by Mandy Morton
Bruiser sauntered through from the yard with a borrowed copy of Biker’s Monthly under his arm, just in time to carry the fireworks in several large brown paper bags. They fitted nicely into the sidecar but there was no room for Hettie or Tilly, so it was agreed that Bruiser would run the fireworks home whilst the other two picked up fish and chips for lunch. Hettie had pointed out that they may need a hearty meal to sustain them during their afternoon at the Peggledrip house, and she received no argument from either Tilly or Bruiser.
Elsie Haddock’s Fish Emporium was almost as popular as the Butters’ pie and pastry shop. From opposite ends of the High Street, they served the townsfolk with premium quality foods and service. Elsie had been in fish all her life, and had jealously guarded a family recipe for crispy batter which brought cats from as far away as Southwool to dine – on or off the premises. ‘Dining in’ consisted of two small tables placed by the salt and vinegar shelf where, on cold and rainy days if you were lucky, you could sit and eat in the warm. Today, there was no chance: the shop was packed to the gills, as it always was on a Friday, and the tables had been pushed to one side to allow more space for the queue of salivating customers. Elsie stood at the helm of her empire, as broad as she was tall and swathed in chef’s battered and splattered whites, wielding her frying baskets with a precision to be gasped at. There was a remarkable intimacy between Elsie and her deep fat fryers, and even though her days were long and tiring, she had never entertained the prospect of taking on staff; in her darkest moments, she allowed the thought of another cat tampering with her built-in heat regulators to enter her charmed life, but mostly those unthinkable demons were kept at bay. She had also fought off the developing trend of menu expansion, sticking strictly to a choice of cod, her namesake Haddock, and the option of small or large chips; she had given in to the idea of homemade fish cakes, which were popular with kittens, but there was no chance of finding a pie or a saveloy anywhere on the premises.
In spite of its being a one-cat show, the queue moved swiftly. Hettie’s hunger reached fever pitch as the smell of freshly fried fish and chips engulfed her, and she eyed the newspaper parcels of successful customers with murderous intent as they swaggered out of the shop. At last, her turn came and she boldly delivered her request of cod and large chips, three times. Tilly stood poised at the salt and vinegar bar to add the condiments as Elsie slapped the still-sizzling cod and three generous shovels of chips into the middle of a sheet of newspaper. By coincidence, the paper was the edition of the Sunday Snout which carried the details of their triumphant Furcross case; Tilly hesitated to pour vinegar all over the picture of Hettie, but pushed on in the knowledge that they had several copies somewhere at home.
Armed with their precious cargo, they skipped from the fish shop and made short work of their walk home, where it would be true to say that Elsie Haddock’s fish and chips were despatched in less time than it took to boil a kettle.
‘Well, we can’t put Irene Peggledrip off any longer,’ sighed Hettie after a long and intense cleaning of paws and whiskers. ‘I’ll pop round and order pies for supper and meet you both by Scarlet.’ Hettie pulled her business mac from its hook and grabbed her warmest scarf; she left by the back door, only to return seconds later agitated and annoyed. ‘We won’t be going anywhere just yet. The alleyway is blocked. And you’ll never guess what’s bloody blocking it?’
Tilly exchanged a nervous look with Bruiser, who leapt into action. ‘Well, whatever it is I’ll fix it!’
Hettie and Tilly followed him out into the yard and the three cats peered down the alleyway that led to the High Street as a giant woolly monster scraped and shoved its way towards them. Tilly shrank back behind Hettie as Bruiser prepared for battle. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘All paws on deck. Let’s shove it back before it gets into the yard.’ He flung himself at the obstruction which was making very good progress along the passage, and Hettie and Tilly added their weight to his charge. The monster rebuffed them all by bouncing Bruiser backwards and creating a painful pile-up of claws and fur.
It was, in fact, Betty Butter who saved the day. Hearing the commotion as she placed a tray of bonfire buns in the bread oven, she bustled into the yard in time to stop Bruiser’s second assault on the monster. ‘Eee, there’s nowt ta be fearful of. It’s Lavender Stamp’s Mr Fawkes for the bonfire – ’e’s a beauty this year, she’s done us proud.’ No sooner had Betty explained than all became clear. The giant hand-knitted Guy Fawkes popped out of the alleyway and unfolded itself to its full glory, hotly pursued by Beryl Butter and Lavender Stamp, who had collectively given their stuffed hero the extra-large push required to finish the job.
Lavender was no stranger to knitted dolls. It was something she’d taken up many years ago after being jilted by Laxton Sprat, a rather handsome post-cat who had treated her badly and given her a nasty dose of fleas. Lavender’s mother, who ran the Post Office at the time, encouraged her daughter to take up knitting as therapy to help her get over her disappointment. Since then, Lavender had become obsessed with knitting male cats of every shape and size, creating her ideal companion out of wool and shunning any close contact with the real thing. The dolls were perfect in every detail, and Lavender shared her fireside with them during the long winter evenings. Those that turned out to be less successful were abandoned to a glass case in the Post Office and bore extortionate price tags; they were rarely sold, but gave Lavender’s customers something to focus on during the long haul to the counter. The fact that Laxton Sprat had caused all the trouble in the first place went a long way to explaining the animosity Lavender showed towards Laxton’s sister, Marmite; not only did she refuse to stock her ‘little books’ in the Post Office, but she had gone as far as to advise her not to darken the counter at all. Laxton Sprat had gone on to become a film director, getting an international reputation for dubious shorts; he rarely returned to the town, which was, as far as Lavender was concerned, a blessing.
Tilly looked up at the Guy in wonder. Now he was unfolded, she could admire his colourful clothes – his bright red jacket, royal blue trousers, and green shoes with golden buckles. ‘Oh, he’s lovely! It’s such a shame to put him on the bonfire.’ As if he were listening, the Guy nodded his head in tune with a gust of wind.
Hettie looked up at the sky. ‘It looks like rain. If Mr Fawkes gets wet, he won’t burn at all.’
Beryl agreed, and it was decided that an attempt should be made to wrestle the Guy into the hallway next to the bread ovens. Having delivered her prize, Lavender beat a hasty retreat back to the Post Office and Betty returned to the shop to deal with the lunchtime stragglers, leaving Beryl, Hettie, Tilly and Bruiser to wrestle the giant knit through the back door. There were several difficult moments before he was finally propped up in a sitting position next to the bread ovens; at one point, Beryl became wedged in the arms of Mr Fawkes in the doorway, and had it not been for Bruiser’s swift action, she might have been suffocated before the task was complete.
The four cats, ruffled and out of breath, congratulated themselves on a job well done. To celebrate, Beryl rescued the bonfire buns from the oven and handed them round just as there was a knock on the back door. Burning her paws on the hot bun, Hettie threw the door open to be confronted by a pile of newly stained wood and a round jovial cat with a delivery note. ‘Delivery from Prunes and Pots for Miss Butter,’ he said, forcing the note into Hettie’s paw.
Flushed from the oven, Beryl came forward. ‘Ah, Mr Prune! Thank you for fitting me in. Could you leave it down at the bottom of the garden?’ Mr Prune looked a little put out, knowing that his garden centre lorry was blocking the High Street, but the Butter sisters were good customers and deserved to be treated well. Bruiser took charge of the delivery and helped carry the assorted shapes and sizes of wood to the bottom of the garden while Hettie and Tilly made short work of the bonfire buns and reserved three steak and ale pies for supper, which Beryl promised to leave on their doorstep if they were late home.
CHAPT
ER TWELVE
The November fog was already forming by the time they reached the Peggledrip house. The earlier brightness of the day was gone, replaced by a dull, murky mist of fine rain. The old house stood like some long-forgotten mansion, lifeless and unwelcoming. Hettie sat for a moment staring up at it from the comfort of Scarlet’s sidecar, trying to imagine the day when a whole family had been slaughtered there with such violence. She wondered how much that had affected the house. Did death linger once the physical remains had been cleared away? Did the dead accept their lot, or did they return to inhabit a world which was happy to move on without them? Suddenly, she remembered what it was that had been nagging at her for days. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed, pulling the sidecar lid open and making Tilly jump. ‘Rogan Dosh! He was coming out of the driveway in his van. Bruiser had to swerve to miss him.’
Tilly cottoned on quickly. ‘Yes, that’s right. It was the day we found poor Teezle in the tree.’
‘Exactly!’ shouted Hettie, triumphantly helping Tilly out onto the driveway. ‘You’d need a van to shift a body, especially one the size of Teezle Makepeace. Come on! Let’s find out what Irene Peggledrip has to say for herself.’
Bruiser took their place in Scarlet’s sidecar, settling down with his magazine and a tartan rug to keep out the chill, while Hettie and Tilly climbed the steps to the front door. Hettie was about to lift the door knocker, which grimaced at her in a Marleyesque way, when the still air was permeated by a put-put coming down the driveway. Turning round in surprise, she witnessed the arrival of a pink scooter. The rider, complete with peaked skid lid, ballooned out with the force of the wind in her all-weather Pac a Mac, and applied her brakes just in time to miss taking out the rose border which fronted the house. Climbing off the machine, she rocked the vehicle back on its stabilisers and proceeded to divest herself of the scooter helmet which had so far concealed her identity.
‘Good grief!’ said Hettie, just loud enough for Tilly to hear. ‘It’s Beverages and Embroidered Kneelers.’
Tilly giggled as Delirium Treemints puffed her way up the steps to join them. ‘Oh Miss Bagshot, thank goodness you have only just arrived. Miss Peggledrip has engaged me on refreshments for the afternoon, and due to a slight mishap with Susie Cooper, I was running a bit late.’
Hettie smiled out of sympathy for the cat called Susie Cooper, not realising that Delirium was referring to a pale green tea service that had decided to leap off her kitchen dresser before she left home, delaying her as she swept up the broken pottery. Delirium collected pottery, which was just as well bearing in mind how often she broke it, and replacements were always welcome.
The door knocker received a mighty swing and Hettie was rewarded within seconds by the sound of a key being turned in the lock and a shooting back of bolts. The door opened to reveal Irene Peggledrip, clad in a long druid-like purple robe embellished with tiny circles of mirror glass and tied at the waist with a golden tasselled rope. To complete the necromantic effect, she wore a pair of curious slippers, bright yellow and turned up at the toes as if doubling back on themselves. Hettie resisted the hysterical laughter which rose in her throat, quickly disguising it as a cough, and Tilly stared in awe at the magical vision before her, pleased to have chosen the ‘in house’ colour for her cardigan.
Having achieved the desired effect, Irene Peggledrip welcomed her guests. ‘My dears, please come in out of the cold. How lovely to see you! Delirium, perhaps you could make your way through to the kitchen and prepare the afternoon tea. We’re using the melamine set to avoid breakages.’
Delirium looked relieved and blew down the hallway, disappearing into the back of the house and leaving Irene to entertain her guests. ‘Crimola will be joining us a little later in the parlour. Perhaps you’d like to come through to the library first? I have a lovely fire on the go in there and we can have a nice chat. Leave your coats on the pegs by the door.’
Hettie and Tilly removed their business macs but left their scarves on to look a little more dressed up and colourful for the occasion. They followed their host into a high ceilinged room with walls completely covered in books from top to bottom. A large fireplace was the only relief from the tomes, but even there the mantelpiece acted as an extra shelf. Tilly gasped in admiration at the different coloured spines, noting the wooden ladder on which a reader might glide up and down to her heart’s content, selecting and savouring the books on offer. She had seen the town’s chief librarian, Turner Page, shoot along the shelves on such a ladder in the old library before they closed it to build a car park. Hettie, who took very little interest in books, made a beeline for the fire and – at Irene’s invitation – settled herself in one of the leather armchairs close to the grate. Irene took the one opposite and Tilly sat between them on a small leather patchwork pouffe, decorated with elephants. She pulled her notebook from her cardigan pocket and waited for Hettie to begin her interrogation.
Surprisingly, it was Irene Peggledrip who asked the first few questions. ‘Miss Bagshot, are you any closer to finding the cat who murdered my dear friend Mavis?’
Hettie responded with the official line. ‘We have a number of strong suspects, and I’m convinced that the perpetrator will be revealed very soon.’
‘And what about that poor girl in my tree? Is she connected to Mavis’s death?’
Hettie felt able to answer this question in a more positive way. ‘I’m pleased that you’ve raised the issue of Teezle Makepeace. You see, the day we found her hanging from your tree was also the day that Rogan Dosh was seen coming out of your driveway in his van.’
Irene thought for a moment. ‘Well, that must have been on Wednesday – it’s my Indian curry night. First it’s backgammon with Crimola, then a lovely hot bath with essence of Amritsar, followed by one of Rogan and Balti’s TV suppers. I’m working my way through a boxed set of Bollywood greats at the moment. Of course, I didn’t get as far as the bath or the supper this week. I just didn’t have the heart after seeing that poor girl strung up in such a way.’
‘How do you receive your delivery from Rogan Dosh?’ asked Hettie. ‘Does he come to the front door or round the back?’
‘To the back door, of course. He parks his van at the side and knocks on the kitchen window – unless I’m out, in which case he leaves it all in the old dairy. But I was in on Wednesday when he came. He made me jump actually when he banged on the window. I hadn’t heard the van, you see. He was in a terrible hurry and wouldn’t stop for a cup of tea – he said he had some deliveries for his Aunt Pakora, and she doesn’t take prisoners.’
‘After the delivery, did you go out into the garden for any reason?’
‘No, it was a miserable day. I didn’t set foot out of the house until your friend here fetched me to come and see the body.’
‘So if Rogan had brought the body with him and strung it up in your tree, you wouldn’t have noticed?’ Hettie clarified, pressing home her point.
Irene Peggledrip was visibly shocked at the suggestion and stared down at her yellow Turkish slippers for several moments, deciding what to say next. As if a decision had arrived from nowhere, she rose from her chair and left the room, leaving Hettie and Tilly without a word of explanation. ‘Maybe Crimola has arrived,’ offered Tilly as her eyes did another appraisal of the bookshelves.
‘Who can say? But I think we had her rattled over the Rogan Dosh thing. She knows a lot more than she’s saying.’
Irene Peggledrip returned to the library in time to hear the end of Hettie’s sentence and joined in the conversation. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course – there are things I must tell you, secrets that are now covering up the truth. Like this, for instance.’ Irene held up a long piece of wire. ‘Cheese! You see?’
Hettie and Tilly exchanged a look that confirmed they were both ready to leave in a hurry if necessary. Irene, seeing that she had alarmed them, returned to her chair by the fire and placed the wire in Hettie’s paws. ‘I took this from around that poor girl’s neck before Shr
oud and Trestle removed her from the dairy. As you quite rightly said, she was strangled with it – but look at it more closely, and smell it.’
Hettie did as she was told, and had to agree that the wire carried a faint odour of cheese. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Peggledrip, but what are you saying? What has cheese got to do with it?’
Irene opened her mouth to respond, but it was Tilly who spoke first. ‘I’ve got it! It’s a cheese wire. Rogan Dosh uses one all the time in his shop for cutting cheese!’
Irene nodded her approval in Tilly’s direction and Hettie looked more closely at the wire before responding ‘Why did you decide to remove the wire from Teezle’s neck?’
‘It was Crimola. She was being spiteful over the backgammon, and after I’d won she flounced out of my head shouting “check the girl’s neck if you want to catch a murderer”.’
‘She actually said that to you?’
‘Oh yes, that’s what she’s like when she’s cross. She shows off, you see – tells me things I didn’t know and clears off without giving me any opportunity for clarification.’
Hettie was still having problems with the concept of Crimola. The evidence was beginning to build against Rogan Dosh, but why would he kill Teezle Makepeace? And then there was Mavis – what had she done to be killed in such a way? There was the issue of Bhaji and Lavinia, but murder seemed an extreme solution to that sort of problem. Hettie was determined to glean as much information as possible from Irene Peggledrip and decided to go right back to the beginning. ‘Miss Peggledrip, you say there are secrets which are covering up the truth – are they related to Mavis Spitforce?’