The Michaelmas Murders

by Mandy Morton

  ‘I fear there is much to be discussed,’ said Fluff, encouraging Hettie and Tilly to sit on the sofa as Blackberry entered on cue to clear the table. ‘I should tell you how much I appreciate your involvement in these terrible murders, and due to the sale of a painting I loathed, I’m in the happy position to offer you twenty pounds on account, if that is acceptable?’

  Hettie and Tilly sat up straight at the mention of money, ready to sharpen their pencils for some concentrated work. ‘Twenty pounds would be very acceptable,’ said Hettie, pleased to know that the Butters’ rent was now safe for the foreseeable future. At two pounds per week, plus coal and luncheon vouchers, they could almost coast to Christmas on the fee from what would come to be known as The Michaelmas Murders. At this point, though, there was no hope of a ‘case solved’, and considerably more digging would be needed before the fee was properly earned. As far as Hettie and Tilly were concerned, the plot was soon to thicken and even more trouble awaited them in the wings.

  After the various conversations of the morning, Hettie’s head was full of questions that she felt Fluff could help with. ‘Miss Wither-Fork,’ she began, while Tilly chose a clean page in her notebook, ‘we’ve just come from a rather odd conversation with your sister, who is refusing to allow us to talk to Micks about the murders. She seems to think that he’s incapable of dealing with anything, and is obviously protecting him.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing odd about that. Micks is incapable, and Mash has made it her life’s work to shield him from the outside world. It’s a cross she’s chosen to bear and it frustrates the hell out of the rest of us, but – in her defence – there are reasons, if you’ve time?’ Hettie nodded, and Fluff continued, ‘Micks was raised in a theatrical family. At one time, his parents were the toast of seaside entertainment, and Micks travelled with them from theatre to theatre. He was born in a trunk – literally – during the interval of a matinee performance of The Mikado, hence his name. The story goes that Micks’ parents were attacked in their dressing room after a Saturday evening show. I think they’d been doing a modern interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or something like that. Anyway, Micks was in his trunk, where he slept, and witnessed the whole gory business. They were beaten and stabbed to death, and to make matters worse the killer escaped, locking the door behind him and taking the key. Micks was in the dressing room with the bodies for two days – the theatre staff only found him when they returned to the building on Monday for the next performance. As far as I know, the killer was never caught. Being very young, Micks was shattered by the experience and never got over it. Mash met him on a method-acting course years later, and it would appear that they each found their soulmate. He’s a sad case, really, but Mash controls him reasonably well, and they do lead a carefree life – mostly at my expense.’

  ‘Mash mentioned that they’d offered you a rescue package to save the estate recently,’ said Hettie. ‘She seemed upset that you’d refused. Is there trouble between you?’

  ‘I’m surprised she mentioned the theme-park scheme to you at all. It was a novel idea, but it would have needed pots of money to get it off the ground, and with Micks and Mash at the helm, goodness knows what would have happened. They came up with it because I panicked them into thinking they might be homeless.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘As you know, we had a very harsh winter. By the time we got to the spring, I was up to my neck in fuel bills and ready to throw the towel in. As I mentioned to you yesterday, I wrote begging letters to various organisations in the hope that someone with money would take the house on, but I had no luck there so I soldiered on, selling the paintings off the walls and the rugs from the floors. I think Micks and Mash came up with the theme-park scheme to stop me giving them and the estate away. We can but dream.’

  ‘Would they have been made homeless if you’d found someone to take the estate on?’

  ‘Not really. They’re sitting tenants, but a new owner – as long as they provided alternative accommodation on the estate – could easily see them out of the gatehouse. The same goes for the allotments. Lettuce’s legacy makes it clear that the residents should be housed on the estate, but the allotments weren’t there in her time so I imagine they could also be moved. But that’s hypothetical, as no one wants to take the place on any way. I would never dream of turning Micks and Mash out, although I won’t say I haven’t been tempted at times.’

  ‘Nobody on the allotments seems to like Jeremiah Corbit,’ said Hettie, opening up a new subject. ‘What’s your opinion of him?’

  ‘Corbit? One of life’s losers, I think. He strives for something that isn’t there and doesn’t know the meaning of the word contentment, and he needs to feel in charge even though he isn’t. He’s definitely the wasp in the woodpile up there. He’s made poor Apple Chutney’s life a misery at times, and as for the barbed wire – if I’ve told him once I’ve told him a thousand times to take it down. It makes us look like a concentration camp. He asks for a meeting with me once a month to discuss “the state of the allotments”, to use his words. He seems to think I’ve appointed him as some sort of bailiff, and he uses those meetings to tear the rest of the residents to shreds. I just pretend to listen and send him back to his ghastly compost heaps.’

  ‘Do you think he’s capable of murder?’

  ‘Well, that’s a difficult one. He strikes me as the sort who prefers his victims to be alive – that way, he can continue to taunt them.’

  ‘And what about the rest of them? Any potential there?’ asked Hettie, keen to get Fluff’s personal overview of her tenants.

  Fluff thought for a moment before answering. ‘The Gamp sisters are harmless enough. Bonny is dishonest as the day is long, but I doubt she could even kill a rabbit for the pot. Tarragon Trench is rather strange – I suppose he could be capable of murder during one of his catnip-fuelled episodes, but he’s the sort who would confess as soon as he’d done it, and he does play the organ for us in church, which requires a certain amount of sensitivity. Apple Chutney has sad days, when she locks herself in her chutney shed – no one knows why, but I suspect that Jeremiah has something to do with it. If Gertrude hadn’t died, I could easily have believed her capable of murder, especially if she was defending her flowers. There was a bit of a set-to regarding the Mulch sisters’ earwigs, and more than a few insults flew over the fence there. Come to think of it, the Mulches have an air of arsenic and old lace about them, and they did wage war on the rectory garden when Augusta Stitch took over from their father. Dug up the dahlias at the dead of night, I gather. I could easily see them working as a murderous team, but killing a perfect stranger and then setting about Gertrude in such a violent way is perhaps more Agatha Crispy than Dahlia and Gladys Mulch.’

  Tilly giggled at the mention of one of her favourite crime writers. ‘The Chits are a joy to have up there,’ Fluff continued. ‘No trouble at all, the perfect little family. I doubt that they would add to their past sorrow by murdering anyone. And as for Clippy Lean and Blackberry Tibbs, they’re both made of the salt of this earth. Clippy would put herself out to help any cat in trouble, and Blackberry – well, she’s my rock, always cheerful, discreet and very talented. Her plot on the allotments is a showpiece. She could work anywhere, but she chooses to stay at Wither-Fork and that never ceases to amaze me.’

  It had occurred to Hettie that Blackberry’s talents were wasted at Wither-Fork Hall, but she said nothing, aware that the cat was busy in the kitchen next to the parlour and – like all good servants – had probably been listening in on their conversation. ‘The stranger is a real mystery,’ she said. ‘The notebook we salvaged from Bonny had sketches in it, as if he was on some sort of drawing holiday. I noticed that Miss Jingle was fond of painting, and I wondered if there was a connection? Did she ever have friends or family come to visit?’

  Fluff shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. She seemed to have drawn a very thick line under her past life. I think the losing of her fortune was ju
st too painful. She delighted in her allotment and took great joy in the special events here at the Hall, especially if Micks and Mash were giving a performance – she loved a drama of any kind. And speaking of drama, if you have no further questions you’ll have to excuse me. I must call Shroud and Trestle, and see if Morbid Balm can organise a cremation for tomorrow, otherwise Gertrude’s funeral will have to wait until after the weekend. Friday will be taken up with the harvest festival, and the show is on Saturday. If Morbid can’t accommodate us tomorrow, we’re looking at Monday, and that will be the big clear-up day, if all goes to plan.’

  Hettie and Tilly stood to leave, and Fluff – true to her word – put twenty pounds into Hettie’s paw. ‘Please keep me up to date on your progress,’ she said, showing them out of the parlour. ‘I expect you’ll want to attend the funeral, so I’ll call your office later to confirm times. Feel free to come and go as you please, and if I can be of any further assistance, just shout.’

  As Hettie stowed away the twenty-pound note in the pocket of her business slacks, she encountered the key to Gertrude Jingle’s summer house. Pulling it out, she proffered it to Fluff. ‘Morbid Balm will need this to prepare Miss Jingle for her funeral. I locked the place up to stop anyone going in there – no one should see what’s been done to her unless they have to.’

  Fluff took the key and stared at it with great sadness. ‘Someone’s going to have to take on the task of digging up all Gertrude’s lilies,’ she said with a deep sigh. ‘She specifically asked that they should be burnt with her. I think that’s a job for Rooster Chit. He’s wonderful in a crisis.’

  ‘She obviously believed in planning ahead,’ said Hettie as they reached the front door. ‘Was she concerned for her safety, do you think?’

  Fluff considered the question. ‘No, I don’t think so. She’d been through the trauma of losing her home, and I think her main concern when she came to Wither-Fork was to put permanent roots down, or in her case lily bulbs. I think she was just being far-sighted in her funeral plans, especially as they are a little out of the ordinary.’

  Hettie and Tilly left Fluff to her funeral arrangements and stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. The day was still glorious, and as Hettie looked around her she noted that much progress had been made in the preparations for the Michaelmas Show. Sadly, the present case for the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency seemed to be making very little progress at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Tilly, cleaning her whiskers after a particularly sticky strawberry milkshake. ‘My notebook is nearly full up and I’m not sure there’s anything helpful in it at all.’

  Hettie lay back with her paws behind her head, enjoying the sunshine after putting away a mint chocolate chip ice cream tub in record time. The vendors were growing in number on the parkland, and, with money in their pockets, Hettie had decided that an afternoon snack was appropriate. ‘I think we have to go right back to the beginning,’ she said, eventually answering Tilly’s question. ‘This all kicked off with a dead cat on Bonny Grubb’s onion patch. Maybe Bonny knows more than she’s saying. We need to talk to her about the knife, so I think a bit more probing wouldn’t go amiss. The Mulch sisters interest me, too. I think we should have another chat with them this afternoon, and then we should go home and thrash out the stuff in your notebook. We’ve collected a lot of facts, but I think we need some time to string them together. I can’t help but feel that someone must have missed the stranger by now, and he may be the key to everything. The trouble is, every cat involved in this mess is either hiding or running away from something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, most of the folk up on the allotments treat their plots as some sort of sanctuary. They all seem to have a history, which they’re keen to bury along with their vegetables: the Chits are grief-stricken; Corbit carries his guilt like a self-harming exercise; Apple Chutney is obsessed with preserving things and suffers from low moods in her chutney shed, so that smacks of a difficult past; Tarragon Trench cushions himself from the outside world with a constant overdose of catnip; and as for the Mulch sisters – goodness knows what skeletons live in their cupboards, but they’re very keen to justify their existence up there.’

  ‘What about Clippy Lean and the Gamps?’ asked Tilly, admiring Hettie’s psychological profiling.

  ‘They’re the exception to the rule. As Corbit said, they just wanted a bit of extra garden to grow flowers and vegetables.’

  ‘And what about Bonny? What’s she running away from?’

  ‘At a guess, I’d say the open road. There was a time when the annual arrival of a Gypsy camp put a town or village on red alert. They were all tarred with the same brush – thieves, murderers and abductors of young female cats. As the Gypsy families broke up and scattered for one reason or another, life on the road must have become a very lonely place. Bonny does as she likes up there, and although she wouldn’t admit it, she’s part of a community that resembles an old Gypsy camp without the hassle of being run out of town whenever the silver goes missing. She’s a great one for telling the old stories. Bruiser and I used to sit round her campfire night after night before the great storm hit.’

  ‘Maybe we should have an allotment,’ said Tilly, suddenly remembering how nice the Chits’ boathouse was. ‘We could build our own shed to live in and keep the Butters’ back room as an office.’

  ‘I don’t think we’d fit the criteria,’ said Hettie, shuddering at the thought of sharing a boundary fence with Jeremiah Corbit. ‘And anyway, we hate most vegetables, so why would we want to grow them? Living with the Butters, we’ve got the best pies in town on tap.’

  Tilly had to agree, and the two friends struck out for the allotments before succumbing to the temptations of another vendor who had just started frying sausages on his griddle. There was no sign of Micks or Mash as they passed the gatehouse, and on reaching the allotment path all was peaceful. Bonny Grubb was fast asleep in an old deckchair by her caravan, and Hettie couldn’t resist peering over the gate to the Gamp sisters’ plot; there was no sign of them, so she lifted the latch on their gate, more out of curiosity than purpose.

  Tilly followed her in, and both cats stared in great amusement at the sight before them. The Gamp sisters were famous in the town for their synchronicity. They were identical short-haired black cats who wore matching clothes, said the same things at the same time, and generally lived their lives in tandem. Everyone knew them, and yet no one knew anything about them. No one that Hettie had come across even knew their first names, although they were bound to be the same.

  Their allotment could not have belonged to anyone else. The plot was divided into two narrow strips of land, each boasting an identical shed at the top end. In front of the sheds were two small patio areas, peppered with pots of geraniums, and Tilly noted that there were two pink, two red and two white flowers in each, all in corresponding positions. Then came the vegetables: three rows of potatoes; three rows of feathery carrots; an onion patch, four rows deep by seven sets across; two marrow plots sporting four marrows each; and, to finish, two rows of flourishing red-veined beetroot plants. The strips of land were planted in matching quantities, and – remarkably – the plants had grown to the same height, as if sensing the importance of conforming in every way. At the bottom of the plots stood matching water butts and wheelbarrows, and beyond them two matching compost heaps.

  Having taken in the bizarre, pedantic perfection of the Gamps’ patch of land, Hettie and Tilly returned to the path and headed down towards the Mulch sisters, hoping for some sanity amid the strange world of the Wither-Fork allotments. It was clearly washing day on the estate. The Mulch sisters had followed Mash Wither-Spoon’s example and were busily pegging out an assortment of clothes on a line that stretched from their hut to a small cherry tree on the boundary with Gertrude Jingle’s plot. Dahlia Mulch mumbled a greeting through a mouthful of pegs, and Gladys stood by, selecting and passing wet clothes to her sister
from a laundry basket.

  Hettie stood and waited while they completed their task before wading in with her first question. ‘I’m sorry to bother you both again,’ she said, ‘but I wonder if you could tell me where you both were last night?’ She had decided to go for the jugular and her question produced the desired effect. Gladys dropped her empty laundry basket and Dahlia looked visibly shaken, almost swallowing the remaining peg that stuck out through her front teeth.

  Gaining her composure, Gladys was the first of the sisters to speak. ‘What business is it of yours where we were?’ she countered. ‘We’ve already made it clear to your assistant that we know nothing, and that should be an end to it.’

  Hettie couldn’t help but notice the change in tone from their last meeting. Gone were the sweet old cats dressed in flower-print frocks, pottering about in their tidy little shed with a stew bubbling on the stove. Now, the Mulch sisters looked confrontational and Dahlia picked up where her sister had left off. ‘All we ask is to be left in peace to go about our business like we always have. That’s all we’ve got to say.’

  She turned on her heel, moving towards the shed, but stopped in her tracks as Hettie went in for the kill. ‘You are our number-one suspects for the murder of Gertrude Jingle, and for that reason we have more questions to ask you. It may be that we can eliminate you from our enquiries, but at the moment you’re at the top of the list.’

  Gladys and Dahlia Mulch stood rooted to the spot like two of Blackberry Tibbs’ scarecrows. Even Tilly was shocked by Hettie’s aggressive approach, but it did bear fruit. Once again, it was Gladys who responded first, this time turning on the charm. ‘Oh, do forgive us for our anger, but we are in deep shock. Our world has been turned upside down by these murders, and I assure you that we had nothing to do with poor Gertrude’s death.’