The Death of Downton Tabby

by Mandy Morton

  She strode back to the library to return the books, noticing that the festival was now in full swing. The floodgates had clearly been opened and a vision of Lavender Stamp being trampled to death in the stampede entered her head, but she pushed the thought away as uncharitable. The library was buzzing with cats, all clambering to get a front row seat for the first event – an intimate crime fiction workshop with Polly Hodge. P. D. Hodge had held the title of Queen of Crime since the demise of Agatha Crispy. Her dark psychological thrillers had been at the top of the book charts for years and her publishers, Flavour and Flavour, allowed her the time and space between books, knowing that they would always have a bestseller on their paws when she delivered a new one. She had travelled far and wide and was adored all over the world, mostly on expensive cruise liners where eager cats would queue up to share the captain’s table with her.

  Even Hettie approved of Polly Hodge, as she was known locally. She had a fiercely intelligent mind, which she shared with the readers of the Sunday Snout on a regular basis, and her murder plots were acts of genius. Even Tilly, who solved most fictional cases long before the dénouement, had been regularly stumped by Polly’s solutions. She was indeed a master of crime. With rare admiration, Hettie looked across to the corner of the library where Polly was gathering her flock around her. She was a sight to behold – a white, bespectacled cat, looking every bit the favourite grandmother as she encouraged her audience to come closer, but Hettie knew that beneath the sweet old cat veneer lurked a mind capable of the most horrific and spiteful murders ever to be written down in a work of fiction. In her brief and recent experience of catching real murderers, Hettie had found them invariably to be pillars of the community – just like Polly Hodge, in fact.

  ‘Mr Pushkin is holding the fort for a bit,’ said Tilly, as Hettie forced Downton Tabby’s books back into the ‘T’ section. ‘We could go and get some food if you like? The Brontës aren’t due for another hour and Polly Hodge is just starting up, so she won’t need anything for a bit.’

  ‘That’s the best idea you’ve had all day. We need to discuss our strategy.’

  ‘Why? Are you expecting trouble?’ Tilly looked a little concerned.

  ‘No, not really, but I thought you could let me know when your breaks will be so we can meet up in hospitality. Judging by the amount of baking the Butters have been doing, I think that tent will be the highlight of my festival.’

  Tilly giggled as the two friends fought their way through the stalls. Meridian Hambone seemed to be doing a roaring trade with her T-shirts; Hettie noticed that there was a growing band of festivalgoers sporting the ‘Littertray Festival’ slogan across their chests as they abandoned their plain outfits to get into the swing of things. Nicolette Upstart’s head bandanas were proving popular, too, as the longer haired cats were feeling the full force of the midday heat. It was no surprise to see only a small clutch of pale, skinny cats gathered around the Green Peas stall, and the Cats of the Earth had no takers at all, sitting dejected and sunburnt in their own patch of global warming.

  Hettie made a beeline for the events marquee. ‘Come on, it’ll be quicker if we go straight through here,’ she said, tugging Tilly along by her yellow T-shirt. The marquee was cool and empty and smelt of newly mown grass. The stage was set up at one end and furnished with a table and two chairs, and the rest of the space was taken up with a multitude of chairs and benches laid out in neat rows with an aisle running down the middle. Hettie was instantly transported back to her days on the road, when music festivals were bread and butter to her band. She loved an empty tent, so full of anticipation; for her, it was a time to gather her thoughts in peace and silence before the fans transformed the space into a throbbing hubbub of noise and colour. She missed those days, but had been sensible enough to know that the adage of leaving them wanting more when you were at the top of your game was a master stroke of good marketing. Her records had doubled in price since she had hung up her guitar; it was better to be a legend than a has-been, and she’d sat through plenty of those.

  The reality of being on the road suddenly hit her squarely between the eyes as she and Tilly moved to the backstage area of the marquee, intent on passing out into the sunshine where the hospitality tent was only yards away. Before they could reach it, the rear exit was barged open by a round table on wheels with an assortment of swords, helmets and cloaks piled on top of it. ‘Oops!’ came the apologetic comment as Hettie and Tilly flung themselves to the side to avoid the full force of the table. Muddy Fryer made her entrance, hot and bothered and dragging a large red suitcase behind her, having given her round table a hearty shove into the marquee. ‘I’ve left the van on the cricket field – I hope that’s OK,’ she said, wiping the sweat off her face with the hem of her skirt. ‘I thought I’d get me stuff in before the first event. I think I’m on at seven before Downton Tabby.’

  Tilly nodded, looking a little star-struck, and Hettie went instantly into gig mode, although she too loved Muddy’s music and wished it didn’t have to be diluted by books. ‘Let me help,’ she said, steering the round table into a suitable space at the back of the stage. ‘We’ll get some help later for your set-up. There’s an hour between Nicolette Upstart and you so you’ll have loads of time for a soundcheck.’

  Muddy appreciated the information but had more pressing concerns. ‘Have you got a merch table so I can lay out me stuff? I’m only here for today so I need to get selling. I’ll be off like a rocket after Downton Tabby, as I’m doing the Clogs and Sods Fest tomorrow with the Tollpiddle Martyrs and it’s a hell of a drive from here.’

  Tilly came to the rescue, putting her shyness to one side. ‘My friend, Jessie, might have room on her stall if you’d like to follow me? She does rainbow knits and cloches.’

  Muddy took up her suitcase and followed Tilly across the marquee. Hettie wasted no time in joining the queue now forming in the hospitality tent, where she ordered two all-day breakfasts. The tent was a sight to behold and as Hettie waited impatiently to be served she marvelled at the facilities that had been laid on for the helpers and the so-called artists. In her festival days, you were lucky to be given a space in a wigwam to change into your stage clothes, let alone a tent piled high with every pie, pastry and breakfast bap a cat could desire. There was also a complete field kitchen for cooking hot food. The Butters had thought of everything, including segregation to give the festival stars a brief respite from prying eyes while they ate their food. Hettie surveyed the seating areas: one section held several long trestle tables and fold-up chairs and was signposted ‘Staff and Helpers’ Canteen’. The other was smaller and partitioned off with giant palms supplied by Prune and Pots, the town’s garden centre. Hettie could see that this area had tables laid up with clean white tablecloths and comfortable high-backed chairs. She smiled to herself, knowing from her own experience that artists were probably the messiest visitors to any festival; fame and fortune often bred a bohemian attitude to social graces, and those white tablecloths were in for a bit of a hammering.

  Tilly entered the tent a few minutes later with the glad tidings that Jessie and Muddy were getting on like a house on fire, and that there had already been brisk business on Muddy’s records and tapes. The breakfasts arrived at the same time and the two cats pounced on them as if they hadn’t eaten for a week. With an additional egg stain on her T-shirt, which she hoped no one would notice, Tilly wiped her mouth with the back of her paw as Hettie wiped both their plates clean with her final piece of toast. Sitting back on her chair, she took up the table menu, ready to discuss their next meal when Poppa rushed into the tent looking nothing like his usual calm self. Tilly waved and he rushed over to them.

  ‘Thank goodness I’ve found you,’ he said, eyeing up the empty plates with a look of sad disappointment. ‘All hell has kicked off in the car park. The Brontë sisters have turned up in their camper van and are insisting on parking it backstage. I’ve told them it’s the cricket field or nothing, but they won’t have it and
they’re asking to speak to someone in charge.’

  Both Poppa and Hettie looked at Tilly, waiting for a response which – considering the urgency of the situation – took some time. She pulled a notepad out of her shoulder bag and consulted one of the pages. ‘Well, there’s nothing down in my notes about a camper van. They’re staying in the old hospital block – one share and one single, and they’re lucky to have that as Downton Tabby is taking up three rooms all to himself. Where are they at the moment?’

  ‘Sitting in the camper outside the main door, trading insults with Lavender Stamp,’ said Poppa, looking wistfully towards the food counter.

  Hettie was considering whether the camper van was a security issue which needed her attention when Mr Pushkin made a dramatic entrance through the tent flap and headed straight for Tilly. ‘My dear, you must come quick or I fear murder will be done! The Brontë sisters have set about Miss Stamp and we are in need of first aid.’

  Hettie, Tilly and Poppa abandoned the hospitality tent, pausing only to grab Bruiser, who was unloading another batch of pies from Miss Scarlet’s sidecar.

  ‘Come on, this should be worth seeing!’ cried Hettie as they pushed their way through the stalls and back into the library, racing past P. D. Hodge’s crime workshop and out into the driveway of Furcross House. The scene was one of carnage. Lavender Stamp stood next to a hand-painted lime green camper van, swaying in the heat and clutching a large wad of cotton wool to her nose to prevent the blood from making any further impression on her flower-print dress. Hilary and Cherry Fudge stood by her side, sporting their first-aid sashes and ready to provide further assistance as and when required.

  The Brontë sisters were lined up in front of Lavender like three tall skittles, all goading the postmistress into further conflict. The cat in the middle seemed to be the leader and was certainly the most audible of the three, giving a masterclass in expressive language. ‘Don’t think getting haughty taughty with us will butter any parsnips. We’ll park our van where we like and there’s nothing you can do to stop us. We don’t take orders from the likes of you. We are from Porkshire, where we eat cats like you for our dinner. And if you need another slap, one of my sisters here is happy to oblige.’ The other two Brontës moved forward as one at their sibling’s bidding.

  Entertaining as the spectacle was, Hettie decided to intervene, trying a charm offensive to defuse the situation while Tilly hid behind her. ‘Welcome to our literary festival. Please follow me into the library where we can issue you with your security passes before taking you over to the hospitality tent for lunch. If you would care to leave your luggage and the key to your camper, we will find a nice space for it close to the accommodation block where you are staying.’

  Bruiser, Poppa and Tilly all stared in admiration at Hettie’s tact and diplomacy as the three Brontë sisters moved towards the door of Furcross House, offering beaming smiles to the fans who had gathered to greet them. Lavender Stamp shrank away to her ticket tent to ponder on the thought that one day her dictatorial attitude might get her something much more serious than a bloody nose.

  The Brontës lined up to receive their blue lanyards, which Mr Pushkin placed around their necks. The sisters were so alike that there was a little confusion as to who was who, but eventually Charlene, Emmeline and Ann had been paired off with the correct name tags and all was calm, at least for the moment. Bruiser and Poppa took it upon themselves to move the camper van to a spot behind the accommodation block and deposit the luggage outside the authors’ allotted rooms. Hettie and Tilly escorted their charges through the crowd to the hospitality tent, where they left them eating their way through the menu. Relieved to have averted the first potential crisis, they returned to the peace and quiet of the empty marquee.

  Tilly sat down on the edge of the stage looking more than a little upset. ‘I’m not cut out for all of this,’ she said, allowing a stray tear to fall from the end of her nose. ‘I was so excited when Turner Page asked me to book the authors, and it was lovely going to visit other festivals to see what they had to offer. I thought everyone would be like Polly Hodge. She’s such a nice cat, even though she’s famous.’

  ‘But that’s the point,’ said Hettie. ‘She’s got nothing more to prove, so she can afford to be nice. From what I’ve seen of the Brontës, they’re like fish out of water. That sort of cat is as hard as nails, but deep down they’re the same as all the rest, pushing their books and trying to make a name for themselves. I think by the time Downton Tabby puts in an appearance, the Brontës will have been cut down to size. Let’s face it, just about every cat who’s bought a ticket for this weekend has bought it to see him. Any other author is just a bonus. Come on, cheer up. Why don’t you go and treat yourself to something from Nicolette’s pop-up? She’s nice and she hasn’t caused any trouble.’

  Tilly brightened at the prospect of some retail therapy and left Hettie choosing a deckchair in which to have a power nap in the sun before things got underway in the events tent. On her way out into the sunshine, she checked the running order pinned to the tent flap, noting that Charlene Brontë would be kicking off the proceedings, followed by Nicolette Upstart, Muddy Fryer and then Downton Tabby. Furcross Convention, the house band, was due to bring day one to a conclusion, providing that none of them had withered away in the heat. They were all of an age where a walking frame would be more useful than a guitar, but it would be Turner Page’s big moment as he had appointed himself drummer and percussionist.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Charlene Brontë sat pulling threads in the white tablecloth as her sisters poked the final pieces of a Butters’ vanilla slice into their mouths. The sisters had come a long way since the days of sitting round their kitchen table at home, making up stories to amuse themselves with their brother Bonville. Their childhood winters, spent in the draughty old parsonage above the mill town of Teethly, were long and relentless. Bonville had suffered the most and had taken to his bed with a liquid catnip habit that had eventually destroyed him, which was a shame as he did paint a nice picture when he was in the mood.

  Charlene had had to assume responsibility for the running of the home from a very young age after her mother died from ginger beer on the lungs, a nasty disease which was prevalent in the moorland areas of Porkshire due to the lack of fresh water and the abundance of ginger beer plants. Her father, a direct descendant of the famous family, had invested in the old parsonage when it came onto the market unexpectedly due to a feud between old and new members of the Brontë Society. The old Brontës, as they were known, had lived and died in the parsonage, leaving their unfinished manuscripts behind the fireplace in the dining room. Many years later, the work had been discovered while a back boiler was being fitted and Charlene, Emmeline and Ann had been encouraged by their father to finish the books and become authors in their own right.

  Their path to success had been a difficult one, especially as their father had recently gone quite mad and now spent his days taking potshots with a home-made catapult at any cat who came near the parsonage. Charlene had almost single-handedly raised her sisters in her own image. The only difference was the books they’d been given to work on. Emmeline had a talent for poetry and it had taken Charlene all her time to convince her sister that rhymes didn’t sell, especially the grim old ones that Emmeline turned out. Not a laugh to be had. Ann was different: she just did as she was told and found much joy in being part of anything at all.

  It had been a great surprise to the good cats of Teethly when Emmeline’s book, Withering Sights, topped the bestseller list for a fortnight, outstripping Charlene’s Jane Hair and leaving Ann’s effort, The Tomcat of Wildfell Hall, in the slush pile on the desk of Penny Stone-Cragg, their agent in the north. To lift her fortunes and to improve on her now dwindling sales, Charlene had spearheaded a festival tour, hoping to gain more exposure for herself whilst coining it in with Emmeline’s paperback and a rather hurried autobiography which Ann had published herself and which was doing rather well in the ind
ependent bookshops. Charlene had harboured hopes of seeing Jane Hair hit the TV screens, but so far it had been spurned by producers and screenwriters alike. In fact, Penny Stone-Cragg had given up on proffering it any further, so abusive were the rejection slips which the bonnet drama was receiving.

  The camper van which had caused so much trouble earlier was their own special bit of independence and the last visible sign of their brother Bonville, who had dragged himself off his deathbed to decorate it the day before he died. The fact that he’d embellished the paintwork with a number of indecent depictions from Greek legends had completely passed his sisters by in their keenness to break out into the wider world of art and literature under their own steam. The camper had also given Emmeline an independence of her own, as she was the only Brontë sister capable of driving it.

  Tilly, wearing a new bandana, poked her head round the hospitality tent flap. Seeing that the Brontës were gathered en masse, she approached in the hope that food and a nice sit-down had mellowed them. ‘I wonder if you would like to see your rooms?’ she asked, addressing the lanyard called Charlene.

  Charlene beamed back at her and the three sisters stood together, waiting for direction. Tilly was pleased not to get too involved with any further conversation and led the way out of the tent and across to the old hospital block, now a temporary home for the authors who needed to stay overnight at the festival. She could see as she entered the building that Poppa and Bruiser had dropped the Brontës’ bags off outside the relevant doors; all she needed to do was point her paw in the right direction and beat a hasty retreat.

  But Ann scuppered things by making it clear that she had no intention of sharing with Emmeline. ‘I’ve shared with her all me life and I’ll not spend another night listening to her sad old poems,’ she wailed. ‘They’re all about being buried in the snow and it’s twenty-eight degrees out there today. I bet the nights round here aren’t a deal cooler.’