The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency

by Mandy Morton

  An hour later, two aspirins, a large glass of water and eventually a cup of tea brought Hettie back into the land of the living. Boosted by two rounds of toast and marmite and feeling a little better, she sat in her dressing gown and was at last able to focus on the newspaper that Tilly pushed in front of her. If she had ever believed last night’s events to be a terrible nightmare, she now realised her mistake: there it all was in glorious black and white. The front page photograph was of Hettie dressed as a matador, stabbing at the air with an empty kebab skewer; the headline read ‘O’LAY! BAGSHOT BAGS FUN FUR CHEAT!’ and the caption invited readers to find out what happened next by turning to the inside spread. Hettie stared down at the image, hardly daring to look. The reality of what had come next terrified her.

  Seeing her friend hesitate, Tilly opened the paper at pages four and five. The headline here was much bolder – ‘NAILED AND IMPALED!’ – and it accompanied a rather indistinct photograph of Oralia Claw’s last moment as she hurtled towards the deadly point of Hettie’s kebab skewer. A further series of pictures accompanied Hacky Redtop’s lurid description of events: Marilyn Repel singing with the band, Cocoa Repel in tears, and a bruised and scratched Jessie being tended to by Tilly and Lotus Ping. There was no doubt that Hacky had excelled himself, with able pictorial support from Prunella Snap, but it was Hettie who shone throughout the article – a fearless heroine, a dogged detective, and a champion of everyday justice. Oralia Claw, on the other hand, was painted as a bodysnatcher, a grave robber and a vicious, spiteful opportunist who had stolen bodies to skin and make into mittens. Hettie was relieved to notice that Furcross hadn’t been mentioned, but she knew it was only a matter of time before Hacky Redtop was knocking at Marcia Woolcoat’s door.

  As she read the details, the Furcross case finally began to make sense. Oralia Claw had always been on Hettie’s suspect list, but her partnership with Cocoa Repel had given her a respectability which she obviously didn’t deserve. Hacky Redtop described her as coming from a family of convicted thieves and chancers, blaming her gypsy blood for her inbred ability to hoodwink the public at large. Hettie read about Oralia Claw as if she were just another criminal made infamous to sell newspapers; she found it difficult to accept that it was she, Hettie Bagshot, who had ended the other cat’s life in such a bizarre set of circumstances – a gift for any newspaper reporter.

  Tilly waited patiently for Hettie to finish reading and busied herself around their room, retrieving the matador outfit from the floor where Hettie had fallen out of it. Noticing the specks of blood on the frill of the shirt, she hurriedly pushed it into their laundry bag, out of sight. Although the Sunday Snout had painted her friend as a heroine, Tilly knew that she would not be happy about her part in taking a life, even if the reality had been just another hapless Hettie Bagshot accident.

  ‘I can’t believe all this has really happened,’ said Hettie, finally abandoning the newspaper. ‘According to Hacky Redtop, I’ve killed Oralia Claw and brought justice to the town, helped out by my undercover agents – that’s you and Jessie. It says she was a gypsy and came from a rough family. You’d never know it to see all those posh cats preening themselves in her nail bar.’

  ‘Well, she certainly fought like a gypsy cat,’ said Tilly. ‘You should have seen her set about poor Jessie last night when she realised her nasty game was up. I’ve never seen a fight like that, and I think Jessie will have the scars to prove it. And poor Alma Mogadon died because of her. Then there’s Pansy, Vita and Virginia. And I feel so sad for Cocoa Repel. She’s finished, thanks to Oralia Claw. I do think the world is a better place without her.’ She hoped her words would help Hettie to come to terms with things, and was about to suggest a good breakfast to lift their spirits, when from somewhere deep inside the staff sideboard there came the unmistakable sound of the telephone. Hettie nearly jumped out of her own skin as Tilly scrambled inside the sideboard and wrestled the phone off the hook. ‘Hello. This is the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency. To leave a message, please press one. To speak to someone properly, please …’

  She was prevented from going any further by Marley Toke’s voice, booming in her ear. ‘Oh my days, Miss Tilly! I got no time for all dat. I needs to speak to Hettie as we has a crisis. It’s Miss Marcie!’ Tilly backed out of the sideboard, dragging the phone behind her, and thrust the receiver urgently in Hettie’s direction.

  Hettie felt her headache returning as she took the call and Marley launched into a confusing outburst of the recent events at Furcross. ‘She bin up all night readin’ the shoebox! I bin hearin’ noises. She lost de key to Moggy’s room, and she say it all my fault for not returnin’ it. Now she sittin’ outside de door wid no Digger to break it down, an’ I just tink you still got de key as you was de last one in dere.’

  Hettie shook her head in sheer bewilderment as Marley rattled on and waited until the Jamaican cook had run out of steam. It was Tilly who grasped the situation first, having heard Marley loud and clear from the other side of the room. She reached for Hettie’s greatcoat, which was hanging on the back of the door, and felt in its deep pockets until she located a key under a pile of toffee wrappers. Waving it triumphantly, she successfully brought Marley’s diatribe to an end. Hettie promised to drop the key off at Furcross around lunchtime, accepting an invitation for them to join Marley in the kitchen for her full Jamaican Sunday roast.

  ‘Well that’s all we need,’ Hettie grumbled as she replaced the receiver. ‘Now we’ve got to traipse all the way over to Furcross with a bloody key, and I haven’t a clue what’s been going on there – noises, shoeboxes, whatever next?! I can’t see what’s so urgent, unless Marcia Woolcoat is letting out her dead sister’s room. Let’s just hope she removes the body first! We have been invited to lunch, though.’

  Tilly was pleased to see that Hettie’s sense of humour was still intact, and decided to seize her moment: the prospect of an outing with a good lunch was the perfect excuse to present her gift. She had put the box containing what was left of Pansy, Vita and Virginia outside in the hall, and had placed the designer mac on top so that Hettie wouldn’t see it. She had, in fact, been far too shocked and worse for drink the night before to see anything, so the secret surprise had gone unnoticed. ‘I brought the stolen skins home in case we had a chance to bury them with the rest of the bodies at Furcross,’ Tilly said. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’ She watched as Hettie chewed nervously on her nails and scanned their room, looking worried. ‘And I spoke with Cocoa after it was all over. She was very upset, and she said I could help myself to anything I wanted from the show as she had lost heart. So I chose something nice for you.’

  Tilly opened the door with a flourish and pulled in the box with the mac perched on the top. Hettie clapped her paws in delight, cheering up immediately at the sight of the most beautiful mac she had ever seen. It fitted as if it had been made for her, and an hour later the two cats stepped out into the high street, both wearing their new best macs with the collars turned up against the rain and looking every bit the detectives they had always aspired to be. Hettie carried the box containing the last glimpses of Pansy, Vita and Virginia, hoping at least to hand them over to Marcia Woolcoat for a decent burial, and they made their way to the bus stop outside Oralia Claw’s nail bar. News had obviously travelled fast: the window was adorned with the words ‘BODYSNATCHER’, written in red paint as a lasting reminder of Oralia’s sins. Hettie looked down at the box in her arms and cradled it a little tighter, as if she could protect the contents from further harm.

  The bus arrived within minutes, just as the rain began to fall in buckets, and the cats clambered on and settled themselves on the back seat. The bus conductress looked familiar as she lurched her way towards them, beaming. ‘Oh, what a surprise!’ she said, falling forward into Tilly’s lap as the bus driver slammed on his brakes. ‘Oops! I’ll never get the hang of this. I used to do planes, you know – serving the meals, soothing the nerves, until I missed me flight back from one of the C
ostas. I thought this job would be the same sort o’ thing but it ain’t, not with ’im drivin’.’ Hettie and Tilly exchanged a look and wondered why they were being treated to the conductress’s recent job history. Tilly tried to speed things along by offering a paw full of change for their tickets but the payment was refused. ‘Na! I can’t take money off you two. Proper heroes travel free. I’m proud to ’ave you on me bus. You wait till I tell me sister I’ve met you! That’ll be one in the eye for ’er – she missed all the fun while she was on cloaks and toilets.’

  Tilly suddenly knew why the face had seemed so familiar. ‘You must be Doris Lean’s sister! You’re very much alike.’ She did her best to be friendly but Hettie – disturbed by the fact that she had been recognised – wanted to get off the bus as quickly as possible. Ringing the bell on the handrail, she collected her box from the seat and moved forward, squeezing past their new friend on her way to the exit. Tilly followed her down the aisle until all three of them stood by the door, waiting for the next stop.

  The conductress leant over to the luggage rack and retrieved her copy of the Sunday Snout. ‘’Ere! Do us a favour and sign this front page to Clippy Lean before you get off.’ Hettie grabbed the pen that was offered and scribbled across her photo as the driver slammed on his brakes once again. This time, she parted company with the box, which slid the length of the aisle and came to a crashing halt at the back of the bus, spilling its contents everywhere. Tilly reacted faster than anyone and ran all the way down the bus, rescuing leg warmers and mittens as she went. Hettie stared after her in horror and turned on the charm to divert Clippy’s attention, insisting on dedicating pages four and five as well and giving Tilly time to gather up their unconventional cargo. When she was satisfied that all the fur had been safely collected, Tilly returned to the exit. The bus driver had decided that an extra stop wouldn’t do any harm, so by the time Hettie and Tilly had bid their new friend Clippy goodbye, they only had a short walk to Sheba Gardens.

  ‘I hope it’s not going to be like this all the time,’ sighed Hettie as they walked. ‘That conductress will never know how close she came to the actual case, with all those bits of fur flying about on her bus. Thank goodness you grabbed it all before she realised exactly what – or rather who – it was.’

  Furcross looked cold and unwelcoming as they approached the front door. There was no sign of anyone in the chairs by the window, and no vehicles in the car park. Hettie knocked loudly but they had to wait some time before Marley Toke appeared, hot and bothered from the kitchen. ‘Tank de Lord! Come into me kitchen, both of you.’ Marley led the way down the corridor and past the dining room where a number of the residents sat in silence, some reading papers, others knitting or just staring out into the garden. The festive atmosphere had packed up and gone, leaving behind a group of elderly cats who were too miserable to communicate with each other, and all shell-shocked after their night out at Malkin and Sprinkle.

  Marley’s kitchen was enough to cheer anyone up. It steamed and bubbled with the trappings of Sunday lunch: the roast beef was cooked and sitting on a carving plate, its juices running with the promise of gravy to come; there was a giant bowl of batter waiting to be poured into Yorkshire pudding tins; and as Tilly peeped through the glass door of the oven, she spotted a legion of roast potatoes, sizzling and golden. ‘I don’t know why I be botherin’ wid all dis,’ Marley said disconsolately. ‘Me breakfast got left and now I can see me roast goin’ de same way. No one is talkin’, some of dem left early this mornin’, and Miss Marcie is fit for notink. May as well hang up me tea towel now.’

  Hettie looked at the cook and noticed how exhausted she was. For a black cat, she was almost pale and her clothes looked like she had slept in them; her eyes were puffy from crying. ‘Do you know about last night?’ Hettie asked as Marley prodded at the beef with a skewer. ‘Oralia Claw turned out to be the one who paid Alma for the bodies. She got found out and died trying to escape.’

  The understatement was the only way she could bear to put it, but Marley didn’t seem interested in Oralia Claw or even in the beef she was prodding. ‘I tell you Miss Hettie, there was noises comin’ from Moggy’s room last night and no one will believe me. She’s come back to haunt us, and Miss Marcie, she call me wicked for sayin’ it, but I seen tings before and me knows a restless spirit when me hears one. She need buryin’, not just left dere to go bad. Miss Marcie tried to open de door to prove me wrong but she lost de key, and den I remembered you still had it, and now me too frightened to look and Miss Marcie, she sittin’ outside Moggy’s room listenin’ at de door, an’ she won’t speak to me.’ Marley wailed into her apron and Hettie – feeling the power of her new mac and the key in its pocket – strode out of the kitchen leaving Tilly to comfort the cook.

  She crossed the yard, appreciating the flourishing catnip plants as she made her way to the hospital block that housed Marley and the late Nurse Mogadon, then made her way down the corridor past the dispensary, coming to an abrupt halt several feet before she reached Marcia Woolcoat. The former matriarch sat slumped on the floor, surrounded by the contents of her dead sister’s shoebox and talking to herself. Hettie took the key from her pocket and moved towards the nurse’s door, stepping over Marcia, who seemed oblivious to the fact that she was no longer alone.

  On first inspection, the room seemed just as she had left it. She had no wish to look at the corpse in the bed, so studied everything else first: the chair was still by the window, facing out across the garden; the lamp table was as she remembered it; and some of the drawers were still slightly open from her search – but something wasn’t quite right. Hettie knew she would have to look at the bed eventually, but her attention was drawn back to the window and suddenly she knew what was wrong: the curtains had been pulled back to let in the light. Behind her, Marcia Woolcoat continued talking to herself. Hettie moved further into the room, shutting the door to get a more complete view – and then she froze. The sheets were turned back in a heap, and the bed was empty. She panicked, her heart beating so fast that it threatened to burst out of her chest. Slowly, she moved closer to the bed, forcing herself to look underneath, but there was no sign of the body. Her thoughts strayed to Oralia Claw: had she stolen the body as more stock for her fur factory? But that couldn’t account for the noises Marley had heard last night; by then, Oralia Claw was dead. Hettie moved to the window and checked the locks; they were rusted and impossible to shift. She turned back towards the door, and then she saw her.

  Nurse Mogadon had been propped up in the chair by the window, looking out into the garden. Her face was pale and her short pink and grey striped fur was almost translucent, drained of any colour she had possessed in life. Her eyes were tightly closed, just as they had been the last time Hettie saw her – but who had entered a locked room and positioned the corpse in the chair, and why? Hettie’s instinct was to carry the body back to the bed where it could be decently covered, but the thought of touching a corpse that had been dead for several days brought her earlier bout of nausea back and she struggled to control it. She looked down at the carpet, focusing on the pattern, and noticed that there were crumbs everywhere around the chair; on closer inspection, she saw that the crumbs had also settled around Nurse Mogadon’s mouth and whiskers, as if someone had tried to force-feed her.

  Perhaps Marcia Woolcoat could shed some light on the macabre scene. After all, it was her sister, and not really Hettie’s problem. With that thought, Hettie turned towards the door, but a paw shot out from the chair. ‘Please help me! I’m so thirsty. My throat is so sore.’

  The voice was cracked and faltering, and Hettie stared in amazement as Nurse Mogadon struggled to be heard. ‘Stay where you are!’ she shouted, her panic getting the better of her. ‘Don’t move until I get back.’ It was perhaps the silliest thing that she had said all week, as Alma Mogadon was in no fit state to go anywhere. But she certainly wasn’t dead.

  Hettie wrenched the door open and dragged Marcia Woolcoat to her feet. ‘Sh
e’s alive! Your sister is alive! Come and see!’ She pushed Miss Woolcoat into the room and propelled her towards the chair where Alma sat, looking fragile and barely able to move. Hettie grabbed a blanket from the bed and threw it over her, and Marcia stood rooted to the spot, shaking in disbelief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Alma as her sister, regaining her composure, fell on her knees and smothered her in a hug. ‘I couldn’t even manage to do the decent thing. It must have been the wrong dose, and it put me into a coma. When I woke up, I thought I was dead.’ Hettie left the sisters to it and found a glass in the dispensary. She filled it with water and took it back to Alma’s room, giving it to Marcia to administer, and then – assuming she was no longer required – headed back to Marley’s kitchen and a roast beef lunch which was guaranteed to cure even the worst bout of nausea.

  The meal proved to be a joyful occasion once the residents had shuffled off to their tables, leaving Marley, Tilly and Hettie to enjoy theirs in the kitchen. Marley had taken a modest plateful to Alma’s room and had even mashed a roast potato in her special gravy for Marcia to feed to her sister a teaspoonful at a time. Tilly entertained the cook with details of the Malkin and Sprinkle fashion show and the timely demise of Oralia Claw, who – much to Marley’s relief – could no longer bear witness to Nurse Mogadon’s involvement in the fur scandal. With Digger Patch out of the way, Marcia and Alma could start again. When Alma felt better, they would have much to discuss – not least the contents of the shoebox which revealed where Alma had kept their mother.

  When Hettie and Tilly could eat no more, Marcia Woolcoat ordered them a taxi home. As they drove away from Furcross, Hettie suddenly remembered the pale face she had seen at Alma Mogadon’s window. ‘Bugger!’ she said. ‘I could have had it all wrapped up much quicker if I hadn’t believed in ghosts!’ Tilly looked puzzled but said nothing, content to know that their luxury ride would get them home just in time to catch Elizabeth Traybake on the radio.