The Michaelmas Murders

by Mandy Morton

  Hettie knocked on the door and waited. There was no reply so she knocked again, this time with more urgency. Still there was nothing, so she put her ear to the door to see if she could detect any sound from inside. All was silent.

  ‘Don’t you two ever give up?’

  The voice came from behind them, and Mash Wither-Spoon appeared from the direction of the Hall. Hettie turned and was instantly shocked by her thin, drawn appearance; her eyes were puffy, and she looked like she’d slept in her clothes for several days. Gone was the buoyant, personable cat, and in her place stood a shambling wreck, hardly strong enough to put one paw in front of another. Hettie had planned a showdown with the Wither-Spoons, but now she could see that Mash was in no fit state for a heavy-paw approach. ‘There are a few questions we need to ask you,’ she said politely. ‘Would this be a good time?’

  Mash allowed a weak smile to cross her face. ‘There aren’t going to be any more good times, but you can come in and ask your questions if you like.’ She felt in her pocket for the key and opened the back door. Hettie and Tilly followed her into the kitchen and sat down on the chairs offered to them. ‘I’m having a cup of tea. Would you like one? I’m afraid there’s no milk. I’ve run out.’

  Hettie and Tilly refused the drink and watched as Mash moved around the kitchen. The kettle had hardly boiled before she poured the water into a mug and added what appeared to be a herbal tea from a jam jar by the sink. The room was cold, dark and unwelcoming. The kitchen range was out and there were unwashed pots in the sink and several opened tins abandoned on the table, half-eaten with spoons sticking out of them. It was a far cry from the chaos of the Macbeth rehearsals that Hettie and Tilly had witnessed earlier in the week; that had at least been happy chaos, but now it was obvious that there was something very wrong with Mash Wither-Spoon and her kitchen.

  Mash brought her drink to the table and slumped down on a chair, sipping from the mug in a distracted way, as if there was no one else in the room with her. Hettie gave a polite cough to attract her attention, but Mash continued to stare down at her drink until she’d drained the mug and pushed it away from her. ‘So fire away,’ she said unexpectedly, catching Hettie out. ‘Let’s get your questions answered, and then you can leave me in peace.’

  Hettie responded as Tilly pulled out her notebook. ‘I’d like to talk to you about a cat called Bartlet Crustworthy. I believe you may have met him recently?’

  ‘Ah yes. Charming manners and high hopes of taking on Wither-Fork Hall, lock, stock and barrel. He thought he was talking to Fluff when he turned up here on Monday, and I didn’t disillusion him. He had such great plans for the estate. Turning the Hall into flats, opening a garden centre on the allotments, motorbike and vintage car rallies on the parkland – and he wanted to turn the gatehouse into a museum dedicated to Lettuce Wither-Fork, complete with gift shop.’

  Hettie was taken aback at Mash’s carefree admission, but stuck to her questions. ‘Did your sister know he was coming?’

  ‘Of course not. I intercepted his letter before it got to her. She’s been wanting to give the place away for years, with no thought of what might happen to me and Micks. Crustworthy just turned up here on Monday and started throwing his plans about as if he owned the place already.’

  ‘So what happened after he’d discussed his plans with you?’

  Mash smiled again. ‘You know what happened,’ she said. ‘I took him up to the allotments after dark and bashed his brains out with a rock.’

  ‘You did!’ said Hettie. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Micks who killed him?’

  ‘Perfectly sure. Micks stayed here practising his lines.’

  ‘And did you tell Micks what you’d done?’

  ‘In a roundabout way. I told him that Bartlet Crustworthy wouldn’t be bothering us again. Micks was perfectly happy with that.’ Mash rose from the table and made another drink for herself, this time not offering one to Hettie or Tilly.

  Tilly scribbled as quietly as she could in her notebook, and Hettie decided to raise the subject of Gertrude Jingle.

  When Mash returned to her seat, she wasted no time with a preamble. ‘Did you kill Gertrude Jingle as well?’

  Mash smiled again. ‘Well, that’s a little more complicated and there may not be time to give you the full picture.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Hettie, looking puzzled.

  ‘Because the process has begun and there is very little time left,’ Mash replied, draining her drink once more.

  With horror, Hettie realised what was happening. ‘What are you drinking?’ she demanded. ‘That’s not tea, is it?’

  ‘Essence of lily flower. Very poisonous to cats. A parting gift from dear Miss Jingle.’

  Hettie suddenly remembered the bunch of lilies that had been abandoned on the draining board the last time they were in the Wither-Spoons’ kitchen. ‘Why are you doing this? We need to get you some help. You should make yourself sick!’ Hettie and Tilly were thrown into a panic, but Mash sat calmly on her chair, completely resigned to her fate. Once more, Hettie tried to head off the inevitable. ‘What about Micks? He can’t live without you. Think what you’re doing before it’s too late.’

  ‘It is too late, and I thought you wanted to know about Miss Jingle?’

  ‘I do,’ said Hettie, very disturbed by what was happening in front of her.

  ‘Then let’s see how far we get. After I’d killed Bartlet Crustworthy, Miss Jingle sent for me on Tuesday afternoon. She was very agitated and seemed to think that Micks was involved in Crustworthy’s death. She told me that she had a confession to make and took me into her summer house, where we could talk privately. The story she told me was quite bizarre. She said she’d run away with a maharaja and made a life for herself in India, but before she went she’d had a boy kitten that her sister, Scoop, and Lorrie Wither-Spoon had adopted. She said she couldn’t have kept the kitten because the maharaja wouldn’t have wanted her if he’d known. The kitten was Micks, and the Wither-Spoons travelled from theatre to theatre, dragging Micks around with them. Gertrude told me that his adoptive father beat him and treated him very badly. Her sister did nothing to protect him, and as soon as Micks was old enough he fought back. She also told me that she was convinced that Micks had stabbed the Wither-Spoons to death in their dressing room, locked the door and waited for the theatre staff to break it down after he’d spent two days with their bodies. No one suspected him, and he was put in an orphanage until he was old enough to leave. That’s when I met Micks and we fell for each other in a big way. He was fragile and haunted by what had happened to him, and I came along at the right moment. I believed in his version of the story. Even when one of the other cats on our method-acting course was stabbed to death I didn’t connect it with Micks in any way. Thinking about it now, he was very keen to leave the course and come and set up home here at Wither-Fork. We were happy until Gertrude arrived on the allotments and started taking an interest in him. Now I know why.’

  All suddenly became clear to Hettie. ‘You’re about to tell me that Micks murdered Miss Jingle?’ The ‘yes’ was whispered and Mash bowed her head, allowing her tears to splash onto the kitchen table. Hettie could see that time was running out. Justice was slowly being served in front of her, but there were still questions. ‘What made Micks kill Miss Jingle? It was you she told, not Micks.’

  Mash lifted her head with a great effort. ‘I came home and told him that Gertrude was his mother. I challenged him about what Gertrude had told me, expecting him to say that it wasn’t true, but he just cried with rage. I’ve never seen him like that. He said she’d destroyed his life by walking out on him and leaving him with the Wither-Spoons. I tried to stop him, but he just flew out of the door. He came back an hour later, covered in blood with a large bunch of lilies, and just sat by the stove in his chair, reciting his lines and staring at his bloody paws. “This is a sorry sight.” He kept saying that over and over again. Eventually, he slept, and the next morning he was his old self. I wa
shed his bloody clothes and we set the kitchen up to rehearse, and that’s when you came to see us. I wasn’t really sure what he’d done until Blackberry Tibbs came to fetch you. Then I knew the game was up, which was why I couldn’t let you question him. He’d have probably told you everything, and I had to protect him while I thought what to do.’

  ‘And what did you do?’ asked Hettie gently.

  Mash stood up, but was very unsteady. Tilly moved to help her, but she refused assistance. ‘Come with me. You may as well see the end of our little play.’ She moved towards the stairs, grabbing the rail for support and using all her strength to haul herself up the steps one by one. Hettie and Tilly followed at a discreet distance.

  The stairs opened out into the turret room they’d heard so much about. It was medieval in design, with tapestry hangings on the walls, a large four-poster bed, and arched windows overlooking the parkland of Wither-Fork Hall. On the other side of the room was a further short flight of steps with a door that led out onto the roof, giving Micks his favourite vantage point. The door was closed. There was no sign of Micks.

  Mash faltered and fell to the floor. Hettie and Tilly both moved to help her and half-dragged, half-carried her to the four-poster. Tilly pulled the curtains back and suddenly realised that the bed was occupied. There, laid out in death, was Micks Wither-Spoon. With the very last of her strength, Mash crawled onto the bed beside him, holding him close to her. Her final words were slurred, but they could just be made out. ‘“A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things: Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”’

  Hettie and Tilly stood silently as the final breath left Mash Wither-Spoon’s body. The scene was a beautiful one, and regardless of the horror that had brought them all to this moment, Hettie would have wanted it no other way. Micks and Mash were soulmates in life and now in death. As often happens, one small mistake had created a life of tragedy. In the peace of the turret room, Hettie considered the victims: Bartlet Crustworthy, perhaps a little too enthusiastic about changing cats’ lives; Gertrude Jingle, living a lie that eventually consumed her; Micks Wither-Spoon, locked in his ivory tower where nothing could hurt any more; and Mash, the real victim – like Juliet, the only one who had died for love.

  A pounding on the gatehouse door broke the silence, sending a jolt through Hettie and Tilly that was both painful and disturbing. Hettie drew the bed curtains closed on Micks’ and Mash’s final scene, and left the turret room with Tilly as the hammering continued. Fluff Wither-Fork pushed past them as Hettie opened the door. ‘Where is she?’ she panted, out of breath. ‘I must speak to her before she does anything stupid.’

  Tilly barred the way to the turret-room stairs as Hettie held Fluff back. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do,’ she said. ‘It’s over, and under the circumstances it’s probably all for the best.’ Hettie’s words sounded hollow and unfeeling, especially to her, but there was no time to think of anything clever or sympathetic. There were no appropriate stock phrases to deal with what lay upstairs in the four-poster bed, and Mash Wither-Spoon’s final exit speech would take a lot of beating, even though she had borrowed it.

  Fluff slumped down on the kitchen chair that had so recently been vacated by her sister, and Hettie and Tilly joined her at the table. She stared at the empty mug in front of her, turning it in her paws before finding some words to express her sorrow. ‘Mash came to me this morning and told me she’d killed a cat from the National Crust. She said that Micks had murdered Miss Jingle because she was his mother, and that late last night she’d poisoned Micks. I laughed at her. I thought she was trying out one of her stupid plays on me. She got angry and accused me of destroying her life. She said that I’d never accepted Micks and that I was scheming to take their home away from them. She got up and left before I had a chance to say anything, but on her way out she said that the gatehouse would be vacant by the end of the day. I let her go. I just thought she was having one of her tantrums, and then the phone rang and it was the wretched Augusta Stitch going on about the harvest festival. After she rang off, I tried to come to terms with what Mash had told me, but how could I honestly believe that she’d killed anyone, let alone Micks? He was the centre of her life, the reason she got up in the morning, and then it hit me – she couldn’t possibly live without him. I ran all the way from the Hall, because suddenly I knew what she was going to do. Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s with Micks,’ said Hettie. ‘She’d planned it all down to the very last detail, and if it’s any consolation her death was painless and peaceful. They’re together upstairs in the turret room.’

  Fluff was silent for some time, then gathered herself and climbed the stairs, leaving Hettie and Tilly in the kitchen. They sat silently, waiting for her return. When she reappeared in the kitchen, the old air of authority had returned to her and she addressed Hettie directly. ‘Miss Bagshot, I would appreciate your discretion in this matter for a couple of days. It will all come out in the end, but I would like some time to grieve before my sister’s death is hijacked by the media. To avoid bringing attention to this tragedy, I intend to let the harvest festival and the Michaelmas Show go ahead. So many cats have put their time into the events, and I must bear the burden of my family’s shame, not my tenants or workers. I am in your debt for handling this whole situation in such a diplomatic and professional way, and I will make sure that your account is settled accordingly. I’m going to lock up the gatehouse and leave things as they are until the show is over. I’ll have to make arrangements for the Wither-Fork tomb to be opened, but I daresay Morbid Balm will be able to assist with the practicalities.’

  Hettie nodded in agreement, and she and Tilly followed Fluff to the door, leaving the gatehouse with its sad secret to brood while the rest of the estate and its visitors looked forward to two days of celebration.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Without any further conversation, Fluff Wither-Fork left Hettie and Tilly at the gatehouse and made her way back to the Hall. With the case solved and the perpetrators quite literally laid to rest, the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency had time on its paws. There were a few loose ends to clear up, though, and one of those bedraggled threads had just come to a noisy standstill at the gates of Wither-Fork Hall. Bruiser leapt off the motorbike that Micks Wither-Spoon had driven away so recently and grinned at them. ‘Found it a couple of miles down the road behind a haystack,’ he said, removing his helmet. ‘Keys were still in the ignition. I’m surprised no one had nicked it. Nice bike; runnin’ a bit rough, but nothing a good tune-up wouldn’t fix. I’ve left Miss Scarlet where I found this, so I’ll ’ave to walk back and pick ’er up – unless you fancy tryin’ yer skills out?’

  Bruiser addressed the invitation directly to Hettie, who shrank back as if he’d burnt her with a poker. When they bought Miss Scarlet from Lazarus Hambone’s yard in the town, it was hoped that Hettie would be proficient enough to master the road after a few lessons. The fact of the matter was that she much preferred to travel in style with Tilly in the sidecar, and since Bruiser had turned up, she’d shown no interest whatsoever in becoming a biker cat. She looked up at the blue September sky and then back to Bruiser. ‘It’s such a lovely day for a walk. Why don’t you go and fetch Miss Scarlet, and Tilly and I will check out the vendors at the Hall for lunch? We could meet you near the church in about an hour.’

  Bruiser grinned again and put the keys to Bartlet Crustworthy’s motorbike in her paw. ‘Right-o. I’ll wheel this into the yard and be off.’ He left the motorbike in the backyard of the gatehouse and set off into the countryside at a brisk pace. Hettie and Tilly waved him off and made their way through the gates to the Hall, crossing the parkland to where the tents and marquee stood ready for the Michaelmas Show. There had been much activity inside the main marquee, with trestle tables covered in green tablecloths set up round the e
dge and labelled in sections for judging: potatoes; marrows; cabbages; peas and beans; carrots; onions and leeks; courgettes; beetroot; cucumbers; tomatoes; and radishes. There was a large set of weighing scales by the table to record the magnitude of the crops, and a box of red, blue and yellow rosettes waiting to be awarded to the lucky winners.

  ‘I really don’t see the point of vegetables,’ said Hettie. ‘Not when there’s meat and pastry to eat. Cats who eat vegetables are thin and sly in my experience.’

  ‘That’s because they’re waiting to pounce on a pie when no one’s looking,’ said Tilly. ‘But some vegetables are nice. The Butters’ meat and potato pie would be a bit sad without potatoes, and what would we do without Elsie Haddock’s chips or all those crisps we like?’

  Hettie had to concede that Tilly had a point and immediately cheered up as a rather officious-looking cat started labelling the tables on the other side of the marquee. The subject matter here was much more to Hettie’s taste, with pies of every possible combination: pork; steak and kidney; sausage; veal and ham; minced beef; chicken; and cheese. The labels heralded the coming of so many delights that she began to feel quite faint with hunger, and was about to suggest an appetiser before lunch from one of the outside stalls when the cat giving out the labels approached.

  ‘I’m sorry but you can’t be in here,’ he said, much to Hettie’s amusement as she clearly was ‘in here’. ‘You know the rules,’ the cat continued. ‘If you’re exhibiting, there’s no entry until the labels are out and you’ve collected your exhibitor’s number at the gate and the corresponding tag to place on your entries – unless they’re in the pastry class, in which case they should be freshly baked and placed in position tomorrow morning. No pastry on site until the day of the judging. Have I made myself clear?’ Tilly stifled a snigger as Hettie nodded sagely, inciting the cat to continue with his rules and regulations. ‘We don’t spend our time drawing up a comprehensive pack of exhibitors’ notes for you to just ignore them, you know. Don’t think for a minute that my time stops when the show finishes. The plans for next year’s show are well underway and there are going to be changes, you mark my words. It won’t be so easy to get a place in here next year, so you’d better make the most of it because you might not be eligible in future. I think I should warn you that this breach in regulations hasn’t gone unnoticed, and, as top and supreme judge, I am within my rights to bar you from the marquee altogether for this year and most probably in perpetuity.’