The Michaelmas Murders

by Mandy Morton

  The members of the congregation sang their hearts out as Tarragon added several extra verses. The vibration of the giant organ pipes and the enthusiastic caterwauling seemed to have released some of God’s own creatures, and Hettie and Tilly watched the rapid progress of a legion of earwigs down the central aisle from the font where the Mulch sisters’ dahlias had been abandoned. The pulpit had been festooned on either side by the late Miss Jingle’s lilies, and these temptresses were attracting the earwigs, who were obviously bored with the flowers they were used to and were looking for pastures new. Tarragon finally brought the hymn to an end, allowing Augusta Stitch a window in which to offer some patronising advice to the gathered flock on how to live their lives if they wanted the all-important guarantee of eternal peace. The earwigs had a different plan, though, and took very little time in climbing the pulpit and infesting the vicar’s clerical robes with their wriggling bodies in a bid to reach the lilies.

  To say that Augusta Stitch ran from the church would be an understatement. She shrieked in horror, bounding out of the pulpit and beating off the earwigs with very little effect as they burrowed deep into her fur. To add more colour to the spectacle, Tarragon launched into a rock version of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, giving rise to some energetic dancing from Blight Chit, who had escaped his mother’s paws and was now step-dancing up the mountain of foods displayed on the altar. Inevitably there was a landslide, and but for the quick-thinking of Jeremiah Corbit, Blight might have been buried alive. Corbit sprang from his pew, snatching the kitten from disaster as an avalanche of tinned pilchards, corned beef and spam rained down on him. The gallant action brought a round of applause from the pews and a grateful hug from Desiree, as Blight was put into Rooster’s arms for safekeeping. Embarrassed, but secretly pleased to be a hero, Jeremiah slunk back to his seat, savouring the joys of being nice for a change and promising himself to try it more often.

  ‘Now, that’s what I call a church service,’ said Hettie. ‘If they were all like this I’d sign up.’

  Tilly giggled as Fluff Wither-Fork rose from her family pew and climbed the steps into the pulpit, raising her paw to silence the congregation. Even Tarragon brought the organ music to an abrupt stop in deference to a higher authority, and all eyes turned to their benefactor. ‘It has been a deeply sad week here at Wither-Fork Hall,’ she began. ‘Two terrible murders and now, for me, more grief than I care to mention. I would just like to assure you all that the horror and uncertainty are over, and you can sleep peacefully in your beds once again.’ Fluff paused to allow her words to sink in, knowing that some would make a connection with the absence of Micks and Mash in the church. She shared a knowing look with Hettie and Tilly, and continued, ‘On her death, Miss Jingle left a very generous legacy to Wither-Fork Hall, which means that we are saved from extinction. I intend to have Gertrude’s allotment replanted with lilies and kept as a quiet place of contemplation and remembrance to her. I’m hoping that some of you would like to help with this project. There will be changes at Wither-Fork, but I promise that none of you will be turned away. I intend to build on the legacy that my ancestor, Lettuce Wither-Fork, bequeathed to us, enriching our community with a real sense of purpose. I hope you will all enjoy the Michaelmas Show and welcome the visitors who will flood through the gates tomorrow. Let’s put this terrible week behind us and move on to better and more prosperous days.’

  Fluff’s rallying call was far better than any sermon the Reverend Stitch could have delivered, and as she climbed down from the pulpit her tenants clapped their paws together in appreciation. Tarragon Trench offered a boisterous rendition of ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ as Fluff made her way down the central aisle and out of the church, signalling that the harvest festival was over for another year.

  ‘Thank God for that!’ said Hettie. ‘I thought we were going to be stuck in here for hours listening to Augusta Stitch going off on one. I could hug the Mulch sisters for providing such a strong deterrent to her brand of Christianity. Long live the earwigs!’

  Tilly giggled at her friend’s outburst. Hettie Bagshot in a church would always be a risky business for those who went there to be pious, but Wither-Fork Church had taken on a party atmosphere now that God’s messenger was picking earwigs out of her fur at the back of her bread van. Fluff had lifted their spirits and promised them all a future. There was much to discuss in the pews as the excited chatter rose in volume, competing with Tarragon Trench, who was now giving a very fine performance of baroque lollipops.

  The Reverend Augusta Stitch finally managed to divest herself of her unwanted visitors. Not wishing to be late for the bishop, she drove at speed across the parkland en route to evensong at St Kipper’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  With a little time to spare before their supper engagement, Hettie and Tilly amused themselves by wandering through the stalls and tents of the Michaelmas Show. The atmosphere was electric as the cats who came every year to sell their wares gathered together to exchange news in small groups, smoking their catnip pipes and putting the world to rights. Bonny Grubb had renewed her acquaintance with a group of Gypsy toms who were running a set of swingboats, and they all sat on the grass enjoying Bonny’s moonshine and regaling her with tales of life on the road.

  The Chits were making their way back to the allotments, with Blight perched on Rooster’s shoulders, demolishing a candy floss that was twice as big as he was. Apple Chutney was putting the finishing touches to her stall of preserves, helped by Jeremiah Corbit, who seemed to have gone through some sort of transformation since saving a life in the church. Hettie stopped in front of the Hall and stared at the huge red sun as it sank slowly on the horizon, burnishing the parkland with a strange light. ‘Perfect night for Macbeth,’ she said. ‘Just look at that blood-red sky.’

  ‘It’s a shame it all had to end in such a sad way,’ said Tilly wistfully. ‘I thought Micks and Mash were good fun, and I’d love to have seen their Macbeth.’

  ‘It’s all down to protecting your own, though, isn’t it?’ observed Hettie. ‘When Mash saw the extent of the carnage in Gertrude Jingle’s summer house, she knew that it was all over for both of them. She thought she’d got away with Bartlet’s murder, but Micks compounded the problem by the frenzied killing of his mother. There was no way back after that.’

  The church clock struck eight, and Hettie and Tilly turned towards the Hall to be met at the door by Blackberry Tibbs. ‘Miss Wither-Fork’s in her parlour this evening,’ she said, as they followed her through the Great Hall and down the stone steps to the servant’s quarters. No sooner were they in the corridor than Hettie detected a strong smell of roasted chicken. She quickened her pace, hoping that Fluff’s supper table would offer some proper food for a change, and she wasn’t disappointed: Fluff stood with carving knife in paw, ready to cut into the large chicken, which took up half the space on her small parlour table.

  At Fluff’s invitation, Hettie and Tilly sat down and watched as three plates were filled with hot slices of chicken. Blackberry made several journeys from the kitchen to add to the feast with a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, a large jug of gravy and a baking tray of little sausages wrapped in bacon. Hettie was thrilled to see that there wasn’t a green vegetable in sight. ‘I thought the least we could do was to offer you a decent meal after all your hard work,’ said Fluff, passing the plates to her guests. ‘In Lettuce Wither-Fork’s time there would have been a grand banquet in the great hall on Michaelmas Eve, with minstrels, jugglers and players; now, we just have an empty fireplace and buckets, but I think it’s time that all that changed for the better. Please help yourselves to potatoes and sausages.’

  Hettie didn’t need a second invitation, but helped her friend first, seeing the potential of an overspill of creamy mash onto Fluff’s clean white tablecloth if Tilly’s large paws connected with the bowl. The food was excellent, and there was very little conversation until Blackberry returned from the kitchen to collect plates that had
been licked clean. She returned minutes later with a giant lemon meringue pie and a jug of cream. Tilly couldn’t resist clapping her paws with delight, and Fluff and Hettie laughed at her enthusiasm. Fluff cut into the pie, releasing a tangy aroma of lemons and cooked pastry, and Tilly reacted by dribbling ever so slightly down the front of her nearly new best cardigan. No one noticed, and the three cats tucked in until they were defeated, leaning back in their chairs to recover from what Hettie would describe later as ‘a full-on culinary experience’.

  Blackberry returned to clear the table, and Fluff invited Hettie and Tilly to join her by the fire. The supper conversation had been light and inconsequential, punctuated by the odd grunt of appreciation for the food, but Hettie knew that Fluff Wither-Fork was merely playing for time before revealing the real reason for her invitation. The landowner looked over at the table where Blackberry was busy stacking the pots. ‘Thank you, Blackberry – that was an excellent dinner. Please leave the washing-up until tomorrow, and take some chicken and pudding home with you. We have an early start, as the bakers will be arriving with their entries, and no doubt Mr Stickler will be on the edge of his annual nervous breakdown, so we’ll need all paws on deck.’

  Blackberry put the stack of pots on a tray and left Fluff to her guests, closing the parlour door behind her. Fluff waited for the sound of her footsteps to recede, followed by the bang of the front door as she let herself out. ‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked you both here tonight.’ Hettie nodded, and Tilly moved further forward on the sofa, giving Fluff her full attention. Fluff paused, as if choosing the right words, and finally spoke. ‘I’m not proud of what my sister did to that poor cat from the National Crust, but I can see why, and I feel very responsible for driving her to it. In her way, she was protecting the cat she loved. She knew that Micks wouldn’t want to move from the gatehouse, and she also knew that he was fragile and had certain … tendencies, shall we say, if he became distressed.’ Hettie was tempted to interject. ‘Certain tendencies’ was a very strange phrase to describe viciously stabbing several cats to death, but she allowed Fluff to continue, ‘I feel they have both paid the ultimate price for what they did, and I was wondering whether you might consider what I believe they call in detective fiction a “cover-up”?’

  Of all the possible scenarios, Hettie wouldn’t have predicted this one. ‘You mean blame the murders on someone else?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I think that’s what I mean. You see, no one knows yet that Micks and Mash were involved. The only other cat who is even aware of their deaths is Morbid Balm, and she doesn’t know why they died. To save the face of the Wither-Forks, I was wondering whether you might be willing and able to come up with a suitable alternative regarding the murders?’

  Hettie’s mind was racing. The strange request was completely understandable, but it turned the whole case upside down. It would be very unfair to accuse another cat of the crimes, and manufacturing one lie meant that so many more would have to follow. She was about to voice her thoughts when Tilly entered the conversation. ‘We could say it was all to do with the maharaja and one of those nasty marbled cats who stole Miss Jingle’s palace and murdered Mr Jodpurr,’ she suggested. ‘I know she escaped from them, but perhaps we could say they caught up with her in the end.’

  Fluff looked confused. Hettie had given her only a very brief outline of Gertrude Jingle’s past history, and Tilly’s idea sounded like something straight out of one of Mr Kipling’s adventure stories. ‘I think that sounds a little far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so. The story would have to be believable.’

  Tilly looked crushed by Fluff’s response, but Hettie wasn’t as dismissive. ‘Actually, I think Tilly might be on to something there,’ she said. ‘It was a possibility we considered at one point, and to make things work we need to concentrate on the idea of strangers who come, do their worst and disappear without a trace. The thought of some exotic bunch of cut-throat cats out for revenge might be exactly what’s needed here – although it doesn’t explain why they would kill Bartlet Crustworthy if they were after Miss Jingle.’

  Tilly, Hettie and Fluff all stared into the fire, waiting for inspiration to strike. Once again it was Tilly who came up with a possible solution. ‘We could say that the marbled cat was lying in wait on Bonny’s allotment and was disturbed by Bartlet. The nasty cat bashes Bartlet over the head and goes back into hiding, waiting for an opportunity to strike at Miss Jingle, which he does the following night. Then he escapes before anyone knows what’s happened.’

  Fluff clapped her paws together. ‘Bravo, Miss Jenkins! That sounds perfect.’

  Hettie looked less certain, raising a few issues that Tilly hadn’t considered. ‘The big question is – how do we know all this? At some stage we’re going to have to explain to Binky Crustworthy how and why her brother was murdered. I wonder if she’ll be willing to accept the Bollywood gangland scenario.’

  ‘She will if we tell her that it’s simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s kinder than saying Mash bashed his head in because she didn’t want the National Crust to take over the estate,’ said Tilly, defending her idea. ‘We could even give the murderer a name. We could call him Deepak Rishabh, like the leader of the marbled cats – that’s a marvellous name for a murderer. I wrote it down in my notebook because I liked it so much.’

  Hettie couldn’t resist a smile. Tilly loved a good story and her enthusiasm for making things up was proving to be quite an asset, but there was still one big stumbling block which impacted on the professional reputation of the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency. ‘But how do we know all this? Without any evidence, I don’t see how the story can be credible.’

  Hettie and Fluff both looked at Tilly, waiting once again for the oracle to speak. They weren’t disappointed. ‘Miss Jingle!’ said Tilly. ‘We can say we found a threatening note in her suitcase. You know, something like “You’re dead”, or “You must die”, or even “I know who you are”. We could say that we made the connection through the newspaper cuttings we found about the maharaja’s murder, and that it was only a matter of time before Miss Jingle went the same way.’

  Fluff looked at Hettie this time, waiting for her approval. Hettie stared into the fire, remembering the serenity of Miss Jingle’s cremation and how keen she had been in her letter to protect Micks from himself and Mash from Micks. Eventually, she spoke. ‘OK, if we go with Tilly’s story I think the best way to deal with it is to give away as little as possible. We should say that Miss Jingle was murdered by a cat from her past life in India. We could also say that Bartlet Crustworthy disturbed him while he was looking at the allotments, which makes Bartlet into a bit of a hero, dying in the act of apprehending a would-be killer. I’d be happy to report that to Binky Crustworthy. Thinking about it, I’m sure Miss Jingle would approve of our keeping Micks and Mash out of the picture. Strangely, she was to blame for most of the murders, anyway. If she hadn’t abandoned Micks, he wouldn’t have killed Scoop and Lorrie Wither-Spoon or the cat at his drama school. By then, he’d got a taste for blood. It must have been easy for him to do it again after he’d discovered Miss Jingle’s deceit. He clearly expected his ivory tower to protect him – and it did, in a funny sort of way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Fluff.

  ‘Well, Mash was his ivory tower – she protected him from the outside world. That’s why she killed Bartlet Crustworthy – because he was a threat to their way of life. She killed Micks because he was a threat to himself, and she knew that there was no escape for her.’

  It was Fluff’s turn to stare into the fire as the tears that had refused to come filled her eyes and ran down her face. The stoic facade was washed away by a deep sense of loss for her sister and the cat she had died for, and any doubts Hettie had about the cover-up melted away at the sight of her grief. Fluff’s body shook with a pain for which there would be no cure. She would have to live with the part she had played in the deceptio
n, but, to the outside world, the reputation of Mash Wither-Spoon and the Wither-Forks would remain intact.

  Several minutes and three very soggy tissues later, Fluff managed to compose herself sufficiently to offer her gratitude to Hettie and Tilly. She stood up and moved to her desk at the other end of the parlour, returning with a bundle of notes and counting fifty pounds into Hettie’s paw. ‘This doesn’t seem enough for what you’re willing to do for me. If you think I should pay more, then you must say. I will never forget your kindness, and there will always be a welcome for you here at Wither-Fork Hall.’

  ‘Fifty pounds is very acceptable,’ said Hettie, suppressing the urge to dance triumphantly around Fluff Wither-Fork’s parlour. The way things were going, she and Tilly would be able to hibernate all winter without lifting a paw, and have a good Christmas into the bargain. They were more than happy to prosper from Fluff’s bribe for their alternative version of The Michaelmas Murders. There was, however, one question that Hettie felt she had to ask. ‘What about Micks and Mash? How will you explain their deaths to the cats on the estate?’

  Fluff sat down again and warmed her paws by the fire. ‘I think it best if I stick mostly to the truth,’ she said. ‘The tenants are very aware of Micks’ eccentricities. I shall tell them that he managed to poison himself accidently during one of his theatrical capers, and that Mash couldn’t live without him so decided to go the same way. Suicide is still regarded as a sin by some, so I shall ask for their discretion in keeping Mash’s reputation untarnished. I’ve arranged a private interment with Morbid Balm in our family tomb at the church for Monday, and I will inform the tenants after that.’

  Hettie admired the cool and assured way in which Fluff Wither-Fork had arrived at her own personal arrangements, and considered that Fluff herself, under different circumstances, would have made a clever murderer and a very tricky adversary. This time round, everything seemed to be in place for a getting-away-with-it-by-the-skin-of-your-teeth ending. ‘You mentioned in church that there were some changes on the way here at Wither-Fork,’ said Hettie, lightening the conversation.