The Ghost of Christmas Paws

by Mandy Morton

  ‘I’m a bit under dressed,’ said Tilly, struggling to her feet. ‘I think I should go and find some dry clothes.’ She made a few shaky steps towards the stairs before Hettie took her arm, and they climbed the stairs together, hoping for a little peace and quiet in the sanctuary of their room. Damson was very quiet, but the state of the floor and beds suggested that a whirlwind had passed through very recently. Blankets were strewn about the room, the tartan shopper lay upside down with its wheels in the air, and their suitcase had emptied its contents in a heaped-up pile by the window. ‘Do you think we should say something?’ asked Tilly, surveying the chaos.

  ‘I think we should tidy up and pretend it hasn’t happened,’ said Hettie firmly, gathering up the blankets and throwing them back onto the beds. ‘We’ve already accused the landlord of trying to murder us. I think if we start coming up with a list of complaints about our room we could be out on our ears. Maybe this is Lamorna’s idea of room service.’ Tilly giggled, which instantly brought on a bout of coughing. ‘Come on – let’s get you into some warm clothes,’ Hettie continued, pulling out a cardigan and a pair of woolly socks from the pile by the window. ‘When you’re dressed we’ll go back down and sit by the fire till the soup comes.’ She did her best to repack the suitcase and turn the shopper the right way up, taking care not to disturb too many of the Butters’ greaseproof parcels. The salmon turnovers were beginning to look a bit worse for wear, so the two cats made short work of them as an appetiser before the meal which awaited them on a table by the fire in the smuggle.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The day passed without any further excitement. Tilly dozed by the fire after her ordeal, and Hettie read aloud to her from a book she’d found abandoned on the settle, clearly one of Lamorna’s: Haunted Inns of Cornwall by Demelza Wince. There was a whole chapter on Jam Makers Inn, and most of it was taken up with the sorry tale of Evergreen Flinch, who was said to rifle through the guests rooms looking for her head. Hettie was still pondering the story when the big oak door flew open and a giant Christmas tree appeared, followed by Absalom Tweek, who dragged the spruce across to the window of the smuggle. Lamorna bustled through from her kitchen with a bucket of soil, and the landlord and his lady secured the tree and stood back to admire it. Absalom grunted with satisfaction and Lamorna clapped her paws together in sheer delight. ‘Well done, my luvver! I think it’s the best tree you’ve ever cut.’ She beamed at Hettie and Tilly. ‘Would you two like to ’elp with the decorations? I got a big box of sparkly things to put on it.’

  Tilly, now fully awake, responded immediately. ‘Oooh! Yes please. That would be a lovely thing to do.’

  Pleased to see Tilly looking so much better, Lamorna dragged a large box from behind the bar. ‘There you go. You get crackin’ – I’ve got to baste my meat. When you’ve finished the tree you can ’ave a look at Absalom’s tableaux.’

  Hettie and Tilly set about the box of decorations, choosing from coloured glass baubles in a range of sizes and clipping small metal holders to the ends of the branches, ready for Absalom to fill with twisted candles. Eventually there was only one thing left in the box: a large silver star. Tilly turned the decoration over in her paws and, without warning, Absalom swept her up in his arms and lifted her to the top of the tree to place the star. When she had been returned gently to the floor, the three cats stood back to admire their work: the tree had summoned in the season well and truly, and it filled the smuggle at Jam Makers Inn with the magical expectation of Christmas.

  With perfect timing, Lamorna burst through from her kitchen bearing a plate piled high with hot sausage rolls. Absalom filled four small tot glasses with his best cherry brandy and the small assembled company raised their glasses to the festive season. Lamorna returned to her baking, allowing herself a couple of verses of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ as the Christmas spirit engulfed her, and Absalom grunted to the room next door by way of an invitation to view his work. Hettie felt obliged to show some interest in his macabre hobby as she had spent most of the day calling him a murderer, so she made suitably appreciative noises and followed, dragging Tilly along by her cardigan.

  The room was much bigger than the smuggle, low beamed and better equipped to handle a considerable amount of passing trade during the summer months. There were tables, stools and benches everywhere, and the bar that served the room shone with horse brasses and lanterns; miniature galleons sailed between the bottles nestled in their optics, interspersed with other seafaring objects obligatory to the Cornish holiday trade, but it was the glass presentation cases around the walls that stole the show. Hettie and Tilly gasped in unison at the sight before them, and Absalom nodded with satisfaction and returned to the smuggle, leaving the two friends to conduct their own guided tour.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything so lovely,’ said Tilly, staring at a display which featured a string quartet. ‘Just look at them – they’re perfect. You can almost hear the music.’

  Although they were looking at four dead cats, dressed in white tie and tails and posed with instruments, Hettie had to agree that the overall effect was one of wonder and fascination. ‘Look at this one!’ she said, marvelling at the sight before her. ‘It’s a schoolroom full of kittens. They’ve all got slates and chalk, and one of them’s holding an old ink pen. That teacher – he’s a big old cat!’

  She found it difficult to pull herself away from the scene before her, but Tilly was in raptures at another. ‘And here! It’s a kittens’ tea party. There must be at least ten of them. Look at those two pouring the tea and going round with the milk jug. It’s as if they’re putting on a play for us.’

  Hettie and Tilly worked their way round the room, staring in amazement at Absalom Tweek’s display boxes – a perfect depiction of everyday life, except for one thing. ‘It’s the eyes I have a problem with,’ observed Hettie, taking a closer look at the final case in which a gathering of cats was huddled round a coffin; the lid was open to reveal an elderly tabby with her paws crossed over her chest. ‘That’s what gives them away – the eyes are dead. They just stare out at you with nothing behind them.’

  Tilly thought for a moment and looked back at some of the other cases. ‘I suppose that’s because they are all dead,’ she said, returning to admire the string quartet. ‘The thing is – what if you don’t like the case you’re put in? That cat playing the violin probably didn’t even know the one playing the cello, and none of us wants to go to a tea party with kittens we don’t get on with.’

  Hettie acknowledged the problem. ‘The very thought of spending eternity trapped in a glass case at a kittens’ tea party would fill me with such dread that I would have to come back and haunt whoever did it,’ she said. ‘No wonder Jam Makers Inn has so many unwelcome guests swirling about the place.’

  The room was cold and Tilly shivered. It had been a strange couple of days, where life and death had hung in the balance, and their original reason for coming to Cornwall felt like a distant memory: they were still a long way from getting started on the Crabstock Manor Case. Darkness had fallen outside, but the occasional thud of snow as it slipped from the roof suggested that a thaw was underway; they would soon be able to leave Jam Makers Inn and move on to the village of Porthladle and the mystery surrounding the ghost of Christmas Paws.

  The smuggle looked warm and welcoming after the bleakness of the other bar. Absalom had lit several lanterns and dotted them about, and the fire was roaring in the grate, giving light to the whole room. One of the long tables had been moved to the centre of the floor and Lamorna was busy laying it up for four. ‘Come on, you two! I thought I’d make your last night a bit of an occasion, it bein’ almost Christmas. We can all sit down together now we’re proper friends. Absalom’s haulin’ the beef out of the oven, and everything else will be ready dreckly. Snow’s meltin’, so you should get through to Crabstock tomorrow. Weather’s bad there on account of the storms, but Marlon will get you there right enough.’

  Hettie was beginning to wonder wh
ether there was ever a good time to travel across Cornwall and viewed the prospect of Marlon and his van with very little confidence, but tonight they were warm, safe and reasonably content, and the prospect of sharing a large joint of roast beef in front of a blazing fire and a Christmas tree was enough to make a cat’s heart sing – and sing they did, but that was much later.

  While preparations for the dinner continued in the smuggle, Hettie and Tilly returned to their room to change, wanting to look their best for their hosts. Much to their relief, Evergreen Flinch had not continued her search through their luggage for her head – if, indeed, it had been Evergreen Flinch – and all was as they had left it. Hettie selected a pair of her best business slacks and a stripy jumper to match, completing the look with a waistcoat. Tilly – keen to give a festive flavour to her outfit – chose a purple cardigan with yellow buttons and a pair of lime green socks with red toes. Ready for their evening, the two cats made their way back downstairs just in time to see Absalom carrying the biggest piece of beef they had ever seen to the table. The smell filled their nostrils, and Tilly wiped a dribble from her chin with the sleeve of her cardigan as her mouth watered with anticipation.

  The table groaned with food. Besides the beef, there were hot Cornish pasties, tiny sausages rolled in bacon, small chicken pies, and a curious-looking dish of puff pastry with four fish heads sticking out of the top of it. Tilly approached it with caution, wondering if it was one of Absalom’s works of art, and Lamorna noticed her interest. ‘That there is a Stargazy Pie,’ she explained. ‘I always makes one round Christmastime, as close to the anniversary as I can get. It should be the 23rd by rights, but as we ’ave visitors I thought you’d like a proper taste of Cornwall.’

  ‘What sort of anniversary is it?’ asked Tilly, giving the fish a closer inspection.

  ‘Ah, well. The story comes from the village of Mousehole, and the pie is to ’onour a brave fishercat who went by the name of Tom Bawcock. ’E sailed out in a violent storm to catch fish to save the villagers from starvation. ’E come ashore with seven different types which they made into a giant pie that got shared out, savin’ them from the famine, and ’e became an ’ero of sorts. Every 23rd of December, they makes a big Stargazy Pie to remember ’im by.’

  ‘So are there seven types of fish in this?’ Hettie asked, joining in.

  ‘Oh no. I just use pilchards to decorate, really, although Absalom is partial to a good chew on them fish ’eads after I’ve cut into it.’

  There was an appreciative grunt from the end of the table as Absalom set about the joint of beef with a large, long-bladed knife which he had spent some time sharpening while Lamorna told her story. Tilly was now fascinated by the pie. ‘What else have you put in it?’

  Lamorna answered by breaking into the pie with a fish slice. ‘You look ’ere. That’s potato, that layer is ’ard-boiled eggs, then comes me pastry, an’ pilchards to finish.’

  Hettie couldn’t resist commenting. ‘If they were starving, where did they get the potatoes, eggs and the stuff to make the pastry from?’

  Lamorna laughed. ‘Well, you do ’ave a point there. It’s not something I’ve thought about much, but it’s a good excuse for a festive pie right enough.’

  It was a jolly evening, and both Hettie and Tilly were surprised to find themselves in such good company. When they could eat no more, Absalom pulled the table away from the fire, lit the Christmas tree candles and returned with a jug of Doom Bar, which he warmed by thrusting a hot poker into its depths. Hettie, Tilly and Lamorna settled themselves in front of the flames and Absalom completed the quartet by falling into his fireside chair. He filled a clay pipe from a jar of catnip, and passed it to his wife. ‘Will you take a pipe?’ he mumbled, looking across at Hettie, and selecting another pipe from a brass pot by his chair.

  She hesitated, slightly concerned by how strong Cornish catnip might be. Lamorna seemed to be puffing away without any obvious effect, though, so caution was once again thrown to the wind. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said.

  The catnip turned out to be the lesser of two evils. Hettie had forgotten to factor in the mug of warm Doom Bar as she blew smoke rings into the fire, and it was a mercy that Tilly touched neither; she fell asleep in her fireside chair shortly after dinner, making her the only entirely sober cat at the inn that night, and was eventually woken by an impromptu fireside carol concert. Hettie had been armed with a battered old guitar and was playing ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’, accompanied by Lamorna on vocals and spoons and Absalom on washboard. The song session continued for some time, and even Tilly was pressed into singing a sweet and tuneful ‘Away in a Manger’ from the middle of the dining table, bringing a tear to Absalom’s good eye as she did so.

  To say that Hettie, Lamorna and Absalom had to crawl up the stairs would be an understatement, and if Tilly hadn’t helped Hettie out of her clothes and into her bed, things could have been much worse in the morning.

  It was a little before dawn when Tilly awoke to the sound of their suitcase being opened, as the spectre of Evergreen Flinch twirled around the room minus her head.

  CHAPTER TEN

  If Evergreen had been doomed for eternity, Hettie would have gladly changed places with her when she woke that morning. Her head ached from the tips of her ears to the bottom of her chin, and the rhythmic throbbing behind her eyeballs gave her every good reason to want to lie down and die. She sat up in bed and was instantly sick into a chamber pot that Tilly had anticipated would be needed.

  Tilly’s cheerful nature was something that Hettie had always admired; it had seen them through some scrapes in the past, but today, as she flitted around their room clearing up after Evergreen and humming various tunes of the season, her exuberance was the worst torture imaginable. The smell of fried bacon rising up through the floorboards wasn’t helping, either, but it served as a reminder that today they must continue their journey to Crabstock Manor; a good breakfast was sure to help them on their way.

  Hettie struggled from her bed, gingerly putting one paw in front of the other until she reached their neatly packed suitcase. Tilly did her best not to laugh at the extreme state her friend was in, and came to the rescue as she stared in bewilderment down at the clothes. ‘I’ve chosen for you, and I’ve gone for warm but comfortable.’ Hettie followed the direction of Tilly’s paw, and there at the bottom of her bed were her travel clothes, laid out ready for her to climb into.

  With Tilly’s help, and after several failed attempts at putting on her wellingtons, Hettie was ready to face the day. The two cats made their way down to the smuggle, where Lamorna was holding court at the bar with a rotund cat squeezed into a bright red uniform which had seen better days. ‘Ah! There you are, my dears,’ she bellowed. ‘Come and meet Marlon. ’E’ll be takin’ you on to Crabstock Manor when you’ve ’ad your breakfast.’

  Hettie was instantly beset by a bout of dizziness and had to sit down on the first stool she almost fell over. Tilly continued forward to shake the portly paw of Marlon, who beamed and winked at her like a long-lost uncle. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance an’ I’m most ’onoured to be deliverin’ you safe an’ sound to Crabstock,’ he said, before downing what was left of his pint of Doom Bar. Tilly couldn’t help but think that the sooner they got on the road the more likely they were to arrive safe and sound, but Lamorna replenished his glass.

  Feeling able to stand again, Hettie made slow progress to the table by the window which was laid up for breakfast. Tilly sat opposite her and they waited for Lamorna to take their order, but she was still busy at the bar: having pulled another pint for the post-cat, she set about making what looked like a rather evil cocktail, and Tilly watched in admiration as she flew up and down the optics with a tumbler – rum, gin, whisky, then, worst of all, Tabasco and a whole raw egg. She held her breath as Lamorna took a large spoon to the mix, but, instead of drinking it, the landlady emerged from behind the bar and slammed the tumbler down in front of Hettie. ‘There you go – get that down yo
u in one an’ you’ll be as right as rain by the time I bring you your full Cornish!’

  Lamorna didn’t wait to see Hettie drink her potion, but shot through her kitchen door like a cat on a mission. Marlon swivelled round on his bar stool, giving his full attention to Hettie and Tilly’s table. ‘Come on, then,’ he coaxed. ‘On the count of three – one, two, three!’

  Hettie had no idea why she felt the need to respond to Marlon Brandish’s encouragement, but she forced the brown slimy mixture down her throat. It was touch and go for a second, but her self-control had to be admired and the hangover cure stayed where it was, earning her a round of applause from Tilly and Marlon. By the time Lamorna returned with two full Cornish breakfasts, Hettie was feeling much better; the nausea had disappeared and the headache was receding to a manageable irritation.

  The cats cleaned their plates as Marlon soaked up some of his – now three – pints of Doom Bar with a giant bacon, sausage and chicken bap. Wiping the grease from several chins, he rolled off his bar stool. ‘I’ll go an’ fire up my van, an’ you come out when you’re ready. We should be at Crabstock before dark if we get on soon. There’s more weather comin’ in overnight so you’ll need to be tucked up before it hits.’ With that, Marlon Brandish left the smuggle and banged the big oak door shut behind him.

  ‘I wonder what he meant by “before it hits”,’ mused Hettie, piling up their empty plates. ‘I get the feeling that Crabstock Manor isn’t very high up on the places-to-visit list.’