The Death of Downton Tabby

by Mandy Morton

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hettie. ‘A little bit of notoriety goes a long way, but it makes enemies – that’s the trouble.’

  ‘Shall we have our supper here or take it home?’ asked Tilly, deciding that a change of subject would do them both good. ‘Those fish and chips smell lovely and the queue’s probably dying down a bit by now.’

  Hettie cheered up immediately at the prospect of a hot supper from the paws of Elsie Haddock, and she and Tilly made their way out of the marquee as the band launched into an energetic set of jigs and reels. By the time they reached Elsie’s van, most festivalgoers had returned to the marquee to enjoy the music and the stalls that had been so busy throughout the day were closed up. The occasional cat lurched across their path, having enjoyed a little too much festival ale, but generally Hettie had to admit the clientele had been fairly passive and well behaved.

  As they waited for their fish to fry, Hettie looked back towards the marquee. The distant music and the brightly lit tent gave the gardens of Furcross House an almost magical appearance, and the giant marquee glowed in the surrounding darkness.

  ‘I think we’d better stay to the end and eat our supper here,’ said Hettie, as Elsie Haddock slapped two sizzling fish on a mountain of chips. ‘It’s very dark outside and there could be trouble when everyone tries to leave at the same time. The festival ale seems a bit too popular and the catnip pipes are being loaded as we speak.’

  Tilly giggled. ‘I wonder what the Brontës would be like after a pipe or two of catnip? Do you think it would calm them down?’

  Hettie choked on a chip at the very thought of it as they made their way back to the marquee, just in time to see Muddy Fryer performing an Irish step dance on stage at the invitation of the band and to the delight of the audience. ‘If she doesn’t get on the road soon, you’ll have to find her some accommodation!’ Hettie called to Tilly above the crowd.

  ‘Perhaps she’d like to share with Ann Brontë!’ Both cats joined in the foot stamping as Muddy leapt off the stage and began to dance through the audience. Even Mr Pushkin had left his desk in the library to stand by the stage, and was clapping in time to Turner’s driving beat.

  Muddy finally managed to dance her way to the back of the marquee, where the festival ale was being dispensed. She was rewarded with a large pint, which she downed in one before returning to the stage to hiccup her way through her big hit, ‘All Around My Cat’, accompanied by a loud and enthusiastic crowd. Exhausted, she collapsed at the side of the stage as Furcross Convention pounded out a set of Scottish reels, culminating in a drum solo which any sober audience might have thought a little too long.

  When the last note had been struck, the audience left the marquee fuelled by catnip and ale, and set out unsteadily for home. Hettie and Tilly watched as the trail of happy cats exited through the side entrance of Furcross House and out into Sheba Gardens, some still singing, others doing their best to walk in a straight line once the night air had claimed them.

  ‘Well, in spite of the festival ale, that was a fairly orderly departure,’ said Hettie. ‘Let’s go and give Bruiser and Poppa a hand with de-rigging the stage. We’ll get home much quicker if we help.’

  The two friends headed back towards the marquee, looking up at the night sky. It was as clear as crystal; the stars twinkled, and the moon rose to bathe everything in a ghostly blue light. The first dew had fallen on the grass and Tilly was so transfixed by her appraisal of the heavens that she slipped and fell flat on her face. ‘Steady on,’ said Hettie, coming to the rescue. ‘That’s just plain careless.’

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ Tilly protested as Hettie helped her up.

  ‘I didn’t mean that you were careless. Look – you’ve tripped over a bit of canvas from Nicolette Upst …’ Hettie froze before she could finish her sentence. The two cats stared in horror as the moon cast its light on Nicolette Upstart’s pop-up merchandise stall. The stall was in its collapsed state, but sticking out from underneath its striped canvas folds was a pair of black-and-white spats. Unmistakably, the shoes belonged to Downton Tabby. Hettie moved closer and quickly realised that the whole immediate area was saturated in a sticky pool of congealed blood. ‘Go and find Bruiser,’ she hissed at Tilly. ‘And don’t say anything to anyone else. We need to see what’s happened here before the jungle drums start.’

  Tilly made her way to the marquee and Hettie stood as if rooted to the spot, trying to come to terms with what was in front of her. By the time Tilly returned with Bruiser, she’d convinced herself that it was all a big joke and that Downton Tabby’s shoes had been placed in a pool of Elsie Haddock’s best home-made tomato sauce. ‘We need to move this pop-up thing to see what’s going on underneath it,’ she said. Bruiser took hold of the canvas structure and gave it a good tug. The torso it revealed was dressed in a bright checked suit but appeared to be missing a head. Refusing to react to the horror that had presented itself, Hettie skirted the scene looking for the missing body part, knowing instantly that the bits she already had to work with belonged to Downton Tabby.

  Tilly’s fish and chips rose in her throat and Bruiser stood back to gather himself, biting the back of his paw as if that would give him strength. Hettie glanced across at them and knew instinctively that they should keep busy. There was no time to lose. The murderer could be anywhere in the grounds or already wending a merry way home via Sheba Gardens. ‘We need to get this covered up!’ Hettie ordered, attempting to mobilise her troops. Tilly responded by whipping one of the dust sheets off the Green Peas stall and throwing it over the corpse. Things improved greatly now that they could no longer see the body, and it gave Hettie time to gather her thoughts.

  ‘I’ll go and break the news to Turner Page. Bruiser, I want you to make sure no one else leaves tonight, and I want to know who is still in the grounds. Tell them to gather in the hospitality tent. Make up any reason you like, but don’t give the slightest indication of what’s happened here. Tilly, I need you to go and get Bugs Anderton and all three of the Brontës, and see if you can find Downton Tabby’s driver, too. Send them all to the hospitality tent. No one is to leave until I say so.’

  Tilly marvelled at Hettie’s rallying spirit and headed off towards the accommodation block. Bruiser followed Hettie into the marquee, where Turner Page was still packing up his drum kit, ably assisted by Mr Pushkin. As Bruiser continued on through the tent and out the other side, Hettie noticed that Muddy Fryer was sobbing at the side of the stage, while Poppa did his best to console her. Distracted from her mission, Hettie crossed over to see if the tears had any bearing on her gruesome discovery, and Muddy’s sobs grew even louder as she approached. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone’s nicked her Excalibur,’ said Poppa. ‘She says it’s quite valuable and she can’t leave without it.’

  Hettie stared at the sobbing cat. ‘Well, she’s right there. No one’s going anywhere at the moment.’

  She pulled Poppa to one side and briefly explained that she was currently searching for Downton Tabby’s head, which may well have become detached from his body by Muddy Fryer’s broadsword. Naturally, Poppa thought that she was joking and began to laugh until he caught sight of her expression.

  ‘Blimey! That’s a bit of a bugger,’ he said. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘You could stand guard over the situation until I’ve got everyone gathered in the hospitality tent. It’s just outside the marquee on the left.’

  ‘Right-o.’ Ever helpful, Poppa moved off towards the exit. Hettie coaxed Muddy off the stage and pointed her in the direction of the hospitality tent, watching as she sobbed her way across the memorial garden. Unable to put the task off any longer, she turned to the festival director, obliged to put a real damper on his first foray into the literary world of weekend gatherings. The news that Downton Tabby had been beheaded was never going to make for an easy discussion, so, to save time, she decided on the direct, no-nonsense approach, leaving Mr Pushkin to deal with the fallout and del
iver his friend to the refreshment area. Then she returned to the body and, with Poppa’s help, scoured the area for clues, in particular Downton Tabby’s head and Muddy Fryer’s broadsword.

  At the same time Tilly made her way across to the accommodation block, which appeared to be in darkness. There was no sign of Bugs Anderton or Downton Tabby’s driver. She let herself into the corridor and knocked on the doors allotted to the festival star; there was no response, so she moved further down the hallway and tried Charlene and Emmeline’s room. All was quiet, and she knocked again. This time, a faint rustling came from within, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened to reveal Emmeline, dressed in a full-length nightdress and still wearing her festival lanyard.

  ‘Oh, Miss Emmeline, I’m so sorry to bother you but I wondered if you and your sisters would care to join us? We’re having a special presentation in the hospitality tent and it wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  Tilly was pleased with her fib, and it was obviously credible because Emmeline responded favourably. ‘I shall be delighted to attend, but I cannot speak for my sisters. I haven’t seen them since the music began, and as I have driven all the way from Porkshire today, I decided to have an early night in preparation for my event tomorrow. However, I find that I cannot sleep without the sweet smell of the moor permeating through my window, so I will be glad to join you. If you would care to wait, I will throw on a shawl and my away-from-home slippers.’ With that, Emmeline shut the door in Tilly’s face and emerged five minutes later, looking every bit like one of the characters from Withering Sights.

  The hospitality tent was buzzing with cats, all expecting an additional bonus event after what had already been a very successful day. Delirium Treemints, who had been preparing to go home, had fired up her samovar again and was busy serving teas. The day’s leftover cakes and pies were piled up on a central table for the cats to pick at, and a fresh batch of festival doughnuts had magically appeared as the assembled company chatted and waited for something to happen. The mood changed on the arrival of Turner Page and Mr Pushkin, who were clearly distressed and kept themselves apart from the rest of the gathering.

  Having delivered Emmeline and established that the other two sisters were not in the tent, Tilly went off in search of them. As she rounded the corner by the accommodation block, Bugs Anderton and Downton Tabby’s chauffeur emerged from the Rolls-Royce, both giggling and looking the worse for drink.

  ‘Ah, Miss Anderton – Hettie would like everyone to go to the hospitality tent. She has a very important message to pass on.’

  Bugs, a little unsteady on her legs, was propped up by the chauffeur, who also seemed to be having difficulty walking in a straight line. There was no time for Tilly to consider what had been going on in the Rolls-Royce, and at this point she didn’t care. She left them to make their way to the refreshment area and retraced her footsteps back to the marquee, looking for Charlene and Ann Brontë.

  Hettie and Poppa, now joined by Bruiser, were scouring the shrubbery in the moonlight, searching for the missing head. Tilly appeared from the other side of the marquee to report that all cats on-site were now gathered in the hospitality tent awaiting further developments; only the two Brontë sisters were still unaccounted for.

  ‘Well that’s the most significant bit of news we’ve had so far,’ said Hettie, struggling out of a dense stretch of privet. ‘Charlene Brontë has to be the number one suspect at the moment – she’s done nothing but cause trouble since she got here. And Ann’s the quiet, deadly type. I can easily see them wielding a broadsword together. Is their camper van still in the car park?’ Tilly nodded. ‘Well, let’s have a closer look at it on our way back.’

  Hettie strode purposefully towards the accommodation block, her disciples following on behind. The camper van hadn’t moved from the place where Poppa had parked it. It was locked, but the window on the passenger side was wound down. Poppa reached inside and flicked the lock to open the door. Hettie peered inside, noting a picnic flask and a number of sandwich wrappers scattered about the cab. There was a half-eaten Pontefract cake stuck to the driver’s seat, but no sign of a broadsword or a severed head. Behind the seats was a bright orange curtain which separated the cab from the camper. Hauling herself up into the cab, Hettie pulled the curtain to one side to reveal three neat bunk beds, one of which was folded against the wall to allow room for a small cooker and sink. ‘They’ve got all the mod cons in here,’ she said, as Tilly joined her for a look round.

  ‘Ooh, this is lovely! If we had one of these, we could spend weeks at the seaside whenever we wanted to.’ Tilly climbed onto the top bunk to see how comfortable it was, appreciating the mountain of cushions that wrapped itself around her. Looking across at the folded up bunk, she brought her favourable appraisal of the camper to an abrupt end with a cry which must have been heard in Sheba Gardens. Bruiser and Poppa responded instantly by piling into the van, and all four cats stared in disbelief at the paw sticking out from the bed.

  Poppa and Bruiser untied the leather straps, holding the bunk in position, then gently let it down. The dead cat was squashed almost beyond recognition. Its mouth gaped wide in a silent scream; its body was flattened as if it had been locked in a vice. Hettie moved to get a better view of the corpse.

  ‘Well, that’s one of the missing Brontës accounted for,’ she said, peering at the dead cat’s chest. ‘Look – her lanyard’s been squashed into her skin.’

  ‘Poor Ann,’ said Tilly. ‘She didn’t even get to do her event. Still, she was quite nasty about Emmeline’s poems.’

  ‘Are you putting that forward as a motive for murder?’ asked Hettie, taking a closer look at Ann Brontë’s squashed face.

  ‘Not really. I was just thinking out loud. I wonder where Charlene has got to? If we find her, we’ll have the complete set.’

  All four friends laughed to defuse the situation. The only cat who didn’t appreciate the comment was Ann Brontë; for her, things had become a little flat.

  ‘Come on,’ said Hettie. ‘Let’s put this bunk back the way we found it for now. It won’t do her any harm to stay here a bit longer. We’d better get over to the hospitality area – maybe Charlene has turned up there, or maybe she’s hitching back to Porkshire with Downton Tabby’s head in her duffle bag.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The tent was buzzing with conversation by the time Hettie and Tilly arrived, having despatched Bruiser and Poppa to continue the search for Muddy Fryer’s sword and Downton Tabby’s head. Hettie entered first and noticed that the cats were gathered in clutches: Polly Hodge and Nicolette Upstart were in deep conversation with Muddy Fryer; Bugs Anderton was enjoying a festival doughnut with Downton Tabby’s chauffeur; Delirium Treemints stood behind her refreshments table, sharing the occasional word with Cherry and Hilary Fudge, who both stood to attention as if their first-aid skills would be required at any moment.

  Emmeline Brontë floated like a ghost from one table to another, her long nightdress and slippers suggesting that she was in the throes of a sleepwalking episode. There was no sign of Charlene, and her absence was more than a little significant.

  Hettie made her way over to the table where Turner Page and Mr Pushkin were sitting. ‘I think we’d better break the news and get this over with,’ she said, as Tilly joined them with two cups of tea. ‘There’s been another body since we last spoke. I’m afraid you’re now two authors down.’

  Turner Page looked ashen and Mr Pushkin gave him a hug in a rare public display of affection. Hettie continued with the facts, thinking it only fair to inform the festival’s director before sharing the news with the assembled company. ‘I’m afraid Miss Ann Brontë has also been murdered. She’s been squashed flat in her own camper van, and it’s clear that it was no accident. Charlene Brontë is nowhere to be found, which makes her my prime suspect.’

  Turner Page took his head in his paws, as if trying to shut out the world. The rest of the tent fell silent and all eyes turned to Hettie,
who swallowed a large gulp of tea and stood to address them. ‘There’s no easy way of breaking this news. Two murders have been committed here tonight, and in my capacity as head of festival security, I have called you all together to try to establish what has happened and who is responsible.’

  Shock ran around the hospitality tent like a Mexican wave. Hettie took in the sea of faces, hoping to spot a reaction which was out of place, but all the cats remained frozen as they waited for her to continue. ‘I apologise for keeping you all so late, but in order to eliminate each of you from our enquiries, Miss Tilly Jenkins and I will now conduct a series of interviews to establish the whereabouts of everyone at the time of the deaths.’

  There was much murmuring, but it was Polly Hodge who spoke first. ‘Miss Bagshot, might I ask who the victims are? I note as I look round that there are several authors missing, notably Sir Downton Tabby. You are surely not suggesting that he has fallen foul of an assassin?’

  ‘I’m afraid that is the case, but I would prefer to discuss the details on an individual basis rather than making this an open forum.’

  Polly Hodge nodded sagely, realising that Hettie didn’t wish to display all her cards at once. The author’s skill with murderous plots had taught her that deception and prevarication were at the heart of a detective’s work, and she seemed convinced now that Hettie had everything under control.

  As with many things, appearances are often misleading. In fact, Hettie had no real idea why she was there at all. Half of her felt that she should be on the trail of Charlene Brontë, who had clearly absconded, and the other half wanted to be at home, tucking into a bag of leftover festival pies. It wasn’t to be, of course: she had laid out her stall and now she had to follow it through. Charlene might be the obvious suspect, but everyone gathered in the refreshment tent had the opportunity – and some a half-decent motive – for murder, and it was up to her to sort through the possibilities as quickly as she could.