Read Online Written in Blood by Caroline Graham - Free Book Online Page B

credit that he had won such a prize. Even on the wedding day, passed in a golden haze of bliss, Barnaby had noticed quite clearly this obverse shadow of disbelief.
    They had been away now nearly two weeks and had left behind a memento - an enchanting Russian Blue kitten, Kilmowski, acquired just before the tour was offered. At least, Joyce described it as enchanting. Barnaby regarded the animal as a damn nuisance. He could no longer sit down without remembering to check both chair and cushions or open a door without a warning squeal from his wife. Yesterday the Independent had been torn to shreds on the doormat, unreadable even before wee’d on.
    And, as if his daughter’s absence and the kitten’s presence was not enough, Barnaby was now faced with the misery of dieting. Always a big man, he had taken up cooking a couple of years previously, largely in self-defence, for Joyce’s food was so spectacularly bad that friends, invited for dinner, had been known to bring it with them.
    He had taken to the art like a duck to orange sauce and had discovered, after years of munching on indescribable indefinables chased by antacid tablets, that he had, by nature, the appetite of a king. It was just his luck that the king in question happened to be Henry the Eighth.
    Even a man of six foot three cannot healthily carry sixteen stone and he had been warned, at his last check-up, that a minimum of thirty pounds would have to go. And he was trying. He really was. But it was bloody hard. At the moment he was spinning out a slice of toast, having polished off his boiled egg in two scoops.
    Joyce, pressing the plunger in the cafetière, was keeping an eye out for the postman. She was hoping for a card or letter from Poland, where Much Ado was running for the next fortnight - hoping, she realised, probably in vain, for Cully was a negligent correspondent to put it mildly. Nicholas was the one most likely to keep in touch.
    Joyce couldn’t help worrying about them both however much common sense pointed out that an august body such as the Arts Council would hardly be sending a company of English actors into danger. But the whole of Eastern Europe seemed to her so volatile that today’s safe area could well be tomorrow’s war zone. Threatening words and phrases pattered around Joyce’s mind - ‘unstable government’, ‘fundamentalist guerrillas’, ‘racial riots’, ‘trigger-happy border guards’, ‘roof-top snipers’.
    These unhappy reflections were shattered by an enraged yell. She turned to see her husband grasping the kitten by the scruff of its neck and lifting it into the air.
    ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ She ran across the room. ‘Give him to me. Right now, Tom!’ Kilmowski was passed over. ‘How could you be so unkind.’
    ‘It’s just walked through my marmalade.’
    ‘He doesn’t know.’ Joyce kissed a grey velvet triangular nose. ‘Do you?’ The kitten squinted amberly at her. ‘Poor little scrap.’
    She placed Kilmowski gently on the carpet, whereupon he immediately sought the edge of the tablecloth, dug in his claws and started to climb again.
    ‘Look! Look at that.’
    ‘Leave him alone. D’you want some fresh coffee?’
    ‘No thanks.’ Barnaby glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine thirty. ‘Better be off.’ As he was putting on his overcoat the phone rang. ‘Would you take that, love? Say I’m on my way.’
    ‘Of course it might just be for me.’ Joyce sounded quite huffy. ‘I do have a wide circle of friends, some of whom have been known to ring me up from time to time.’
    ‘’Course you have.’ Barnaby came back wrapped in heavy black and white herringbone tweed and pulling on his gloves. ‘And of course they do.’ He kissed a coolish cheek. ‘Back around six.’
    As he turned to leave Barnaby sourly regarded the kitten, now squatting, with great dignity, in the precise centre of his tray. Kilmowski stared straight through him then, crossing his eyes with