Cat Among the Pumpkins

by Mandy Morton

  As Hettie and Tilly approached the Stores, Pakora was freshening the vegetable racks outside, selecting one or two items to add to the giant vat of curry that was always simmering on her kitchen stove at the back of the shop. For those in the village who had little interest in cooking, Pakora’s curries and home-baked naans were a life saver; she also bought in samosas from Rogan’s town shop to beef up her take away service, which had blossomed since she acquired a three-wheeler bicycle with a large boot.

  Hettie made the approach. ‘Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me?’

  Pakora looked up from her carrots. ‘I will try. What is your wish?’

  ‘We’re looking for Miss Anderton’s house.’

  Pakora abandoned her carrots and moved out onto the path. ‘Miss Anderton lives in that extremely nice house next door to my extremely nice shop. Just there – look,’ she pointed a paw full of exotic rings in the direction of a rather plain but perfect new build, set back from the road and bordered by trees and a white picket fence. It occurred to Hettie that if she had had to find the house without help, this was the one she would have chosen; it stood out for its perfect lines and complete lack of character. In the town it would have been very desirable, but amid the old country cottages and terraces it took on a rather ‘look at me’ quality.

  Pakora returned to her vegetables, blowing the dust off some mushrooms, and Hettie and Tilly made their way down Bugs Anderton’s perfectly straight concrete path. The door was plain except for the knocker, an elaborate affair polished within an inch of its life and made in the shape of a thistle, a clear nod towards Bugs’s ancestors. Hettie raised her paw to the knocker, only to be thwarted by an early response from Bugs herself who opened the door and beamed at her visitors.

  ‘Miss Bagshot! What a lovely surprise, and your friend, too. Welcome, welcome, welcome. Please come in.’

  Hettie and Tilly trod carefully on her perfect cream carpet and followed their host down the hall. Bugs ushered them into her sitting room, which – following the trend of the hallway – was also very cream. Somewhat radically, the sofa and two fireside chairs teetered on beige but the antimacassars were a perfect match with the carpet. The only real flash of colour was Bugs herself: the combination of ginger hair and a duck egg blue trouser suit was very striking indeed, if striking was the right word.

  ‘Please sit down and make yourselves at home. I was about to take my afternoon tea. May I tempt you to a salmon sandwich and a shortbread finger?’

  Feeling awkward but not wanting to disappoint, Hettie and Tilly nodded in unison and Bugs glided from the room, leaving them to wonder exactly what they’d got themselves into. Hettie struggled from her mac, laying it across the arm of the sofa, and Tilly responded by removing her woolly hat and undoing the top button of her cardigan. ‘It’s a bit scary in here,’ she said, looking for somewhere to hide her hat so that the rainbow effect wouldn’t offend the décor. ‘Even the pictures are sepia.’

  Hettie studied the framed landscape over the fireplace. It was a harvest scene of cats gathering hay, with mountains in the distance, a small farmhouse, and an old tractor pulling a cart. Hettie marvelled at just how many shades of cream and beige the artist had used to create the painting, and it came as no surprise to her that the work was signed ‘B. Anderton’. The alcove next to the fireplace sported a photograph of a rather beautiful old cottage with a thatched roof; in the foreground, an elderly cat in a long dress and mop cap smiled out from the picture.

  The arrival of the hostess trolley put an end to Hettie’s art appraisal. Unlike most of its kind, this trolley didn’t squeak and seemed easy to manoeuvre; like its owner, it sailed across the thick-pile cream carpet as if on air.

  ‘Ah, I see you appreciate a country scene, Miss Bagshot,’ said Bugs, parking the trolley next to the sofa. ‘I find them so colourful and invigorating – just the thing to cheer us up on these cold winter days. The old cottage you’re looking at was here before I had my house built – not at all what I was looking for, so I had it knocked down and utilised the plot to its best advantage.’

  Hettie couldn’t resist sharing a look with Tilly as Bugs prepared china cups decorated with refreshingly pink rosebuds; the tea plates matched, but it was hard to make a judgement on the teapot as it was swathed in a beige tea cosy embellished with cream embroidery. It occurred to her that the trolley had been prepared in advance as if visitors were expected. The first two tiers of the cake stand were filled with perfectly cut salmon sandwiches, garnished with watercress, and on the bottom there was an array of sugar-dusted shortbread.

  Bugs passed the plates round and followed with the cake stand. Tilly took the sandwich closest to her for fear of upsetting the display, and Hettie did the same. Then came cream serviettes and finally the tea.

  ‘I should tell you, Miss Bagshot, that I was expecting you to call,’ said Bugs, replacing her cup on its saucer. ‘Lavinia telephoned me and said you were looking into the circumstances of her aunt’s death. She was rather upset, and seemed to think that you regarded her as your number one suspect.’

  Hettie absent-mindedly reached for another sandwich. ‘I’m afraid that everyone is a suspect at this stage in the case. There is a considerable list of cats who might have wanted to harm Mavis Spitforce, but – from her behaviour when I met her this morning – Lavinia has to be a favourite, which is why I wanted to speak with you.’

  Playing for time, Bugs busied herself in pouring more tea and piling Tilly’s plate with sandwiches. Suddenly, she abandoned her hostess role and sat down in one of the fireside arm chairs. ‘Miss Bagshot, my dear friend Mavis had been concerned for some time about her safety. She seemed to think that she was in danger, and told me that she had uncovered a secret to do with her family. She was even thinking of moving in with that ghastly Peggledrip creature because she didn’t feel safe in her own home any more.’

  Tilly crammed the sandwiches into her mouth and pulled her notepad and pencil out of her cardigan pocket as Hettie began her questioning. ‘When did Mavis tell you all this?’

  ‘After the Friendship Club meeting last week. I went back to her house afterwards, and she asked me if I would witness some papers. It was awful, really, as they turned out to be copies of her will.’

  ‘Two copies?’ asked Hettie, throwing caution and cream carpet to the wind as she dunked a shortbread finger in her tea. Bugs nodded. ‘Did you see what she did with the wills after you’d witnessed them?’

  ‘No. They were still on her kitchen table when I left.’

  ‘And did you have any idea what was in the will?’

  ‘Not really. She didn’t discuss it.’

  ‘What about her relationship with Lavinia? Had that changed in any way recently?’

  Bugs looked thoughtful, as if trying to make her mind up about something, and the pause gave Tilly time to reach for a shortbread and Hettie to revisit the last two sandwiches. ‘Lavinia is … how shall I say this … a difficult cat. She’s talented, intelligent and a wonderful teacher, but she has a cruel, spiteful streak about her if challenged. As I’m sure you know, Mavis brought her up because her own mother was unable to cope. She showered her with books, educated her and prepared her for the world of work. She even got her a job at the village school here in Much-Purring. The problem was a local boy cat – a different culture altogether, if you know what I mean.’ Hettie hadn’t the slightest idea what Bugs meant, but felt it best not to interrupt and hoped that all would become clear. ‘Mavis asked me to keep an eye on Lavinia and let her lodge with me during the school terms, which didn’t go down very well with Lavinia or with the boy. He suddenly started staying with his great aunt Pakora next door so that he could see Lavinia more often.’

  ‘You mean Pakora Dosh?’ Hettie clarified, pleased that the penny had finally dropped. ‘So who was the boy?’

  ‘Bhaji Dosh – Balti and Rogan’s boy. Anyway, Mavis found out that Lavinia was still seeing him and washed her paws of her niece for several weeks. She mov
ed all Lavinia’s things out of her house – she brought most of them here, actually – and turned her old bedroom into a box room so that she couldn’t go back.’

  ‘How did Lavinia feel about that?’

  ‘She was furious. Mavis had always promised her the house in Whisker Terrace, and to make matters worse, she found out that Bhaji had been promised to a very pretty Asian cat who works for Masala Dosh in Southwool.’

  ‘Why do you think Mavis took against the friendship between Bhaji and Lavinia? The Doshes are a very rich and highly respected family, after all.’

  ‘I don’t know. Like I said, I think it was cultural differences.’

  Hettie could see that there was nothing more to be gained from that particular line of questioning, so she decided to go for the jugular. ‘Miss Anderton – could you tell me what you were doing on the evening of Halloween? Just for the record, obviously.’

  ‘I was here at home, preparing some notes for the Friendship Club.’

  ‘And Lavinia?’

  ‘She was away up at the school. They had a ghouls and pumpkins party, and I made some of the costumes for it. I went to my bed early, so I’m not sure what time she got back.’

  Hettie shot a look at Tilly. ‘What sort of costumes did you make?’

  Bugs stood up and crossed the room to a wicker basket. Lifting the lid, she pulled out a cloak of orange silk. ‘Several like this for the pumpkins, and white cloaks for the ghouls. Delirium Treemints helped – she made witches’ hats and masks out of some black felt that she had. Pakora got the silk for us – one of the “ask no questions” special deals that we are always most grateful for.’

  Tilly and Hettie stared at the orange silk and knew that they had found the maker of the cloak in which Mavis Spitforce’s body had been wrapped. Hettie rose from the sofa, giving Tilly’s cardigan a tug to signal that their visit was over. She took up her mac and rescued Tilly’s hat, which had found its way under one of the tea trolley’s wheels.

  ‘Miss Anderton, you have been very helpful. We may need to speak with you again, so would it be possible to have your telephone number in case I think of anything else?’

  ‘I’ll give you my card,’ Bugs said, reaching into a large cream handbag which was parked on the floor by her armchair. ‘Please take some shortbread for your journey. I make it most days. It’s a little bit of bonny Scotland that I can’t seem to shake off.’

  Hettie and Tilly thanked Bugs for tea and said their goodbyes, retracing their footsteps past Pakora Dosh’s stores and on through the village to where they had left Bruiser and Scarlet. Bruiser had made himself comfortable out of the November chill in the sidecar and was fast asleep under a blanket, but the lure of a shortbread finger soon brought him to his senses. Refreshed and ready for the road, he helped Hettie and Tilly aboard and was preparing to mount the bike when Jacob Surplus appeared from behind an old yew tree that bordered church land.

  ‘Oh no, not again,’ groaned Hettie as the ancient ecclesiastic bore down on her, and Tilly glanced curiously at her.

  ‘Thou shalt reap what though shalt sow,’ the vicar intoned. ‘The day of reckoning is but a prayer away. Repent and confess, I say to you, so that you may enter His kingdom cleansed and purified.’

  Tilly threw the blanket over her head and burrowed into her seat for warmth. Hettie stood up in the sidecar, wondering why she should have to repent over a salmon sandwich and a shortbread finger. ‘Could I just stop you there?’ she said as Jacob Surplus launched himself into an upbeat version of the twenty-third psalm. ‘I am investigating a rather unpleasant murder which may be connected in some way to a crime that happened a very long time ago.’

  Jacob stopped his singing and stared at Hettie through watery eyes. ‘He’s back, then. I told her not to meddle. Let sleeping cats lie lest they rise up against their tormentors.’

  Although she was becoming deeply annoyed by Jacob Surplus and his religious riddles, Hettie was intrigued by what he was trying to say and attempted to gain some clarity. ‘Who has come back? And who was meddling?’

  Jacob looked to his left and then to his right before answering. ‘Thaddeus, come to claim another lamb for the flock buried beneath the earth. All Hallows Eve, the day of the dead.’

  ‘And the meddler?’ Hettie persisted.

  ‘Dead,’ said Jacob, looking to the heavens.

  ‘Mavis Spitforce?’

  Jacob Surplus smiled. ‘Ah, the peace that comes with understanding, but first the violence. You must come and see for yourself. Tomorrow at three, perhaps?’

  Hettie was bewildered and confused, but concerned enough to accept the half-hearted invitation. Jacob melted away into the churchyard and Bruiser, looking just as bewildered as she was, kicked Scarlet into life. Hettie sat back down in the sidecar next to Tilly, who was recovering from a bout of giggling, and the three cats sped off towards the town. The daylight was fast disappearing and an already cold November day was turning icy. Bruiser took more care on the twists and turns of the road and had slowed down considerably by the time they reached the outskirts, giving Hettie and Tilly the chance to take a good long look at the Peggledrip house.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Hettie, forcing the lid of the sidecar back to let in a rush of cold air. ‘There’s something in that tree.’

  Bruiser applied the brakes and the motorbike went into a skid, but he controlled it sufficiently to bring them to a standstill outside the gates to Peggledrip House. Hettie leapt from the sidecar and set off back down the road with Bruiser and Tilly following on behind. She had only gone a short distance before she stopped and stared in disbelief, rubbing her eyes to stem the hot tears of anger which fell uncontrollably, leaving large splashes down the front of her mac. Bruiser and Tilly caught up with her, and all three of them looked on in silence at the horror before them.

  The tree was tall, part of the substantial gardens belonging to the Peggledrip house, and the few leaves and berries which still clung to it marked it out as an elder. Bruiser was the first to speak. ‘Why don’t you two wait in the sidecar while I sort this out? I’ll ’ave to find a ladder from somewhere. There’s an old orchard at the back of the house – we used to play there, stealin’ apples and stuff, and there’s bound to be a ladder round there.’

  Hettie nodded in agreement. Bruiser took off over the boundary fence and disappeared round the back of Peggledrip House, and she tightened the belt on her mac as if that would give her strength. Sadly, she looked down at Tilly, who was still staring at the tree. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do. I need you to be very brave. I’ll meet Bruiser at the tree if you’ll go and fetch Irene Peggledrip. She needs to know about this – if she doesn’t know already, by fair means or foul.’

  Hettie set off back down the road, coaxing Tilly along by her cardigan. The latch on the gates to Peggledrip House gave way easily, and they opened with a resounding clank. The two cats made their way up a neglected carriage driveway, and the double-fronted house eventually revealed itself; it appeared to be in darkness, but – on closer inspection – there was a glimmer of light peeping through a curtain from one of the windows at the side of the house. Hettie pushed Tilly towards the front door. ‘Just tell her something dreadful has happened in her garden. Don’t tell her what – just get her out here.’ Tilly set off on her mission, and Hettie strode across the lawn towards the elder tree.

  By the time she reached the tree, Bruiser was approaching from the back of the house with a ladder. Looking more closely, Hettie could see that the figure hanging from the branch had been hoisted up there; the rope used had been tied around the trunk lower down to keep the body in place. The eyes were almost out of their sockets, the tongue – bitten and black – hung loosely out of the side of the mouth. The mailbag had been placed over its owner’s head and hung around her neck like a grotesque bib. This was progress of sorts, thought Hettie, doing her best to hold herself together; at least Teezle Makepeace could be crossed off Tilly’s list of suspects.

  Bruiser secured t
he ladder against the tree but Hettie stopped him from going any further. ‘I want Irene Peggledrip to see her before we bring her down. Tilly’s fetching her now.’ Looking back at the house, she could make out a lantern swinging wildly as it progressed across the lawn. Yellow wellingtons manifested themselves first, followed by the great coat and crowned by the Cossack hat; Tilly looked very small against the towering, flapping vision of Irene Peggledrip.

  ‘Miss Bagshot! Whatever is amiss on such a night? I was engaged in a rather hot-tempered game of backgammon with Crimola. She always has to win you see and …’

  The medium was stopped in her tracks as she stared up at the body of Teezle Makepeace, motionless and silvered in the strengthening moon light. ‘I must apologise,’ she said, sinking to her knees.

  For a moment Hettie thought she was going to get a confession, but Irene Peggledrip threw her arms around the tree and hugged it. ‘I’m so very sorry you’ve been put through all this. Please give the sprites my very best wishes.’

  There were moments when Hettie felt the need to stand outside herself and assess the increasingly bizarre situations in which she found herself; it was a useful trick, a bit like watching a particularly bad late night film on TV. The scene before her now bore no resemblance to anything remotely normal; Irene Peggledrip clearly inhabited a parallel universe where the indignation of trees trumped the strangled cries of an overweight post-cat. Irene struggled to her feet, satisfied that the tree bore her no lasting malice. ‘I’d say about ten o’clock last night. I’ll have to check with Crimola, but she didn’t die here.’

  Hettie marvelled at the certainty of Irene Peggledrip’s words and didn’t even bother to question them. She stared back up at the lifeless figure of Teezle Makepeace while Bruiser set about untying the knot from around the tree, then climbed the ladder to steady the weight as Teezle was lowered gently to the ground. Looking carefully at the body, Hettie could see that Teezle had been strangled by a piece of wire which had bitten into her neck; as Irene Peggledrip had suggested, she had obviously died before being displayed in such a horrific manner. The good news, if there was any good news, was that Teezle’s death must have been quick and efficient, but why would anyone go to such lengths to kill her and then remove her body to a place which could so easily be seen from the road? It was as if the killer wanted to be noticed, to have their work appraised, and it had been the same with Mavis Spitforce: the crime scene there had been staged to look like a very bad joke.