by Mandy Morton
There was no real time to take in their surroundings. Hettie remembered later that the entrance hall was vast and barn-like with a grand staircase in the centre, but as they were hurried away dripping across the flagstone floors, all the two friends were aware of was a rabbit warren of cold, damp corridors which eventually led to a large kitchen area at the back of the house.
Seated at a long, well-scrubbed table was a cat of gigantic proportions, deeply engrossed in a newspaper which she read with the aid of a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her flat, snubbed nose. Suddenly aware that she had visitors, she abandoned the newsprint and stood to greet her newcomers. There was hardly any difference in height from a sitting position, but it was her width which dominated the room. ‘My dears, come in an’ warm yourselves,’ she said, wielding a poker at the open fire. ‘You must be them dee-tectives from upcountry what ’Er Ladyship ’as ordered.’
Hettie exchanged a look with Tilly and put on her best business smile. ‘Yes, that’s right. We are from the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency. I’m Hettie Bagshot and this is my assistant, Tilly Jenkins.’
‘An’ I’m Mrs Bunn. Thaa’s my professional name, but you can call me Saffron if you like. ’Er Ladyship says all housekeepers ’as to be Mrs on account of decency, even though Hevva the butler refuses to take me up the church to do a proper job. Says I might limit ’is prospects, whatever they are.’
Hettie and Tilly stood rooted to the spot, forming a puddle from their dripping wet clothes as the housekeeper released a tirade of Hevva Bunn’s shortcomings on them, caring little for their immediate comfort. It was Tilly who finally silenced her by entering into a bout of violent sneezing which shook the very foundations of Crabstock Manor. Stifling the final throes with a tea towel, Tilly sat down in her self-made puddle to recover herself, giving Hettie an opportunity to move things on. ‘I wonder if we might be shown to our rooms so that we can change into some dry clothes and rest? It really has been quite a long day. Unless Lady Crabstock-Twinge wishes to see us tonight?’
‘Singe!’ corrected Tilly, scrambling to her feet.
‘You’re ’avin a laarf if you thinks ’Er Ladyship receives visitors at this time of night! She ’as ’er dinner at seven an’ retires to ’er rooms. Locks ’erself in, she does, on account of Christmas!’
‘Doesn’t she like Christmas?’ asked Hettie, noticing that the kitchen held no promise of festive delights.
‘She don’t mind Christmas, as such. It’s Christmas Paws she locks ’er doors against on account of the curse of the Crabstocks. You see it all ’appened a long …’
‘Thaa’s enough of your nonsense, Mrs Bunn, if you don’t mind,’ said Hevva, lurking in the doorway. ‘Your rooms are ready if you would like to follow me.’
Tilly was sorry to be torn away from what promised to be an interesting version of the Christmas Paws story, but the thought of dry pyjamas and a warm bed beckoned and they followed the butler back down the corridor, leaving Saffron Bunn to return to her Porthladle Gazette. The rabbit warren seemed less confusing this time. Instead of returning to the front hallway, Hevva took them up a flight of dimly lit stone steps, eventually emerging into a galleried hallway above the main staircase. The gallery was peppered with doors and giant portraits of what Hettie assumed to be the long-dead aristocats of Crabstock.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting you in adjoining rooms,’ said Hevva, opening one of the doors. ‘This ’ere is the blue room an’ the one through there is the yellow one. If you’d like to make yourselves comfortable, I’ll ’ave Mrs Bunn bring you a tray up for your supper as you’ve missed your dinner. An’ don’t take any notice of ’er stories. ’Er tongue runs away with ’er sometimes.’ On that slightly warning note, Hevva Bunn left them to explore their new accommodation.
The wood panelling in the blue room was painted a dark muddy brown and was relieved by an equally muddy pink wallpaper above the dado rail. The four-poster bed was draped in velvet curtains which tried desperately to match, but the overall effect was one of faded nobility. Try as they might, Hettie and Tilly could find no trace of blue anywhere, but the saving grace was a small fire in the grate which guttered and twisted as if it was embarrassed to be there at all. Intrigued by what might lie on the other side of the adjoining door, Hettie wasted no time in breaching the threshold of the yellow room, with Tilly following close behind. The same muddy brown panelling gave way to a sage green wallpaper that had never seen yellow in its lifetime; by way of a real contrast, the bed curtains were a dull grey velvet, embellished with black fleur-de-lys in a repeating pattern. The yellow room had no fire in the grate, and a very strong smell of fish.
‘I think we’ll stick with the blue room,’ Hettie said. ‘At least it has a fire of sorts and I think we should stay together. I wouldn’t trust either of the Bunns not to murder us in our beds, and I can only imagine what tomorrow will bring when we get to meet Lady Eloise Crabstock-Twinge.’
‘Singe!’ said Tilly automatically, wheeling her shopper through from the yellow room and parking it at the bottom of the four-poster. ‘It all seems a bit creepy, and it certainly isn’t the stately home Christmas I was hoping for. They haven’t put any decorations up, there was nothing lovely being baked in that kitchen, and it’s so cold everywhere.’
‘Let’s stoke this poor old fire up and get into our pyjamas,’ suggested Hettie, opening the suitcase. ‘If we don’t like the look of things in the morning, we’ll go and stay at Sooty Perkins’ hotel in the village. He seems a reliable sort of cat – almost normal compared to the rest of them.’
The two cats peeled off their wet clothes, discarding them in a heap by the door, and climbed into their winter pyjamas. ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ said Tilly, hugging herself. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever be warm and dry again.’
Hettie agreed and returned to the suitcase, delving deep to find the hot-water bottle that Tilly had packed. ‘When Saffron Bunn turns up with our supper, I’ll ask her to fill this. I bet that bed hasn’t been slept in for years. In fact, I bet the last cat to die in it is still in there somewhere.’
Tilly giggled nervously. ‘Do you think we should have a closer look?’
The two cats approached the four-poster bed and Hettie bravely pulled the curtains back to reveal nothing out of the ordinary: two pillows; a number of warm blankets; and a slightly faded eiderdown. The bed looked comfortable and Tilly suddenly realised how tired she was. Her arthritic paws were aching from the cold and damp, and she wanted nothing better than to curl up with her hot-water bottle and sleep.
Saffron Bunn put paid to that idea by arriving with their supper. A cursory knock was followed by a kick to the blue-room door, revealing the housekeeper and a tray covered with a rather grubby tea towel. ‘’Ere’s yer supper. Which room will you ’ave it in?’
‘We thought we’d share this room as it has the fire,’ said Hettie, doing her best not to sound too ungrateful.
‘Very sensible, if I may say so,’ Saffron replied as she banged the tray down on an old chest by the window. ‘No one likes the yellow room – too many of them bad vibrations floatin’ about. ’Er Ladyship likes us to keep it locked so nothin’ can get to ’er. She’s not overkeen on the blue, either, but we ’as to put the visitors somewhere. Not that we ’as many visitors, but these two rooms is the only ones decent on account of ’er low moods.’
Hettie was fascinated by Saffron Bunn’s overview of her employer, and thought a little research may help when they came face-to-face with the lady of the manor the next day. ‘What sort of low moods does she have?’
‘Black ones,’ responded Saffron, warming to her subject. ‘She don’t care for the ’ouse any more. She’s lettin’ it go. Since ’er sister an’ brothers was taken, she just sits waitin’ for ’er turn. ’Tis the curse of the Crabstocks, an’ she’s the laast of ’em.’
Hettie joined Tilly by the fire as Saffron settled herself on the other end of the chest by the window. ‘So what exactly is the curse of the
Crabstocks?’
‘Well, that depends on ’ow you look at it. You see, the Christmas Paws thing comes from way back, but before that there was Pullet Crop an’ ’Er Ladyship, Purrditer Crabstock. It was them that started the trouble, really, by taintin’ the line. She couldn’t keep ’er paws off any of the estate workers. She came as a kitten bride to Crabstock, see – the old Lord was past ’is best an’ she looked round for comforts, shall we say. Pullet fancied ’imself above ’is station an’ she was partial to a boiled egg, an’ the rest is ’istory. Melrose Crabstock was Purrditer an’ Pullet Crop’s boy, an’ it was ’im that done away with Christmas, see? ’E went on to ’ave proper Crabstocks, but ’e wasn’t a proper Crabstock on account of Pullet bein’ ’is father.’
Hettie and Tilly were doing their best to keep up, and Hettie decided to ask for a little more clarity. ‘That means any Crabstocks after Melrose weren’t real Crabstocks – so why are they cursed?’
‘Ah, well – Melrose married ’is sister when no one was lookin’, an’ as far as we know she was a real Crabstock, so all ’er kittens was almost full Crabstocks an’ Christmas Paws cursed all the Crabstocks as she fell from the cliff just ’ere outside this window. That wasn’t outside the window then ’cause there was more cliff, but sea’s taken most of it now. You can open your window an’ spit in the sea these days, if the mood takes you. Yellow room’s even worse – that’s ’angin’ over the cliff. I don’t put too much in there in case it goes altogether. ’Er Ladyship says the sea’ll take the manor in time, that’s why she’s let things go. She says that Christmas Paws will ’ave ’er revenge on the ’ouse when all the Crabstocks ’as gone, an’ she is the laast one.’
‘And what about the vibrations in the yellow room?’ asked Tilly, keen to explore the more bizarre aspects of the story.
‘All I can say is keep your doors locked an’ try not to …’
Once again, Saffron Bunn was interrupted by Hevva, who loomed large in the open doorway of the room carrying two stone hot-water bottles. ‘Now then, Mrs Bunn – time you were about your business. No need for all that idle chatter. I expect our visitors want to ’ave their supper an’ get to their beds on a night such as this.’
Hettie gratefully took delivery of the bottles and slid them into the bed as the Bunns beat a hasty retreat, banging the door behind them. Tilly responded by turning the large iron keys in the blue-room door, then the one that led to the fated yellow room. Safely locked inside their own small part of Crabstock Manor, the friends dragged the supper tray to the fire and Tilly lifted the tea towel to reveal their first taste of Saffron Bunn’s cooking.
Looks are not necessarily everything, but – coupled with an offensive smell and an array of rather poor crockery – Mrs Bunn’s idea of supper fell very short of the mark. There were two bowls filled with what might have been grey porridge had it not been for the intense aroma of kippers that the mixture exuded. Next to the bowls was a plate of plain dry biscuits, overbaked and burnt at the edges. It was a rare thing for Hettie to refuse a meal; no matter what was put before her, she could usually summon up some interest, but as she watched Tilly shrink away from the vile concoction, her mind was made up that they would go to bed hungry rather than explore the horrors of the supper tray. As if covering an unsightly corpse, Hettie threw the tea towel over the tray and returned it to the chest by the window.
Tired and now very hungry, the cats warmed their paws on the dwindling fire and clambered into the four-poster where the hot-water bottles had made some attempt at taking the chill away. Tilly pulled the covers over her head and wriggled, making a warm nest for herself; Hettie lay awake, staring at the canopy above her and trying to decide whether to close the bed curtains or not. Would it be more frightening not to see something approach the bed? Or would it be more reassuring to block the rest of the room out? She was still considering this when Tilly sat bolt upright. ‘The Butters!’ she exclaimed, loud enough to wake the long dead of Crabstock. ‘We’ve still got food in my shopper!’ She leapt out of bed, grabbed the shopper, and dragged it up onto the four-poster.
Hettie responded by helping to unpack the greaseproof parcels. Some were slightly worse for wear thanks to Evergreen Flinch, but on closer inspection the food still looked edible and enticing. ‘The iced fancies have suffered a bit,’ said Hettie, sharing the bits out onto the eiderdown, ‘but the cheese rolls and scones are all in one piece, and we’ve plenty of fiery ginger beer.’
‘And look,’ said Tilly, unwrapping another parcel. ‘I’ve found a couple of Betty’s egg and bacon tarts.’ She sniffed each one, deemed them still good, and added them to the growing pile of treats from home.
An hour later, the friends fell into a deep sleep surrounded by crumbs and greaseproof paper, undisturbed by the waves that crashed at their window as the storm gradually blew itself out. But the house was watchful of its visitors, and uneasy about giving up its secrets to strangers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hettie and Tilly awoke to the sound of screaming gulls. Tilly padded across the floor to the window and pulled the thick velvet curtains open. The room flooded instantly with light and the view before her was breathtaking. Saffron hadn’t been joking about their proximity to the sea: Tilly stared out at a vast expanse of water, so calm that it could as credibly have been a lake as the violent, churning sea of the night before. The gulls wheeled overhead, rising and falling on a gentle wind, and the sun shot a silver path across the sea making everything sparkle. ‘Oh come and look at this,’ Tilly said, looking back at Hettie who was disentangling herself from the bedclothes. ‘We really are on the edge of the cliff.’
Hettie stretched and rubbed her eyes. The extreme sunlight that Tilly had let into the room was quite a shock, but nothing compared to the shock of gazing down at the tiny amount of rock which appeared to stand between Crabstock Manor and the Atlantic Ocean. ‘Well, if Lady Crabstock survives the curse of Christmas Paws, she’ll be looking for a new house when her rooms start falling into the sea. Sooty Perkins could cash in big time by renting her his best en suite with views. There’s one thing we need to do before anything else this morning, though – open that window.’
Tilly struggled with the catch and the window finally gave way, filling the room with salty air. Hettie picked up the bowls from their untouched supper and spooned the vile, grey, congealed mixture out of the window, where it gradually slid down the rock face and eventually into the sea. A gull swooped and hovered but shrank back with a deafening cry, confirming that there would be no takers for Saffron Bunn’s concoction. Tilly broke up the biscuits from the tray and threw them out of the window as well; this time the gulls were keen, and several swooped low to retrieve some of the pieces in mid-air while others fought for scraps on the surface of the water. ‘I suppose we’d better get dressed and face Her Ladyship,’ said Hettie. ‘The sooner we get to the bottom of this Cornish nonsense, the sooner we can go home for our own Christmas. I don’t fancy celebrating it at Crabstock Manor.’
Tilly had to agree that her idea of a Cornish Christmas didn’t include grey porridge and creepy servants, in spite of the sea view. ‘It seems to me that someone is playing tricks,’ she said, selecting one of her better cardigans from the suitcase. ‘If Lady Crabstock-Singe is frightened of being murdered by a ghost, that all sounds a bit far-fetched. What if someone is making her believe it? All we’d have to do is find out who that cat is and it’s case solved. And it’s only the 22nd of December, so we still have a chance of getting home in time for Christmas.’
Hettie had to admire the straightforward way that Tilly approached their forays into detection. They had had some laudable successes since starting the agency, most of them involving acts of greed, stupidity or sheer evil, but the case they were about to involve themselves in had nothing tangible about it at all. It was the stuff of legend, and that could prove a much harder nut to crack. ‘I think we’ll have a much better idea of what’s going on after we’ve spoken to Her Ladyship,’ she
said, ‘and Mrs Bunn seems happy to let her tongue run away with her, so we may learn more from her as long as Mr Bunn stays out of the way. He doesn’t seem too happy about Saffron spending time with us.’
Hettie chose her best business slacks and a striped jumper for their meeting. After a cursory tidy round, they gathered up their wet clothes from the night before and ventured out onto the main staircase, locking the door behind them. The Crabstocks gazed down from their portraits, their eyes following the intruders as they descended into the hall below. Unlike at Jam Makers Inn, there was no enticing aroma of breakfast, just a cold, damp, musty smell, as if the sea had already taken up residency and just popped out for the morning.
Hettie and Tilly stood at the bottom of the great staircase, listening for any sign of life. Tilly counted eight doors and three corridors leading off from the hallway, and they were just deciding which to try when footsteps approached from one of the corridors. Saffron Bunn emerged in mop cap and not-so-clean apron with a feather duster in her paw. ‘Ah, you’re up then,’ she said as she gave the bottom of the staircase a cursory flick. ‘You’ve missed your breakfast. ’Er Ladyship ’as ’ers at ten minutes past six an’ we all ’as to do the same. She can’t abide cookin’ smells after seven. Do you want them clothes dryin’?’
Hettie placed their damp things in the housekeeper’s arms. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be very kind of you, as we haven’t brought another coat with us.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best. There’s weather comin’ in tomorrow, so you’ll need your coats by then.’
Hettie offered her best smile as a sweetener and pushed on with the job in hand. ‘We would like to speak with Lady Crabstock-Hinge this morning. Do you think that will be possible?’