Cat Among the Pumpkins (9 page)

‘And Lavinia?’

‘She was away up at the school. They had a ghouls and pumpkins party, and I made some of the costumes for it. I went to my bed early, so I’m not sure what time she got back.’

Hettie shot a look at Tilly. ‘What sort of costumes did you make?’

Bugs stood up and crossed the room to a wicker basket. Lifting the lid, she pulled out a cloak of orange silk. ‘Several like this for the pumpkins, and white cloaks for the ghouls. Delirium Treemints helped – she made witches’ hats and masks out of some black felt that she had. Pakora got the silk for us – one of the “ask no questions” special deals that we are always most grateful for.’

Tilly and Hettie stared at the orange silk and knew that they had found the maker of the cloak in which Mavis Spitforce’s body had been wrapped. Hettie rose from the sofa, giving Tilly’s cardigan a tug to signal that their visit was over. She took up her mac and rescued Tilly’s hat, which had found its way under one of the tea trolley’s wheels.

‘Miss Anderton, you have been very helpful. We may need to speak with you again, so would it be possible to have your telephone number in case I think of anything else?’

‘I’ll give you my card,’ Bugs said, reaching into a large cream handbag which was parked on the floor by her armchair. ‘Please take some shortbread for your journey. I make it most days. It’s a little bit of bonny Scotland that I can’t seem to shake off.’

Hettie and Tilly thanked Bugs for tea and said their goodbyes, retracing their footsteps past Pakora Dosh’s stores and on through the village to where they had left Bruiser and Scarlet. Bruiser had made himself comfortable out of the November chill in the sidecar and was fast asleep under a blanket, but the lure of a shortbread finger soon brought him to his senses. Refreshed and ready for the road, he helped Hettie and Tilly aboard and was preparing to mount the bike when Jacob Surplus appeared from behind an old yew tree that bordered church land.

‘Oh no, not again,’ groaned Hettie as the ancient ecclesiastic bore down on her, and Tilly glanced curiously at her.

‘Thou shalt reap what though shalt sow,’ the vicar intoned. ‘The day of reckoning is but a prayer away. Repent and confess, I say to you, so that you may enter His kingdom cleansed and purified.’

Tilly threw the blanket over her head and burrowed
into her seat for warmth. Hettie stood up in the sidecar, wondering why she should have to repent over a salmon sandwich and a shortbread finger. ‘Could I just stop you there?’ she said as Jacob Surplus launched himself into an upbeat version of the twenty-third psalm. ‘I am investigating a rather unpleasant murder which may be connected in some way to a crime that happened a very long time ago.’

Jacob stopped his singing and stared at Hettie through watery eyes. ‘He’s back, then. I told her not to meddle. Let sleeping cats lie lest they rise up against their tormentors.’

Although she was becoming deeply annoyed by Jacob Surplus and his religious riddles, Hettie was intrigued by what he was trying to say and attempted to gain some clarity. ‘
Who
has come back? And who was meddling?’

Jacob looked to his left and then to his right before answering. ‘Thaddeus, come to claim another lamb for the flock buried beneath the earth. All Hallows Eve, the day of the dead.’

‘And the meddler?’ Hettie persisted.

‘Dead,’ said Jacob, looking to the heavens.

‘Mavis Spitforce?’

Jacob Surplus smiled. ‘Ah, the peace that comes with understanding, but first the violence. You must come and see for yourself. Tomorrow at three, perhaps?’

Hettie was bewildered and confused, but concerned
enough to accept the half-hearted invitation. Jacob melted away into the churchyard and Bruiser, looking just as bewildered as she was, kicked Scarlet into life. Hettie sat back down in the sidecar next to Tilly, who was recovering from a bout of giggling, and the three cats sped off towards the town. The daylight was fast disappearing and an already cold November day was turning icy. Bruiser took more care on the twists and turns of the road and had slowed down considerably by the time they reached the outskirts, giving Hettie and Tilly the chance to take a good long look at the Peggledrip house.

‘Stop!’ cried Hettie, forcing the lid of the sidecar back to let in a rush of cold air. ‘There’s something in that tree.’

Bruiser applied the brakes and the motorbike went into a skid, but he controlled it sufficiently to bring them to a standstill outside the gates to Peggledrip House. Hettie leapt from the sidecar and set off back down the road with Bruiser and Tilly following on behind. She had only gone a short distance before she stopped and stared in disbelief, rubbing her eyes to stem the hot tears of anger which fell uncontrollably, leaving large splashes down the front of her mac. Bruiser and Tilly caught up with her, and all three of them looked on in silence at the horror before them.

The tree was tall, part of the substantial gardens belonging to the Peggledrip house, and the few leaves
and berries which still clung to it marked it out as an elder. Bruiser was the first to speak. ‘Why don’t you two wait in the sidecar while I sort this out? I’ll ’ave to find a ladder from somewhere. There’s an old orchard at the back of the house – we used to play there, stealin’ apples and stuff, and there’s bound to be a ladder round there.’

Hettie nodded in agreement. Bruiser took off over the boundary fence and disappeared round the back of Peggledrip House, and she tightened the belt on her mac as if that would give her strength. Sadly, she looked down at Tilly, who was still staring at the tree. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do. I need you to be very brave. I’ll meet Bruiser at the tree if you’ll go and fetch Irene Peggledrip. She needs to know about this – if she doesn’t know already, by fair means or foul.’

Hettie set off back down the road, coaxing Tilly along by her cardigan. The latch on the gates to Peggledrip House gave way easily, and they opened with a resounding clank. The two cats made their way up a neglected carriage driveway, and the double-fronted house eventually revealed itself; it appeared to be in darkness, but – on closer inspection – there was a glimmer of light peeping through a curtain from one of the windows at the side of the house. Hettie pushed Tilly towards the front door. ‘Just tell her something dreadful has
happened in her garden. Don’t tell her what – just get her out here.’ Tilly set off on her mission, and Hettie strode across the lawn towards the elder tree.

By the time she reached the tree, Bruiser was approaching from the back of the house with a ladder. Looking more closely, Hettie could see that the figure hanging from the branch had been hoisted up there; the rope used had been tied around the trunk lower down to keep the body in place. The eyes were almost out of their sockets, the tongue – bitten and black – hung loosely out of the side of the mouth. The mailbag had been placed over its owner’s head and hung around her neck like a grotesque bib. This was progress of sorts, thought Hettie, doing her best to hold herself together; at least Teezle Makepeace could be crossed off Tilly’s list of suspects.

Bruiser secured the ladder against the tree but Hettie stopped him from going any further. ‘I want Irene Peggledrip to see her before we bring her down. Tilly’s fetching her now.’ Looking back at the house, she could make out a lantern swinging wildly as it progressed across the lawn. Yellow wellingtons manifested themselves first, followed by the great coat and crowned by the Cossack hat; Tilly looked very small against the towering, flapping vision of Irene Peggledrip.

‘Miss Bagshot! Whatever is amiss on such a night?
I was engaged in a rather hot-tempered game of backgammon with Crimola. She always has to win you see and …’

The medium was stopped in her tracks as she stared up at the body of Teezle Makepeace, motionless and silvered in the strengthening moon light. ‘I must apologise,’ she said, sinking to her knees.

For a moment Hettie thought she was going to get a confession, but Irene Peggledrip threw her arms around the tree and hugged it. ‘I’m so very sorry you’ve been put through all this. Please give the sprites my very best wishes.’

There were moments when Hettie felt the need to stand outside herself and assess the increasingly bizarre situations in which she found herself; it was a useful trick, a bit like watching a particularly bad late night film on TV. The scene before her now bore no resemblance to anything remotely normal; Irene Peggledrip clearly inhabited a parallel universe where the indignation of trees trumped the strangled cries of an overweight post-cat. Irene struggled to her feet, satisfied that the tree bore her no lasting malice. ‘I’d say about ten o’clock last night. I’ll have to check with Crimola, but she didn’t die here.’

Hettie marvelled at the certainty of Irene Peggledrip’s words and didn’t even bother to question them. She stared back up at the lifeless figure of Teezle Makepeace while Bruiser set about untying the knot
from around the tree, then climbed the ladder to steady the weight as Teezle was lowered gently to the ground. Looking carefully at the body, Hettie could see that Teezle had been strangled by a piece of wire which had bitten into her neck; as Irene Peggledrip had suggested, she had obviously died before being displayed in such a horrific manner. The good news, if there was any good news, was that Teezle’s death must have been quick and efficient, but why would anyone go to such lengths to kill her and then remove her body to a place which could so easily be seen from the road? It was as if the killer wanted to be noticed, to have their work appraised, and it had been the same with Mavis Spitforce: the crime scene there had been staged to look like a very bad joke.

Hettie removed the mail bag from around Teezle’s neck. The undelivered letters from the day before would have to be returned to the post office with the unwelcome news that Lavender Stamp was once again looking for a new employee. Teezle’s mouth was forced open by the swelling of her blackened tongue, and it was clear and refreshing to note that this time nothing had been forced into the mouth after death. Hettie wondered briefly if that was significant, but the frost was getting to everyone and she concluded her initial examinations quickly, then helped Bruiser to carry the body across the lawn under Irene Peggledrip’s instruction. ‘You can put her in the old dairy at the
back of the house. There’s a table in there, and she’ll be fine overnight. Shall I give Shroud and Trestle a ring in the morning?’ Straining under the weight of Teezle’s body, Hettie couldn’t help but think that this was turning out to be an excellent week for Shroud and Trestle. It also crossed her mind that bad luck often came in threes.

With Teezle tucked up in the old dairy, Hettie avoided any further conversation and Irene strode off to finish her game of backgammon. It was clear that she had no idea how the body had come to be strung up in her elder tree; she rarely ventured beyond her formal garden in the winter, she claimed, and had noticed nothing out of the ordinary that day. They would call on her again on Friday, as arranged, and by then one or two aspects of the case might have become clearer; there was also a strong possibility that the body count would have increased, giving Crimola even more to think about.

Bruiser drove Scarlet home, taking extra care on the icy roads, and Hettie and Tilly huddled together for warmth in the sidecar, clutching Teezle’s mail bag. In spite of the darkness, Lavender Stamp was sweeping the pavement in front of the post office when they got back and Bruiser diplomatically parked the motorbike further down the High Street to avoid further caustic notes.

‘Oh well, here goes,’ said Hettie, grabbing the mail
bag. ‘Wish me luck.’ Bruiser and Tilly made their way to the Butters’ shop to collect chicken pies and cream horns, all the time keeping half an eye on the goings-on outside the post office.

Lavender, who never missed the slightest movement in the High Street, was well aware of Hettie’s approach; realising that she was carrying post office property, she threw her broom into the shop doorway and snatched the bag before Hettie could open her mouth. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted. ‘It is a serious offence to interfere with the delivery of Her Majesty’s mail. What do you think you are playing at? I suppose that good for nothing girl has put you up to this, too scared to face me after letting me down today. Well, you can tell Miss Teezle Makepeace from me that she won’t be delivering any more post in this town. Where is she, anyway?’

Hettie couldn’t resist giving the answer that came into her head. ‘She’ll be at Shroud and Trestle’s tomorrow.’

‘Shroud and Trestle’s?’ shrieked Lavender. ‘You mean she’s abandoned a career in the post office to work for a pair of disreputable undertakers?’

After such a long and difficult day, Hettie began to enjoy herself; she had suffered enough barbed insults from Lavender Stamp in the past to make this a very sweet conversation, in spite of the subject matter. ‘Well, she’s not exactly working for them. They’re
picking her up from Miss Peggledrip’s old dairy in the morning.’

‘What is she doing out there?’ demanded Lavender, shaking with anger.

‘Hanging around Miss Peggledrip’s elder tree. You see, someone strangled her with a piece of wire and strung her up in the gardens of the old house. You’re quite right, though – she won’t be delivering any more post in this town, which is a real shame because she was very good at her job and very kind to her customers. It’s a pity that more cats aren’t like Teezle Makepeace. The world would be a much nicer place. So, if you do want to pay your respects, she’ll be at Shroud and Trestle’s tomorrow. As she was such a valued employee, you might even like to contribute to her funeral costs.’ Having delivered her news, Hettie turned on her heel and crossed the road as Tilly and Bruiser emerged from the Butters’, laden down with dinner. They disappeared together down the alleyway at the side of the shop, leaving Lavender Stamp staring after them – shocked, stung and bewildered, and with the smallest of tears making its way down her cheek.

The room was uncharacteristically cheerless when they stumbled over the threshold: the November chill had crept uninvited down the chimney, and the fire had all but gone out.

‘Bloody marvellous!’ said Hettie. ‘After the day we’ve had, you’d think the fire would have stayed in to welcome us home.’

Bruiser put the food parcels down and sprang into action. ‘There’s still enough of a glow to get it goin’ again. Leave it to me – by the time you’ve dished up the pies, I’ll ’ave it roarin’ up yer chimney.’

Tilly dragged a pile of old newspaper from
under the staff sideboard and Bruiser set about the fireplace, armed with kindling and coal. He was true to his word: by the time Hettie and Tilly had laid three places at the table for dinner and dished up the chicken pies, a healthy set of flames was licking the chimney breast and the room had begun to warm through.

Soon, there wasn’t a crumb to be found on licked-clean plates, and the cats retired to the fireside to indulge themselves in Betty Butter’s cream horns. Tilly switched the TV on to catch the local news. To their amazement, there seemed to be only one story. National and local TV stations were camped out on Mavis Spitforce’s doorstep, covering every possible aspect of the case.

‘Ooh look – there you are,’ squealed Tilly in delight as Hettie stepped forward to address the crowd.

‘I didn’t know they were filming me,’ Hettie said, admiring her first piece to camera. ‘And look – there’s Lavinia Spitforce. Doesn’t she look cross?’

The chaos in Whisker Terrace seemed to have brought out the worst in those lucky enough to be caught on film, and many from the assembled crowd seemed keen to push themselves to the very front of the story. Balti Dosh had changed into her Dosh Stores sweatshirt and was holding court on the state of Mavis Spitforce’s last days; Delirium Treemints could be seen in the background doing a roaring trade in beverages,
and – as a trade-off for the constant supply of boiled kettles from the Dosh stores – had added a new line in hot samosas; and perhaps most significantly, Marmite Sprat had set her own table up, piled high with
Strange But Trues
. The camera panned across to her, focusing on the open page which detailed the story of Milky Myers.

‘I don’t believe it!’ shouted Hettie at the television. ‘They’re actually going to interview her.’

Marmite Sprat stepped forward as one of the reporters forced a microphone into her face and shouted his question so that she could hear him above the crowd. ‘Miss Sprat, what can you tell us about the connection between this murder and the Milky Myers case?’

Marmite cleared her throat as another dozen microphones were shoved towards her, obscuring her face almost entirely. She spoke up clearly and precisely. ‘As the town’s historian, I have followed up a number of interesting cases in the area, all of which are still available to buy in my
Strange But True
series of books. But there is no story so engrossing as the legend of Milky Myers, a cat who – longer ago than any of us can remember – murdered his entire family in the house on the edge of this town.’ The camera cut to a picture of the Peggledrip house as Marmite Sprat continued her tale. ‘The legend tells us that Milky Myers returns
on Halloween to claim another victim, and that his ghost haunts several spots close by – the graveyard at Much-Purring-on-the-Rug, an old farm track, and what is now known as the Peggledrip house. It is my belief that Miss Mavis Spitforce has been murdered by Milky Myers.’ With that, she held up her book and the camera moved in for a close-up. The news bulletin switched unexpectedly back to the studio, where the presenter was caught taking a bite out of a large Scotch egg. He buried it hurriedly in a pile of papers on the news desk and, with his whiskers covered in breadcrumbs, introduced the weather cat, who was still busy adding another layer of bright red lipstick to her make-up.

‘What a nightmare!’ said Hettie, switching the TV off. ‘Are they so badly off for stories that they have to delve into the murky waters of Marmite Sprat’s nonsense? Who on earth is going to believe a word of it? There’s a killer out there, and all this Milky Myers stuff is blowing a convenient smokescreen across the truth. I wonder what they’ll come up with when they find out about poor Teezle?’

‘Legends are convenient, though, aren’t they?’ piped up Bruiser. ‘They covers up stuff yer don’t want ta admit to.’

It was rare for Bruiser to speak out, and Hettie sensed that there was something he needed to say. ‘What sort of stuff?’ she coaxed.

‘It was bein’ in that old garden today, when I fetched the ladder from the orchard. It brought it all back.’ Bruiser shivered and stared into the fire as if his eyes were seeing something very far away. Tilly and Hettie sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. ‘I was just a lad, really, but she looked to me for everythin’. I couldn’t go out without her taggin’ along, but she was no trouble – loved playin’ in the sun, and I’d take her to pick the apples for Ma to make the pies. She sold them pies down the old market. We’d ’ave picnics under them old trees, when there was no one about to see.’

He struggled to find the words and only the sound of the crackling fire broke through the silence. ‘It was comin’ up to Halloween and we was getting under Ma’s feet, so I took her for a walk to the old house. I bought her a treat on the way so’s we could ’ave a winter picnic. She was playin’ outside the dairy and I left her to look fer some conkers. When I gets back, she’s lyin’ there dead. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. She’d choked, yer see, on her Scotch egg. Ma had said she wasn’t to have ’em till she was old enough to eat ’em properly, but she wanted one so bad and I bought it for her as a treat. I killed my little sister and I knew Ma would never forgive me, so I carried her home and told Ma that she’d been murdered by Milky Myers. Next thing, it was all over the town that he’d come back to haunt his old house again. I even told
the newspaper man that I’d seen a face at the window of the Myers house, as was. Ma died soon after that of a broken heart. I packed up me kit and joined a circus to get as far away as possible.’

Tilly clambered off her blanket and gave Bruiser a hug, while Hettie got down from her chair and put the kettle on. ‘No one can blame you for what you did,’ she said. ‘The Milky Myers story was a perfect way of explaining a tragic accident, and the fact that it’s gone into the town’s history is more to do with the stupidity of those who were old enough to know better. You’ve only got to look at the rubbish we’ve just seen on the news to see how a few careless words can create a distorted picture of the facts.’ Bruiser took comfort from Hettie’s words and Tilly’s hugs, and somehow felt better for his confession. It had all happened many years ago, but the death of his little sister had cast a long shadow across his life, and it had been easier to run from the truth than to face up to the reality of what Hettie rightly called a tragic accident.

Hettie returned to the fire with three steaming mugs of tea, determined to thrash out the possibilities of the case before it got any worse. She had just reached for her catnip pouch and begun to fill her pipe when Tilly sprang from her blanket, nearly spilling hot tea all over Bruiser, who had settled down with his chin on the fender. ‘I’ve just remembered,’ she cried excitedly. ‘We’ve got a parcel. It’s here somewhere.’ At some
stage in the day the parcel had fallen under the table, but after a certain amount of scuffling and sneezing Tilly emerged with her prize.

‘I’m not sure we’ve time for a parcel,’ said Hettie, blowing three perfect smoke rings and passing the pipe to Bruiser.

Tilly refused to be put off and dragged the parcel over to her blanket where she clawed at the string and brown paper until it gave way to reveal a collection of papers and sealed envelopes. The first envelope was addressed to Hettie. ‘It’s full of stuff, but this one’s for you,’ Tilly said.

Hettie looked over at the bundle of papers and yawned. ‘I’m too tired to deal with stuff tonight, and I need to have a good think about this bloody case. If you want to open the letter, be my guest, but if it’s more trouble I don’t want to know.’

Tilly wasted no time in opening the envelope and shook the contents onto her blanket. ‘It’s money, and lots of it! Look!’

Hettie stared in disbelief and suddenly became interested. ‘There must be thirty or forty pounds there. Is there a note to say who it’s from?’

Tilly sorted through the money, counting as she went, and pulled a blue piece of paper out of the middle of the banknotes. ‘There’s fifty pounds actually, and the letter is from Miss Spitforce!’

‘Which one?’

‘The dead one. Shall I read it to you?’

Before Hettie could answer, Bruiser stood up. ‘I think I’m ready for me bed. Got me old bones warmed through nicely so I’ll get off to me shed. Will we be out and about tomorrow?’

‘Yes, we will,’ said Hettie, getting up to show him to the door. ‘And thank you for today. I hope you sleep well, and don’t let the frost get to you.’ Bruiser bid them both goodnight and made his way down the garden, more content than he’d been for many years. Now his secret was out, he felt that he could properly grieve for his sister and his mother, and having good friends around him made all the difference.

‘Right,’ said Hettie, closing the door and padding back to her chair. ‘Let’s have it then. What has Mavis Spitforce got to say from beyond the grave?’

Tilly cleared her throat and squinted down at the letter:

Hettie sat for a moment deep in thought while Tilly gathered up the banknotes and put them in a neat pile on the staff sideboard. She scrunched up the brown paper and put it by the coal scuttle, ready for burning, then returned to her blanket to look through the papers that Miss Spitforce had sent. First, she pulled out a long envelope which she suspected was the will mentioned in the letter; opening it, she was satisfied that it was a copy of the one that Lavinia Spitforce had destroyed earlier.

Hettie refilled her pipe, trying to avoid the wave of tiredness that was engulfing her. They had had a very early start, and the day was still presenting surprises.

‘Anything else of interest in that stuff?’

‘I’m not really sure. The will’s here, so that’s a smack in the face for Lavinia.’

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer soul,’ muttered Hettie. ‘What are all those old bits of paper you’ve got there?’

‘They’re from various churches,’ Tilly said, trying to read a selection of impossible handwriting. ‘Burial records, I think. Miss Spitforce loved doing this sort of thing, didn’t she? Oh and there’s a map.’ Tilly nearly disappeared from view altogether as she unfolded the map across the hearth.

Hettie stared down at it. ‘She must have done this herself – look at all the crosses and marks she’s put on it, some in blue and some in red. I can’t make out what it is, though. There are little boxes next to the blue crosses, and there’s a definite road running through it all, but the whole thing seems to be in some sort of Spitforce code. What’s in that notebook you’re sitting on?’

Tilly passed the notebook to Hettie and set about attempting to refold the map. It was several minutes before she managed to bring the creature to heel, singeing one of the corners in the process. For fear it may rear up again, she slid it under the coal scuttle.

‘Well, this is interesting,’ said Hettie, looking up from the notebook. ‘It looks like her own investigation into the Milky Myers case. There are statements from cats who were around at the time, and she’s even sketched out the milk round and started it from the Myers’ house all the way to Much-Purring. Look – the farm track’s been marked with a red cross, so maybe
the red crosses on that map are murder sites. There are five around the Myers’ house – that must be the rest of the family.’

Getting excited, Tilly leapt from her blanket and sat on the arm of Hettie’s chair so that she could look over her shoulder. ‘Who are all those other cats she’s listed on that page?’ she asked. ‘They’ve all got initials after them: Tubbs MPS; Bundle MPB; Winkle MPC; Slipper MPC; and Pump MPM. Wait a minute – I’m sure there was a Slipper mentioned in one of those church letters.’

Returning to the avalanche of papers on her blanket, she retrieved the church correspondence. ‘Yes, here it is – Lily Slipper, died three years ago, buried in St Savouries Churchyard in Much-Purring-on-the-Cushion. Here’s another one – Osbert Tubbs, five years ago, buried in St Whiskers’ churchyard in Much-Purring-on-the-Step. That’s it! The MPs are villages, and all these cats have died in the last few years according to the burial records.’

‘Well done,’ said Hettie in a rare moment of admiration. ‘I think we should put the milk on for the cocoa. There’s so much to think about and we need a good night’s sleep. We must take another look at that map in the morning when we’re awake enough to understand it, and I think a spin round the villages tomorrow afternoon might help. We mustn’t forget that there’s a killer out there and Miss Spitforce has inadvertently paid us well over
the odds to find out who it is. And then there’s the vicar of Much-Purring-on-the-Rug – I’ll need to talk to him, heaven help me, and have a good look around his churchyard. It’s going to be another long day.’