by Mandy Morton
‘Laugh all the way to the bank if I was her. Just think – no more agent’s fees, all those royalties from her dead sisters’ books, and a bestseller of her own. And when word gets out about all that’s happened here, the book sales will go through the roof. She’ll be able to buy her bloody moor and the rest of Porkshire as well.’
Tilly giggled at Hettie’s unsympathetic view of the situation. ‘I suppose I’d better go across and escort her to the stage. I’ll be glad when this event is over and we’re on the home run.’ Hettie had to agree, and the two friends parted company in the memorial gardens, Tilly in search of the remaining Brontë and Hettie to the backstage area to bag a good vantage point for the spectacle which was about to begin.
Emmeline Brontë set sail from the accommodation block and glided serenely towards the stage, looking every bit the tragic spirit of her beloved moor. Tilly had been relieved and pleasantly surprised by how cleverly the Fudges had transformed the mud- and tear-stained cat into a magnificent vision of gothic beauty, as if she had stepped out of her own book. She was the manifestation of Katty Earnshaw as she mounted the stage to thunderous applause. Every cat on the festival site was there, and even the Butter sisters had taken their aprons off to lurk at the back of the marquee. Delirium Treemints wheeled her tea trolley across to stand on it so she could get a good view, and Bugs Anderton and Lavender Stamp flaunted their staff lanyards to secure positions right at the front of the stage.
Tilly held her breath as Emmeline stood motionless in the middle of the platform, willing her to say something. The applause had been replaced by absolute silence, and the audience waited. Eventually, as if woken from a trance, Emmeline lifted her head and stared out across the sea of expectant cats. With tears in her eyes, she began:
High waving heather, ’neath stormy blasts bending,
Moonlight and midnight and bright shiny stars;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying.
Changing forever from midnight to noon,
Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.
Hettie yawned and wondered how long the poem was likely to last, when suddenly it stopped, without any warning. The audience was caught out as well, and it was a few seconds before a nervous smattering of applause developed into full-blown appreciation. Emmeline waited for everyone to settle, sitting down in the chair that Poppa had placed in the middle of the stage.
‘Today was going to be a celebration of my work,’ she began, ‘but now I find myself in such grief that it is no celebration at all. I would like to think badly of my sister Charlene for what she has done in this place, but I cannot. She has been a guiding light to my sister Ann and me, and in all honesty I cannot contemplate a life without her.
‘Instead of talking about my own book, I thought I would tell you about my family. As you know, we come from Porkshire and live up on the moors above Teethly, where the chimney smoke is black and life is short. My mother, who is long dead, was born in Cornwall. My grandmother was in service there, and got herself in trouble with the master’s son. She was allowed to keep her kitten, but she was sent away to work at Teethly Grange, a big house in Porkshire, where she raised my mother and married her off to the local vicar, my father. My grandmother was sweet on one of the servants in the big house and she married him, but he died of blood poisoning after having his paws chopped off.’
There was a groan of distaste from the audience as Emmeline warmed to her subject, and Hettie and Tilly sat bolt upright. ‘When my grandmother was too old to serve, she was turned out and died in Teethly Workhouse. My sisters and I never knew her, as we were very small kittens when she died. My mother was broken-hearted when she found out that her mother had ended her days in such a terrible place, and she vowed to revenge her passing with those at the big house – but she died before she could do anything. There was a bad outbreak of ginger beer lung disease, and lots of cats died that winter. After she passed, father decided to move us out of Teethly for our health and up onto the moor, where his ancestors’ house had come up for sale. That’s where we live now.
‘My beloved brother, Bonville, made friends with one of the cats at Teethly Grange, who led him into all sorts of trouble gambling and fighting, and eventually he developed a dependency for liquid catnip. For months and months I sat by his bed as he went slowly out of his mind, occasionally coming back to us long enough to suck on a cheese triangle. He was a scholar and a fine painter, and now he lies in the churchyard along with the rest of my family, all of whom have perished at the paws of Downton Tabby and his vile family!’
The audience gasped as one, but Emmeline continued. ‘You may all shrink back at my words, but I tell you this – Downton Tabby deserved to die. He made promises to recompense us for our loss and then ridiculed us in public. He was planning to film his next TV series at the big house on our doorstep, featuring our brother and my grandmother as characters. He even asked my sister Ann to play the part of the tweenie who died in front of a fireplace and had to be cleared away! I am the last voice, and I will not mourn the passing of such an evil cat who has destroyed my family in so many ways.’
Hettie looked into the audience, where cats were becoming very agitated. The grace and serenity had fallen from Emmeline, to be replaced by a steely, threatening attitude which seemed dangerous. It was Bugs Anderton who took the heat out of the situation. ‘Miss Brontë – please may we hear more of your beautiful poetry?’
Emmeline stared down at Bugs, and for a moment Hettie thought that she might lash out at her, but she gained control and stood up as silence once again descended on the marquee:
Cold in the earth—and snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Cold in the earth—and fourteen wild Decembers,
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Without even waiting for the applause, Emmeline Brontë turned and descended the steps at the back of the stage, then swept out of the marquee and was gone before anyone could even thank her.
‘Do you think I should go after her?’ asked Tilly, as the audience began to express its annoyance with a slow clapping of paws.
‘No. I should leave her alone for a bit – she’s in no mood for sympathy. This crowd has been short-changed, so we need to get Muddy on as soon as we can. What time are the Butters serving their Deadly Dinners?’
‘We agreed seven, but I could ask them to bring things forward.’
Hettie looked for Muddy Fryer in the crowd and located her perched on the festival bar at the back of the marquee. ‘I’ll sort Muddy out while you go and arrange the dinners. We need to distract this lot before things turn nasty. I expect there are a lot of Downton Tabby fans who are pretty hacked off out there.’
‘Just like his head, then,’ murmured Tilly, more to herself than to anyone else.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At Tilly’s request, the Butter sisters rose to the challenge of bringing their Deadly Dinners forward. Muddy, like the trouper she was, wasted no time in enthralling the audience with a selection of rousing Jacobite songs while they waited for the food to arrive.
Leaving Poppa in charge of the stage, Hettie made her way back to the hospitality tent where she found Tilly and Bugs Anderton in deep conversation. She sat down with them and listened as Bugs waved a small book of Emmeline Brontë’s poetry in the air.
‘I know them off by heart. I bought this from the gift shop in Teethly last summer. Emmeline had had them printed up herself, and I was hoping she might sign it for me.’
‘But what are you saying?’ demanded Tilly, looking bewildered.
‘I’m saying that it’s “midnight and moonlight”, and “the stars are shining” and not “shiny”. The rest of it was just a few lines in no particular order, and the end bit was completely wrong: it’s fifteen wild Decembers, not fourteen.’
Hettie cou
ld see that Bugs had got herself into a bit of a state, which was the last thing that she or Tilly needed. Calling on another distraction tactic, she suggested that Bugs should visit Darius Bonnet and invite him to supper. As far as Hettie was concerned, anything was better than discussing the finer points – if there were any – of Emmeline Brontë’s poetry, and anyway she wanted to talk to Tilly about the revelations that had emerged during the author’s short but illuminating event.
Bugs shuffled off with her poetry book in the direction of the accommodation block, leaving Hettie and Tilly to chew over Emmeline’s words and the two large home-made beef burgers which Betty had banged down in front of them. Resisting the thick red chilli sauce that was clearly the deadly bit, the two friends chewed and licked their way through the meat, agreeing that they were the best Deadly Dinners they’d ever had. Hettie leant back in her chair.
‘At least we know now why Charlene Brontë hated Downton Tabby enough to kill him. He stupidly goaded her by wallowing in the stories that affected her own family in front of a packed audience. And that newspaper cutting you found about the filming in Teethly – maybe the Brontës intended to confront him about it. There was a bit of a spat going on before he did his event.’
‘But what about poor Ann?’ said Tilly. ‘Why did Charlene kill her? And she tried to kill Emmeline, too. If it hadn’t been for Bruiser, all three sisters would be dead.’
‘I think we’ll have to have another chat with Emmeline,’ said Hettie, getting to her feet. ‘You have a rest and I’ll go and sort a few things out. We need to take the display down and load Charlene and flat-packed Ann into the camper. I assume that Darius will be happy to find space in the Rolls-Royce for Downton Tabby. Quite frankly, I’ll be happy to have all the corpses and their entourages heading homeward as soon as possible so we can all get back to normal – whatever that is.’
Tilly scrambled back into her deckchair and was asleep in seconds. Hettie passed through the marquee, where hundreds of cats were enjoying their Deadly Dinners. The Butters had done the festival proud, and the ghoulish vat of hot red chilli was proving a real hit with those who enjoyed living dangerously. Hettie nodded to Poppa, who was busy setting up Turner Page’s drum kit for the final set from Furcross Convention which would close the festival.
‘I think we should shift the display while everyone’s busy with the food,’ she said.
Poppa put the cymbals in place and followed her out of the marquee, picking up the wheelbarrow on the way. The library was peaceful, and Mr Pushkin and Turner Page sat together at the desk, enjoying their supper and sharing the occasional grunt of appreciation.
Hettie and Poppa sized up the job. ‘Let’s get Charlene down first,’ Hettie suggested. ‘Muddy will be pleased to get her broadsword back, and I’ll be pleased to get this burnt offering into the camper.’
‘What about the eyes?’
‘Let’s leave them the way they are. Emmeline has tried to paint her sister as some sort of superhero, and with laser eyes she looks the part.’
They struggled with the blackened corpse and eventually got it into the wheelbarrow. Avoiding the crowds, they wheeled the body out through the front entrance and round to the camper. Leaving Charlene Brontë on the bottom bunk opposite her agent, the two cats returned for Ann, who gave them very little trouble. They put her back on the top bunk, where her sister had suffocated her, and closed the back doors of the camper, which had now become a rather gruesome mausoleum.
‘I’ll go and get the keys to the Roller,’ said Poppa, letting himself into the accommodation block. He returned seconds later with Darius Bonnet and Bugs Anderton, who were about to go to supper. Darius looked upset and handed Poppa the keys.
‘There’s a blanket in the boot. If you could wrap him in it and put him on the back seat, I’d be really grateful.’ Poppa nodded and followed Hettie back to the library, where they reunited Downton Tabby with his head and placed him in the comfort of his own Rolls-Royce.
When they returned to the library, Mr Pushkin and Turner Page had already removed the dais and folded the purple curtain up, pleased to have the library free of bodies and elated by the three buckets full of money which sat waiting to be banked behind the library desk. Mr Pushkin took great care in locking the doors, and the four cats strode across the stalls area towards the marquee, where Muddy Fryer was about to give her final performance of the day.
Hettie stared at the sea of satisfied cats. The sun had finally given up and sunk into the west, leaving a trail of blood-red sky which made everything glow in a strange ethereal light. To everyone’s relief, the heat was finally dying down, along with the tensions that had been present throughout the day. Hettie had played some pretty strange festivals during her music days, but this one would always stand out, not just for the body count but for the community spirit that had transformed a total disaster into a miracle of success. She glanced across at the happy band of helpers who now huddled together in the backstage area of the marquee, enjoying Muddy’s opening song. Hilary and Cherry Fudge, the mother and daughter first-aiders who had most probably saved Bruiser’s life, even if they had failed to resuscitate the Brontës’ agent; Poppa, who had started the festival in charge of car parking and ended up as stage security and corpse removal; Polly Hodge, the voice of reason during the darkest hour of the night; Nicolette Upstart and her unshakable sunny disposition, even when her pop-up merch tent was stained with tragedy. And then there were the harridans of the town: Lavender Stamp and Bugs Anderton, difficult cats at the best of times but stepping up to the plate when most needed and a perfect contrast to the shy, nervous Delirium Treemints, whose constant flow of hot drinks had thrown a lifeline into a troubled sea of despond. It was no surprise to Hettie that her landladies, the redoubtable Butter sisters, had done their bit, but she had to admire the way in which they had completely disconnected themselves from the horror that unfolded, bringing a much-needed normality to the hospitality tent as they banged about in their field kitchen, creating plate upon plate of delicious food for the whole of the festival site. Choosing a hero among so many would prove an impossible task, Hettie thought, but Bruiser would be top of her list for medals: he had offered his life to protect Emmeline Brontë from her sister, and he now sat at the side of the stage swathed in bandages, tapping the only paw that didn’t hurt to Muddy’s music. And Muddy herself had been an absolute trouper, using her remarkable voice to calm the restless and frightened spirits of her fellow performers and mesmerising her audience as only she could.
Hettie looked for Tilly and as if by magic she appeared through the tent flap, sleepy-eyed and a little ruffled. Tilly had been one of the festival’s stars, too. She had been working for months to make it a success and had picked up and run with every disaster that had been hurled at her, including – and especially – the Brontës, who had been trouble from the moment they’d arrived. Hettie allowed herself a moment of pride and satisfaction for the contribution that her No. 2 Feline Detective Agency had made. It had been created on a whim and was now, it seemed, a force to be reckoned with, carrying enough clout to involve many of the town’s notables in times of crisis.
Hettie stood next to Tilly as Muddy stormed through an exhilarating set of murder ballads, delighting her audience with tales of wicked witches, malevolent ghosts and dead damsels. She was joined occasionally on stage by a member of Furcross Convention, who added a concertina here and a violin there, depending on what the song required. The end of her set came too soon for the audience, and they clapped and stomped for four encores before letting the singer leave the stage to a standing ovation. Muddy was delighted with her reception, even more so when Poppa reunited her with her broadsword, so recently wrenched from the paws of Charlene Brontë; she held the sword aloft with joy before heading to the bar for a flagon of festival ale to celebrate its safe return.
Hettie signalled to Tilly and the two cats left the noise of the marquee behind for the peace of the memorial gardens. ‘I think we should try
and have a chat with Emmeline,’ Hettie said. ‘We’ve loaded her camper with the bodies, and she’s in for a bit of a strange journey back to Porkshire with that lot in the back.’
‘I haven’t seen her since she ran from the stage, but I suppose she’s back in her room. We could go and see if she’d like some supper as an excuse to talk to her.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Charlene Brontë had just finished packing her sisters’ suitcases when Hettie and Tilly arrived at her door. She knew they would come and she was expecting them. The pretence of being her mild-mannered sister was over. Her attempt at Emmeline’s pathetic, doom-laden poetry had almost given her away and she was no longer in the mood to play games. Penny Stone-Cragg had pushed her luck by threatening to expose the lie and had been the easiest of her victims, but the two cats from the detective agency were a little more problematic. To wipe the slate clean, she needed to strike them down and leave before any more cats became suspicious. She would give herself enough time to confess and allow them to appreciate the brilliance of her actions, but dead cats told no tales and leaving their bodies to rot on the Porkshire moors would be her personal homage to her sister Emmeline. Adding a couple more corpses to the camper would be of little consequence, and the town would care very little for two missing detectives when the news of Downton Tabby’s murder hit the newspaper stands. Charlene prepared the ropes and put the knife where she could pick it up easily. She was ready and waiting.
When Hettie and Tilly reached the accommodation block, Darius Bonnet was just leaving. He’d packed the luggage into the back of the Rolls-Royce and was about to say his farewells to Bugs Anderton, to whom he had clearly taken a shine. Having made arrangements to meet up soon, Bugs stood in the car park ready to wave him off.
As the Rolls-Royce made slow progress towards the gates of Furcross, it occurred to Hettie that life would be very different now for Darius – a servant who had enjoyed the status of friend and confidant, suddenly reduced to nothing. She mused over whether he would have to hand over the Rolls-Royce with Downton Tabby’s body on his return to Sir Downton’s ancestral home. Would he be turned out and disposed of like past retainers had been? And which of the fat aristocats would inherit the vast fortune that his master had accumulated? The death of a celebrity brought its own questions, and loyalty meant nothing in the scheme of things.