by Mandy Morton
Hettie nodded, trying to look interested. She dragged Tilly out of the van by her now overstretched best cardigan, hoping that she might take the strain off Digger Patch’s life story; at least Tilly would be pleased to meet the TV has-been, as she had read several of his books. Gently removing the wheelbarrow from Digger’s iron grip, Hettie wheeled it to the back of the van where Poppa was waiting to load up Miss Ping’s carefully wrapped parcels. ‘I think we should leave them in the brown paper,’ she whispered as he placed the last cat in the wheelbarrow, pleased to have fitted them all in.
‘There’s a side gate over there. I’ll wheel ’em through that way,’ Poppa said with a wink. He staggered across the drive, barging the gate open with the front of the wheelbarrow. One of the parcels dislodged itself and – in spite of Miss Ping’s sealing wax – burst open to reveal a beautifully striped paw, pointing back in the direction of the van as if it preferred Malkin and Sprinkle. Hettie climbed across the barrow, which was now wedged in the gateway, and folded the paw back into the parcel. Straightening her best mac, she led Poppa and the wheelbarrow through the garden and on towards the burial plots. Marcia Woolcoat was waiting beside a rather odd-looking character with only one hind leg, the other having been replaced by a hand-carved stump; he sported an eye patch, too, and was dressed as if he had just arrived from the Napoleonic Wars or a performance of HMS Pinafore. The day had already established itself as some sort of horrific dream sequence, so Hettie decided to go with the flow and stepped forward to be introduced.
‘This is Captain Silas Mariner, CBE,’ puffed Marcia Woolcoat, as if the title made her as special as the Captain. ‘He’s one of our oldest and most distinguished residents. Miss Hettie Bagshot from the … er … No. 2 Feline Detective Agency. And who might you be?’ Marcia asked, glaring at Poppa across the contents of Digger’s wheelbarrow. ‘Poppa Phene, sir,’ responded Poppa, saluting the old sea cat and instantly currying favour. Silas lurched across to Hettie and kissed her paw in gallant fashion, casting his good eye across the parcels that lay forgotten in the exchange of social niceties.
Hettie noticed that three small but beautifully decorated coffins were lined up by the empty graves. Knowing that lunch would be served at any moment, she signalled to Poppa to park the wheelbarrow next to them, ready to reunite Vita, Virginia and Pansy with their chosen eternal overcoats. But there was, of course, a problem: Hettie had no idea who was who or who went where, and the only person who could help was Marcia Woolcoat. Summoning up the necessary courage and patience, Hettie cleared her throat and set about the most difficult task of the day so far. ‘Miss Woolcoat, you may find this a little distressing but – as they are your clients – I wonder if you would be willing to sort the residents into the right caskets before we bury them? Unless you’re happy for us to take pot luck? I should warn you that their bodies have lost some of their former glory, or to be more specific their fur, but they still have nice faces. We could unwrap the heads so you can have a quick …’ Shocked, Marcia Woolcoat stepped back as if fleeing from an express train that was going to hit her anyway. The horror on her face was soon replaced by a substantial amount of Furcross mud, as she found herself prostrate and out for the count in Pansy Merlot’s open grave, with two and a half pairs of eyes staring down at her.
‘That’s a bit of a sod,’ said Poppa, while Hettie gasped at the thought of missing out on Marley Toke’s cold cuts. ‘I’ll fetch a rope from the van and climb down there to get her out. We’ll have to bring her round first to make sure she hasn’t hurt herself. Best not to move her if she has – it could do more damage.’
Hettie responded by grabbing the watering can that lay by the hedge and emptying its contents into the grave, hoping to bring Marcia Woolcoat to her senses. The mix of cold water and liquid manure did the trick: bewildered, coughing and spluttering, and – in her current position – looking like the Bride of Dracula in a mud-splattered lemon trouser suit, Marcia Woolcoat grabbed at Poppa’s rope and scrambled up the side of the grave. The assembled company tugged until her head finally appeared above ground, followed by a flailing collection of front and back legs, not necessarily in that order. Using the bottom of Hettie’s best mac to pull herself up from the ground, Marcia Woolcoat rose to her full height minus her dignity, just as a bell sounded from the main building to summon the faithful to lunch.
The sea captain assisted Marcia Woolcoat across the lawn and through the French windows to the safety of her own parlour, away from prying eyes, while residents queued in a disorderly fashion for the dining room, waiting for Marley Toke to lift her hatch. Digger Patch had abandoned Tilly to be first in the queue, and she now joined Hettie and Poppa by the three dead cats at the burial ground. Taking control, if only briefly, Hettie made an effort to scrape the mud from the hem of her mac and randomly sorted the dead cat parcels into the caskets. Poppa screwed down the lids and tipped them one by one into the open graves. ‘I think Digger Patch can fill them in, bad shoulder or not,’ Hettie said, looking across the lawn towards the dining room. ‘I’ve worked up quite an appetite with all this fresh air, and if we don’t get a move on, they’ll be onto seconds before we get a look in.’ She strode away from the graves followed by Tilly, who was puzzling over the lack of ‘stuff’ in the coffins, and Poppa, who had quite forgotten about the blocked sink on the edge of town. A good plumber is worth waiting for, though, and Poppa had run his business entirely on that basis and on the principle of a free lunch whenever he could get one.
The dining room at Furcross was filling up by the time Hettie and Co. reached it, so Tilly was dispatched to bag a table while Hettie and Poppa made their approach on the canteen hatch. Before they even had a chance to take in the menu, a voice boomed out from behind a large vat of piccalilli.
‘Stay where you are so’s me can take a good, big look at you! Is it really Miss Hettie and dat Poppa boy, all de way from me travellin’ days?’ The voice belonged to a large black cat, wider than she was tall, who emerged waving a ladle as if she were conducting an orchestra. ‘Oh my days! How you both doin’? I’m hearin’ you turned detective, Lord take us,’ said Marley Toke, pointing the ladle at Hettie and throwing a large dollop of piccalilli down the front of her best mac, where it contrasted with the mud already drying nicely on the hem.
‘Marley! I thought you’d gone back to Jamaica after the salmonella incident. I was so pleased when Marcia Woolcoat told me you worked here. It’s been years, but you haven’t changed a bit,’ Hettie enthused as she held out her plate and Tilly’s for Poppa to pile high with cold chicken and boiled ham. ‘We must have a catch up when this case is over,’ she promised, wanting to stay and chat but feeling the call of the feast that awaited her. Poppa, who was now concentrating on his own plate, passed up the offer of the piccalilli but invited Marley to chew over old times at the Cat and Fiddle at the weekend, recognising his chance to score some high-grade Jamaican catnip. The cook smoked it as part of her religion and sprinkled it into most of her dishes when no one was looking; her success on the festival circuit had been greater than most of the bands who performed, and her mobile smoking teepee was one of the most sought-after attractions at any three-day event – although after the first day very few could remember how the rest of it had gone. Poppa and Hettie both had fond memories of the time, although neither could quite access them.
Tilly had found a table by the window, and looked round at the eager band of residents tucking into Marley Toke’s lunchtime offerings. Those who had partaken of the Jamaican piccalilli were altogether more uplifted than the rest, she noticed, and, as the lunch progressed, a party atmosphere ensued, with one particular table bursting into song. It occurred to Tilly that had she not landed on her paws as Hettie’s best friend and maid of all work, she would have been quite happy to spend her remaining days at Furcross.
Hettie and Poppa approached with laden plates, while most of the diners clambered back to Marley Toke’s hatch to receive ‘afters’.
‘Lovely,’ purred
Hettie, springing into her chair and pulling her plate as close as she could to the edge of the table. Poppa, who had availed himself of several slices of bread, was busy making sandwiches by cramming as much cold meat into them as would decently fit.
‘Why are you doing that?’ Tilly asked, watching him wrap the sandwiches in paper napkins and deposit them in as many pockets as his work overalls allowed.
‘It’s an old roadie trick I learnt when I was on tour with the bands,’ he explained through a mouthful of chicken. ‘We were never too sure when we’d get to eat again, so if we landed a good canteen meal before the gig, we grabbed as much as we could for later. This cold meat is far too good for just one meal.’ His trick started a chain reaction around the table, and Tilly followed suit by forcing several slices of boiled ham into her cardigan pockets. Hettie, having eaten most of her plateful, eyed up the vegetarian option of cheese and biscuits which had been abandoned on the next table before reaching out and depositing it in her best mac pocket. The act of theft met with some resistance, as she discovered that this particular pocket already held the half eaten tuna melt from Poppa’s van, now only fit for a desperate seagull. With sleight of paw, she swapped the cheese and biscuits for the tuna melt, leaving the offending and by now offensive item on the table just as Digger Patch returned with a large helping of Jamaican jam roly-poly, smothered in a flood of custard.
With the savoury foods either eaten or stowed away, Poppa went to pick up their puddings: Tilly preferring just custard – Jamaican or otherwise – and Hettie requiring lots of everything. When they were settled once again and the edge of Hettie’s hunger had abated, their conversation finally turned to the Furcross mystery and what to do next. The Jamaican custard seemed to have inspired an upbeat and rather creative view of the case, especially from Hettie.
‘Well, as far as I can see, it’s case solved and no harm done. Marcia Woolcoat has her dead cats back and – with the three of us working the case – I reckon she owes us seven pounds plus a fiver for a quick result. I’m also going to put in for my mac to be dry-cleaned and a gallon of petrol for Poppa’s van.’
Poppa smiled in agreement as he wiped the last of the custard off his chin, but Tilly shook her head in a troubled way which stopped Hettie in her tracks.
‘The thing is,’ she began, folding her napkin and adding it to the boiled ham in one of her cardigan pockets, ‘we haven’t really got to the bottom of it, have we? There are still questions to be answered. Who stole the dead cats in the first place? Why and how did they do it? Where is the stuff that was buried with them? And if they’re not caught, will they do it again?’
‘Well that’s all sounding a bit difficult,’ said Hettie. ‘It’s not like we’re the bloody FBI or something. We wouldn’t know where to start, and I don’t think the Feline Bureau of Investigation would be interested anyway, so why should we worry? I think we should collect our fee and move on to the next case.’
Poppa felt that although he was not officially part of Hettie’s latest business idea, he should add to the debate before things got awkward. ‘If Marcia Whatsit just wanted the dead cats back, then everything’s cool and we can move on – but if she asked you to solve the case, that’s a different matter. By the sounds of it, you still have a way to go. Maybe you should go and have a word with her.’
Tilly nodded in agreement, but couldn’t help adding one more question. ‘What is our next case?’
Hettie – flustered and suffering a small bout of indigestion – shifted around the subject before admitting that there was at present no sign of another case. On that note, she set off towards Marcia Woolcoat’s parlour to see how the land lay, leaving Poppa and Tilly to take a good look at the Furcross residents as they settled to their afternoon naps or recreations before tea.
Hettie found Marcia Woolcoat lying prostrate on her sofa with what looked like a damp tea towel across her eyes. The lemon trouser suit was a shadow of its former self and had been deposited on the floor by Marcia’s well-stocked cocktail cabinet; instead, she was now swathed in a cerise housecoat, boasting puff sleeves and a neckline cut slightly too low. Her ginger fur stuck out in tufts through the gaps where front buttons just about hung on to her modesty, and Hettie was reminded of something that had inadvertently come ashore at Southwool one summer and had taken three tractors to return to the sea; in fact, it had put her off fish for a fortnight and she’d cashed in her tickets at Marine World for a cream tea and a round of clock golf. Wishing she had given the Jamaican custard a miss, she tried to focus on the reality of the current situation as the tea towel dropped from Marcia Woolcoat’s forehead.
‘Oh, Miss Bagshot! What is to be done? We at Furcross are not used to such nightmares during daylight hours. We have turned from a respectable home for slightly older cats into a moving picture set for Shawn of the Dead.’ Hettie admired her choice of words, bearing in mind how little fur was left on the three dead residents. Slumped in the chair opposite, she let Miss Woolcoat continue while she tried to think of a plan of attack to implement when the tirade was finished. ‘I fear that I am ruined. How can I ever live this down? No cat in their right mind would sign up to Furcross after this. I set out to provide a safe and comfortable haven – the best food, comfortable beds, elite outings, satellite television, an open house policy for visiting relatives, and a kind and humanitarian way out for those who wish it. And now it seems we are not even safe in our graves!’
The diatribe had been climbing in pitch for some time, and Hettie noticed that Marcia Woolcoat’s fur had gone from ginger to a shade that matched her housecoat. It was not an attractive sight, and Hettie felt obliged to offer some form of consolation; there was no doubt that – in spite of the missing cats being returned – the case was far from over, as Tilly had pointed out.
Trying very hard to think of what a real detective might do, she stood and began to pace up and down between the cocktail cabinet and Marcia’s sofa; at least it felt decisive, and it must have looked good from where Marcia Woolcoat was attempting to sit up and adjust her fastenings. Taking a deep breath, Hettie said: ‘Miss Woolcoat, my original plan was to speak with your residents to see if we could shed some light on what has happened here. That may sound disruptive, but I still feel it’s a valid course of action.’ Pleased with her phrasing so far, she continued: ‘I am sure that those responsible will not try such a terrible thing again, but as a precaution I would like your permission to bring in a plant.’
Marcia Woolcoat looked thoughtful and responded in a measured way. ‘Miss Bagshot, I’m afraid that is out of the question. As part of a contractual agreement, Digger Patch is responsible for anything green with a flower on it and …’
Hettie could see where this was heading and swung round on her heel, hitting Marcia Woolcoat full in the mouth with the belt of her best mac. Apologising, she tried to explain. ‘No, no – a plant is a term we use for putting an operative into a place undercover. I have just the cat for the job. She will come to you as a new resident, keeping her eyes and ears open, and will report back to me on a daily basis.’
Marcia Woolcoat looked uneasy and a little confused. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that the grave robbers are here at Furcross, living among us? That is a very silly idea. Why would anyone want to do such a thing?’
Hettie was grateful not to have to answer the question. At that moment, Marley Toke burst through the door with a tray which she placed firmly in Marcia Woolcoat’s lap. Clearly the deep fat fryer was back in action, as the tray boasted a large serving of Jamaican beer-battered fish and chips with a mountain of bread and butter and a large mug of steaming tea. ‘Look what I done for you, Miss Marcie – it’s yer favourite. Now come on, you’ll waste clean away if you don’t eat and dere’s jam roly-poly for yer afters, wid me special custard.’ Marley winked at this point, and Hettie began to muse over just how long it would take for Marcia Woolcoat actually to waste away – but it was the perfect time for her to take her leave and return to Poppa and Tilly
. On the pretence of wishing to interview several of the other Furcross internees, she left the parlour to Marcia Woolcoat and her battered fish and made her way back to the dining room, arriving just in time for the pre-tea cabaret, led by screen icon and resident good-time girl Marilyn Repel, with her daughter Cocoa who had popped in for a visit.
Spotting Tilly over a sea of heads, Hettie made her way through the assembled company, none of whom turned a whisker at her approach as they sang and clapped their way through some almost recognisable show tunes. Captain Silas was attempting a one-legged hornpipe, while the old retired schoolmistress, Nola Ledge, kept pace by knitting in time to a selection of random notes pounded out by Nutty Slack, the chimney sweep. Nutty was a regular afternoon visitor and particularly sweet on Nola, who avoided his advances but knitted him winter jumpers and shared a table with him most afternoons at tea; since her sister Dolly passed away, Nola had been lonely and Nutty made her laugh with his merry quips and over-the-top waistcoats. And for a chimney sweep, he was very clean.
The centrepiece of the entertainment, though, was a vivacious siren of a cat who still dyed all her visible hair blonde in memory of the many movies she had made. There was no doubt that even now, in her twilight years, Marilyn Repel could turn heads with her flashing eyes and pearl white teeth. Her voice, however, had passed its sell-by date by the time she made The Prince and the Showcat, a romantic comedy with Irish theatre star Larry O’Liver. Both of them had bitten off more than they could chew, with Marilyn constantly turning up late on set and Larry hardly ever turning up at all; the film was eventually released as a pornographic thriller, which surprised the critics and shocked anyone who was unfortunate enough to see it. Afterwards, Larry went back to the stage and Marilyn found herself in great demand as a cabaret artist in the Parisian red light district; there, she met, married and buried a French cat called Surge Forward – but not before she had borne him a daughter. Cocoa Repel had grown up to become one of the world’s most innovative patrons of Hoot Cature and, more recently, had founded her own perfume house at the back of Oralia Claw’s nail bar. With her mother’s vast fortune to prop up any little idea that occurred to her, she was on the up and a force to be reckoned with. Now, she broke away from the teatime warm up session to pass among the Furcross audience with flyers, and as Hettie made her way through the throng, Cocoa slapped one firmly on the chest of her best mac, where it attached itself to the dollop of piccalilli deposited earlier by Marley Toke.
