by Mandy Morton
‘Tabby chic is posh scruffy,’ explained Tilly as she burrowed through her extensive mountain of cardigans, rejecting all of them as too warm for the weather. ‘We need to look like we haven’t bothered but we have really, if you see what I mean.’
Hettie didn’t see what Tilly meant at all and was beginning to think that the T-shirt she was wearing would do when a muffled cry of success came from the bundle of clothes. Tilly emerged triumphant. ‘Look what I’ve found! I bought these at the Felixtoe Book Festival when I was scouting for authors – booky T-shirts! This one should fit you – it says Lord of the Pies on it. That’s a lovely book about kittens being stranded on a desert island.’
Hettie didn’t much care what the book was about, although she would happily subscribe to all kittens being stranded on a desert island, but the bright red T-shirt did look good and the title was a suitable comment to wear across her chest. She pulled it on, and had to agree that it was indeed tabby chic. Tilly had laid out three possibilities for herself, all bearing titles by one of her favourite crime writers. Nicolette Upstart was almost as prolific with her merchandise as she was with her novels, and Tilly had got overexcited when Nicolette’s agent confirmed that she would come to the town’s festival as long as she could bring her ‘pop-up merch tent’ with her. ‘Which one shall I wear? They’re all lovely.’
‘What have you got to choose from?’ asked Hettie, trying to look interested.
‘Two for Sparrows, Fur in the Sunlight or The Death of Lucy Cat.’
‘I think you should wear the yellow so you can stand out in a crowd. If you’re looking after the authors, they need to be able to see where you are.’
‘Good idea,’ said Tilly. ‘Fur in the Sunlight it is, then.’
She returned the mountain of clothes to the filing cabinet, gave their mugs a quick rinse and picked up the box of red lanyards. Hettie jammed her sunglasses on her head, grabbed the box of blue lanyards and strode to the door just as the telephone began to ring in the staff sideboard.
The staff sideboard was the central hub of Hettie and Tilly’s life. Its capacity for storing and, in some cases, hiding the trappings of life was boundless. Operating out of such a small room offered its difficulties, although Tilly had a knack for transforming the office into a comfortable bedsit on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. The staff sideboard was her rock: she kept everything in it and was the only one of the two cats capable of laying her paws on what they needed instantly from its limitless storage. The friends had both agreed that a telephone would be a good business asset but Hettie found it a gross intrusion on her psyche, which was why it lived out of sight and muffled by cushions.
Tilly abandoned her box and scrambled into the sideboard, while Hettie stood at the door waiting for news. ‘Hello? The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency, Tilly speaking. How can I … I’m sorry, can you speak up? Who is this? I’m afraid you’re a bit wispy. Oh, now you’re cutting out altogether.’ Tilly backed out of the sideboard, still holding the receiver in the hope that the reception would improve. ‘Now, shall we start again? Who is this? Turnip, was that? Throat? Oh, I see – you have a sore throat, Mr Turnip.’
Hettie decided to intervene, realising that they would never get to Furcross House if Tilly continued to indulge Mr Turnip. She took hold of the phone. ‘Hettie Bagshot speaking. How can I help, Mr Turnip? Oh, I see! Turner, not Turnip, Turner as in Turner Page. Whatever has happened to your voice? We’re just on our way up to the festival now – do you need us to bring lozenges? You need me to what?! Interview Downton Tabby tonight? In front of all those cats? I couldn’t possibly! I know nothing about him except for the TV show. You want me to be probing as if I’m on one of my cases? Can’t you get someone else? Maybe if you suck a lozenge you’ll get your voice back so you can do it as planned. Hello? Are you still there? I don’t believe it! He’s gone and landed me with the worst job of the whole bloody weekend.’ Hettie slammed the phone back on the receiver and pushed it back into the staff sideboard. ‘Well, that’s put a real damper on the day. I knew Downton Tabby was a bad idea as soon as you’d booked him.’
Tilly giggled. ‘Well, he sold the festival out in two days, and Turner Page is paying us well for all we’re doing. It’s a lovely job really – no violence or murders to solve, just two peaceful days in the sunshine.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about the murders,’ said Hettie, picking up the box of blue name tags. ‘I can think of one or two necks I’d like to wring, starting with yours!’
Hettie and Tilly emerged into a stiflingly hot high street to find Bruiser waiting with Miss Scarlet. Tilly clambered into the sidecar and Hettie was about to follow when a whirlwind blew out of the post office in the shape of Lavender Stamp, looking hot and bothered in a loud flower-print dress. Lavender Stamp was renowned for her offhand nature, and relished the spite she could administer along with stamps and postal orders at her counter. A trip to her post office was a trial to most of the town’s residents, and she had always harboured a special animosity towards Hettie.
‘Miss Bagshot! Wait! Are you going to Furcross House?’
Hettie was tempted to leap into the sidecar and ignore the oncoming floral print but Lavender was upon her before she had the chance. ‘I wonder if I could commandeer your vehicle? I’m running late and I need to be at the festival ticket office as soon as possible.’
It was satisfying to dispense a favour to Lavender Stamp and Hettie rose to it, putting on her widest smile as the sarcasm spilt out onto the hot pavement. ‘Why, Miss Stamp, it would be our greatest pleasure to offer you a lift. Have you ridden pillion before?’
Lavender stared at the motorbike through her winged spectacles as Bruiser kicked the engine into life. ‘Pillion? I’m not sure what you mean.’
Hettie patted the seat behind Bruiser. ‘Up here. It’s the only spare seat we have.’
Crestfallen and trying to control her temper, Lavender tried her famous bossy tactic. ‘Miss Bagshot, I was hoping for the sidecar and it would make so much more sense for you to ride with Mr Venutius as you are more suitably dressed for it.’
‘The trouble is that Tilly feels sick if I don’t sit next to her in the sidecar. We have to sing to take her mind off it. You wouldn’t want her breakfast all over that lovely dress, would you?’
Lavender gave in, hitched her dress up and clambered onto the back of the motorbike, and Hettie leapt in beside Tilly. Bruiser gave Miss Scarlet full throttle down the high street and the friends indulged in a full performance of the theme tune to In the Kitchens and Up the Stairs, while Lavender Stamp closed her eyes in terror and clung on for dear life.
CHAPTER THREE
Furcross House stood in a leafy area of the town where all the well-heeled cats made their homes. When Turner Page had sought approval to set up his library and community centre there, he had met with a certain amount of opposition from the residents of Sheba Gardens and the surrounding area. Most cats living in this pocket of affluence could afford to buy books and had no need to borrow them, and the thought of a community centre – bringing with it a certain sort of cat which had nothing in common with their values and principles – filled them with dread. Marcia Woolcoat had run a discreet operation at Furcross, providing a residential home for elderly cats who could afford her extortionate prices and who fitted in nicely – but Turner Page’s vision of a centre where cats of all social levels could meet and enjoy all manner of cultural stimulation from books to beekeeping was a little wide of the mark.
There had been demonstrations, a high-profile campaign in the local paper, and a nasty incident involving the vandalism of Turner’s library van, but the moment that Downton Tabby was announced as key speaker for the town’s first literary festival all opposition to the library and community centre melted away in a puff of aristocatic smoke. The only gripe remaining was whether the good folk of Sheba Gardens should qualify for discounted rover tickets to the weekend’s events. To reward the residents for all their efforts to have him e
victed, Turner had decided against the discount and had passed it on to library and community centre groups instead.
When Bruiser swung Miss Scarlet into Sheba Gardens, it was clear that Downton Tabby’s reception committee was gathering already and those who hadn’t got tickets for the festival had turned out just to catch a glimpse of him.
‘What a bloody nightmare,’ grumbled Hettie as Bruiser brought the bike to a standstill outside the front door, narrowly missing the ticket tent which had been set up in the driveway.
Turner Page – resplendent in a bright yellow polka-dot bow tie and Fair Isle tank top – leapt down the steps to meet them and assisted Lavender Stamp onto firm ground while she did her utmost to protect her modesty. The floral-print dress has ridden up somewhat, and she struggled to conceal both her underwear and her embarrassment at being caught in such an ungainly situation. Turner attempted a greeting as Hettie and Tilly scrambled unaided from the sidecar, but it was clear that the festival director had well and truly lost his voice. Lavender staggered towards the ticket tent, still shaking from her biker experience and keen to get set up before the gates were opened at noon. Turner beckoned Hettie and Tilly to follow him into the house and Bruiser sped off on Miss Scarlet to continue with the Butters’ festival catering deliveries.
Tilly was a regular visitor to Turner’s library, as she devoured books and delighted in discovering new authors and their work. She had taken a keen interest in the alterations which had been made to accommodate a library and community centre into the old building, and knew her way around. Hettie hadn’t come anywhere near the place since solving the famous Furcross case and, as Turner ushered them into the library, she marvelled at how light and airy the building now was, even in a heatwave. The walls were painted in reds and blues, embellished with countless paintings by kittens from the nursery which met there on Tuesdays; there were brightly coloured tables and chairs, large and small to cater for all age groups; and the bookshelves were packed with every conceivable category of reading that a cat’s heart could desire.
Turner pointed to a desk in the centre of the room, where a short-haired ginger cat sat with his nose in a book. No one quite knew when Mr Anton Pushkin had turned up in the town. The fact that he’d come from Russia cloaked him in an air of mystery, but the one thing that was known about him was that he was inseparable from Turner Page, and the two cats shared a life full of books and exotic pullovers, interrupted only by the day-to-day concerns of running the library.
Tilly had met Mr Pushkin a number of times when he had stamped her books in and out of the library, and she nodded a greeting to him as she crossed to the desk with the red and blue lanyards.
‘Ah, my dear Miss Tilly, we have been thrown together at last!’ he said, clearing a space for the boxes and pulling another chair up for Tilly to sit on. ‘My poor Turner has lost his voice, so I am to act in his place as the mouthpiece of authority. This desk is the powerhouse of the festival. All who carry the heavy burden of being intelligent enough to write a book must pass this way and be garlanded with the honour they deserve.’
Tilly stared down at Hettie’s scribbled name tags, regarding them in a new light and wishing they’d spent a little more time over them, but she was pleased to be stationed with Mr Pushkin as she waited for her authors to arrive; she loved to hear him speak, regardless of what he was saying, and his accent delighted her.
Seeing that Tilly was nicely settled and noticing that Turner Page had wandered off into the garden to distribute the helpers’ and stallholders’ name tags, Hettie suddenly remembered that as well as being in charge of security for the weekend she was also now expected to come up with a pile of questions to fire at Downton Tabby. Security wasn’t a problem – she had always planned to place herself on a deckchair between the library and the events marquee so that she could watch the comings and goings with as little effort as possible – but mugging up on the star of the festival had become a priority. She scanned the bookshelves, eventually finding a whole section on Downton Tabby, and grabbed several of his books before heading for the French windows to find a place in the sun where she could flick through his work and find some interesting topics to base her interview on.
Finding anywhere peaceful was clearly going to be impossible. The lawn leading to the marquee was bustling with stallholders, all keen to make their pitches as prominent as possible. Chapter and Spine, the booksellers from Southwool, had won the franchise for the festival by heavily greasing Turner Page’s paw with discounts on books for the library. They had taken up three trestle tables outside the events tent ready to catch the festivalgoers while their enthusiasm was at its peak. Tilly’s friend, Jessie, was setting up a brightly painted wooden handcart to display her cloche hats and rainbow knits. Meridian Hambone, reputedly one of the oldest cats in the town, had adopted the no-frills approach which had always served her well in her high street hardware shop: she had laid her branded tote bags and T-shirts straight onto the grass and sat on an upturned galvanised bucket in the middle of them, chewing wine gums which she occasionally felt the need to spit out into a nearby flower bed.
Hettie’s attention was drawn towards a stand-off between a prominent member of Cats of the Earth and a representative from Green Peas, a local vegetarian organisation. The issue appeared to be one of shade from the sun, and their allocated tables were pushed and shoved as they jockeyed for position. Secretly, Hettie hoped that Cats of the Earth would triumph as she had no time for those who only ate vegetables, but taking on the survival of the planet seemed equally bizarre on a hot, sunny day in the middle of a literary festival.
She moved away from the worthy area of stalls, looking for somewhere to read her Downton Tabby research, when Tilly emerged from the French windows, dragging a large holdall and hotly pursued by an attractive-looking cat with a shock of long blonde fur. Hettie noted that she was wearing a blue lanyard, which identified her as an author or publicist. The two cats headed for the marquee and Tilly relieved herself of her burden. Intrigued, Hettie approached in time to hear some unfortunate expletives from Mr Spine, who wasn’t keen to share any of his retail space.
The blonde cat responded with a smile and proceeded to untie the holdall, which – to everyone’s astonishment – popped up to form a three-sided stall complete with roof and shelf for merchandise. There was no need for Hettie to glance at the name tag; she knew instantly that standing before her was the celebrated crime writer Nicolette Upstart, oozing charm and standing her ground with the bookstall.
Mr Pushkin was next out of the French windows, balancing three large boxes which he brought to a crash landing next to the pop-up. Grateful and still smiling, Nicolette proceeded to unpack her stock while Tilly looked on in delight, noticing several copies of the author’s latest book, London Drains and Other Grimes. Next came tote bags, fridge magnets, mugs, bandanas, signed photographs and a rather lovely range of day-glow bookmarks, all sporting the titles of previous books. The striped pop-up stall would be the talk of the festival and the envy of any author whose publishers hadn’t quite got the hang of getting their books into bookshops. Nicolette’s success as a bestselling author was not only down to her masterly storytelling but to her tenacity in going out to meet her readers, offering them the highest quality merchandise to remember her by. Tilly clapped her paws in delight as more treasures emerged from the boxes, and she’d quite forgotten her post as meeter and greeter until Mr Pushkin shouted from the French windows that P. D. Hodge had arrived. Leaving Nicolette brushing her long blonde fur, ready to meet her public, Tilly returned to the library to welcome Polly Hodge.
Hettie slunk round the edge of the marquee and found herself a peaceful spot at the entrance to the memorial gardens, positioning herself in close proximity to the hospitality tent, where an endless supply of the Butter sisters’ delights would be on offer throughout the two days. She squinted against the sun, looking for the clock on the old hospital block to her left, remembering her first room search there during t
he Furcross case. A lot had happened since then: several murders, a number of thefts and an assortment of petty crimes had come to the door of her detective agency, all solved and tucked away in the town’s more lurid history. She was proud of what she and Tilly had achieved in such a short time, and – with help from her friends Bruiser and Poppa – the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency had become a surprising success. No one was more surprised than Hettie herself.
She opened the first of Downton Tabby’s books, going straight to the ‘about the author’ section, and her heart sank as she noticed that his biographical credits ran to eight pages before the book even started. Public school, sporting genius, scholar, captain of industry, conservationist of baronial mansions, OBE, CBE, Knight of the Garter, author, film director, screenwriter and the creator of the nation’s top TV show for the last five years, winning three Bluster awards and two lifetime achievements, which Hettie found a little odd as he was only in his middle years.
The smell of bacon drifted out from the hospitality tent, followed by a loud crash of crockery. It took Hettie no time at all to deduce that the all-day breakfast was on its way and that Delirium Treemints had begun her shift on beverages. Delirium was known for her nerves; she lived on them and by them, but was always ready to step forward to dispense tea and coffee at the drop of a hat – or, in her case, a whole tea set. The craze for plastic and melamine had significantly improved her performance at functions, but there was still cause for concern over the spilt milk, tea and fruit juice, even if the crockery now bounced.
Hettie decided to give up on her Downton Tabby research. The job was easy. There was nothing he hadn’t done in his life, and she knew enough about the TV show to busk her way through the event, so she decided to apply an old trick which she used on songs she didn’t want to sing in her music days: start it off, and let the audience do the rest.