by Mandy Morton
Polly Hodge stepped forward as soon as Poppa and Hettie appeared. ‘Miss Bagshot, I think we have waited long enough. Do you bring news which will put our minds at rest? We would all like to go home to our beds.’
Hettie looked at the huddle of cats and had to agree that there was very little reason to detain them any longer. It was clear to her that Charlene Brontë was guilty of the murder of Downton Tabby, perhaps with help from Emmeline, but that had nothing to do with the rest of the cats – unless one of them had squashed Ann Brontë in an entirely separate incident, and that was a long shot even to Hettie’s creative abilities. She raised her paw to silence the muttering.
‘My job at this festival is to try to keep everyone safe,’ she began, ‘which is why I’ve asked you to remain together in this tent. I’m now in a position to lay out some facts, and those of you who wish to leave afterwards can do so at your own risk. Sir Downton Tabby was viciously attacked and murdered at some point during Furcross Convention’s performance. Close to this time, Ann Brontë was also murdered in her camper van. In the course of a room search, Tilly was subsequently attacked by Charlene Brontë and has had a narrow escape from Muddy Fryer’s broadsword.’
Hettie’s words were making an impact: even Turner Page had stopped snivelling into Mr Pushkin’s handkerchief. ‘We have found evidence to suggest that Charlene Brontë was at least present at the death of Downton Tabby,’ she continued, ‘and she seems to have been holding one of her sisters hostage in the room they shared. I believe that hostage to be Emmeline Brontë, who has foolishly left the safety of this tent. Now, there are several things I need to do to complete my investigations. It would be helpful, although not essential, to establish why Charlene Brontë has taken against certain cats, including her own sisters. While she is at large, she remains a threat to us all and so it is my intention to find her before daylight. My final quest is to reunite the head of Downton Tabby with his body.’
There was a collective intake of breath as the assembled company finally realised its good fortune in having such a capable pair of paws to lead the dangerous and macabre investigation. Satisfied that her words had hit exactly the right spot, Hettie felt comfortable enough to issue a parting shot before going to check on Tilly.
‘If any of you wish to leave, then by all means do – but you’re now aware that I can’t be held responsible for your safety outside this tent.’
Polly Hodge stepped forward again. ‘Miss Bagshot, we are most grateful to you and to your colleagues for the work you are doing to solve this nasty situation, and we thank you for bringing us up to speed. I, for one, will heed your warning and shall remain here until the Misses Brontë are apprehended.’
A general nod of agreement went round the tent, stopping only when it reached Muddy Fryer. ‘What about me gig? If I don’t show, I don’t get paid. I should have been on the road hours ago, and what about me sword? That’s the centrepiece of me Arthurian cycle. You can’t have Arthur without Excalibur.’
Although she was a fan of Muddy’s music, Hettie felt that the singer herself had lived a little too long in the world of folk heroes and Knights of the Round Table to grasp the full reality of the situation.
‘As I’ve said, you are free to leave. I’m sure we can send the sword on to you if we can convince Charlene Brontë to part with it.’
Turner Page decided to make a rare interjection. ‘Miss Fryer, please stay here where you are safe. By way of compensation, I’m happy to pay you a further performance fee to cover your next … er … gig, and we would be delighted if you would consider an impromptu performance of some of your songs while Miss Bagshot and her assistants continue their investigations.’
Hettie could have kissed the festival director, but she didn’t want to offend Mr Pushkin. Muddy, now financially solvent for another day, climbed onto one of the tables as the cats gathered around. She began to sing, and Hettie recognised the first few notes of ‘Long Lankin’, a famous murder ballad about a serial killer. It was one of her favourites, but not entirely appropriate at this particular time. She made her way over to Tilly, listening reluctantly to the words of the song: ‘There was blood all in the kitchen, there was blood all in the hall, there was blood all in the parlour, where my lady she did fall.’
Tilly looked much better. Her long tabby coat had dried out, although it would benefit from a good comb, but her Fur in the Sunlight T-shirt was in shreds and would certainly have to be despatched to the duster bag in the staff sideboard when they finally returned home.
‘How are you?’ Hettie asked, absent-mindedly helping herself to one of Betty Butter’s steak and ale pies.
‘Much better. I’ve been so worried about all of you, though. Where are Bruiser and Poppa?’
‘Poppa’s listening to Muddy and Bruiser’s still out there. We were just going to look for him but I wanted to check you were OK first. If you’re feeling up to it, you could take a look through Emmeline’s journal. I found it in the room. There might be something connected to the case, but don’t ask me what.’ She posted the final crust of the pie into her mouth and noticed the newspapers and the copy of Ann’s book which Poppa had left with Tilly. ‘Anything significant in there?’
‘Yes, I think there is. I found the newspapers at the bottom of Ann’s suitcase when I was searching her room. Downton Tabby was going to film his next TV series in Porkshire, near where the Brontës live, and someone’s defaced his picture. There’s a review of Ann’s book, too – it’s by Downton Tabby, and he makes it plain that Charlene and Emmeline aren’t his favourite authors.’
‘What about Ann Brontë? Did he like her book?’
‘Oh yes. He says she’s the best of the lot.’
Hettie shook her head in a bewildered fashion. ‘I think you’d better take a look at that biography – maybe the answer’s in there. In the meantime, Poppa and I had better get back out there and find Bruiser.’
Tilly picked up Ann Brontë’s biography and Hettie made her way back to the staff refreshment area. Muddy was enjoying rapturous applause as Long Lankin and his accomplice were brought to justice on ‘the gallows high’, and, as she left the tent with Poppa, Hettie couldn’t help but think that folk ballads had the edge on reality. Justice always seemed to prevail in them, no matter what.
CHAPTER TEN
Hettie was relieved to see that the storm had continued to die down, and the rain now came in sudden gusts carried on the wind rather than the deluge they had endured earlier. Bruiser had now been gone for some time, and she was worried about him. Although he was instinctively a fighting sort of cat, his days as a warrior had disappeared when he entered his middle years; the only evidence of them now were the scars on his face and an ear that was a shadow of its former self, only half the size of the other one. He’d lost a few teeth along the way, too, mostly sunk into opponents as he defended his territories, but now, as with many older cats, he’d earned his days in the sunshine – or, on winter nights, curled up by the paraffin stove in his shed at the bottom of the Butter sisters’ garden.
‘Let’s check out the marquee first,’ Hettie suggested to Poppa. ‘He’s probably sheltering in there.’
They picked their way through pools of water, shining their torches on the devastation wrought by the storm. The festival bunting lay in strings across the muddy ground, or hung disconnected in the shrubbery; there was rubbish everywhere – empty paper cups and plates strewn across the grass, and plastic carrier bags caught in the trees. The summer flowers that Mr Pushkin had nurtured throughout the spring bowed their heads low to the ground, tears of rain dripping from their petals onto the sodden earth. In the distance, the town’s clock chimed three, reminding Hettie that it would be some time before the first glimpse of dawn, a much-needed return of light after this night of horror. It was still warm, and in some places a fine mist rose from the ground. Conscious of the danger that lurked unseen in the grounds of Furcross House, the two cats stuck together, taking it in turns to watch their backs and lo
oking out for the slightest movement, aware that Charlene Brontë could strike at any moment.
All was peaceful in the marquee. It had stood up to the storm and the expanse of grass it covered was dry underfoot. A couple of battery lanterns still swung from the festival bar at the back of the tent, and Poppa was quick to collect them for some extra light.
Hettie sat on the edge of the stage, staring out at the sea of empty chairs. ‘I wonder what will happen in the morning?’ she said, turning to the running order which was stuck to the side of the tent. ‘There’ll be hundreds of cats descending on Furcross, all expecting another fun day of books and music. The whole thing was due to kick off at ten with Emmeline Brontë’s main event, followed by a panel with Polly Hodge and Nicolette Upstart – whatever that is. Then it’s a dulcimer workshop and lunch, and – wait for it – two bloody hours of Downton Tabby, all rounded off by afternoon tea with Ann Brontë and her biography.’
Poppa joined Hettie on the stage. ‘Well, looking on the bright side, the book sales will be up as soon as the news breaks. We could turn it all into a waxwork show and stick the bodies up on stage in room settings for the punters to photograph. Pity about the missing head, though.’
‘Yes, and Ann Brontë would look a little too thin.’
The two friends laughed out loud as another crack of thunder rolled across the sky above them, heralding the return of the storm. Minutes later, the rain was bucketing down in a deafening assault on the roof of the marquee.
‘I reckon this rain will drive Bruiser back in here,’ said Poppa, watching the water gush off the roof through the open flap of the marquee. ‘We’ll be drowned if we go out now. Maybe he’s legged it back to refreshments or the accommodation block.’
Hettie rarely disagreed with Poppa, but this time she had a terrible feeling that Bruiser was in grave danger, perhaps even lying mortally wounded somewhere; it wasn’t like him to disappear when a job needed doing. ‘I think we should carry on searching for him. He might be sheltering in the stalls area.’
Poppa nodded and passed one of the lanterns to Hettie. The two cats left the safety of the marquee just in time to see the ghostly figure of Emmeline Brontë screeching past them in her sodden nightdress, heading in the direction of the memorial gardens. The brief glimpse that Hettie caught of her showed an expression of sheer terror, with bulging eyes and lips pulled back in an insane grimace as if the devil himself were giving chase.
Poppa and Hettie waited to see if her pursuer would appear, but nothing showed itself. ‘Come on!’ cried Hettie as a bolt of lightning hit the ground in front of them, scorching the grass. Poppa pushed ahead, attempting to shield her from the driving rain which now blinded them. The storm’s ferocity showed no sign of abating, and the pools of standing water grew into lakes before them. In the memorial gardens, they could only stand in helpless horror at the sight that met them; like some ancient, vile banshee, Charlene Brontë stood bracing herself against the full force of the storm, the broadsword raised above her head, her victim bleeding at her feet.
Afterwards, every time Hettie recalled the scene in her mind, it played out in a jerky slow motion: the raised sword; Charlene Brontë’s distorted face as saliva dripped from her fangs; the death-curdling screech that came from somewhere deep inside her as she slowly brought the sword down onto Bruiser’s crouched and bleeding body. The lightning was swift and accurate, given the conductor it was looking for by the point of the sword. In a spray of sizzling sparks, it shot through the steel into Charlene’s body, and Hettie would never forget the intense smell of burning flesh. Charlene Brontë stood like a blackened effigy burnt into the landscape, her charred skin welded to her skeleton, her eye sockets empty, and the broadsword still in her paws.
Poppa was the first to react, springing forward to where Bruiser lay, but there was so much blood that it was hard to tell if he was dead or alive. Hettie finally pulled herself together. There was a wheelbarrow parked by the potting shed to her left and she splashed across to it, wheeling it back to where Bruiser lay and doing her best to ignore the imposing figure of a rather overcooked Brontë sister which seemed to dominate the skyline. Together, she and Poppa gently lifted Bruiser into the wheelbarrow.
‘Can I help?’ The voice came from behind them, and Hettie turned to see Emmeline Brontë looking like she had just emerged from the town’s boating lake. Her nightdress clung to her, splattered with mud, and her eyes were full of tears; she looked lost and utterly alone. Her festival name tag – smudged and almost unreadable – hung round her neck like some incongruous foreign body, the only tangible link with reality. Whatever the issues that existed between her and her sister, she had witnessed the worst death imaginable, a vision that no amount of time would eradicate.
Poppa took up the wheelbarrow and Hettie steered Emmeline away from what remained of her sister. The bedraggled company made quite an impressive entrance when it finally reached the hospitality tent, but the jubilant welcome was soon silenced by the serious nature of Bruiser’s condition. Hilary and Cherry Fudge had made themselves comfortable under Delirium Treemints’ beverage table and had to be roused from their slumbers. Immediately, they sprang into action. While Poppa and Hettie lifted Bruiser out of the wheelbarrow and laid him on one of the authors’ tables, Cherry called for hot water and Delirium obliged from her samovar. Tilly helped Hilary to rip up a tablecloth, and they bathed the wounds which were now visible and still bleeding. Bruiser lay still and lifeless, his fur matted around the cuts. The worst of the injuries had cut deeply into his shoulder, presenting a gaping hole.
Hilary grabbed her first-aid manual and quickly turned to the chapter on wounds. ‘According to this, we have to pack the hole with something and put a pad on it to stop the bleeding,’ she said.
Cherry responded by pulling out a padded dressing which she’d prepared earlier. Feeling completely helpless, Tilly grabbed one of Bruiser’s paws and squeezed it as the first-aiders worked on his injuries. The rest of the tent had been stunned into silence. Bugs Anderton helped the traumatised Emmeline Brontë to a chair, giving Delirium Treemints a nod on the way. A cup of tea full of sugar was delivered at once, together with the last of the clean tablecloths to wrap around Emmeline’s shoulders. Hettie and Poppa – now feeling the shock waves from their ordeal – sat quietly munching on the last of the festival pies, too tired to speak but keeping a watchful eye on Bruiser for any sign of recovery.
The silence, when it came, was disconcerting: the storm which had hurled itself around them suddenly lost all its power, and the cats huddled together to discuss the latest developments lowered their voices in relief, no longer needing to shout to make themselves heard above the cacophony outside. The joyful noise of rattling tea cups as Delirium distributed another round of hot drinks with shaky paws brought sanity back to a world where fear and suspicion had dominated. Hettie looked round the tent with tired eyes, moving from one face to another. Darius Bonnet sat dejected and grief-stricken next to his master’s corpse; Polly Hodge, always so confident, suddenly looked old and fragile; Muddy Fryer seemed in a state of collapse, having given up the whole of her repertoire in a home fires burning sort of way; and Nicolette Upstart’s enthusiasm for life seemed to have drained away along with the contents of her tea cup, her winning smile abandoned at the starting post. And what a disappointment for Turner Page. He sat staring into space while Mr Pushkin filled his ears with words he didn’t hear. All those months of planning, meetings, petitions, and fundraising, only for the excitement to end in tragedy. But why? That was the question, and now the perpetrator could no longer disrupt the natural order of things, there was time to consider her motivation.
Hettie turned her gaze on Emmeline Brontë, sitting swaddled in a tablecloth. The figure of tragedy she presented was well earned: forced into writing a book she didn’t want to write, being continually wrenched from a peaceful existence where her fragile nature flourished and being deprived of the opportunity to pursue the creative art in which she exc
elled. Hettie couldn’t help but feel that the death of her two progressively greedy sisters might be the making of her if the horror of the night’s work could be channelled into something positive – and something positive was just about to happen.
‘He squeezed back!’ shouted Tilly from the first-aid table. ‘He’s coming round.’
Hettie leapt across the tent to Bruiser’s side as Hilary and Cherry Fudge stood back from their patient, sharing nods of pride and satisfaction. Bruiser’s head rolled from side to side as if he were checking that it was still attached to his body, then he opened his eyes to a rapturous round of applause. Even Darius Bonnet had forsaken his master to join in the celebration. ‘Well, that’s the last time we let you fall asleep on a job,’ said Hettie, resisting the urge to dance a jig round the tent.
Bruiser smiled, then suddenly winced as the pain in his shoulder reminded him of his injuries. ‘Where is she? You gotta stop ’er before she gets all of us.’
Hettie moved closer. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all over. She won’t be bothering anyone ever again. You just have to get better – that’s all that matters now.’
Bruiser struggled to sit up, and Cherry Fudge placed her first-aid bag behind his head as the first signs of daylight entered through the tent flap, followed by a commotion fit for the slapstick sequence in any good pantomime. Betty Butter was first over the threshold, clad in wellingtons and a Pacamac and balancing a tray of fresh eggs on top of a giant pack of bacon. She was instantly followed by Beryl, whose face was obscured by a mountain of freshly baked bloomers.