The Michaelmas Murders

by Mandy Morton

  The tirade was clearly set to continue, but it stopped dead at the sound of Fluff Wither-Fork’s voice as she entered the marquee. ‘Ah, Mr Stickler. I see you’ve met Miss Bagshot and Miss Jenkins. They are my guests here at Wither-Fork and have the run of the place, so please offer them every courtesy as I’m hoping to persuade them to help with the presentations this year.’

  Hettie and Tilly beamed at Fluff Wither-Fork, and Mr Stickler dismounted from his high horse and began bowing and scraping in a very unpleasant manner. ‘Of course, Miss Wither-Fork. I was just telling our young friends here all about the—’

  Fluff held her paw up to Stickler’s face, bringing the conversation to an end before turning to Hettie. ‘I’d be very pleased if you and Miss Jenkins would join me for a late informal supper after the harvest festival this evening as a thank you for all your help. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Hettie. They followed Fluff out of the marquee into the sunshine, leaving Mr Stickler to scowl at his labels. The preparations for the show were reaching fever pitch and there was a queue of cats waiting to consult Fluff about every conceivable hitch that had or might occur. Hettie watched as the landowner went about her business, assisting and reassuring as one problem after another was solved. The sad reality of what lay in the gatehouse had been pushed away for now and replaced by her dedication to the Wither-Fork legacy. She would no doubt deal with her sister’s death when duty ceased to call, in quiet moments of deep regret.

  The familiar figure of Blackberry Tibbs was making a beeline for Fluff, coming from the direction of the church and wearing a face like thunder. Hettie was intrigued, and she and Tilly moved forward to put themselves in earshot. ‘They’ve gone, Miss!’ cried Blackberry, trying to get her breath back. ‘Some of my best work, just vanished without a trace.’

  Fluff looked bewildered, but Tilly cottoned on straight away and nudged Hettie. ‘I bet it’s the scarecrows again.’

  Blackberry overheard the comment and turned to Tilly. ‘Yes, that’s right. Someone’s stolen the Wither-Forks from their pew – all four of them! And there’s several missing from the allotments, as well.’

  Practical as ever, Fluff intervened. ‘Perhaps they’ll turn up in time for the scarecrow procession tomorrow. If not, we’ll think about putting on a scarecrow weekend for all your lovely figures. How does that sound?’

  Blackberry was very taken with the idea of a special weekend dedicated to her work. Still feeling a little upset by the loss of her creations, but buoyed up by the prospect of her own show, she sidled back to the Hall to make some sandwiches for Fluff’s lunch. Ever the detectives, Hettie and Tilly made for the church to check out the crime scene and wait for Bruiser.

  The church was a hive of activity. There was a pungent smell of lilies as they entered, and Miss Jingle would clearly have a very tangible presence at the harvest festival service, but it was the altar that caught Hettie’s eye. ‘Just look at all that food,’ she said, louder than she’d meant to.

  Tilly gasped at the sight of such bounty. ‘It’s like Malkin and Sprinkle’s food hall at Christmas,’ she whispered. ‘Just look at it all. Tins, packets, boxes, and look – whole hams and a giant pork pie! And the bread – sticks, baps and bloomers, and look at that one! It’s a giant sheath of corn made from bread!’

  The altar was a sight to behold, decorated to perfection with apples that had been polished until they shone, potatoes and carrots washed clean of any soil, and cabbages, cauliflowers and leeks, which all looked almost too perfect to be real. ‘Looks lovely, doesn’t it?’ said Desiree Chit, emerging from the vestry. ‘I was up till the small hours scrubbing them Maris Pipers – some of Rooster’s best for years, and we had to keep the really good ones back for the judging. He’s high hopes this year. Me and Apple have been setting this up all morning. Malkin and Sprinkle have sent some of Miss Jingle’s lilies for the church out of respect, and they’ve made a lovely display by the pulpit – the festival wouldn’t be the same without her flowers, especially as so many of them had to go up in smoke. Shame about Blackberry’s scarecrows, though. They were here yesterday, cos Blight was having a chat with them. He thinks they’re real, you see.’

  Hettie looked across at the empty Wither-Fork pew, wondering why anyone would want to steal a bunch of medieval scarecrows. Desiree continued, changing the subject to one which Hettie had been hoping to avoid. ‘Have you caught your murderer yet? I was only saying to Apple this morning, we just don’t know what’s going on up on the allotments. It’s not a safe place to be with a killer on the loose. Have you detected who that might be?’

  Hettie was saved by the Mulch sisters, who bustled through the church door behind a giant bunch of dahlias of every imaginable colour. ‘Make way!’ shouted Gladys, as her sister landed the flowers on the first available pew. ‘We’ll need a big vase for these. I hope you’ve left some space for us, Mrs Chit?’

  Desiree stared with horror at the size of the dahlias. ‘We’ve already got the lilies out, and I’m not sure where we can put those. The vases are full, so unless you stick them in the font you’ll have to take them over to the Hall. Perhaps Miss Wither-Fork can find a home for them. Flowers were supposed to be here by nine this morning.’

  Dahlia and Gladys exchanged a look that could easily have been murderous, and Gladys went in for the kill. ‘Mrs Chit, might I remind you that during our father’s time my sister and I were in sole charge of the floral arrangements for several churches in this parish, including St Kipper’s, St Biscuit’s, St Savoury’s and St Wither-Fork’s. I would ask you to move aside while we dress the altar with our blooms.’

  Hettie and Tilly stood back and watched as Desiree Chit pulled herself up to her full height and addressed both Mulch sisters as one. ‘And might I remind you of the chaos you caused last year during the harvest festival service, when your “blooms”, as you call them, unleashed an army of earwigs into the congregation, causing a mass exodus during “We Plough the Fields and Scatter”! I repeat – the font’s the best place for them. That way, any passengers they happen to be carrying will be closest to the door. As for your hold on the churches in the parish, mercifully that ended with the death of your dear father, who – by all accounts – wasn’t particularly fond of earwigs either. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to get on.’

  Hettie and Tilly managed to avoid the urge to applaud and made their way out of the church to find Bruiser. Time was getting on and – now they had an invitation to supper – Hettie thought it might be better to enjoy a Butters’ pie for lunch, which would give her and Tilly an opportunity to make themselves presentable before returning to Wither-Fork for the harvest festival and their appointment with Fluff. On their way back to the gatehouse, where Miss Scarlet was parked, they passed the Reverend Augusta Stitch in her bread van, travelling at speed across the park. She was heading for the church, no doubt to check on the progress of her reluctant flock. ‘I’d love to be an earwig on the wall when Desiree Chit, the Mulch sisters and the vicar from hell all converge in the left transept,’ Hettie said. ‘It’s almost worth going back for.’ The three friends’ laughter rang out until they reached the gatehouse. Hettie stared up at the empty battlements with a pang of great sadness, half-expecting Micks Wither-Spoon to appear to give his Hamlet, but the ghosts were not long enough dead to cast their shadows, and the curtains had closed for the last time on that piece of theatre.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  On arriving home, Bruiser treated himself to three sausage rolls and a ring doughnut from the bakery, and retired to a deckchair outside his shed for an afternoon nap. Hettie and Tilly, having devoured a Butters’ steak pie and a cream horn each, set about choosing some suitable clothes for their evening out, but their filing cabinet was full of clothes that really didn’t fit them any more. Since they’d set up home in the back room of Betty and Beryl’s pie and pastry shop, their tabby waistlines had increased – but with the continuing success of the No. 2 Feline Dete
ctive Agency, they needed to smarten themselves up.

  ‘It’s going to have to be tabby chic again,’ said Tilly, sniffing a stain on the pocket of one of her best cardigans. ‘I’ll need to borrow Beryl’s tin bath to give this lot a good soaking before the winter comes. I’m going to have to sponge this and hope that Fluff Wither-Fork doesn’t notice. She did say informal, but I’m not sure stained, fusty cardigans count.’

  Hettie stared at her own collection of best clothes, mostly made up of band-related T-shirts and a few remnants of stage gear from her days of touring. None of them fitted any more, but she clung to them as trophies of the glory days at the front of her folk rock band. She had been moderately successful with her music career, and these days she was even collectable among the more extreme progressive, psychedelic, acid-folk cat fans, as they liked to call themselves. Her new-age music had become almost old age, but the twelve-string guitar that rested on a beanbag in the corner of their room still got a regular workout when the mood was upon her, even if it did only have ten strings these days.

  ‘Come on,’ said Hettie, throwing the clothes back into the filing cabinet. ‘Let’s go and see what Jessie can offer us. The harvest festival doesn’t start until six so we’ve plenty of time.’

  Tilly clapped her paws with delight. A trip to her friend Jessie’s charity shop was always a treat. Jessie had supplied most of Tilly’s cardigans and, along with her benefactor, Miss Lambert, had saved Tilly from many a frosty night in the days when she was homeless. Miss Lambert now resided on Jessie’s mantelpiece in a bright-red funeral urn, having left Jessie her small house and shop in Cheapcuts Lane.

  Hettie and Tilly skipped down the high street, treating their shopping trip as a very welcome respite from the goings-on at Wither-Fork Hall. Jessie was in her window when they arrived, creating one of her themed displays. She bounded out to greet them. ‘You two are a sight for tangled whiskers! I’ve had no gossip for weeks. What gives with our town’s famous detectives? Any nice murders to report?’

  Hettie gave Tilly a cautious look, then changed her mind. Jessie was discreet when she needed to be and had been a good friend to both of them in times of extreme difficulty. ‘A bit of bother up at Wither-Fork Hall, actually. Four bodies and counting.’

  Jessie’s eyes threatened to pop out of her head as she turned the open sign to closed, dragging Hettie and Tilly into her back room for tea, biscuits and an overview of the latest case. An hour passed before the friends emerged to launch an assault on Jessie’s clothes rails. Hettie went straight to a smart, black military-style jacket with a mandarin collar, and Tilly chose two cardigans – one in navy with an orange pocket for evening wear, and another in rainbow wool with a hood ready for the colder days to come. Pleased with their choices, Hettie went to pay, but Jessie waved the money away. ‘Fair trade and all that,’ she said. ‘All that stuff on Wither-Fork! It’s worth six cardies of anyone’s money. I’m doing my window up to celebrate the Michaelmas Show, so perhaps I should include a few bodies in the concept. I wish I’d been there for the cremation – it sounds amazing, and much better than those awful funerals that Augusta Stitch puts on at St Kipper’s. I popped in there the other day to say farewell to one of my old customers and there was no one in the church except the vicar and the coffin. It gave me a touch of agoraphobia, to be honest. Mind you, she certainly fills her pulpit. One of these days she’ll get stuck in it, she’s so fat.’

  Hettie and Tilly roared with laughter. After their difficult days up at Wither-Fork Hall, Jessie and her view of life were just what they both needed – a proper tonic and some new clothes to wear. They said their goodbyes and left Jessie to dress her window for the Michaelmas Show.

  The church of St Kipper’s was set back at the bottom of the high street, opposite Malkin and Sprinkle, the town’s department store. Hettie had never been inside before, but after what Jessie had said she was feeling curious. She loved the old graveyard, if only for the inscriptions on the stones, but going into the church had always been an unnecessary exercise. The large and opulent six-bedroomed rectory, which stood in close proximity, said everything that Hettie wanted to hear about religion. It was a stark contrast to the makeshift shelters that homeless cats set up around the town, in shop doorways, bus shelters and – if they were very lucky – old sheds.

  They made their way down the path to the church and tried the big oak door, but it was locked. ‘Bloody marvellous!’ said Hettie. ‘I suppose God’s having his afternoon tea and can’t be disturbed. No chance of a quick prayer, then. It’s a disgrace – a great big barn like this, supposedly the centre of the community, and locked up like a pharaoh’s tomb.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Tilly, looking through the keyhole into the church. ‘I think there’s a service going on. There are several cats sitting in the pews at the front.’

  Hettie bent down and took in the scene for herself. The line of vision through the keyhole was limited, but Tilly was right: she counted at least ten heads. ‘They don’t seem that bothered about being locked in. It’s probably some sort of religious sect having a secret meeting. You know the sort – won’t take aspirins if they’ve got a headache.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that sort of church,’ said Tilly. ‘But it is a lovely graveyard.’

  Their ruminations on the state of St Kipper’s came to an abrupt end when the air filled with diesel fumes and the Reverend Augusta Stitch brought her bread van to a standstill outside the rectory. Looking flustered, she crossed the graveyard to the church. ‘What brings you here?’ she asked. ‘Our service doesn’t start until seven-thirty this evening, as I’m doing the Wither-Fork harvest festival at six. Our evensong here at St Kipper’s will be in the presence of His Highness, the Bishop. All are welcome, and the more the merrier. Do come back later and tell your friends. I’m hoping for a big turnout.’

  Hettie was about to mention the present congregation closeted in the church, but Augusta Stitch was already pounding back across the graveyard to the rectory, where her bread van engine was still running. She and Tilly headed for home, pleased with their almost-new clothes and looking forward to their evening out; it was much better to be having a late supper with Fluff Wither-Fork than what might turn out to be the last supper with the Reverend Augusta Stitch.

  Bruiser dropped Hettie and Tilly at the gates of Wither-Fork Hall in plenty of time for them to get a seat in the church. He’d arranged a tinkering session with Lazarus Hambone, who had acquired a number of old motorbikes to do up, and wasted no time in turning Miss Scarlet round and heading back into town, promising to return and pick them up at ten o’clock after their supper with Fluff.

  The small church was bustling with cats and the evening sun shone through the stained-glass windows, throwing rainbows of light across the stone that concealed the Wither-Fork tomb. Morbid Balm was discreetly sizing up the job that Fluff had arranged with her for Monday: Micks and Mash were to be entombed together on a shelf away from the main family in a quiet and very private service, where Fluff would read a short eulogy before Morbid closed the lid on one of the most shameful aspects of the Wither-Forks’ history to date. There had been plenty of murderers in days of old, when the Wither-Forks protected their lands, and even Lettuce herself had sentenced cats to death for stealing sheep to feed their families, but that was a very long time ago. These days it was better to sit round the table and discuss a way forward rather than bashing someone’s brains out or favouring a ritualistic stabbing.

  Hettie considered all of this as the congregation settled down ready for the service to begin. Fluff Wither-Fork was the last to arrive, and all stood as she entered the church and took her place in the empty Wither-Fork pew. There were one or two whispers as to the whereabouts of Micks and Mash, but everyone fell silent as Augusta Stitch entered the church from the vestry and made her way to the pulpit, nodding to Tarragon Trench in the organ loft to stop his selection of cantatas; Tarragon’s response was laid-back. Augusta’s signal had been clear eno
ugh, but the extra pipe of catnip he’d enjoyed before taking his place at the pedals had rather coloured his judgement on when and how to bring the music to an end. It was a further five minutes before Augusta was able to give her welcome address.

  ‘All good gifts around us are sent from heaven above,’ she began. ‘And we are here to celebrate those gifts – the fruits of our labours, the toil of our lands, our good health and wealth from all the good things that God sees fit to share with us.’ Hettie fidgeted as the vicar expounded on the premise that God owned everything and – by his judgement alone – some cats had it all and others had nothing. According to the doctrine coming from the pulpit, the meek would inherit the earth, but only as long as they behaved while they were starving or freezing to death. It was a great relief to her when Tarragon Trench eventually struck up the first notes to ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.