by Mandy Morton
‘I think we should make sure that all the blinds and curtains are closed before we start work,’ she said. ‘We don’t want anyone seeing a light and disturbing us. You take the rooms upstairs and I’ll do down here.’
Tilly followed Hettie into the parlour, where Miss Spitforce appeared to have spent a peaceful night. The room was icy cold, as if the corpse preferred it that way. Tilly shivered and looked for the door to the stairs, eventually finding it behind a faded velvet curtain. She clambered up the steps, torch in paw, and was faced with a choice of three doors off the small landing: the first opened onto a bathroom; the second onto a bedroom with no bed, but packed instead with boxes, suitcases and old newspapers. Tilly crossed the room to the window which overlooked the front of the terrace, and noticed that there was now a light on at the Dosh Stores; carefully, she pulled the curtains before shining her torch more closely across the contents of the room. Leaving the box room, she opened the final door and found a comfortable looking bedroom. She padded across the pink carpet to the window and saw that this room looked out onto the back garden. It was beginning to get light, but she pulled the curtains and did a circuit of the room with her torch, picking out the bed, a kidney-shaped dressing table, a basket chair and a bedside table piled high with books. Everything was tidy and in its place, including a jewellery box on the dressing table, full of what looked to be valuable trinkets. Tilly closed the box and went back downstairs, avoiding eye contact with Miss Spitforce as she passed through the parlour to the kitchen, where Hettie was slicing the rustic ham stick.
‘Everything all right up there?’ she asked, licking butter from her paws.
Tilly nodded and took a large bite of the roll that Hettie offered her. Through a mouthful of bread and ham, she revealed her findings. ‘There’s a box room full of stuff that we might need to have a look at. Her bedroom’s tidy. The bed’s made and there are some nice bits of jewellery in a box on the dressing table, so I think we can rule out burglars.’
‘I suppose it depends on what they were after,’ said Hettie, pouring two large mugs of tea from Miss Spitforce’s willow pattern teapot. ‘I keep remembering what Teezle said about her tracing family histories. What if she found out something terrible? Something so terrible that she had to be silenced for it?’
‘Mm – that happens a lot in Agatha Crispy’s books. Do you think Miss Spitforce has sugar? That tea pot has made my drink a bit too strong.’ Tilly opened several cupboard doors in the kitchen before returning to the table with a box of sugar lumps. ‘Is this the dagger she was killed with?’
Hettie nodded. ‘Yes. It’s not your average kitchen knife, is it? Nasty curled blade and a posh sort of handle – this could be the biggest clue we’ve got so far. The question is, did the killer bring it or did it belong to Miss Spitforce in the first place?’
Tilly shuddered as she noticed the staining on the blade. ‘Shall we stick it in the shopper? I could wrap it in the tea towel to make it safe.’
‘That’s a good idea. We can show it to Bruiser – he’s a mine of information on weapons and that sort of stuff, and he used to pick up odd things like this on his travels. I think we’d better start sorting through papers and anything that might point to a motive. I’ll start in the parlour – there’s a desk in there. You take the box room.’ Tilly was relieved not to have to spend too much time in the company of the late Miss Spitforce. Refreshed from her early breakfast, she bounded up the stairs to start work.
Hettie – having made herself very much at home in Mavis Spitforce’s kitchen – reluctantly moved through to the parlour with Tilly’s tartan shopper, ready to collect bits and pieces from a puzzle that might or might not lead to the killer. The torch was no good for this job, so she decided to risk switching the desk lamp on, judging that the curtains were thick enough to hide the tell-tale light. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was already quarter past six, and there was no time to waste. First into the shopper was the pot in which she had hurriedly placed the paper fragments from the dead cat’s mouth – an important clue, even if it was unpleasant; whoever had forced Mavis Spitforce to eat someone else’s words was obviously making a point.
Then she turned back to the body. As she would have expected, it hadn’t moved – but Hettie noticed that it was changing colour, becoming somehow translucent and empty. She thought back to what Irene Peggledrip had said about Miss Spitforce not being there any more, and understood exactly what she meant: the bright, talkative, elderly cat that she had shared tea with several weeks ago had indeed gone, leaving behind no more than a husk in her own image.
Quietly, Hettie set to work on the desk drawers, trying not to disturb the perfect order of bank books, statements and other financial papers. It occurred to her that Mavis had been quite a rich cat, and she wondered who in the family would benefit from her death – if, indeed, she had left her wealth to them in the first place. The question was answered by the third drawer down. Inside, there was a tin box full of sovereigns, a coin that Hettie had only encountered in the town’s museum; underneath it was a long document, folded and tied with blue ribbon. She untied the ribbon, guessing that this was the last will and testament of Mavis Spitforce. At a glance, she could see that there was a list of beneficiaries, with several small bequests to friends. Delirium Treemints, she noted, was to inherit the willow pattern tea set, having no doubt acquired quite a reputation for the dispensing of beverages, despite her unsteady paws. Balti Dosh was promised an entire collection of true crime books to feed her thirst for all things morbid, and the rest of the books were to go to Turner Page for the new library, soon to be opened at Furcross House.
Hettie continued to read through the list of names, hoping that something or someone would leap out at her, but there was nothing – nothing, that is, until the final page. The main beneficiaries were both called Spitforce – Mildred and Lavinia. Mildred was now the owner of the tin of sovereigns, and Lavinia had been left a sizeable sum of cash which was to be used to buy a house. So that was the sister and niece accounted for, but it still didn’t explain what instructions Mavis had left for her own home in Whisker Terrace. Hettie turned to an attachment clipped to the final page, and there was her answer.
The codicil was dated 20th October, just twelve days ago. Hettie took in the details, and her gasp of surprise coincided with an almighty crash from above which continued down the stairs. Tilly made an ungainly entrance into the parlour, pursued by a number of out-of-control cardboard tubes; she sat dazed for a moment in the middle of Miss Spitforce’s hearth rug, rubbing her arthritic paws, but rallied quickly on coming face-to-face with the cold dead eyes that stared out at her from the chaise longue.
Hettie abandoned the will and helped her friend into the kitchen, which was considerably more cheerful than the parlour. She was keen to share her recent revelation, but made sure first that Tilly hadn’t suffered any lasting damage. Thankful for the knitted tea cosy that had kept the tea hot, Hettie poured two very strong mugs of it, putting a sugar lump in each and adding an extra one to Tilly’s to account for the shock. The milk from the fridge was in short supply, but Miss Spitforce could hardly be blamed for that; the biscuit tin, however, was full and Hettie selected a pawful of chocolate fingers, hoping that they might cheer both Tilly and the tea up a little.
‘There’s been a breakthrough in our investigation,’ she began as Tilly sucked on a chocolate finger soaked in tea. ‘I found the will, and guess who gets most of the money and the house?’
‘The sister or the niece,’ Tilly said, going for the obvious. She knew she was wrong, but she wanted to give Hettie the joy of surprise.
‘No, not a bit of it,’ Hettie said triumphantly. ‘Miss Spitforce added a bequest a couple of weeks ago leaving a small fortune and her house to Irene Peggledrip!’
Tilly missed her mouth with the final chocolate finger, nearly poking herself in the eye with it. ‘Well, that really is a breakthrough. Where do we go from here?’
Hettie t
hought for a moment. ‘I think we should stick to our plan of taking anything interesting away with us. I’ll have to leave the will and all her private papers here so that the relatives can sort it out when they take over. I don’t suppose they’ll be too pleased about the Peggledrip windfall, but if you make a quick note of the details in the will before I put it back in the drawer we shouldn’t need to see it again. Did you find anything in the box room?’
‘Suitcases full of old photos, a chest of clothes, piles of newspapers and a couple of interesting things that we might want to take away with us.’
Hettie waited for her friend to continue, but Tilly was rubbing her head as the after-effects of her fall caught up with her.
‘I think we should gather up as much as we can and get you home,’ Hettie said, concerned. ‘Do we need to take those cardboard tubes with us?’
Tilly nodded. ‘Yes, and there’s a scrapbook still up there, full of newspaper cuttings. I opened one of the tubes. It was a family history chart, so I think we need to take all of them for a closer look.’
Hettie suddenly remembered something that Teezle Makepeace had said and started lifting the cushions on the kitchen chairs. ‘No, there’s nothing under them. I wondered if that chart she hid from Teezle was still there. Anything under your cushion?’
‘No, nothing,’ Tilly said, leaving chocolate paw prints everywhere. She sat nursing her headache with one paw and noting down the details of Mavis Spitforce’s will with the other, while Hettie scurried round collecting as much material as the tartan shopper would allow. She tidied the kitchen, scooping the Halloween trappings off the floor and adding them to the already over-burdened trolley. Satisfied that the house was ready for the relatives to take over, the two cats and the tartan shopper made their way out into the winter’s morning, heading home just as the town came to life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a rare thing to see Lavender Stamp delivering the mail. The queen of the High Street Post Office rarely emerged from behind her counter, running her business with an iron claw and making it clear to all who engaged with her that nonsense of any sort would not be tolerated. Her customers feared her; her few friends endured her; and the cats that worked for her lasted as long as her temper would allow. Now, Lavender looked down her bespectacled nose as Hettie and Tilly approached. Admittedly, they looked suspicious, especially at such an early hour: the tartan shopper – already overloaded with what Tilly liked to call ‘tangible evidence’, a phrase gleaned from one of her books – now bore the extra burden of Tilly herself. Her fall had left her achy and slow, so Hettie had hauled her up onto the top of the shopper, hoping to speed up their progress.
The pavement proved tricky in some places, and there was a bit of a spill outside Hambone’s when the cardboard tubes escaped into the gutter, but now, with home in sight, even Tilly had cheered up and was experiencing a fit of the giggles when Lavender Stamp loomed into view.
‘Miss Bagshot,’ began the postmistress ominously, ‘my wretched girl hasn’t turned up for work this morning, and as you are … er … out and about, shall we say, would you be kind enough to take the Butters’ letters to them?’ She reached into the post bag for a bundle of letters secured with an elastic band and shoved them into Hettie’s chest. ‘Oh, and before you go I have a parcel for you.’ This was said in a rather grudging fashion, as Lavender had never really approved of Hettie and her ‘escapades’; equally, it had to be said that Hettie had never really approved of Lavender Stamp, either, and both cats cherished the mutual indifference. Tilly took charge of the parcel and Hettie forced the bundle of letters into her mac pocket as Lavender stalked off down the High Street with her first delivery of the day, more aggressive than usual and looking forward to ringing Teezle Makepeace’s neck when she finally turned up for work.
Back in their room, a cheery blaze awaited them as if the fire knew the precise time of their arrival home. Hettie unloaded the contents of the shopper onto the table and Tilly limped to her blanket by the fire, hoping that some heat would ease the growing pain in her limbs.
‘I think we’ll have to set you up in my armchair for the day,’ Hettie said. ‘If you’re up to it, I need you to go through some of this stuff,’ she nodded towards the pile of things on the table. ‘You should stay at home in the warm until you feel better. I’ll have to go and see Miss Spitforce’s sister. I can’t put that off any longer – she needs to know, and there’s a funeral to arrange.’ Hettie crossed to her armchair, plumped up her cushion and lifted Tilly’s blanket from the floor. ‘Come on. You’ll be much more comfortable up here.’
Tilly didn’t need to be asked twice, and settled herself in. The heat was getting through to her old bones and she was actually feeling much better, but it was a rare treat to sit in Hettie’s chair and she was going to milk it for all it was worth.
Hettie glanced at the parcel that Lavender Stamp had so ungraciously handed over. ‘I wonder what this is? I don’t remember ordering anything. It’s a local postmark. Shall we open it as a treat later?’
Tilly nodded. ‘Why do you think Teezle didn’t turn up for work? She seemed fine when she left here last night.’
‘I got the impression that she was putting a brave face on it. She’d had quite a shock, finding Miss Spitforce like that. She seems like a good sort who cares about the cats she delivers to – I bet she woke up this morning and just couldn’t handle another day at the coalface.’
Tilly was still giggling at the idea of Lavender Stamp with a miner’s pick in hand when there was a polite knock at their door. Hettie moved to open it as Bruiser let himself in.
‘Mornin’ all! Just popped in to see if yer fancy a bite to eat? I’m in the market for a couple of yer landlady’s sausage rolls. Can I get yer anything?’
Normally, Hettie would have bitten his paw off for a free breakfast but there were things to be done. ‘No time this morning, but you can treat us to dinner later if you like. Wednesday is chicken pie day on the Butters’ specials board, and Beryl’s cream horns are Tilly’s favourite.’
‘Right o,’ said Bruiser, slightly stung by Hettie’s quick response to his half-hearted offer of a sausage roll.
Hettie laughed. ‘I was only joking. We get dinner thrown in with our rent so you’ll just have to stump up for your own, but you’re welcome to eat with us later.’
Bruiser breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that his financial situation was not as healthy as he would like. ‘I’ll ’ave to get meself a bit of work if I’m stayin’ around. If yer hear of anything goin’, I’d be pleased to know about it.’
Hettie thought for a moment as she added more coal to the fire. Glancing across at Tilly, she noticed that her friend was fast asleep. She suddenly had an idea and looked up at Bruiser who was standing awkwardly in the open doorway. ‘You used to have a motorbike when you lived on the allotments, didn’t you?’
Bruiser’s scarred old face lit up at the memory. ‘Those were the days! My old bike and me doin’ a ton on that road to Much-Purrin’. I came off a few times but I ’ad me leathers then, saved me from all sorts.’
Hettie knew that Bruiser would go on for some time about his biker days if she let him, so she brought his raptures to an abrupt end. ‘Can you still handle a motorbike? Because if you can, I might be able to offer you a bit of work. There’s not much money in it, but enough to buy a dinner or two.’
‘Sounds just the job,’ said Bruiser, straightening himself up and trying to look respectable enough to re-enter the world of employment. ‘All I needs is a dinner and a place that’s warm and dry to lay me bones down at the end of a day, and that shed of yours is as cosy as toast. Where’s the motorbike, and what do yer want deliverin’?’
Hettie laughed. ‘Me, that’s what – to all the places I need to go while I’m working on the new case we’ve just started. As for the motorbike, she’s called Scarlet and she lives in Hambone’s yard at the moment until I can learn to ride her properly – although I do prefer the sidecar.’
‘Sidecar?’ said Bruiser, shrinking back in horror. ‘She’s got a sidecar? That’s a real girlie cat thing – not proper bikin’ at all.’
The word ‘sidecar’ had woken Tilly from her nap. She sneezed twice and looked across at Hettie. ‘Ooh, I must have nodded off.’ She smiled at Bruiser, who saluted her from the door. ‘I’m sure someone was shouting about sidecars in my dream. I hope Scarlet is all right. We haven’t been for a ride in her this week. Poor Lazarus!’
Bruiser was looking a little confused and Hettie had no time to spare for long explanations. ‘Bruiser has agreed to help us today, so I’ve asked him to drive me about in Scarlet. You can come out with us tomorrow when you’re feeling better. You’ve got to sort through this stuff today.’ Hettie pointed to the mountain of papers and tubes on the table.
Tilly looked disappointed at missing out on a spin in Scarlet, but saw the sense in what Hettie was saying. ‘I’ll get on with it, then – but tell Scarlet that I’ll see her tomorrow.’
After calling in to buy two sausage rolls and order their dinner from the Butters, Hettie and Bruiser strode off down the High Street to Hambone’s. Meridian waved them through the shop into the backyard, where they were greeted by a mountain of tyres, exhaust pipes and part-built or part-dismantled motorbikes of every sort. As they made their way to the small sales cabin in the far corner of the yard, Bruiser purred with delight at the vision of so many bits of fashioned metal. Lazarus Hambone took up most of the space in the cabin. He was a giant of a cat and the fact that one of his hind legs was now encased in a plaster cast made things extremely difficult. He was resting it on the open bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, which made it impossible for anyone else to fit into the office space.