Cat Among the Pumpkins (10 page)

Hettie woke from a heavy sleep to the smell of bacon. Opening one eye, she focused on the clock on the staff sideboard which confirmed her suspicions – she had overslept. It was gone nine and the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency had detected very little so far other than a pair of bacon baps which her other eye located just out of reach on the table.

‘Oh bugger!’ said Tilly, as an unruly tea bag splashed back into the mug she was retrieving it from. ‘It’s a shame tea leaves are such a mess. They’re much kinder, and you don’t get scalded when things go wrong.’ Hettie wasn’t sure whether to join in the
conversation or not, but decided against it as Tilly seemed to be handling the debate perfectly well on her own. ‘Of course, there’s the tea pot issue,’ she continued, warming to her theme. ‘Extra washing up, and the second cup out of the pot always tastes nasty. Then there’s the cosy or no cosy situation – I suppose if I were a teapot I’d want a cardigan to keep me warm.’

The smell of bacon had become unbearable and Tilly’s soliloquy over the teapot was a little too surreal for Hettie to cope with at this time of day. ‘I think we should stick with the tea bags and break out the bacon baps,’ she said.

Tilly looked up from her tea-making. ‘Oh good, you’re awake. Bruiser brought these in for us as a thank you for last night. He’s taken his down the shed because he didn’t want to wake you, but he said to give him a shout when we’re ready to go out in Scarlet.’

Hettie yawned and stretched. Pulling her dressing gown on, she made her way towards the baps as Tilly added two mugs of hot tea to the breakfast table. Their room was much tidier than Hettie remembered it. She’d fallen into a deep sleep surrounded by Miss Spitforce’s papers, dirty dinner plates and hurriedly discarded clothes; now, all was in its place and the Spitforce papers were stacked neatly at the other end of the table, waiting for them to start work. Tilly had clearly been busy in Hettie’s slumbering absence, and
the two cats sat and enjoyed their extra-large bacon baps before another word was said.

They spent the morning poring over Miss Spitforce’s map. It was clear that the red crosses were sites where cats had died; the blue crosses seemed to correspond with the Much-Purring villages; and the boxes were still a puzzle. Tilly jotted down details of the burial records, matching up deceased cats with their villages so that they could refer to them later when they went out.

‘That’s a good morning’s work,’ said Hettie, stretching. ‘I think we should pay a call on Balti Dosh and Marmite Sprat before we set off for the Much-Purrings. I’ll go and get Bruiser while you pop to the Butters’ and get us something nice for lunch. You’d better order supper, too – I’m not sure what time we’ll be back.’

Tilly skipped round to the front of the shop to find the lunchtime queue in full swing, which gave her plenty of time to decide what she would buy when her turn came. Betty and Beryl ran their business like a well-oiled machine, making sure that the shop was stacked to the gills with freshly baked pies, breads and cakes ready for the town’s hungry hordes. They also supplied the food hall at Malkin and Sprinkle with their ‘Tastes Lovely’ range, which sold out most days before eleven o’clock. Mr Sprinkle had wanted to treble the order but Betty and Beryl – being shrewd
business cats as well as master bakers – knew that once the pies had sold out in the food hall, customers would make the trek down to the other end of the High Street to their shop, where the profit margin was higher and their full range of sweets and savouries would tempt additional sales. Such was the popularity of their wares that they invariably wiped their surfaces down by half past three, giving them plenty of time to put their feet up or pop out to the local garden centre for a nice cup of tea and a look round; both sisters were keen gardeners, growing vegetables and flowers in perfect harmony in the sizeable plot at the back of their bakery.

As the queue moved forward, Tilly watched the cream horns and custard tarts diminish before her very eyes. There were plenty of Eccles cakes and ring doughnuts left, but she had no time for cakes with holes where the cream should be and couldn’t see the point in currants at all.

‘Now then, Miss Tilly,’ said Beryl. ‘What will it be today? Sausage pie’s the special.’

‘Ooh yes, that would be lovely. I’ll need three, as Bruiser is still with us.’

‘So I see,’ said Beryl, placing three pies in a bag. ‘He gave us a hand with the coal this morning, then helped Betty dig the last of the spuds. Useful sort to have around. And pudding?’

‘I don’t suppose there are three cream horns left,
are there?’ asked Tilly, seeing that the tray was now empty.

‘You might be in luck.’ Betty joined her sister at the counter. ‘I put these by when you walked in.’

Tilly clapped her paws with delight. ‘Oh and I’ll need three rolls for lunch – cheese would be nice.’

Betty took up her butter knife, selected three large rolls, and filled them with sizeable wedges of cheese as Beryl added up the bill. Tilly handed over her luncheon vouchers and paid the extra, staggering under the sheer weight of the cakes, pies and rolls. She turned to leave, and walked straight into Marmite Sprat who was behind her in the queue.

‘Oh Miss Sprat – I wonder if you might have time to pop into our office at the back of the bakery for a few minutes? Miss Bagshot is keen to talk to you.’

Marmite eyed Tilly with suspicion as Beryl waited patiently for her order. ‘I’ll have an Eccles cake and a plain bridge roll, please,’ she said, not even looking at Beryl. ‘I’m rather busy today with matters pertaining to my book,’ she added, obviously hoping to dismiss Tilly as quickly as possible.

‘But Miss Sprat, it’s your lovely book that we want to talk about.’

‘Very well, then, but five minutes is all I can spare.’ Marmite snatched her frugal lunch from the counter, giving Beryl the exact money, and followed Tilly out of the bakery and round to the Butters’ backyard.

Hettie was on her way up the path with Bruiser, kitted out in his leathers; seeing that Tilly had bagged a prime suspect, she sent him off to prepare Scarlet for her outing.

‘Miss Sprat – how lovely to see you,’ she said with as much charm as she could muster. ‘Please come through to the office.’

The smell of bacon hung in the air, but that was the only hint of domestic bliss – or chaos – and Hettie was relieved to see that their room really did look like an office, with papers stacked neatly on the table.

‘Please take a seat, Miss Sprat. Forgive us for the limited space – we’re looking for bigger premises but are too snowed under with work to do much about it.’

Tilly suppressed a giggle, marvelling at Hettie’s talent for knowing how to impress. Her words were lost on Marmite Sprat, who grudgingly perched herself on the edge of the proffered chair.

‘Miss Sprat,’ Hettie began, knowing that a spot of ego massaging was the only way to go with their unwilling visitor, ‘first let me congratulate you on your latest book. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading it and would love you to sign my copy before you go.’

Tilly pulled the book out from under the staff sideboard and brushed the crumbs off, thankful that Marmite was facing the other way. She put it on the desk and took up her notepad and pencil ready for Hettie’s questioning. Marmite eyed her book nervously,
and Hettie – seeing that niceties weren’t washing – got stuck in. ‘I’m interested in your theory regarding the death of Miss Mavis Spitforce. I was surprised to see an intelligent cat like you on the news last night telling everyone that Milky Myers was responsible.’

Marmite was shocked at the change in Hettie’s tone; it had become confrontational, and not at all to her liking. ‘Miss Bagshot, it may suit you and your friends to go about this town poking your noses into things that don’t concern you under the pretence of being detectives, but some of us see through that nonsense. Your so-called talk at the Friendship Club was amateurish to say the least, and now you seem to think you are investigating Mavis Spitforce’s death. I would like to know who has appointed you to that position.’

Hettie stared at the thin, pinched brown cat before her, wondering how best to deliver the slap she surely had coming to her. ‘Our agency has been retained to investigate a number of circumstances surrounding Miss Spitforce’s death by Miss Spitforce herself.’

‘You must think I’m stupid,’ scoffed Marmite. ‘Messages from beyond the grave? That’s pure Peggledrip rubbish.’

Hettie was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘Ah, Miss Peggledrip has been most helpful with our enquiries but Miss Spitforce was very much alive when she engaged us. And yes, I do think you’re stupid to
believe that Milky Myers – or Thaddeus, to give him his proper name – has come back from the dead to murder his great, great granddaughter.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Marmite, getting up to leave. ‘You’re making it up to discredit me and my book.’

‘I assure you we have proof positive that Mavis Spitforce was related to Thaddeus Myers, and as for making it up, I rather think that’s your department. Might I suggest you start a new series of books called
Strange But False
? That should go down well with your friends at the Methodist Hall. And before you go, I’d like to know where you were on the night of Halloween, just to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

Tilly moved in with her notepad, pencil poised and ready to write.

‘How dare you suggest I had anything to do with Mavis Spitforce’s death! I didn’t like her, that’s perfectly true – she always thought she was so much better than everyone else, her and Bugs Anderton bossing us all round at the club, making fools of us in front of the guest speakers.’

Hettie knew that the venom pouring from Marmite Sprat was going to be endless unless she stemmed the flow. ‘So where were you on Halloween?’ she repeated with a little more force.

‘I was at home all night, like I am every night. I lock and bolt my door at six o’clock, and retire with a book by half past eight.’

Hettie couldn’t help but think that Marmite Sprat had no real need to lock and bolt her door; why would anyone want to intrude on such an inhospitable shrew? But she resisted and moved on to other questions that needed answering. ‘And were you at home on Tuesday evening after the Friendship Club?’

‘As I have said, I’m always at home in the evenings. Now, if you’ve quite finished, I have books to pack up and get in the post.’

Hettie ignored Marmite’s wish to leave and continued with her questions. ‘Did you discuss your new book with Mavis Spitforce?’

‘No I didn’t. I sent her a copy in the post.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’d told Delirium Treemints that she was also writing a book on the Myers case. I wanted her to see that I’d got there first. She was always belittling the things I did.’

‘So has it come as a shock to you that Mavis Spitforce was related to Thaddeus Myers?’

‘Even if she was, that still doesn’t mean my story is wrong. He murdered his entire family, and if Mavis
was
family, that rather proves my theory, doesn’t it?’ Marmite Sprat stood up, satisfied with her parting shot. She grabbed her meagre lunch rations from Hettie’s desk and made for the door.

Hettie waited until their visitor’s footsteps had faded away across the backyard before speaking her
mind. ‘Bloody opportunist! She’d say anything to sell a book – historian my foot! But I doubt she’s a murderer. She’s not clever enough.’

‘Shall we cross her off the list?’ asked Tilly, packing the cheese rolls into her shoulder bag.

‘Not just yet, but I honestly can’t see her garrotting Teezle Makepeace and swinging her from an elder tree. That’s far too imaginative for Marmite Sprat.’

Bruiser was busy polishing Scarlet with an old handkerchief when Hettie and Tilly joined him. He’d plumped up the cushions in the sidecar and was busy buffing up the chrome around the headlight.

‘She looks lovely,’ said Tilly, clambering into her seat and making sure not to squash the rolls in her bag.

‘Dosh Stores in Whisker Terrace first,’ Hettie instructed, jumping in beside her and closing the lid.

Bruiser moved out into the lunchtime traffic and sped down the High Street, noticing that the petrol gauge was close on empty. Calculating that he could get to Whisker Terrace first, he dropped Hettie and Tilly outside the stores and drove off to fill up at the pump in Lazarus Hambone’s yard.

The street was much quieter than the day before. There was no sign of anyone outside the Spitforce house, which gave Hettie the opportunity she’d hoped for. ‘I need to collect those true crime books from Mavis’s before we talk to Balti Dosh,’ she said. ‘Stand guard for me. I won’t be long.’  

Tilly tucked herself in behind Mavis Spitforce’s hedge as Hettie made her way round to the back of the house. She took the key from her mac pocket and let herself into the kitchen. The house was silent and desolate. As Hettie passed through the rooms, she witnessed much evidence of Lavinia’s ransacking: drawers were open, small homely treasures tossed into boxes, and upstairs a mountain of clothes was piled high on Mavis’s bed as if nothing mattered except the bricks and mortar. Hettie was almost disappointed not to find Lavinia there, deconstructing her aunt’s life; she would have relished the opportunity to wave the copy of the new will at her, but that could wait.

She pushed the door of the box room open and quickly found what she was looking for – a lavish, beautifully bound set of true crime books, Mavis Spitforce’s gift to Balti Dosh. There were eight volumes in total, covering over a hundred years of crime and detailing the investigations and outcomes from a detective’s perspective. Hettie hugged them to her, wishing that Mavis had seen fit to leave them to the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency, but the will had to be served, and served it would be.

Locking the house and retaining the key, Hettie staggered into Whisker Terrace under the weight of Balti’s bequest. Tilly came to the rescue as the top two books in her arms made a bid for freedom. ‘Good catch!’ she said, leading the way to the Dosh
Stores. There was never a time when the shop wasn’t busy: Rogan and Balti took it in turns to keep it open eighteen hours a day, closing only on their holy days, and then only briefly to partake in any necessary ceremonial occasions. They were the lifeblood of the Terrace and surrounding area, and very much part of the community. Like all their relatives, they worked hard with an unshaken pride and determination to stock and supply everything that their customers required.