The Michaelmas Murders

by Mandy Morton

  Hettie put the small pot to one side, and Tilly began to look through the photographs inside the bag. ‘I think Miss Jingle was one of those Bollywood cats. These photos are beautiful, and look at that handsome Indian cat with her – can you see the lovely stripes on his face? And here on the back – it says Maharaja Gadget Jodpurr and his bride Maharani Gertrude Jodpurr. They’re standing in front of one of those white marbled palaces!’ Tilly could hardly contain herself at the thought of Miss Jingle being a Bollywood movie star. She continued to sort through photographs, which showed the couple involved in various ceremonies, always smiling at the camera or at each other. There was also a picture of the marbled palace Tilly had admired; on the back, Gertrude had written ‘Sheesh Mahal’ and in brackets ‘The Palace of Mirrors’. ‘Oh, she looks so lovely in her costumes. I wonder if we could get hold of the film she was making?’

  ‘She wasn’t making a film,’ said Hettie, bringing Tilly back down to earth with a bump. ‘Look at these newspaper cuttings. She was actually married to a maharaja. According to this, she met him on a cruise round the Greek Islands – it was a whirlwind romance and he whisked her off to his palace in Rishikesh in India. It says he was one of the last true maharajas, and she became Rajmata Jodpurr after his death. Apparently, Rajmata means a widow of an Indian prince. Evidently, she disappeared after his funeral. They were together for eight years until a bunch of marbled cats led by Deepak Rishabh attacked their palace, Sheesh Mahal, and stabbed him to death. The marbled cats are described here as “a wild and lawless band of cut-throats”. They took her prisoner, but she was allowed to attend his cremation and obviously hooked off while no one was watching. And look, this cutting has a picture of the funeral. He’s being cremated outside in the open air on the banks of the river. And there she is, watching him go up in smoke.’

  ‘So that’s why she’s chosen such an odd funeral,’ said Tilly. ‘And that’s why she didn’t help Micks – she was thousands of miles away, having a happy life with her Indian prince.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Hettie. ‘And her story about falling on hard times was almost accurate – if you discount the fact that she was the wife of an Indian prince living in a grand palace bedecked with jewels, and run off the homestead by a bunch of cat thugs. You’re right, of course – a story like this belongs in the realms of Bollywood. You’ve got to admire her for keeping all this under her bonnet, but we’re still no closer to finding our murderer.’

  ‘We might be,’ said Tilly. ‘What if the stranger was an Indian agent who came looking for her, and she bashed his head in and he had an accomplice who murdered her and escaped back to India.’

  Hettie decided that there was much thinking to be done. Tilly’s scenario was probably the best one yet, but she felt that the answer lay much closer to home, possibly in the gatehouse that guarded the Wither-Fork estate. ‘Well, we’ve come on leaps and bounds,’ she said. ‘So now I suggest we catch up with those two pies and the custard tarts before they end up being breakfast.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The revelations of Gertrude Jingle’s life kept Hettie awake long into the night. Tilly slept deeply in a dream world of exotic palaces, giant elephants, and the occasional jar of chutney being shared by a group of scarecrows. Both cats were expressing their muddled thoughts and neither was able to face the new day with any clarity. Due to her lack of sleep, Hettie awoke with one of her heads. The noise of Tilly scrabbling about in the bottom drawer of their filing cabinet, looking for something appropriate to wear for the funeral, didn’t help – and she said so.

  Realising that Hettie was awake, bad-tempered and decidedly fractious, Tilly skipped to the kettle to make their morning tea and put two slices of bread in their pop-up toaster, which rarely popped up and always had to be interrupted during the creation of a burnt offering. Tilly was used to Hettie’s moods, and circumvented them with her cheerful approach to each day. Food had always been a reliable cure for her friend’s ill humour and today was no exception. Tilly delivered a milky tea and a slice of toast spread thickly with a cheese triangle to Hettie’s armchair, where she slept in a tangle of dressing gown and blankets. Within minutes, Hettie was almost ready to face her day, and Tilly demolished her own breakfast and returned to the filing cabinet.

  Hettie stretched and cleaned the cheese and toast crumbs from her whiskers. The clock on the staff sideboard said half past eight, and she yawned at the prospect of another long day up on the Wither-Fork allotments. ‘I suppose we’d better get a move on,’ she said, more to herself than to Tilly, who was now in the drawer of the filing cabinet, obscured by a heaving bundle of cardigans, T-shirts and coloured socks.

  ‘At least it’s going to be exciting,’ Tilly said as she finally surfaced. ‘I’ve never been to an outdoor cremation.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s much different from a barbecue,’ said Hettie, still erring on the side of grumpy. ‘But we’ll get a chance to observe everyone else while it’s happening. I imagine it’ll be a good turnout, and I’m particularly keen to watch the Wither-Spoons’ reaction to it all.’

  The day was set fair, and by the time Bruiser had parked Miss Scarlet outside the gatehouse the sun was already offering some late-summer warmth. Hettie and Tilly were pleased they’d gone for a light and colourful look to their clothes, especially as things would be hotting up on Miss Jingle’s plot once Morbid got the cremation underway. Hettie glanced at the gatehouse and noticed that the motorbike Micks had been riding was no longer there. Her first thought was that he’d stayed away from home, but, as Bruiser took charge of the suitcase from Miss Scarlet’s sidecar, Micks appeared on his battlements. ‘You can’t park that there,’ he said. ‘Not without permission.’

  Hettie glanced up and noticed that Micks was dressed completely in black; as he leant out over his turret, he resembled a rather large crow. He began pacing the battlements, climbing up and down on them and teetering on the edge as if he were about to fly. Looking into his face, she could see a wildness in his eyes, as if he had lost all sense of danger. She, Bruiser and Tilly stood very still, their eyes trained on the demented cat, all holding their breath as the death-defying antics continued.

  ‘Get down from there at once!’ came a voice of reason, and Mash appeared, pulling Micks away from the edge. ‘I’ve told you we have to behave today or Fluff will ban us from the funeral – and you don’t want to miss that, do you? Now, go in and finish your breakfast, and leave the folk down there to get on with their business.’

  Micks disappeared and Mash offered her apologies to Hettie. ‘Sorry about that. He’s overexcited about all the cats coming and going. What with the show and now Miss Jingle’s funeral, it’s too much for him. As I told you the other day, he’s too sensitive for his own good.’

  ‘More like completely off his bloody head!’ said Hettie, muttering so that only Tilly and Bruiser could hear. ‘Come on – let’s go and give Morbid some help. She’ll need the suitcase. It’s got to go up with the rest of Gertrude Jingle’s stuff.’

  The three friends turned their backs on Mash Wither-Spoon without another word and made their way to what had now become a funeral site. It was a hive of activity. Fluff Wither-Fork was helping Blackberry Tibbs to set up trestle tables ready for the funeral teas. Rooster Chit and Jeremiah Corbit were poised on ladders, dismantling the roof on the summer house. Tarragon Trench was adding some colour to the proceedings by sitting cross-legged on top of a mountain of lily bulbs, chanting some sort of mantra, which clearly only he could understand, and Hettie smiled in the knowledge that Miss Jingle would have approved of her lilies being given their last rites in such a way.

  Bruiser instinctively headed for the summer house to lend his strength to the other two cats, who were grateful for another pair of paws, as Morbid Balm directed proceedings from the centre of the plot that she’d chosen for the cremation. Hettie and Tilly reported to her with the suitcase, and Morbid received it with a conspiratorial wink. ‘All burnables in here?’ she asked.


  Hettie nodded, then remembered the jewelled clutch bag and the small pot. ‘I think you should have a look. There are some things that might not burn.’

  Morbid snapped the case open and instantly pounced on the pot. ‘Ah, I think I know what this is,’ she said, giving the lid a twist and sniffing the contents. ‘Yup – funeral ashes. Someone she was close to, I expect. I’ll add these in once we get things underway.’

  Hettie and Tilly shared a knowing look. Hettie was tempted to share Miss Jingle’s colourful past with Morbid, but decided against it on the basis that Fluff Wither-Fork was paying for their time and ought to be the first to know. ‘What can we do to help?’ she asked, sidestepping the issue of who the ashes were.

  ‘I think Mrs Chit could do with an extra pair of paws. She’s putting on the funeral tea, and I’d like some help with the body. I need to get it bound up nicely and moved out of the hut before the walls come down.’ Morbid looked anxiously over at the summer house, which seemed to be rapidly becoming a demolition site.

  Hettie followed her gaze and responded with a plan. ‘I’ll help with Miss Jingle, and Tilly can help Mrs Chit with the tea.’

  Tilly clapped her paws with delight at being given such a nice job and wasted no time in removing herself from the chaos of the funeral arrangements. She was still getting used to the idea of dead bodies. Although she and Hettie had encountered quite a few since they’d started their detective agency, it was the part of the work that she disliked most – and anyway, Hettie was so much better at that sort of thing. In spite of her advanced years, Tilly had started out as Hettie’s office junior and had rapidly progressed to chief sidekick, complete with business mac and turned-up collar. Hettie still shielded her from the more visceral aspects of their cases, though, and for that Tilly would be for ever grateful.

  She made her way to Desiree Chit’s boathouse, and Hettie followed Morbid to the summer house just as Fluff Wither-Fork announced a tea break. It was perfect timing, as it gave Hettie and Morbid a moment to talk quietly without the added soundtrack of the hut coming down around their ears. Miss Jingle was as Morbid had left her the day before, but a little dustier: the breaking up of the walls around her had made their mark with a smudge here and a splinter of wood there. ‘If we’re going to get this right, we need to wrap her in a sheet from top to toe, knotting it at both ends,’ said Morbid, assessing the job. ‘We can slide her outside on the mattress like a stretcher, then put the whole thing on top of the pyre when it’s built. If we leave her in here for much longer, we risk the walls caving in around her as they take the shed down.’

  Under the careful guidance of the mortician, Hettie assisted as the body was gently encased in a clean white sheet from Miss Jingle’s fresh laundry drawer. She then moved the few sticks of furniture to one side, and the two cats slid the body with the mattress onto the floor, ready for its final journey out into the sunshine. Hettie looked back at the bed, and could hardly believe what she was seeing. Now that the mattress had been removed, another of Gertrude Jingle’s secrets was revealed. ‘Good grief!’ she said. ‘Just look at that! Corbit was spot on. She really does have a fortune under her mattress.’ She moved closer and found several large bundles of banknotes and a white envelope addressed to Fluff Wither-Fork. ‘I’ll go and fetch Miss Wither-Fork,’ she said, stepping over the mattress and the body to get to the door. ‘You’d better stand guard until I get back.’

  Fluff was pouring tea from a giant teapot when Hettie reached her, filling several mugs for the workers as Blackberry stood by her side, issuing the added incentive of a custard cream to each cat. Waving away the tea but accepting a biscuit, Hettie drew Fluff to one side. ‘Miss Balm and I need to show you something that Miss Jingle has left behind,’ she explained, leading the way back to the summer house.

  Fluff had so far avoided the body, leaving others to deal with the more macabre aspects of the morning, but now she had to step over it in a rather ungainly fashion to reach the bed. Her first response to the money was a good one. ‘Where in heaven’s name did all this come from?’ she cried. ‘There must be a small fortune here! I’ve never seen so much money.’

  ‘There’s an envelope addressed to you as well. Perhaps that might offer an explanation,’ said Morbid, hoping to be included in the solving of the mystery.

  Fluff wasted no time in slitting the envelope open with one of her elegantly painted claws. She pulled a letter from inside and read it out loud for the benefit of Hettie and Morbid, who hung on her every word.

  My dear Miss Wither-Fork,

  If you are reading this it means that I have come to the end of my life, and I wouldn’t want to move on to my next incarnation without thanking you for your kindness in allowing me to live out my days on this plot of land that has become my salvation.

  I have already asked of you that my body should be cremated on this site along with all my worldly goods and beautiful flowers, but there are other things that I would be most grateful if you could do for me in my absence from this life.

  I fear for Micks Wither-Spoon, as he is a danger to himself, and your sister – though brave – may need your help to make a new life for herself one day. I would like you to take the money you find here and use it for the benefit of Wither-Fork Hall and Mash’s future, should she need it, after my funeral costs have been deducted. I leave you as sole beneficiary to my estate, and ask that you spend or invest the money wisely.

  I trust that you will make all the right decisions should the time come, and in the event of history repeating itself, that you will be there to pick up the pieces.

  Please regard this letter as my last will and testament, and let us hope we meet again in another life.

  Your grateful tenant. Peace always.

  Rajmata Gertrude Jingle Jodpurr

  Fluff Wither-Fork reread the letter several times to herself before addressing Hettie and Morbid, who stood patiently waiting for her response. ‘I’m totally shocked. Gertrude always talked in riddles, but this letter is extreme. What can she mean about Micks and Mash? If ever there was a strong partnership, it’s theirs. Why would Mash want a new life? The one she has is a little surreal at times, but I can’t see her ever leaving Micks, and he certainly knows which side his bread is buttered – he sticks to her like glue. And what about this signature? “Rajmata” and “Jodpurr” – what can all that be about?’

  Morbid continued to look confused, not really understanding who Micks and Mash were and hoping for an explanation. Hettie was about to fill in the details when Jeremiah, Rooster and Bruiser returned from their tea break, armed with hammers and screwdrivers to complete the demolition of the summer house. Morbid moved swiftly into undertaker mode as Hettie threw one of Miss Jingle’s sheets across the money on the bed to conceal it from prying eyes. ‘You’ll have to give us five minutes, gents,’ Morbid said, helping Fluff across the mattress and into the sunshine. ‘We need to get Miss Jingle out of the hut before you do any more to it. We’re going to slide her out on her mattress.’

  Jeremiah Corbit and Rooster Chit stood by as Bruiser and Morbid steered and tugged the mattress through the door with its precious cargo. All the assembled workers then bore Miss Jingle across the plot, bringing her to rest in the shade of the cherry tree that bordered the Mulch sisters’ allotment. Hettie stayed behind in the hut, gathered up the money in the sheet and presented it to Fluff Wither-Fork, who was standing abandoned and bewildered next to the pile of lily bulbs, with only Tarragon Trench for company. ‘I think you should return to Wither-Fork Hall with this,’ she said. ‘It would be safer there and it’ll give you some time to come to terms with what’s happened.’

  ‘I’m most grateful for your concern, but I’m so confused by this letter. It feels like a warning of things to come, and all this money – I don’t know whether to jump for joy or sink into despair. I understood that Miss Jingle was penniless, and why was she so involved with Micks and Mash?’

  ‘I think I can answer some of those questio
ns,’ said Hettie. ‘But not here. Shall I walk you back to the Hall? I’m sure Morbid can spare me for half an hour.’

  Fluff nodded, and Hettie accompanied her to the gate, stopping off to let Morbid know the revised plans. There was no sign of Micks or Mash at the gatehouse, for which Hettie was grateful; the last thing she needed was another command performance from the Wither-Spoons. They had only got halfway across the parkland, though, before Mash bumped into them from the other direction. ‘Oh, I wondered where you were,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. We have to withdraw our Macbeth from the show. Micks is a bag of nerves and now he’s starting a cold. We just can’t manage it.’

  Under normal circumstances, Fluff would have danced a jig at the prospect of a no-show from the Wither-Spoons. Instead, she dismissed her sister with a single word, ‘fine’, and moved on with Hettie towards the Hall, leaving Mash to stare after her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tilly walked in on a real party atmosphere in Desiree Chit’s boathouse. Bonny Grubb was sitting by the stove, playing her concertina for the benefit of Blight Chit, who danced and clapped his paws to the music. Apple Chutney was buttering a mountain of freshly baked bread baps, and Desiree was filling pastry cases with egg mixture, ready to bake off as savoury flans. ‘Come in, my lovely,’ she said as Tilly opened the door. ‘What can I do for you?’