The Ghost of Christmas Paws

by Mandy Morton

  ‘What about the Bunns?’ asked Hettie, trying a different route. ‘Did you get on well with them?’

  Loveday’s eyes flicked to the rum bottle and then back to Hettie. ‘Well, Saffron an’ me started up there together. They was lookin’ to replace Lamorna, who’d taken off with Absalom Tweek, so we both went up for the interview an’ Mr Bunn took a fancy to Saffron an’ said I could stay as well. Me an’ Saff was good friends, an’ we ’ad a good larf up there for a bit till the murders – then it all changed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, we was all a bit shook up an’ frightened by Christmas. She was no picture to look at, an’ you could tell when she was around on account of the smell – fish, that’s what it was, an’ she left puddles on the floor, puddles an’ seaweed, strands an’ strands of the stuff. We all tried to get on with the work but Saff ’ad changed. She’d got closer to Mr Bunn, if you know what I mean. She’d gone up in the world, too good to talk to me. I seemed to be doin’ most of ’er work in the end. She’d found a good place for ’erself, but not what I’d call ’appy.’

  ‘Why not?’ Hettie coaxed.

  Loveday considered her next sentence, wondering if she’d already said too much. Tilly – poised with her pencil – beamed at her to show she was among friends, and Loveday decided to answer the question. ‘I used to ’ear ’er sobbing in ’er quarters. My little room was next to theirs. Mr Bunn liked ’er to keep ’erself to ’erself, an’ if ’e caught ’er gossiping she’d suffer for it. ’E can be violent if roused. I’ve seen ’im pinch ’er arms till ’er fur fell out. That’s why I left – ’e’d become like a cat with too much power an’ ’Er Ladyship just let ’im get on with it. My nerves was all I lived on, an’ cleaning up after Lord Willmott was the final straw.’

  ‘What about Her Ladyship? Did you get on well with her?’

  Loveday smiled for the first time, as if the sun had broken through the clouds. ‘She was lovely to us all. She’d come down to the kitchen and pass the time of day, she’d organise day trips up Penzance and give us spendin’ money. She always asked after our families, and if anyone was taken bad she’d send flowers from ’er garden and fruit from the fruit ’ouse so they’d get better quicker – before Miss Tamsyn, that is. She loved Miss Tamsyn, an’ took it bad. She tried to put a brave face on it an’ go about ’er business, even tried to keep Lord Willmott on the right side of things, but these days I think she’s just ’ad enough. Never see ’er in the village any more. It’s almost like she’s keepin’ ’erself a prisoner up there, an’ if you’ve seen Christmas Paws then I reckon ’Er Ladyship’s goin’ the same way as the rest of the Crabstocks.’

  Hettie nodded to Tilly, signalling that the interview was over. They had more than enough to ponder on, and a deep tiredness had suddenly come over her. She realised that neither of them had slept properly since they’d arrived in Porthladle, and a couple of hours of uninterrupted rest just might help to sharpen their wits. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and according to the curse it was likely that it would be the day that the last of the Crabstocks would be struck down. Something had to be done, but Hettie was too tired even to consider what that might be.

  Sooty, hearing that Loveday’s account of her days up at the manor was over, came back into the bar. True to his word, he collected the rum bottle and moved to fill Loveday’s tumbler as a reward for her cooperation, but Loveday swiftly moved to cover the glass with her paw. ‘That’s kind of you, Sooty, but I think I’ll go through to the kitchen an’ give your cupboards a good turn-out. I feel better than I’ve done for months, like some cat’s lifted a barrel of dabs off me shoulders. I’ve no need for a drink. In fact, I fancy a nice cup of tea.’ Sooty stared in astonishment, a little unsure of what he was hearing. Before heading for the kitchen, Loveday turned to Hettie and Tilly. ‘I ’ope you can ’elp ’Er Ladyship. She don’t deserve to be taken by Christmas Paws. She’s the only good thing about Crabstock Manor. The rest of it is sheer evil.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Back in their room, Hettie and Tilly threw off their clothes and clambered into their twin beds. Within seconds, they were both fast asleep. Seemingly dead to the world, it took several polite knocks on their door from Sooty Perkins to rouse them three hours later. Tilly padded across the floor wrapped in a blanket and opened the door to find a lunch tray piled high with fish-finger sandwiches and a mountain of crisps. ‘Lovely!’ she murmured to herself as she settled the feast onto the table by the window. The next job – waking Hettie – was a little more difficult. It was a task that Tilly had mastered very early in their friendship, but it always proved a delicate operation. She had the fish fingers on her side, though, and slipped one of them out of a sandwich to lay on Hettie’s pillow, only an inch away from her nose, then stood back to watch the result. First came a slight vibration of her whiskers; then a bout of twitching nostrils, followed swiftly by one eye opening to let the light in. Satisfied that the fish finger had done the trick, Tilly busied herself making two mugs of tea as Hettie gradually re-entered the world of the living – which was more than could be said for the fish finger.

  Sitting up, Hettie cleaned the remaining breadcrumbs from her whiskers and stretched. ‘Is it late?’ she asked, pulling her jumper on and exchanging the cosy warm bed for a chair in the window, then helping herself to a pawful of crisps.

  Tilly brought the mugs of tea over and squinted across to the clock tower. ‘Either three o’clock or a quarter past twelve. It’s hard to say from here.’

  Hettie launched into a fish-finger sandwich, allowing the butter to run unchallenged down her chin and onto her jumper. Tilly took up a sandwich and proceeded to lift the top slice of bread off so that she could cram as many crisps in before replacing the lid. Opening her mouth as wide as it would go, she took a healthy bite and closed her eyes to enjoy the sheer heaven of bread, crisps, butter and fish fingers, eventually washed down with a mug of milky tea. Satisfied, and covered in butter, they cleaned and preened for some time, enjoying the ritual and relaxing for the first time since they’d arrived in Porthladle – but the Crabstock Manor case required an injection of urgency, and both of them knew it.

  Hettie pulled off her butter-stained jumper and selected an outfit of clean but slightly crumpled clothes from the suitcase – a pair of business slacks and a bright red polo-neck jumper to keep the cold out. Seeing that Hettie was going for a seasonal look, Tilly chose her festive cardigan in bright red with snow cats on the pockets. It was her best present from last Christmas, and she had worn it well into April before Hettie suggested that she should put it away for a few months. She completed her look with a pair of bright green woolly socks, ready now to face the day and whatever it may throw at them.

  Once they were settled in their window seat, Hettie asked Tilly to run through her notes and observations on Loveday Whisk, then sat staring out to sea deep in thought. ‘It seems to me that the answer lies with Lady Crabstock-Hinge,’ she said eventually, and Tilly had given up trying to correct her. ‘We have to ask ourselves what happens when and if she dies? We’re told she’s the last of her line so who gets the manor? Three of her siblings have been murdered, none of those deaths could ever be described as accidents, and discounting a very convenient family curse, there must be a cat or cats to link all those murders together, so let’s jot down some suspects.’

  Tilly immediately took up her pad and pencil. Choosing a clean page, she wrote ‘SUSPECTS’ and underlined it three times, nodding to Hettie when she was ready to begin. ‘The Bunns are an obvious favourite, so put both of them down. They had opportunity and access, and they’re horrible anyway. Loveday Whisk is an outsider and so is Sooty Perkins; they both worked up at the manor and had the run of the place, but I wouldn’t put my money on either of them. Then, of course, there’s Lady Crabstock herself. I could understand her wanting to get rid of her brothers, especially Willmott – she can’t have taken too kindly to being married off to Celibate Hinge.’

  �
�Singe!’

  ‘But why would she kill her younger sister? It’s not like she was in her way,’ Hettie continued, oblivious to the interruption. ‘And if she did murder them all, why would she ask us to sort it out?’

  Tilly added Lady Crabstock to her list and looked up. ‘Aren’t we missing the most important suspect? You haven’t mentioned Christmas Paws yet.’

  ‘To be honest, I was trying to avoid her altogether. If she is hanging round the manor with some old grievance, frightening cats now and again, that’s one thing – but gouging eyes out and taking up pineapples and kitchen knives to defend her honour from beyond the grave is almost too much to swallow.’

  ‘But we did see her, and she was horrid,’ insisted Tilly.

  Hettie conceded the point. ‘OK, stick her down with the rest of them. Well I never! Take a look at that.’

  Tilly followed the direction of Hettie’s paw just in time to see Hevva and Saffron Bunn struggling up the coast road under the weight of one of the biggest Christmas trees she’d ever seen. ‘Looks like they’re celebrating after all. That must have cost a fortune.’

  Hettie agreed. ‘I dare say Her Ladyship’s got a few shillings put by from the family coffers, but she didn’t strike me as the big Christmas tree type when we met her.’

  ‘But Loveday said she was nice.’

  ‘Yes, that’s one of the many inconsistencies in this case. I really would have liked to have a proper conversation with her. She was obviously out of sorts yesterday, hiding behind all those net curtains. We didn’t even get a proper look at her. Maybe I should have been more polite, but coming all this way to be dismissed with only a pocket full of expenses is enough to make a witch spit.’

  Tilly giggled at her friend’s turn of phrase. She collected up their tea mugs and rinsed them in their sink, while Hettie continued on the theme of Lady Crabstock. ‘Most of the cats we’ve spoken to agree that she hasn’t been herself lately. Sooty says she’s been reclusive and doesn’t come to the village any more; Marlon Brandish has obviously noticed a change in her letter-writing output; and as for chucking letters out of her window – well, that really is an odd thing to do. If she didn’t want to leave her room, why didn’t one of the Bunns collect it for her?’

  ‘Because she didn’t want them to know about her calling us in, I suppose,’ said Tilly, having a light-bulb moment.

  ‘Exactly,’ Hettie agreed. ‘So let’s think about the Bunns and where they sit in all of this. We know they appear to be very protective towards Her Ladyship and they certainly seem to call the shots up at the manor. They both believe in the Christmas Paws nonsense, and Saffron seems convinced that the ghost is at the bottom of all the murders. They seem to be allowing the manor to fall down around their ears while they live the high life at Her Ladyship’s expense. They’re unwelcoming to strangers and even though we were expected they did their damnedest to keep us away from Lady Crabstock for as long as they could. And why all the warnings about locking our door at night? It didn’t stop Evergreen Flinch from reorganising our things at Jam Makers Inn; she just came through the wall, so surely a ghost as notorious as Christmas Paws wouldn’t be kept back by a locked door? There’s something missing from all of this. I get the feeling that now we’re supposedly on the train from Penzance heading home, things are very different up at Crabstock Manor – and whether Lady Crabstock needs our help or not, three cats have been horribly murdered and so far someone has got away with it.’

  ‘What do you think we should do next?’ asked Tilly. ‘It looks like being a Cornish Christmas for us if we’re going to try and solve the murders.’

  ‘Well, at least we have a nice place to stay, and Christmas dinner up at the Atlantic Inn is bound to be a high point. But we’ll have to return to Crabstock Manor before then, and without the Bunns knowing anything about it – which means we have to trust someone to help us get in there.’

  ‘I know he’s on the suspects list, but what about Sooty Perkins?’ Tilly suggested. ‘He’s been very helpful so far. Do you think we can trust him?’

  ‘I think we’ll have to. I wonder if the Bunns are going Christmas shopping? We could do with them being away from the manor for a bit so we can have a good look round. Maybe we could have another chat with Lady Crabstock once her bodyguards are out of the way. Let’s go and find Sooty. He might have some ideas on how we can get into the manor unnoticed.’

  They found him in the hotel bar, up to his neck in wrapping paper and Sellotape, and Tilly was particularly impressed with the swearing that accompanied his endeavours. He looked up as they joined him at the table. ‘Can’t find the end to the bloody tape. Not my thing, really, but I promised them up the Atlantic that I’d do these up for the party tonight. Marlon’s being Santa Claws again this year, and we’re ’avin a live band. Should be a good night if you’re looking for something to do to get you in the mood for Christmas, and the whole village will be turnin’ out for it.’

  Tilly clapped her paws with excitement. ‘I love a party! What sort of band are they having?’

  ‘They call themselves The Wooden ’Arts,’ replied Sooty. ‘Elvis lookalikes, although none of them can sing, but they make a lot of noise which is the main thing for a party. The drummer’s good when ’e’s not drinkin’, but the rest of them are what I’d call bloody terrible.’

  ‘Why don’t they book a good band for the party?’ asked Hettie, searching for the end to Sooty’s Sellotape.

  ‘No point ’avin a good band up there on a party night. They just need a band they can ’ave a good laarf at. As long as the ale flows, that’ll be a cracking night, an’ no need for serious music.’

  Sooty’s remarks reminded Hettie of her band days and how upset she had got when the crowd that had turned out to see her had talked and shouted through some of her finest songs, joining in on the choruses and turning her finely tuned performances into a free for all. Clearly, The Wooden Hearts had no such concerns.

  ‘Would it be the sort of party that the Bunns might come to?’ asked Hettie hopefully.

  ‘Hevva will be there. ’E comes to all the parties up the Atlantic. Struts around like lord of the manor, ’e does, an’ likes to be noticed. Saffron sometimes comes up but ’e don’t like ’er mixin’ with the rest of us, so ’e might make ’er stay behind at the manor.’

  It was Hettie’s turn to clap her paws together. ‘Perfect. I’m afraid we’ll have to give the party a miss, Sooty. We’ve got some work to do tonight. It’s a shame,’ she lied. ‘I’m sorry to miss The Wooden Hearts.’ Tilly caught on quickly, and although she was genuinely disappointed at missing out on an evening up at the Atlantic, she knew that they had much more pressing matters. ‘Would it be possible to borrow your map of the manor?’ asked Hettie, as Tilly assisted Sooty with his wrapping by holding her paw down on the paper.

  ‘Of course you can, although it’s a bit out of date. That map was drawn up in the old glory days when Cornish manor ’ouses was some of the finest in the country.’ Sooty reached behind the bar and returned with the plan. ‘There you are, but don’t you go doin’ anything dangerous. Hevva Bunn don’t take prisoners. ’E can be a nasty piece of work at the best of times.’

  After seeing the Bunns in action, Hettie and Tilly had no doubt that a planned assault on the manor would be dangerous. They were out of their depth in a land where survival was the only true force, and logic had very little to do with anything.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  They spent the afternoon looking round some of the village shops, buying small gifts for each other to exchange on Christmas Day. Hettie also decided to invest in a pair of torches, thinking that they may need them later. It was cold but sunny, and the village bustled with festive cheer. A brass band had set up on the harbour head, conducted by a bespectacled cat who had to stand on several fish boxes to be seen by his players. A tractor was blocking most of the road, while several enthusiastic villagers decorated it with holly and bright red streamers; the tractor pulled a small cart boas
ting an impressive throne, and was soon to be inhabited by Marlon Brandish, who was doing his best to squeeze into last year’s Santa Claws costume. For some reason, the costume seemed to have shrunk, and only the cats around him – tugging and pulling as hard as they dare – suspected that it was due to his increase in size.

  The bakers was the busiest shop on the harbour, its windows piled high with seasonal treats: mince pies; Christmas puddings; chocolate logs; novelty snow cat biscuits; and several beautifully decorated Christmas cakes. Hettie and Tilly joined the queue, hoping to stock up on some treats and feeling a little homesick for their own town and Betty and Beryl Butter’s pie and pastry shop. As they emerged, laden down with some of their favourites, the brass band struck up with a well-known carol, causing a little confusion for those who had gathered round to sing; the trombones appeared to be playing quite a different tune to the trumpet section, and to make matters worse, the conductor hadn’t noticed and seemed to be waving his baton in a world of his own.

  The festive cacophony of sound became more pronounced when a group of suited and booted cats emerged from the Harbour Inn and began to sing sea shanties, accompanied by an elderly female cat on a Bontempi organ. The organist glared across the harbour at the brass band, and Hettie and Tilly watched with interest as the tension mounted and the battle of the Christmas entertainers reached fever pitch. The conductor was eventually toppled from his fish boxes by one of the more well-built members of the Crispy Cringles Male Cat Choir, but the onset of physical violence did nothing to dampen the festive spirit of the shoppers, who took sides and cheered along as teeth flew and ears were bitten.

  Unbeknown to Hettie and Tilly, the Porthladle Christmas Riot was an annual event, attracting cats from all over Cornwall, which explained why Tiffy Fluff – the well-known local broadcaster – was poised with microphone and camera, ready to rush her report into the teatime news. With choir and band licking their wounds, and the Bontempi and two tubas rescued from the muddy waters of the inner harbour, peace was restored and the entertainers trudged home, battle-sore and weary but determined to meet up later as friends at the Atlantic Inn’s party. Hettie lifted her nose in response to an unmistakable temptation. ‘Fish and chips,’ she said, looking about for the source of her interest. ‘There it is – let’s take some back to the hotel for tea.’