The Death of Downton Tabby

by Mandy Morton

  Emmeline looked fragile after her sister’s outburst and Charlene – whilst agreeing with Ann’s comments regarding the poetry – decided to calm troubled waters. ‘I’ll tell thee what we’ll do – we’ll put Emmeline in the room on her own and I’ll share with you, Ann.’

  Tilly watched as Emmeline crumpled further and slumped down on her suitcase. ‘I am fearful of being on my own in such a strange place with not even the moor to bring me comfort.’

  Charlene licked her lips nervously. ‘Now come on, stop this nonsense. I’ve told you not to keep going on about the moor in front of company. Save it for your presentation tomorrow. Folks won’t mind if you go off on one when you’re talking about Katty and Heatclip. You’ll have to share with me, and that way I can keep an eye on you.’

  With that, Charlene and Emmeline gathered their bags and let themselves into their room. Ann did the same and suddenly all was quiet, and Tilly retraced her footsteps in time to join Hettie for a tea and cake session before the much-awaited arrival of Downton Tabby.

  The tea tent was busy and Hettie had bagged a table close to the exit to avoid getting stuck with over-enthusiastic authors wanting to sing their own praises over a fresh cream slice. It occurred to her that writing a book gave those particular creatures licence to bore any passing cat to death with their opinions, and, as more authors arrived, they seemed to form little cliques. The biographers sat at one table, arguing, while the romantic novelists stood out as overweight, highly decorated females, competitive in their bid to wear the brightest lipstick and the most luridly painted claws. The exponents of crime fiction seemed to be the most normal of the gathering. Hettie noticed that Nicolette Upstart and Polly Hodge were enjoying a high tea in the company of Sandy McPaw-Spitt, who had dropped in to do a signing for his latest book. There was much laughter coming from their table, and the salmon turnovers and chocolate wedge cake left only crumbs as evidence. She marvelled at their sunny dispositions, knowing that they all embraced the art of murder in their day jobs.

  ‘Ooh, is that cream horn for me?’ asked Tilly, spotting her friend amid a sea of fans looking for autographs.

  Hettie nodded and Tilly slumped down on the chair next to her, fanning herself with the menu card. ‘I’m so hot and bothered. I think my ears have caught the sun – they’ve gone red.’

  Hettie laughed. ‘Well, get tucked into your cake. You can always stick some of the cream on your ears if there’s any left. Have the Brontës settled into their accommodation?’

  Tilly’s response was slightly muffled through a mouthful of flaky pastry. ‘They are a nightmare – sibling rivalry barely does it justice. I feel very sorry for Emmeline. The other two are really nasty to her about her poems.’

  ‘I thought she was the one who wrote Withering Sights? That’s not poetry, is it?’

  Tilly shook her head, spraying fresh cream across her whiskers and down one side of Hettie’s T-shirt. ‘No, but I think she prefers to write poetry, and she’s got this thing about the moor.’

  ‘The more what?’ asked Hettie, slightly irritated by the heat.

  Tilly giggled. ‘No, not “more what”. The moor. According to the back of Ann Brontë’s autobiography, her sister is obsessed with the moor where they live and wanders about on it all day in a thin cotton dress and socks, shouting out her poems.’

  ‘Well she’s obviously barking mad. And if she prefers poetry, why has she written a huge book that’s only fit for propping a door open?’

  ‘Withering Sights was started by one of her ancestors and Emmeline finished it. It’s become a bestseller and has made her lots and lots of money. She’s much more successful than her sisters. Charlene’s Jane Hair got panned by the critics. One of them called it “an out-of-date, rambling bit of Victorian nonsense”.’

  ‘What’s it about then?’ asked Hettie, trying not to sound too interested.

  Tilly thought for a moment. ‘It’s hard to say exactly. I only got halfway through it. Once I realised that there weren’t going to be any good murders, I lost interest. It’s mainly about a mad cat they keep in the attic who can’t be trusted with matches.’

  Tilly’s appraisal of Jane Hair was interrupted by the gushing approach of Bugs Anderton, president of the town’s Friendship Club. ‘Brace yourself,’ muttered Hettie, as the tall ginger cat made swift progress towards their table.

  ‘Miss Bagshot! How pleased I am to find you in such a crush. I’ve not seen the like since my annual trip to the Highland Games!’

  Bugs Anderton was proud of her Scottish origins and never needed an excuse to refer to them. Her qualities lay in her organisational skills, which were guaranteed to put fear into any community, and Hettie had chosen her to escort Downton Tabby at the festival because she was one of the few cats who could be relied upon not to be seduced by his celebrity status. Bugs had formed an unlikely friendship with Hettie and Tilly, based on a tide of gratitude; not long ago, they had saved her life in a vicious murder case which still reverberated around the town.

  ‘I am here for my security briefing,’ she announced, pulling up a chair and sweeping the tent with her eyes until she located Delirium Treemints. Having made eye contact, Delirium seemed to go into overdrive: without any further communication, she loaded a tray with a stacked tea and began her journey across the tent. In her haste to please, she slipped on a stray pork pie and slid several yards before coming to an ungainly halt at Polly Hodge’s table. A mini sardine quiche escaped from the stacked tea and fixed itself to Polly’s tabard top, where she unwittingly wore it for the rest of the day. Delirium gathered herself in a flurry of apologies and continued her progress to Hettie’s table, delivering the tea almost intact to a round of applause from the romantic novelists, who all loved a happy ending.

  Delirium melted away into the background for some gentle pairing of cups and saucers, while Hettie began her very brief briefing. ‘I think the main problem with Downton Tabby is his own opinion of himself,’ she said, ‘so I think you should treat it more as a personal assistant role than a security job.’ Bugs nodded enthusiastically and started on the second layer of her stacked tea. ‘The important thing is that we keep him happy and give him anything he asks for.’

  In the absence of Delirium, Bugs poured her own tea and stirred four lumps of sugar into it, looking thoughtful. ‘If I might raise one or two issues at this point? Mr Downton Tabby is rarely off the front pages of the tabloids, and he’s always being pooped by someone.’

  Hettie looked confused and Tilly came to the rescue. ‘I think you mean “papped”, as in paparazzi.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ continued Bugs. ‘How will I protect him from the more aggressive fans should they surge forward en masse with their cameras and their autograph books? He’s surely the “must-have” photograph of the weekend.’

  ‘We’ve got that one covered,’ responded Hettie. ‘We’re bringing him in round the back. He’ll be in his Rolls-Royce when he arrives and we’ve got the back car park cordoned off except for the Brontës’ camper, which shouldn’t be a problem, so he won’t even meet the public until his event later on. Tilly’s organised a book signing and photo opportunity for tomorrow with Chapter and Spine. His agent says he’ll only pose for cats who buy his books, so it’ll be a bit of a scrum, but we’ll be there to help with Poppa and Bruiser as back-up.’

  Even Hettie had to admit that her plans were beginning to sound like a proper security job, but nobody could have predicted the events that were to follow later that evening. The photos which would be taken the next day would present a much more macabre image of the festival’s top celebrity, and Prunella Snap and Hacky Redtop from the town’s local paper would have another exclusive on their paws.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Refreshed from their afternoon tea, Hettie and Tilly fought their way through the crowds to clear a path for Bugs Anderton, who looked increasingly as if she might collapse from heatstroke. Downton Tabby was due at any moment and they needed to be in position when his Rolls-Roy
ce swung through the gates of Furcross House, if only to deter Lavender Stamp from challenging him about parking.

  They cut through the events marquee, where a small crowd was gathering to bag the best view of Charlene Brontë. The stalls area was buzzing with bookaholics, all grabbing copies of the festival authors’ books and hoping to be first in the queue to have them signed. Jane Hair was selling one or two copies, but Emmeline and Ann Brontë’s books were moving at a brisk pace and Chapter and Spine had laid on a magnificent display for Downton Tabby which took up half of their allotted tables.

  Hettie’s attention was suddenly drawn to an altercation which seemed to be coming from the front of the bookstall.

  ‘You lot couldn’t market a balm cake in a sandwich shop! How come he’s got half the bloody space and the rest of us are reduced to a neat pile hanging off the end?’ The dulcet tones of Charlene Brontë rang out and Hettie – remembering Lavender Stamp’s bloody nose – burrowed through the crowd to see if she could help. Tilly and Bugs continued on to the library where Mr Pushkin was nervously pacing the floor, waiting for news of the star turn’s arrival.

  By the time Hettie reached the front of the bookstall, the situation had escalated and all three Brontë sisters were pitching in. Downton Tabby’s books were flying through the air to make way for the Porkshire trio’s efforts, and Mr Chapter was powerless to stop the assault on his stock. Mr Spine cowered under one of the tables, hoping that things would eventually calm down, but Charlene and her sisters still had much to say on the subject of product placement. The crowd was loving the spectacle and cheered the Brontës on as the sisters played to their audience.

  ‘These book festivals are bread and margarine to us,’ declared Charlene. ‘Downton Tabby has more money than he could ever spend. For him, selling books is small change in his fat back pocket. It’s our books that need displaying – we’ve travelled a long way for this and our camper doesn’t run on fresh air.’

  She leapt up onto the book table to address the crowd, and Hettie stared in dismay at the mob rule which was building. Suddenly, inspiration struck. She nudged the thin, grey-striped cat standing next to her and whispered in her ear, watching as her message was passed on; the crowd began to thin out and move away from the bookstall, depriving the Brontë sisters of their audience. Thinking it safe at last, Mr Spine emerged from under the table to join his partner, who was gathering up the Downton Tabby stock from the ground where it had landed in the dust. Hettie offered her paw to Charlene as she clambered down from the book table, looking slightly less embarrassed than her sisters. ‘It’s lovely and cool backstage in the events marquee,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to compose yourself there before your event? And I’m sure your sisters will want a front row seat to listen to you.’ Charlene nodded, giving a hint of a smile, and Emmeline and Ann followed her into the tent after putting the finishing touches to a display of their own books.

  Mr Chapter, pleased to see the back of the Brontës as they disappeared into the marquee, came round to the front of his stall to try and repair some of the chaos. Knowing that he would aggravate the situation further if he touched the sisters’ new display, he piled the other authors’ books around them, limiting the Downton Tabby arrangement to half its former glory.

  As Hettie walked away to catch up with Tilly and Bugs, she couldn’t help but sympathise with Charlene’s comments. Downton Tabby was beginning to get on her nerves and she hadn’t even met him yet, let alone shared a platform with him as she would soon be required to do. She smiled to herself as she passed the Green Peas stall, where a massive queue was forming. The rumour she had started in the book scrum had paid off, as Downton’s fans waited patiently for him to put in an appearance. As with most rumours there was no substance to it, but the cats running the vegetarian stall were pleased to have the company of the crowd.

  When she arrived at the library, she was pleased to see that it was a hive of peaceful activity. There was a kitten’s reading group hosted by J. K. Roll-on, an up-and-coming author who famously wrote her books in her local Chinese takeaway; tucked away in the corner usually reserved for newspapers, the fantasy writer Terry Scratchit was holding court with his followers, who all seemed to be dressed in cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, a fashion statement made popular by the author himself; and the festival band had taken over the cookery and leisure section of the library as a dressing room and were quietly changing strings and tuning up their instruments. All sported a ‘Littertray Festival’ T-shirt, suggesting that Meridian Hambone had been doing a roaring trade. There was, however, no sign of the drummer and it occurred to Hettie that Turner Page, the festival director, hadn’t put in an appearance since they arrived; so far, he had played no part in the direction of the festival in any way and seemed to have disappeared without a trace.

  Tilly and Bugs Anderton had joined Mr Pushkin at his desk and they were all pacing round it like participants in some obscure satanic ritual. With Downton Tabby expected at any minute, their excitement had reached fever pitch.

  ‘I think we’d better go and wait by the gates,’ said Hettie, interrupting their progress. ‘He’s due round about now.’ She reached into the box of blue lanyards and located the correct name tag. ‘I doubt he’ll need this as it’s obvious who he is, but we should try and stick to the plan.’ Bugs and Tilly nodded and followed Hettie out of Furcross House, leaving Mr Pushkin to his pacing.

  The driveway was relatively clear, but beyond the gates in Sheba Gardens the crowds who hadn’t bought a ticket for the festival were three-deep all along the approach. Some cats waved flags, others had banners and all sweltered in the heat. Greasy Tom had taken advantage of the situation by parking his fast-food van at the bottom of the road, and was busy supplying sustenance to the crowd who had been gathering since six o’clock that morning.

  ‘I hope he’s on time,’ said Hettie. ‘Charlene Brontë’s about to start her event and we need to keep an eye on that one. God knows what she’ll come out with next, and her sisters are just as bad.’

  Tilly agreed, feeling a little guilty at having booked them in the first place. ‘They were offering a three for two and we were running out of budget, so I thought it would be a good idea to bring in some northern culture,’ she admitted, adding in her own defence: ‘And Emmeline does have a bestseller.’

  ‘So you keep telling me, but it doesn’t change the fact that all three of them have been a pile of bloody trouble since they got here.’

  Bugs decided to join in, being a closet Brontë fan. ‘I find Emmeline’s poetry quite remarkable,’ she said. ‘Her connection with the natural elements is quite unique. You can smell the heather and feel the rain on your face in some of her work.’

  ‘When she’s not slinging mud at you,’ interrupted Hettie.

  ‘Ah, but it’s the passion that beats in her breast, Miss Bagshot. The moor is her life. She is the moor.’

  Hettie backed away from Bugs, fearing that she might lapse into one of Emmeline’s poems at any moment. Tilly licked her lips nervously and stared out of the gates, hoping to summon up a Rolls-Royce to save them from any further discussion on the Brontës, for whom she was beginning to feel entirely responsible.

  They didn’t wait long. Suddenly the crowd lining the route erupted into spontaneous applause and cheering as a bright yellow Rolls-Royce came into view, making slow and deliberate progress along Sheba Gardens towards the gates of Furcross House. Lavender Stamp emerged from her ticket tent to add to the welcoming committee, and Hettie was relieved to see that she had sponged most of the blood off her floral-print sundress. She was flanked on either side by Hilary and Cherry Fudge, standing by in case their first-aid services were required once again.

  The driver of the Rolls-Royce halted at the gates and Hettie gave Bugs Anderton a push in the direction of the car. ‘Do your welcome stuff as quickly as you can,’ she whispered. ‘Tilly and I will walk the car into the parking space, so whatever you do, don’t let him get out of the car or we’ll h
ave a riot on our hands.’

  For once in her autocratic life, Bugs did as she was told and approached the car, but she was hauled into the back of the Rolls by a reddish brown paw before she had even managed to utter the second welcome in her usual canon of three, reserved for high office dignitaries. Hettie nodded to the driver, inviting him to follow her as she led the way through to the car park at the back of the old hospital block, and Tilly followed on reluctantly, knowing that she would have to conquer her shyness long enough to show Downton Tabby to the rooms she had allocated for his stay. Nobody gave a second thought to what was happening in the back seat of the Rolls-Royce, but it would be safe to say that Bugs Anderton was slightly more worldly-wise when she fell out onto the tarmac, looking a little dishevelled and blushing from her ginger ears to her ginger toes.

  The chauffeur, having assisted Bugs out of the car, moved round to the other side to release his master who stepped out looking every bit the millionaire celebrity. To say that he would stand out in a crowd was a massive understatement: his bright orange-and-yellow-checked suit, complete with waistcoat and spats, suggested an aristocat whom time or fashion had never bothered. If he hadn’t been such a superstar, some would say he was fat. His reddy brown fur was slicked down on his head, producing a parting between his ears, and his whiskers were waxed within an inch of their lives, standing out from his face as if they had arrived separately. The look was completed to perfection by a black silver-topped cane and a monocle which hung around his neck.

  Both Tilly and Hettie stood for a moment with their mouths open; the anticipation of the superstar’s arrival had been nothing compared to the reality of his presence. Bugs Anderton recovered herself sufficiently to offer some introductions. ‘Sir Downton, if I may introduce you to Miss Hettie Bagshot, our head of security, and Miss Matilda Jenkins, our author coordinator.’