The Death of Downton Tabby

by Mandy Morton

  ‘I suggest we take a table in the authors’ area and invite you one by one to give an account of your movements over the last couple of hours,’ she said. ‘First, I would like to talk to Miss Emmeline Brontë.’

  Emmeline responded with a beaming smile, as if she’d been picked for an Academy Award, and glided over to the table that Tilly had chosen for the interrogations. Tilly took out her notepad and pencil, ready to record anything of significance as Hettie gathered her thoughts and prepared to break the news of Ann Brontë’s death to her sister. The rest of the cats, fuelled by the revelation of Downton Tabby’s murder, created a background noise of speculation and conjecture amongst themselves.

  ‘Miss Brontë, I’m afraid I have some terrible news,’ Hettie said, beginning her interrogation. ‘Your sister Ann has been murdered.’

  The smile left Emmeline’s face. She lowered her head and stared at the table as if in silent prayer. Hettie waited impatiently for a further reaction, but Emmeline only continued her detailed inspection of the tablecloth. Needing to get on, and having no time for a soft-paw approach, Hettie continued, raising her voice slightly in order to command Emmeline’s full attention. ‘I need to establish where you and your sisters went after you left the event tonight. You were clearly together at Sir Downton’s presentation, but what did you do afterwards?’

  At last, Emmeline lifted her head. Hettie could see no sign of grief or shock in her eyes; there was a faraway look which suggested that she had no connection with the here and now, but that was a characteristic unique to this particular Brontë, a state of mind which those who knew her would regard as normal. Slowly, as if selecting her words from a paintbox, she said: ‘My sisters have never really included me in anything. I haven’t ever cared for their company because they enjoyed making fun of me. They never understood the melancholy that has beset me since my mother’s death, nor the anguish to which I have been subjected in completing Withering Sights, when truly I am a poet. My success is unlooked for and unwanted. If Ann has died, then there is one less tormentor in my life. And now I will answer your question. I left Charlene and Ann by the bookstall after Downton Tabby’s event and went straight to my room, where I prepared for bed. I remembered that I had left my journal in the camper, so I went out to fetch it and returned to my room, where I stayed until you knocked on my door.’ Emmeline nodded towards Tilly.

  ‘Did you meet anyone on the way back to your room, or when you went to the camper van?’

  ‘No one in particular, although there were plenty of cats about. I did pass the time of day with that Scottish cat when I was fetching the journal – she was looking for Downton Tabby and asked me if I’d seen him.’

  ‘Did you notice anything strange about the camper?’

  Emmeline shook her head. ‘It was hot and stuffy, so I left the passenger window wound down to let some air in, but that’s all.’

  Hettie decided to try another line of questioning. ‘You don’t seem to be very sad about the death of your sister, or worried that Charlene appears to be missing. Aren’t you interested in what’s happened to them?’

  Emmeline maintained her composure. ‘We have a saying in Teethly: “What has come to pass has come to pass.” I will share my thoughts with the moor on my return to Porkshire.’

  Hettie felt that this was a good place to stop before Emmeline treated her to a soliloquy on her favourite subject. She was getting nowhere, and there was a tent full of cats still to talk to. Dismissing the author with a brief thank you, she called for Bugs Anderton to join them and Emmeline Brontë glided off towards the refreshment table.

  To say that Bugs Anderton looked sheepish as she settled into the seat opposite Hettie would be an understatement, and her defence of the situation began immediately, even before Hettie could summon up her first question. ‘Miss Bagshot, I have done my best to execute the trust you have put in me regarding the chaperoning of Sir Downton around the festival, but he quite simply disappeared at the end of his event and now you tell us that he has been murdered and it is I who feel the full weight of responsibility. I assure you that …’

  Hettie raised her paw to bring Bugs’ diatribe to an end. ‘No point in crying over spilt milk. I’m sure you’ve done your best, and if he chose to shed his security you can hardly be blamed for that. Tell me what you did when you discovered that Downton Tabby had disappeared.’

  Relieved that Hettie bore her no malice, Bugs gave a detailed account of her movements. ‘Sir Downton mentioned that he would like me to join him in his rooms for a nightcap before I went home. He said he had a particularly fine Highland malt on which he would value my opinion.’ Hettie and Tilly shared a look as Bugs continued. ‘I looked for him everywhere backstage, and I assumed that he had already gone back to his rooms, so I went across to the accommodation block and knocked on the door to his sitting room. It was actually Darius who answered. He’d been watching something on the television – “Gobblebox”, I think it was, not that I watch anything like that of course, and …’

  Hettie raised her paw once again. ‘Darius?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry. Mr Darius Bonnet is Sir Downton’s chauffeur,’ Bugs explained, looking a little flushed. ‘He invited me in to wait for Sir Downton, but after about twenty minutes we decided to go and sit in the Rolls-Royce. In general conversation, Darius … er … I mean Mr Bonnet … happened to mention that he collected road maps, and he had some lovely ones of Scotland that he wanted to show me.’ Hettie and Tilly shared another look, and this time they both stifled a snigger. Tilly bit the top of her pencil while Hettie cleared her throat, and Bugs continued. ‘We left the room and made our way down the corridor.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else in the accommodation block?’

  ‘Not exactly, although we did hear raised voices coming from one of the other rooms. It was the Misses Brontë, I think – definitely Porkshire accents. On reflection, it must have been Ann and Charlene.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Hettie, looking interested.

  ‘A process of elimination, really. When Darius … er … when Mr Bonnet and I reached the Rolls-Royce, we bumped into Emmeline. She was looking a little lost, dressed as she is now in her nightdress, and was standing by their camper van.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  Bugs thought for a moment. ‘I may have said something, but Darius was keen to show me his maps and he had already opened the door for me, so I got into the car with him.’

  ‘Did you notice anyone else around the camper while you were looking at Mr Bonnet’s … er … maps?’

  ‘Not really. The Rolls-Royce was facing the wall and we got straight on with the Isle of Skye.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps you could ask Mr Bonnet to join us? You can go home if you wish, but please don’t discuss the matter with anyone.’

  Bugs looked a little disappointed at having been so quickly dismissed; she had questions of her own that needed answers. ‘Miss Bagshot, as I am obviously not a suspect, I wonder if you are able to share the details of Sir Downton’s demise with me? All I know is that he has been murdered.’

  ‘That’s all you need to know for now. And as for not being a suspect, everyone is a suspect at this point in time.’

  Bugs Anderton looked once at the grave expression on Hettie’s face and rose immediately from her chair, making her way over to Darius Bonnet. The chauffeur was a good-looking cat: his short grey-and-black fur was neatly presented and his clothes were of a good quality; his bright eyes shone in the dim light of the tent, and Tilly had problems taking her eyes off him as he sat waiting to be questioned.

  ‘Mr Bonnet,’ Hettie began. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware by now, Sir Downton Tabby is dead and has clearly been murdered in a vicious attack. As you’re the only cat here who knows him well, perhaps you would be kind enough to fill in some details for us?’

  Darius Bonnet smiled and nodded his consent. ‘Fire away. I’ll do anything to help. He was a good guv’nor.’

  ‘H
ave you been working for him long?’

  ‘All me life, really. You see, I was born the wrong side of the hearth rug. My ma was in service to Sir Downton’s family and she fell for me by mistake. She took badly and died while I was still a kitten, so the family gave me to their old chauffeur. He brought me up and taught me all about motors, so when he got too old to work, they sent him to the workhouse and gave me his job. Then Sir Downton inherited from his father and took me on as chauffeur and personal valet.’

  ‘What was he like to work for?’

  ‘He treated me well, I must say. He had an eye for the girl cats, so I was always getting him out of scrapes in that way, if you know what I mean. Things got a bit hectic when he got really famous with the TV and all that, but he paid me well and I’ve got a nice bit tucked away for a rainy day.’

  Hettie couldn’t help but think that the rainy day had turned into a monsoon, but she pushed on with the questions. ‘Were you aware of anyone who might want to harm him?’

  ‘Well, that would make for quite a long list. Wherever he went, cats were jealous. It was the money, really, and the fact that he wasn’t bothered what anyone thought. Like those Brontë madams, as he always called them. They were a real nuisance – turning up at events and stirring things up, writing nasty notes and leaving them on the Roller’s windscreen.’

  ‘What did the notes say?’

  ‘Oh, “arrogant pig”, “imbecilic scribbler”, stuff like that. All a bit kittenish, really.’

  ‘And which of the sisters seemed to be the ring leader in all of this?’

  ‘To be honest, it would be hard to say. They always turn up together in that old camper, and they’re a collective bag of trouble.’

  ‘Besides the money, was there any particular reason for their behaviour?’

  ‘Well, they were always peddling their books and wanting him to get them on TV. He told them over and over again that they weren’t good enough, but some cats never listen, do they? They seemed to think that he owed it to them to help.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because they just didn’t give up, even after he’d told them he wasn’t interested in their books.’

  ‘Did he show any interest in them in other ways?’

  Darius laughed and his whole face lit up, much to the appreciation of Tilly, who dropped her pencil and had to retrieve it from under the table. ‘You must be joking! He liked the girls, but even he couldn’t manage three at a time. And that’s the thing about the Brontës – they stick together like glue.’

  Hettie was thoughtful for a moment. Everything was pointing to the Brontë sisters, with Ann lying very dead in the camper, Emmeline floating about in her nightdress, and Charlene nowhere to be found. On paper, it was an open-and-shut case. But there was something wrong, and she was missing more than a head in this particular jigsaw.

  ‘Mr Bonnet, is there anyone else at the festival who had issues with Sir Downton?’

  ‘Like I said, he wasn’t popular because he was popular. Let me see – P. D. Hodge gave him a couple of bad reviews, and he used to say that she thought she was God’s gift to literary crime. Then there’s Nicolette – he got a bit over-friendly there and she didn’t mince her words. He was quite taken with her for a while, but she wanted nothing to do with him. Then there’s that singer – she did an open air thing for him at his country house. He took to her in that chain mail, lavished her with gifts, and even gave her a yurt in his kitchen gardens, but she upped and left after a week, taking the yurt with her.’

  ‘Are you referring to Muddy Fryer?’ asked Hettie, beginning to realise that the only cat who wasn’t on the list of suspects so far was Delirium Treemints.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. Brilliant singer, though.’

  ‘Before we finish here, I would like you to tell me where you were this evening. I didn’t notice you at Sir Downton’s event.’

  ‘No, I never go to them. Not being rude, but I’ve heard it all before and when he’s busy I can put my feet up for a bit. Sometimes I relax in the Roller till he’s finished, but tonight I thought I’d catch up on a bit of TV in the room. Bugs … I mean Miss Anderton … collected him for his event and I settled down with my paper and then put “Gobblebox” on. I like to see what they’re eating – it’s a good laugh. Miss Anderton turned up later looking for the guv’nor as she’d missed him backstage, so we had a drink and watched a bit of TV and then I offered to show her some of my old maps in the Roller.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone on the way to the Rolls-Royce?’

  ‘Two of the Brontës were having a bit of a ding-dong in their room, and it sounded like one of them was crying. We could hear that all the way down the corridor. The other one was hanging around by their camper – in her nightdress, of all things.’

  ‘Weren’t you concerned for Sir Downton?’

  Darius shook his head. ‘Not really. Why should I be? I just assumed that he was being swamped by his fans and would turn up eventually.’ As if a bolt of lightning had struck, Darius Bonnet suddenly crumpled. ‘What will I do without the guv’nor?’ he sobbed. ‘It’s the only life I’ve ever known. What will happen to me now he’s gone?’

  Both Hettie and Tilly were taken aback by the sudden change of mood, and neither felt qualified to help with a career discussion. Hettie patted his paw and suggested that he help himself to a late supper while he waited for developments. Darius looked at her through tear-filled eyes. ‘But what about the guv’nor? Where is he? I should be looking after him.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment, not until my investigations have progressed. We will be moving the bodies later tonight, but at the moment we’re still gathering evidence.’ Hettie could have said ‘looking for the rest of Downton Tabby’, but she didn’t want to add to the misery that sat before her. She noted that the chauffeur showed no interest in the other victim.

  Dejected and still tearful, Darius rejoined the rest of the cats and was quickly comforted by Bugs Anderton, who had decided not to go home after all. Her humdrum life had been given a spark of excitement, and returning to her small terraced house would have dampened things down considerably.

  ‘What’s next?’ asked Tilly, turning to a clean page in her notebook.

  ‘I haven’t got a bloody clue, but a festival pie might help. I’m starving.’ Hettie stood up. ‘I’m going to get us some supper and find out if Bruiser and Poppa have turned anything up. We’ll have to speak to Polly Hodge, Nicolette Upstart and Muddy Fryer next, but I think we need to give the Brontës’ rooms a bit of a turn over first. Are you up to that?’

  Tilly’s jaw dropped. ‘Me? Do a room search?’

  Hettie nodded. ‘Yes, you. Why not? With all those detective books you read, you should know how it goes by now.’

  Tilly’s chest puffed out on its own, highlighting the stains she’d collected on her T-shirt throughout the day. Not since she’d inherited Hettie’s old business mac had she felt so important. In spite of her age, she had started as office junior at the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency and now, after only a few months, she was being given the opportunity to take on one of the top jobs of detection – a room search, and all the responsibility that came with it. ‘What should I be looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘Anything out of place. Emmeline mentioned a journal, so it would be good to have a flick through that, and obviously you must see if there’s anything relating to Downton Tabby lying around – like his head, for instance.’ Tilly shrank back in horror until she realised that Hettie was joking, but the thought of finding a missing body part took the edge off her excitement a little. ‘Let’s meet back here in half an hour,’ Hettie said, standing up. ‘Have you got the spare set of keys to the accommodation block?’

  Tilly checked in her shoulder bag, and the two cats made their way back to the rest of the assembled company. As they appeared from the authors’ dining area, a deathly hush settled over the room and Hettie responded by addressing them en masse. ‘I must ask t
hat you all remain here in the hospitality tent for a little longer,’ she said. ‘Due to the severity of the situation, I think it is important that you stay together whilst my operatives and I do the necessary investigations around these murders. I should warn you that it is my intention to set up a temporary mortuary in the authors’ dining area, and I would appreciate it if you could steer clear of that part of the tent out of respect for the dead. Miss Delirium Treemints will, I’m sure, be happy to continue to serve hot drinks, and there’s plenty of festival food to keep you happy. I think you should prepare yourselves for a long night.’

  A collective murmur went up around the tent. Hettie loaded a tray with pies and festival doughnuts to keep her own troops going, and left the festivalgoers in the safe paws of Delirium, who was learning to cope with a new-found importance after being mentioned by name in Hettie’s despatches. Hettie and Tilly left the tent together and went their separate ways – Tilly to the accommodation block, and Hettie to the main marquee to look for Bruiser and Poppa.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hettie found Poppa first. He was emerging from under the stage in the marquee, his black-and-white face and whiskers covered in cobwebs. ‘No luck yet,’ he said, as a giant sneeze shot his sunglasses off the top of his head. He picked them up, looking pleased. ‘Nice one! I was wondering where I’d put them. Good pair of shades, these. Any more bodies?’

  Hettie had always admired Poppa’s ease in any situation. His laid-back attitude in times of crisis had served her well during her years in the music business – and there had been plenty of crises to be laid-back about. They had remained friends, and Poppa had the uncanny knack of turning up whenever Hettie most needed him; he had the advantage of understanding her better than any other male cat she knew.

  ‘No, no more bodies,’ she said, ‘but no Charlene bloody Brontë either.’