they say.”

With an outburst of profanity the caller hung up. Phoning the hospital in the afternoon, Qwilleran learned that the patient was resting quietly and holding her own, but no visitors were permitted, by order of Dr. Halifax.

In the afternoon Susan Exbridge and her committee arrived to prepare the punch and decorate the punch table. At the same moment Polly Duncan arrived with her overnight bag. The women greeted each other politely but not warmly, and the committee seemed surprised to see Polly on the premises.

On the way to the Old Stone Mill for dinner Qwilleran said to Polly, “I see you know Susan Exbridge.”

“Everyone knows Susan Exbridge. She’s in every organization and on every committee.”

“She thinks I should join the theater group.”

“You would find it very time-consuming,” Polly warned him testily. “If you’re serious about writing your book, it would definitely interfere.”

She spoke with an acerbity that was unusual for her, and Qwilleran refrained from mentioning Mrs. Exbridge again.

At the restaurant the customers were standing in line, and Hixie was frantically trying to seat the crowd. She had no time for banter. Qwilleran and his guest had to wait for a table and wait for a menu. Judging from the tenor of the conversation in the dining room, everyone was headed for the concert, and everyone was thrilled.

Qwilleran said to Polly, “My mother used to sing in the Messiah choir every Christmas. My favorite number is the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus, especially if they pull out all the stops. I like that two – second rest before the last hallelujah – two seconds of dead silence and then POW!”

Hixie handed them menus with an apology for the delay. Clipped to the folder was a small card suggesting a ready-to-serve Concert Special. Clipped to Qwilleran’s menu was another small card scribbled in Hixie’s hand: “Want a private talk. Call you tomorrow.”

Shortly after six-thirty the restaurant emptied, and the diners converged on the Old Stone Church. The lofty sanctuary was filled to overflowing, both the cushioned pews and the folding chairs in the side aisles. The first three pews were roped off, and the audience was mystified. Guesses and rumors circulated. The anticipation was palpable.

“Do you object to sitting in the back row on the side aisle?” Qwilleran asked Polly. “I want to leave right before the last note, so I can check the museum before the guests arrive.”

At seven o’clock Mr. O’Dell slipped into a folding chair nearby, and the two men exchanged nods.

Then the performers appeared – first the orchestra in gray livery. The chorus filed in wearing powdered wigs and pastel costumes – the women in lace fichus and voluminous skirts; the men in knee breeches, waistcoats, and stocks. Finally the soloists made a dramatic entrance in jewel-toned velvets, creating a stir in the audience.

The conductor turned to face the expectant listeners. “Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for His Majesty, King George.”

The doors at the rear were flung open, and while the orchestra played coronation music, the royal party moved down the center aisle in dignified procession – a panoply of red velvet, ermine, white satin, and purple damask. The audience gasped, then murmured in wonder, then applauded with delight.

Qwilleran whispered to Polly, “I wish my mother could have seen this. She would have flipped.”

The church was noted for its excellent acoustics; the chorus was well rehearsed; the soloists and instrumentalists were professionals; the pipe organ was magnificent. It was a performance Qwilleran would never forget – for more reasons than one.

Toward the end of the oratorio Mr. O’Dell slipped out, giving an explanatory nod to Qwilleran. The orchestra played the opening bars leading up to the first explosive and spine-tingling hallelujah. The king and his royal party rose; the audience rose; and Qwilleran lost himself in the majesty of the music and his own personal nostalgia.

The hallelujahs built up with mounting intensity and joyous celebration, ascending to that dramatic moment – that breathtaking pause – the two seconds of hollow silence!

In that fraction of a fraction of time Qwilleran heard a false note – the wail of a siren. Bruce Scott, seated several rows ahead, slid out of the pew and scuttled up the aisle. Two other men made quick exits. Qwilleran scowled. It was unfortunate timing for the fire siren.

The “Hallelujah” chorus ended, and an aria began. Then a door behind Qwilleran opened, and an usher tapped his arm and whispered.

Qwilleran was out of his seat instantly, running across the narthex and down the steps. On the other side of the park the museum was aglow – not with light but with a red glare.

“Oh, my God! The cats!” he yelled.

He dashed across the street, dodging traffic. He cut through the park, plowing frantically through deep snow.

Flashing red and blue lights surrounded the building. More sirens were sounding.

“The cats!” he shouted.

Black-coated figures were unreeling lines and hoisting ladders. “Stay back!” they ordered.

Qwilleran dashed past them. “The cats!” he bellowed. The red glare spread to the second-story windows. Glass exploded and tongues of flame licked out.

“Stop him!”

He was headed for the back door, nearest the kitchen.

“Keep him out!”

Strong arms restrained him. He looked up and saw the glare spreading to the third floor. Ladders went up. Windows shattered, and black smoke billowed out.

Qwilleran groaned in defeat.

MONDAY. NOVEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH. Qwilleran turned on the radio in the bedroom of his garage apartment. “Headline news at this hour: The Klingenschoen Museum on Park Circle was totally destroyed by fire Sunday night, the result of arson, according to fire chief Bruce Scott. A charred body found in the building, allegedly that of the arsonist, has not yet been indentified. Thirty fire fighters, four tankers, and three pumpers responded, with surrounding communities assisting the Pickax volunteers. No firemen were injured… We can expect warmer temperatures today and bright sunny skies – “

“Sunny!” Qwilleran muttered, snapping off the radio. He stared with mournful eyes at the gray scene outdoors: the cold, heavy, leaden sky… the ground black with frozen mud and soot… the smoke-damaged skeleton of a three-story fieldstone building that had once been a showplace. The windows, doors, and roof were gone, and the blackened stone walls enclosed a mountain of charred rubble. The acrid smell of smoke that hung over the ruin also seeped into his apartment.

Polly walked to his side and held his hand in silent sympathy.

“Thank you for helping me get through this ghastly night,” he said. “Are you warm enough?” She was wearing a pair of his pajamas. “We didn’t get heat until an hour ago. The power came on about five o’clock, but the phone is still dead. The last fire truck didn’t leave until daylight.”

Gazing at the depressing sight, Polly said, “I can’t understand it.”

“It’s beyond comprehension. Would you like coffee? There’s nothing here for breakfast except frozen rolls, What time are you due at the library?”

“YO-W-W-W!” came a loud and demanding howl from the adjoining room.

“Koko heard a reference to breakfast,” Qwilleran said as he went to open the door of the cats’ parlor.

They walked out with expectant noses and optimistic tails.

“Sorry,” he said. “The only aroma this morning is stale smoke. There’s no food until I go to the store. Just be glad you’re alive.”

“Here comes Mr. O’Dell,” Polly said.

“Better go and get dressed.”

She grabbed her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom as the houseman plodded up the stairs.

Qwilleran greeted him in a minor key. “It’s a sad day, Mr. O’Dell, but we’re thankful you saved the cats.”

“That boy-o there, it was himself that did it, carryin’ on like a banshee an’ scratchin’ the broom closet door that I waxed only a week since. I opened the door, and it was the picnic basket he was wantin’ to get into. Scoldin’ the little one, he was, till she jumped in after himself. You were wantin’ me to leave them in the house, but it was a divil of a row he was makin’, so I carried them over here before goin’ to listen to the music a little. A wonder, it is!”

“Koko knew something was going to happen,” Qwilleran explained. “He sensed danger. Have you heard anything about the arsonist? On the radio they said he’s still unidentified.”

“That I did,” said O’Dell. “My old friend Brodie stopped to see this mornin’. It’s himself been tryin’ to get you on the phone.”

“The line has been out of order all night. What did Brodie have to say?”

The houseman shook his head dolefully. “Sure an’ I feel sorry for the poor woman – herself in the hospital and her new husband burned to death and a criminal.”

Qwilleran was silent. It was the kind of thing that man would do – burn down the museum to stop his wife from working. He was a madman! He was crazy to think he could get away with it.

“I was there when they were after puttin’ him in a canvas bag,” the houseman said. “It’s black, he was, like a burned hot dog, split open and pink inside.”

“Spare us the details, Mr. O’Dell. Now it’s Mrs. Cobb we have to worry about. We all know how much the museum meant to her.”

“Is there any thin’ I can do, now, for the poor soul?”

“You can take this money, buy some flowers, and deliver them to the hospital. Not pink roses! Wait a minute: I’ll write a note to enclose.”

The houseman left, and Polly emerged from the bathroom wearing the winter-white dress she had worn to the concert. “This is not what I usually wear for a hard day’s work in the stacks,” she said. “How can I explain that I lost my luggage in the museum fire?”

“I’m sorry about your luggage, Polly.”

“I’m sorriest about those four thousand books.”

“It’s the library I’ll miss most of all,” he said. “I saved only one thing. When the auction van delivered the desk, I bribed the porters to bring Mrs. Cobb’s wedding present out of the house, so the Pennsylvania schrank is in the garage along with Ephraim Goodwinter’s old desk.”

The telephone rang, a welcome sound after hours without service. Qwilleran grabbed it. “Yes?… It’s been out of order, Dr. Hal. What’s the situation?… That’s bad, but there’s worse to come. They’ve identified the arsonist… Would it help if I went to the hospital and had a talk with her?… Okay, I’ll let you know how it goes.”

He replaced the receiver and gazed at it thoughtfully.

“What’s the trouble, Qwill?”

“Mrs. Cobb was doing all right until she tuned in her radio and heard the news about the fire. Then it was hysteria-time all over again.”

Polly left for work, and the telephone started to ring – and ring. Friends, associates, and strangers called to voice their horrified reactions and offer condolences. Prying busybodies wanted to know who had set the fire – and why. On Main Street a steady stream of motorists cruised around the Park Circle, gawking at the ruins.

Junior Goodwinter’s phone call from Down Below came as a surprise. “Qwill! I can’t believe it! Jody got a call from Francesca. She said they haven’t identified the torch.”

“It was Hackpole! One of your own fire fighters.”

“Not anymore! They dumped him last spring for infraction of rules. When and if he showed up for training, he was half-shot.”

Qwilleran said, “I’m greatly distressed about your mother’s accident, Junior. That was a terrible thing.”

“Yeah, I know. What can I say?”