The Ghost of Christmas Paws

by Mandy Morton

  Bruiser came next and had made a real effort: he’d slicked down his hair, combed his unruly whiskers, and sported a rather jaunty striped bow tie which stood out from his ill-fitting jacket and trousers. He carried several small bottles of Babycham, which he exchanged with Beryl for an extra-large sherry.

  ‘Make theeselves at ’ome!’ boomed Betty from the door of her kitchenette, looking hot and flustered as she wrestled with the turkey. Having almost completed her task as meeter and greeter, Beryl left one schooner of sherry on the tray and crossed to the record player, where she selected a raucous medley of Christmas favourites performed by Tijuana Brass. Lavender Stamp began to sway in time to an abortive rendering of ‘Away in a Manger’, and Jessie burst through the door, full of apologies for being late. She’d spent the morning helping the town’s librarian, Turner Page, prepare Christmas lunch for local homeless cats. The lunch was being held in Turner’s new library and he was expecting quite a crowd, as word had got out that – as well as the food – Turner himself would be performing a selection of favourite readings from Mr Dickens, dressed in his best smoking jacket.

  ‘Take your places!’ invited Betty as she staggered through from the kitchen under the weight of the turkey. ‘Bruiser – if you’d like to work your magic with the carving knife, lad, sister and I will follow up with the roasties while they’re nice and hot.’

  The Butters’ table had been extended to seat all their guests and took up most of their dining-room-cum-lounge. The sofa and armchairs had been pushed back against the walls, but the room still maintained an air of sumptuous comfort. The sisters had done well for themselves: their hard work as the town’s bakers had paid off, and the flat above their shop – although small – was peppered with the best of everything; uncluttered, tasteful and expensive.

  The Christmas table was a work of art, laid out with matching place settings themed in red and silver; there were crackers to match and a beautiful table centre of holly and ivy, punctuated with tiny red glass baubles and three red twisted candles. The glasses were of crystal and shone in the glow of the open fire, which threw ever-shifting patterns across the pure white tablecloth.

  Bruiser, as the only male cat in the party, assumed his place at the head of the table with Betty and Beryl on either side of him. The three worked in tandem, loading the plates and passing them down the table. When each plate had been piled so high that nothing else would fit, Beryl removed the substantial remains of the turkey and returned from the kitchen with a gigantic jug of steaming gravy. ‘That should wet yer Yorkshires nicely,’ she said, passing the jug to Tilly, who filled the two Yorkshire puddings on her plate and passed the jug to Lavender Stamp, who did the same but succeeded in splashing the tablecloth as well.

  Before the assembled company could lift their knives and forks, Betty rose from her seat, nodding to Bruiser who had exchanged his carving knife for a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork on her instruction, making everyone jump, and flew round the table filling glasses. Betty raised her glass. ‘Let’s drink to all those less fortunate than us, and hope for good health and happiness. And I’d just like to say how very pleased sister and I are to see Miss Tilly back to her old self again. Happy Christmas to us all!’

  The clink of crystal filled the room as the friends echoed Betty’s sentiments. From that moment on, food and drink fuelled the merriment around the table as they chewed and crunched their way through the mountain of dinner, all topped off with a flaming Christmas pudding that swam in Beryl’s best brandy. With the exception of Tilly, who had wisely stuck to Vimto, the rest of the party was more than a little worse for drink by the time they came to dismantle the table to make room for after-dinner activities. Lavender Stamp had actually fallen asleep in her Christmas pudding, but Hettie had woken her with a well-aimed nudge in the ribs. She would have preferred to give the post mistress a slap for the bucketload of disapproval which she’d had to endure throughout the year, but there was no place for violence at such a jolly gathering.

  Returning the table to a manageable size proved to be a complicated business, especially when all seven cats insisted on helping. At one point, Betty became trapped in the mechanism, and but for Bruiser’s courageous intervention she might have spent Boxing Day nursing a broken paw. There was no doubt that drink had been a major factor in the difficulties, but eventually the table was despatched to its usual place by the window, and the sofa and chairs were brought forward and placed in a semicircle around the fire.

  Foolishly, Beryl replenished the glasses as her sister turned on the television just in time to hear the national anthem being put through its paces. Her Majesty loomed into view, ready to address the nation, and the seven cats watched in silence as the Queen praised her subjects and shared some family cinefilm of her own kittens pursuing various worthy tasks during the year. The common theme of her Christmas message was temporarily lost when Lavender Stamp reached for one of Betty’s willow pattern vases to relieve herself of the Christmas pudding that had proved a spoonful too far. In spite of the disgusting nature of Lavender’s overindulgence, Hettie, Tilly and Jessie shook with laughter as Betty recovered the vase and took it through to the kitchen to rinse it out. Lavender recovered herself and celebrated by downing another glass of champagne before the Queen had been toasted.

  Small presents were exchanged as the cats relaxed. Betty and Beryl had bought matching pyjamas for Hettie and Tilly in blue and white stripes with their initials on the pockets, and a pair of leather motorbike gauntlets for Bruiser. Lavender, sparing no expense, had bought pen and propelling pencil sets for everyone, partly due to her generous post office discount but mostly because she had over-ordered for the shop and needed to unload her surplus stock. Jessie bestowed matching scarf and mitten sets on the Butters and a very fine red waistcoat on Bruiser, who flung off his jacket and paraded his present for all to admire, pulling on his new biker gloves to add the finishing touch.

  Hettie pulled herself up from the sofa where she’d collapsed after her lunch and dragged the large parcel she’d parked on the landing into the room. ‘This one’s for Betty and Beryl,’ she said, pushing the parcel towards them. ‘With love from Tilly, Bruiser and me.’

  ‘Well just look at that, sister!’ said Beryl, hauling herself out of her armchair. ‘Whatever can it be?’

  Betty wasted no time in ripping the paper off and the Butters clapped their paws in sheer delight when they realised that it was a garden bench. ‘Ee, fancy that,’ said Beryl, pulling the various bits of wood out of the box. ‘I was only saying to sister the other day – we need a bench for contemplation.’

  Hettie and Bruiser sprang to her assistance as the last few planks of wood were emptied out onto the carpet. ‘Would you like us to put it together?’ asked Bruiser, trying to make sense of the paper diagram that had fallen out of the box.

  ‘Ee that’d be grand. It could live by the ovens downstairs next to Tilly’s shopper till the spring comes, and we can sit on it while we’re waiting on the batches, sister.’

  Betty nodded in agreement, and – with the exception of Lavender Stamp, who appeared to have passed out – all the cats set to building the garden bench, treating it as a giant communal jigsaw. Bruiser was the self-appointed foreman, and in turn appointed Tilly as keeper of the screws; Jessie wielded the screwdriver, and Hettie stood by with the hammer for the difficult bits that required a more aggressive approach. A happy hour of laughter went by, and eventually the bench was complete and ready for the sunny days that would surely come after such a cruel winter.

  Tilly was beginning to feel exhausted. She had made a remarkable recovery, but the day’s excitement had taken its toll and all she really wanted now was a peaceful evening in front of the fire with Hettie. The Butters’ party looked like it would go on for some time, and Betty had started to threaten Christmas tea and charades. Hettie noticed that Tilly had run out of steam and decided to make their excuses before they got caught up in the evening’s entertainment. Collecting up
their presents, they bade farewell to Bruiser, Jessie and the Butters, and crept back downstairs to the sanctuary of their own little room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The fire had burnt down low, and Hettie jabbed at it with the poker and added some kindling; it responded instantly, and within minutes the flames were dancing in the grate. ‘Shall we try our new pyjamas?’ Tilly suggested. ‘They look lovely and warm, and we still have lots of presents to open.’

  ‘I think we should leave most of them until tomorrow. Boxing Day is always a bit of a let-down, so we could have another Christmas Day instead. I’ve got one more present to give you now, though.’

  Tilly beamed, pulled off her cardigan and wriggled into her new striped pyjamas. They were slightly on the big side, but she turned the sleeves up and Hettie had to admit that she did look very striking in them. ‘I think we’ll have to keep these for best – maybe on business trips and things like that,’ she said, kicking off her day clothes, too, and replacing them with her new outfit.

  Tilly was slightly disappointed, and said so. ‘If we have to wait for business trips, we’ll never get to wear them. They’re too nice to live in the filing cabinet.’

  Hettie was admiring herself in the mirror above the fireplace, and conceded that there was something quite decadent about wearing monogrammed pyjamas around the house; anyway, as Tilly had said, it was a rare thing indeed for the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency to be called away from home on an overnight case that required best pyjamas.

  She braved the cold to fetch the two remaining presents from the shopping trolley by the bread ovens. The Butters’ party was still in full swing, and the strains of Tijuana Brass – with vocal contributions from those still standing – crept down the stairs. ‘We’ll have to give Bruiser his alarm clock tomorrow,’ she said as she came back into the room. ‘Judging by the noise from upstairs, I doubt he’s in a fit state to unwrap anything.’

  ‘There are parcels for Jessie as well,’ said Tilly. ‘Maybe we could have a Boxing Day tea party tomorrow and hand them out then.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea. But open this one now.’

  Tilly took the parcel and sat on her cushion by the fire to open it. She patted and sniffed it, trying to guess, but gave up and ripped the paper off. She stared at the blanket and then at the plug on the end of it. ‘Is it a magic carpet or something like that?’

  Hettie laughed. ‘Well, it is quite magic, I suppose. It’s an electric blanket.’ She lay the blanket out on Tilly’s cushion and plugged it in, turning the control to ‘hot’. ‘Right – you sit on it and see what happens.’

  Tilly did as she was told and purred as the warmth spread to the whole of her body. Seeing her contentment, Hettie joined her on the blanket and they sat together, enjoying the warmth and peace of their own Christmas.

  Hettie suddenly remembered her new pipe and reached for it on the mantelpiece, dislodging the business letter which they’d left unopened. It floated down in front of the fire, and she looked at it a little more closely. ‘This letter has an odd smell about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it smelt of fish.’

  In spite of the electric blanket, Tilly froze.

  Hettie turned the letter over. ‘And look at this! It’s one of those old-fashioned seals. It looks like a crab has been stamped into it.’

  Tilly put her paws up to her ears to block out Hettie’s voice. ‘Please don’t open it!’ she shouted. ‘I can’t bear it. It’s happening all over again!’

  Hettie was startled by Tilly’s reaction, but she suddenly remembered some of the details of her nightmare. ‘You really think that this letter has come from Crabstock Manor, don’t you?’ Tilly nodded. Hettie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, we’re far too busy having a lovely Christmas to find out, aren’t we?’ She tossed the unopened letter into the fire, and the two friends watched it burn. ‘Time to try out my new pipe, I think,’ said Hettie, reaching for her catnip.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Tilly.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to all at Allison & Busby for their continued support for this series.

  When Nicola and I bought our cottage on the Cornish coast over fifteen years ago, it was to be a weekend retreat from the cares of a frantic city life. The reality was very different. We made ourselves at home, embracing the Cornish way of life, its people, and its magic. Even our cats, Hettie and Tilly, were never happier than when sitting on a window sill, staring out to sea.

  This book was inspired by friends and characters in our village. Thank you to Russell Perkins for teaching me to steer a boat out to sea, and to Sandy for her friendship, love and support over the years. Their cat, Sooty, makes a very fine hero.

  For me, no Cornish book is complete without a nod to Daphne du Maurier, who – like me – came as a stranger to this land and was captivated enough to plant roots in Cornwall’s soil.

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

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  About the Author

  MANDY MORTON began her professional life as a musician. More recently, she has worked as a freelance arts journalist for national and local radio. She currently presents the radio arts magazine The Eclectic Light Show and lives with her partner, who is also a crime writer, in Cambridge and Cornwall, where there is always a place for an ageing long-haired tabby cat.

  @icloudmandy

  @hettiebagshot

  HettieBagshotMysteries

  By Mandy Morton

  The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency

  Cat Among the Pumpkins

  The Death of Downton Tabby

  The Ghost of Christmas Paws

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2016.

  This ebook edition published in 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 by MANDY MORTON

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1911–2