by Mandy Morton
She wished that Tilly had been there to witness her finest moment. Digger Patch toppled from his self-made pedestal and cowered on the bench as if he had been set about with his own garden spade. ‘All right, all right – I’ll tell you what I know but I don’t have long. I’ve got a train to catch at four. My daughter’s expectin’ me, see; she wants me to stay with her for a bit.’
The fact that Digger Patch now had a train to catch was no surprise to Hettie, and she had every reason to believe that it would be a one-way ticket. ‘Let’s go back to Monday,’ she said, knowing that vital clues would be lost if she did not ask the right questions regarding the missing bodies. ‘What exactly was your part in the burial situation?’
‘Same as it always is,’ responded the crushed celebrity gardener. ‘Nurse Mogadon did her … er … business in the morning, putting ’em away and tarting ’em up with the cat that does the nails, then she calls for me to help her lift ’em into their caskets and we wheeled ’em across the yard into the dining room with the lids off for the final goodbyes. Then I helps her get ’em back to the hospital wing and leaves her to put the extra bits and pieces into the caskets. She puts the lids on and screws ’em down ready for me to come and collect ’em for the burial. Then I got ’em lined up by the graves. I rings a bell and they all comes across from the main buildin’ for some songs and poems before goin’ back in for the funeral teas. I stays to bury ’em normally, but I found out there was nothin’ to bury so I helped meself to a few trinkets and stuck the caskets behind me potting shed. I was going to fill the graves in, but I twisted me back while I was draggin’ one of the boxes and it was comin’ on to rain so I knew no one would come out again – it was getting too late and too cold. I meant to fill in the holes the next mornin’, but when I woke up me back was so bad I couldn’t get out of bed. Then I heard that Nola Ledge had discovered the empty graves and all hell had broken loose, so I lay low and pretended I knew nothing. I went to the hospital wing later to get some help for me back pain, and I saw Nurse Mogadon countin’ a big pile of money through the window of the dispensary. As she’d threatened to tell Miss Woolcoat about me takin’ stuff from the coffins, I decided to send one of me notes to her about the missin’ bodies. Next thing I know, you turn up with the bodies and this mornin’ at breakfast Miss Woolcoat announces that the nurse has killed herself and the hospital wing has been closed until further notice.’
Hettie had avoided interrupting Digger Patch’s rambling dialogue of events for fear of missing something, and by the end of his story she could easily understand why his publishers were not happy with his work: the word ‘soulless’ popped into her head, and for a gardener that seemed strange. ‘Between dropping the bodies off in the hospital wing and collecting them for burial, did you notice anyone else around besides Nurse Mogadon?’
Digger Patch put his head on one side to think, trying now to be extra helpful. Scratching his chin, he said: ‘I seem to think there was one or two visitors that day, but I can’t say for sure what time I seen them. Nutty Slack was here, visitin’ Nola as usual – I seen him parkin’ up his minibus out front and that must have been just before lunch. He didn’t stay long – I heard him drivin’ off as I brought one of the caskets through to the burial ground. Then there was Marilyn’s girl, Cocoa – stuck-up little minx. She’s started hangin’ out with that Oralia Claw and they’re always up here – bloody nuisance, both of ’em, if you ask me: thick as thieves and twice as stupid. They were big friends with Pansy Merlot – brought drink in for her after she’d bin told not to do it any more. Miss Woolcoat had to put a stop to that, but it was too late for Pansy by then. There was a couple of odd jobbers doin’ some work on the gutterin’ of the hospital wing; they seemed to come an’ go as they pleased, but I’m not sure they were here on Monday. Rough pair of low lifes, always seemed to be in their van readin’ newspapers, so not much work done there. Oh yes, and I nearly forgot – Miss Woolcoat had a delivery from Malkin and Sprinkle. That was on Monday, after lunch; they had trouble gettin’ their big van through the gates and Silas had to help direct ’em in.’
It occurred to Hettie that Monday had been an extremely busy day of comings and goings, and Digger Patch had presented her with a number of possibilities as to how the bodies might have been removed from Furcross. She was beginning to feel exhausted, and she longed for her armchair by the fire and Tilly’s constant chatter, but she knew that she would have to speak to Marcia Woolcoat before the end of her day: Miss Woolcoat was expecting results for her money. Realising that her interest in him had begun to wane, Patch rose from the bench and this time Hettie let him go. She watched as he made his way slowly back to the main building, with no further thoughts of lifting his potatoes or saving his salad crops from the frost. At least there would be no more of his ‘little notes’ to disturb the long-dead secrets of those who had put their trust in Furcross, but that was no consolation for Alma Mogadon, who lay dead only a matter of yards from where Hettie sat.
‘Blimey!’ said Poppa, emerging from the shrubbery. ‘You did well to get all that out of him. You were looking like a proper detective for a minute or two. I expect he’s packing his kit and clearing out before you can get back to Marcia Whatsit. Stupid, really – I reckon he was onto a good thing here. If he really has got a daughter, I bet she’ll be bracing herself. He’s not the sort to muck in, is he?’
‘No,’ agreed Hettie. ‘Alma Mogadon is now firmly in the frame for selling bodies, but in spite of having a clearer view of what happened on Monday, we still have a list of suspects for her accomplice and no real favourite. Was it Nutty Slack the chimney sweep, with or without the help of his friend, Nola Ledge, the retired schoolteacher? Or could it be Oralia Claw? I’ve never liked her since she set up in the High Street. Then there’s Cocoa Repel: could she be calling the shots, whilst hiding behind her mother’s money? And what about the delivery van from Malkin and Sprinkle? That was where the bodies were dumped, so maybe Lotus Ping was in the back, loading the corpses in while the delivery men were being dominated by Miss Woolcoat.’
Poppa resisted voicing the thought that had just entered his head; it involved black leather and whips, and Hettie caught the boyish twinkle in his eye. The two cats exploded into peals of laughter as the afternoon tea bell clanged in the distance and they made their way across the lawn. Hettie turned to look back, compelled to rest her gaze on the window of Nurse Mogadon’s room, and for a very brief moment she fancied she had seen a small, pale face looking at her from behind the glass.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tilly had not meant to fall asleep when she got back from the library van. All would have gone according to plan if she hadn’t treated herself to five minutes in Hettie’s armchair to drink her tea and eat the custard cream she had found at the back of the staff sideboard during her morning clean-up. An hour later, she awoke in a panic as several black plastic video boxes surrounded her and threatened to take her television away. Relieved that it had only been a nasty dream, but upset that she had no television to lose, Tilly got up and checked that the pies were still under the tea towel. Remembering Hettie’s best mac, she fetched it in from the line along with the socks, pleased that the laundry was almost dry. She eyed the mac up, having felt the chill of the backyard, then slipped it on, expecting it to be several sizes too big for her. To her delight it fitted perfectly, but it was still slightly damp, and it occurred to her that the best way to finish drying it was to wear it herself; by the time she got home from seeing Jessie, her own body heat would have finished the job. Apart from anything else, she felt very important in it, and Hettie need never know.
Pulling on clean red socks and adding a bright green knitted scarf to the borrowed mac, Tilly made her way out into the High Street, waving to the Butters who were wedged in their shop window, removing the final crumbs of the lunchtime assault on their breads, pies and pastries. Oralia Claw’s van was taking up most of the pavement outside her nail bar and, as Tilly passed, Oralia staggered out o
f her shop under the weight of yet more boxes to be loaded inside. Tilly couldn’t quite remember why she didn’t like Oralia Claw, but decided that it must be because there was nothing about her to like; Hettie didn’t like her either, so the negative feelings were built on sound judgement. And besides, the nail bar seemed to attract a certain sort of silly female cat – painted, pinched and pretending to be posh, the sort that would wobble their stiletto heels through fire to attract the overpaid brawn of the local football team with their fast cars and low intellect.
Oralia Claw’s place in the community had engaged Tilly’s thoughts in such an entertaining way that she almost missed the turning into Cheapcuts Lane, where her friend Jessie ran a charity shop from her front room. Exactly which charity had never been explained, but the outlet had become so well established that no one asked any more; the old adage of such things beginning at home seemed to fit Jessie’s philosophy of life, and she provided the less well-off in town with an Aladdin’s cave of clothes and bric-a-brac, as well as a popular channel for the better-heeled to get rid of unwanted good stuff. Strangely enough, it was the better-heeled who made the shop a success, as they also bought from its ‘posh but not quite new range’ – a rail of clothing that was pushed into the centre of the shop whenever Jessie saw a decent car pull up outside.
Tilly loved looking in the charity shop window: her friend prided herself on her window displays – always seasonal and colour-coordinated to catch the eye of any cat who had deviated from the High Street. Today, Jessie had gone for an ‘autumn in the rain’ look, with umbrellas, wellington boots and a rather fine mannequin posed in a bright yellow storm cape with matching sou’wester. The effect was enhanced by a scattering of leaves, some assorted nuts and a stuffed squirrel, and Tilly purred with appreciation. She went inside, her arrival announced by a peal of bells which dangled on strings across the door.
Jessie sat behind a large kitchen table which doubled as shop counter. A cloche hat of red velvet was perched on her head, and her matching red and purple shawl seemed to have become a little too involved with the garment she was knitting. A pair of red-rimmed spectacles made its bid for freedom when she spotted Tilly, and was only saved from disaster by a cord that tethered it round a long-haired tabby neck. ‘Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ Jessie said, abandoning her knitting to give Tilly a hug. ‘I was only thinking about you this morning. An old dear came in and offered me some really nice cardigans – lovely bright colours with easy buttons, right up your street! And wait for it – some of them had pockets and hoods! I bought them up for a song. In fact, I’m thinking of turning my whole window display over to knits next week. Why don’t you have a look through them while I stick the kettle on? It’s high time we had a catch-up, and I think there’s a chocolate biscuit with your name on it in the tin.’ Jessie slid a box across the floor and Tilly clapped in sheer delight at the rainbow of woollen cardigans, all flailing their arms to escape their incarceration. Picking and prodding at them, she selected the three that she was most taken by and divested herself of Hettie’s mac, unbuttoning her old, well-loved cardigan ready to try the new ones.
‘Oh, come into the back to do that,’ said Jessie, heading for the shop door. ‘I’ll shut up for a bit while we have some tea.’ She turned the ‘back in a tick’ sign to face any hopeful customers and shot the bolt across, then picked up the box of cardigans and led Tilly – still clutching her favoured three – through to her private quarters.
Jessie’s back room had been her home for as long as she could remember. She had been taken in by a kind elderly cat when she was five weeks old, after being abandoned – along with her dead mother – at the gates of a hostel, tied up in a rubbish bag. Miss Lambert – a keen supporter of the hostel – had adopted Jessie and raised her as her own, leaving her small terraced house to her when she died. Jessie had loved Miss Lambert. For an elderly cat, she was a great deal of fun to be with and had taught Jessie the ways of the world, encouraging her in the appreciation of beautiful things – especially if they happened to be red. Jessie had nursed Miss Lambert in her final years and, when their money ran out, had enterprisingly turned their front room into a shop of all sorts. Although money was still often scarce, Jessie had hung on to her legacy, taking extra jobs here and there when the shop was going through one of its quiet periods. Tilly, too, had much to thank Miss Lambert for: they had met at the old library and – seeing that Tilly was in great need of a decent dinner – the older cat had brought her home one cold October day. From that moment on, Tilly and Jessie had been firm friends; in fact, it was Jessie who had first encouraged Tilly’s passion for cardigans, and the rest – as they say – is history.
The room was swathed in red, with a Turkish carpet on the floor and a slightly beaten-up sofa, which displayed two rich-red carpet cushions and a soft chenille throw; the lampshades were hung with red tassels, and the scent of sandalwood and jasmine drifted from incense sticks by the fireplace. Tilly loved this room; it had hardly changed since Miss Lambert died and – looking now at her friend, pouring tea from a red pot – she realised for the first time that Jessie was indeed becoming Miss Lambert, a vision straight from the Marrakesh Express.
‘Come on, then – tell me your news,’ said Jessie, sinking into one of the large cushions on the sofa and patting the space beside her for Tilly to sit down. ‘How’s Hettie getting on with her new career? Any takers in the world of gumshoes and private eyes?’
Tilly dragged herself away from the cardigans and accepted a cup of what she called ‘perfumed tea’, guessing that Earl Grey must have always served his hot drinks with a chocolate biscuit, if only to take the taste away. ‘Well, it was a bit slow to start with. We almost gave up,’ she spluttered through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Then the phone rang on Wednesday with a proper case and Hettie’s been on it ever since. She even let me help yesterday. There were bodies everywhere! We had to collect them from Malkin and Sprinkle ’cos someone had dug them up, and the gardener’s been stealing things out of the coffins, and the nurse killed herself in front of the TV. We had to move her on a tea trolley.’
Throughout Tilly’s brief but thorough appraisal of the case, Jessie sat with her eyes wide and her mouth even wider in a silent scream of amazement. When Tilly paused for a moment to take another bite of her biscuit, she felt obliged to challenge the credibility of the story. ‘What? Bodies, gardeners, coffins, suicides and tea trolleys? Sounds like a bad crime fiction series. You are joking, aren’t you?’ Watching Tilly’s face and waiting for the burst of laughter that never came, she realised that her friend was serious. ‘Oh my God! Where did all this happen?’
Feeling very important, as the bearer of revelations always does, Tilly fleshed out her macabre bullet points, much to Jessie’s delight. By the time she had finished, Jessie’s tea was cold and her biscuit untouched, and Jessie was ready to sign up as a recruit to the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency – as a plant, or as anything else that would allow her to share in the excitement. ‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Fancy Furcross being involved in all this! Marcia gets a lot of her designer stuff from me – always buys a size too small and takes all the lemon, beige and pink stuff, which is fab ’cos no one else would be seen d … er … out in it. Marilyn Repel swaps a lot of her more stagey stuff for everyday wear with me, too, and I know Cocoa quite well – she offers me work occasionally at her shows, dressing the models backstage. I’m helping her tomorrow night at Malkin and Sprinkle. But I’ll never understand why she’s taken up with that Claw creature – no talent, no brain, no dress sense, just hitching a ride on Cocoa’s fame and Marilyn’s fortune. She’s a nasty, thin piece of work if you ask me, but I think the show will be good. Cocoa has put a lot of work into her designs.’
‘Oh good!’ said Tilly, scrambling off the sofa and selecting the first cardigan to try. ‘We’re going to that. We got free tickets from Mr Sprinkle when we picked the bodies up. What about this one? It’s lovely and warm, but the sleeves are a bit long. The pockets and
the hood are really nice, though, and it’s got lots of purple in it.’
Jessie admired Tilly’s choice. ‘The colour really suits you and you can always roll the sleeves up a bit. Try the red one – that’s got a zip and you could wear it over another cardigan to go out in.’
Tilly was having a lovely time, and soon discovered that all three cardigans had become firm favourites. The final one – in blue with bright yellow and red buttons – made her look years younger, and she decided that it would be perfect for the fashion event; it even had a small silver fleck running through the wool, which made it the perfect choice for evening wear. But, as often happens when a good time is being had, reality struck the cruellest of blows.
‘I’m not sure any of them are quite right for me,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I think I’ll leave it for today. I should be going – Hettie will be back soon and I promised to do some typing for her.’
Jessie watched as Tilly carefully folded the cardigans and put them back in the box, remembering what Miss Lambert had said about her: ‘That cat will always want for something because she’s too proud to ask.’ Knowing that dignity and self-respect were priceless commodities, Jessie leant forward to help Tilly as she struggled back into her old cardigan. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to be at Malkin and Sprinkle by lunchtime, which means I’ll have to shut the shop for the afternoon, and Saturday is my busiest day. I don’t suppose you could look after things for me, could you? Most of the stuff is priced and the rest you can take offers on. I haven’t got any cash but I can pay you in cardigans if Hettie could spare you for the afternoon?’
Tilly beamed, skipped and finally jumped into the box of cardigans, retrieving the blue, purple and red objects of her desire. Jessie smiled in a satisfied sort of way and gave a nod to Miss Lambert, whose ashes took centre stage on the mantelpiece in a beautiful red and gold Chinese urn. ‘That settles it then,’ said Jessie, rising from her sofa. ‘I’d better open up again for a couple of hours. I might catch the Methodists coming out of their Friday whisker drive. God knows what they do in that hall all afternoon, but it certainly puts them in the mood for my bric-a-brac section on their way home. Since that bloody woman from the post office had the library van moved up her end, trade has dropped off a bit for me on Fridays, so I’ll grab anything I can – even the Methodists!’