The Death of Downton Tabby

by Mandy Morton

  Remarkably, Emmeline responded well to Tilly’s encouragement. ‘Your words are of great kindness, and I shall be pleased to rest. It is my wish to see the festival through before returning to Porkshire, where my spirit shall be lighter.’

  Avoiding any further discussion regarding Emmeline’s more ethereal tendencies, Tilly left her in the capable paws of Delirium Treemints and made her way across to the accommodation block, where Poppa and Hettie had just arrived with the wheelbarrow. ‘One down and two to go,’ said Hettie by way of greeting. ‘How’s the line-up coming along?’

  ‘Better than expected. Emmeline has agreed to do her event. I’ve just got to sort out her room so that she can have a lie-down. She looks dreadful.’

  ‘Nowhere near as bad as her sisters,’ Hettie observed wryly. ‘I’ll come with you. I need to get the keys to the camper – we’ll have to unlock the back doors to get flat-packed Ann out.’ Both Tilly and Poppa collapsed in peals of laughter. Clearly tiredness was taking its toll. Any amount of black humour served to lift their spirits, and Hettie could be relied upon to keep her off-colour quips coming.

  In daylight, the room that Charlene Brontë had shared with Emmeline resembled a chamber of horrors. There were bloodstains everywhere, and the bed piled high with hastily discarded clothes offered enough evidence to condemn Charlene ten times over; it was very clear that she had held Emmeline captive in the other bed, but why?

  ‘This is a sorry state of affairs,’ said Hettie, picking her way through the bloodied clothes until she found the keys to the camper van. ‘Maybe Emmeline knew that her sister was planning to kill Downton Tabby and tried to stop her. Perhaps Ann found out and had to be silenced as well. What I can’t understand, though, is why Charlene would stick around like some bloody half-crazed serial killer. Why didn’t she fire up the camper and get the hell out after her little killing spree?’

  ‘I don’t think she can drive,’ said Tilly. ‘Emmeline does all the driving. She told me how tired she was because she’d driven from Porkshire.’

  Hettie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh well, at least we have our murderer, even if she is burnt to a crisp. And maybe Emmeline will be up to answering a few questions later. It’s still all a bit of a mystery – and why did Charlene kill Downton Tabby? That’s the big one.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t ask too many questions until Emmeline has done her event,’ said Tilly, collecting the suitcase closest to Emmeline’s bed. ‘She’s my star turn for our murder and mayhem day, and I wouldn’t want her getting more upset than she is already.’

  Tilly struggled out into the corridor with the suitcase and unlocked the room that Ann Brontë had so briefly occupied. She cleared Ann’s things to one side and did her best to make the room welcoming. Hettie took the camper’s keys out into the car park, where Poppa was waiting to perform yet another grim task with the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Flat-packed Ann’, as Hettie had christened her, proved a much easier corpse to move. Hettie unbuckled the straps and let down the bunk bed, and together they slid the body off the bed and into the wheelbarrow. In death, Ann Brontë was by no means the showpiece her sister had become; her dark raven fur was squashed and spiky in places, and there was an unpleasant scent coming from her.

  ‘The sooner Morbid Balm gets here, the better,’ said Hettie, shutting the back doors to the camper van. ‘Poor Ann needs a bit of a makeover before she goes on display.’

  Poppa agreed and the two cats wheeled the body towards the library, much to the delight of Polly Hodge, who greeted them at the French windows and started a new page in her notepad, thrilled to have another body to focus on.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Morbid Balm, at your service,’ said the cheerful, round-faced cat as Hettie and Poppa wheeled Ann Brontë into the library. ‘Some folks like to call me Miss M. Balm as their little joke, on account of my chosen profession, but I don’t mind because it keeps things cheery. That’s what I do – cheer things up. Now, what have we got here?’

  Hettie was a little taken aback by the opening speech from Shroud and Trestle’s employee, but she could see instantly that Morbid Balm would be a wonderful asset in times of crisis. She was dressed mainly in black but wore an abundance of jewellery: a string of giant pearls around her neck; several rings on her painted red claws; and a multitude of bangles marching up both her arms, which clattered every time she moved. She looked a little out of place in her tall, lace-up boots and a black skirt which hung in jagged black satin petals around her.

  ‘We have three bodies to put on display,’ Hettie began. ‘The one you see on the dais over there, this one in the wheelbarrow, and another one which hasn’t arrived yet.’

  Morbid shot a look in the direction of the dais. ‘Well, I’m not being funny or anything, but I can’t do a lot for that one. No hair to brush, see? Those teeth won’t whiten up, either, but I could pop a couple of glass eyes in her sockets if you like? It is a she, isn’t it?’

  Hettie nodded as Morbid fell to her knees to take a closer look in the wheelbarrow. ‘I can help with this one, though. She looks a bit flat but I could puff her fur up a bit and even put a smile on her face if you didn’t mind me breaking her jaw – looks a bit set in its ways just now.’

  ‘I think we need to keep the expression the way it is. She did die a nasty death and a smile might not be the right way to go.’ Hettie marvelled at how easily she had slipped into the matter-of-fact discussion on after-death makeovers. ‘Eyes might be good for the other one, though.’

  Morbid responded by snapping the catches open on her large, wheeled suitcase, which revealed the tools of her trade – compartment after compartment, all neatly labelled. ‘What colour were they?’ she asked, pulling open a draw labelled ‘eyes’.

  ‘I’m not too sure, but this cat in the wheelbarrow is her sister,’ said Hettie, staring at the glass eyes as they stared back at her.

  ‘Let’s have a look, then.’ Morbid wasted no time in lifting one of Ann Brontë’s eyelids. ‘Black as pitch. I’ve run out of them, but I do have a novelty line that might be just right for your purpose.’ Morbid opened another drawer in her case marked ‘Special effects’. ‘How about these?’

  Hettie, Poppa and Mr Pushkin gathered round as Morbid pulled a pair of seemingly straightforward glass globes from the drawer. ‘Them’s me rainbow prisms,’ she said, holding them up to the light.

  Shocked and delighted in equal measure, Hettie had to agree that the eyeballs did look very striking when they were lit up and would probably enhance the horrific aspects of the display very nicely.

  ‘I got fluorescent whiskers as well, if you like, but that might be overkill.’

  Hettie resisted Morbid’s glow-in-the-dark range, knowing that time was passing and the display was by no means complete, mainly due to the absence of Downton Tabby and his head. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it, then, Miss … er … Morbid. Mr Pushkin here will assist you in any way he can. If you could tidy Ann up and fill Charlene’s sockets, that would be lovely.’

  Poppa and Mr Pushkin unloaded the wheelbarrow, laying Ann Brontë on a nearby table as Morbid Balm plugged in her hairdryer and gathered her combs and brushes from the suitcase. ‘How are you going to display this one? Do you want her looking nice all round or just from the front?’

  Hettie hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but a decision had to be made. ‘I think perhaps we could have her sitting in a chair, looking frightened.’

  ‘With a look on her face like the one she’s got now, that won’t be a problem. I’ll have to see what I can do about the sitting position, though. Like I said before, she is a bit flat.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Hettie, nodding to Poppa and grabbing the empty wheelbarrow. ‘We’ll go and fetch the other body and leave you to get on.’

  The day was already warm as Hettie and Poppa stepped out into the sunlight. Looking around the stalls area, they could see that Bugs Anderton and her helpers had done wonders in their clean-up session. The bunti
ng had been rehung, the rubbish scattered by the storm was neatly bagged, and even some of the giant puddles were beginning to dry up. The early sun made everything sparkle, and, for the first time in twelve hours, Hettie felt hopeful about what the day might bring.

  ‘I suppose we’d better catch up with Darius Bonnet,’ she said, wheeling the barrow into the marquee. ‘I wonder if he’s had any luck with the missing head? It’s got to be somewhere around here.’

  Tilly was on the stage, rearranging chairs, and Muddy Fryer seemed to have collapsed in a heap on top of her Round Table, snatching some much-needed rest. ‘Have you seen Darius?’ whispered Hettie, tiptoeing past the singer.

  ‘Not recently. How’s the display going?’ asked Tilly, sticking her new running order to the tent flap.

  ‘The good news is that Morbid Balm has arrived and is giving Ann Brontë a makeover, but we still have to shift Downton Tabby and that’s obviously a bit of a problem. Where are the rest of them?’

  ‘Bugs and the Fudges are clearing up the memorial garden, Nicolette is sponging down her pop-up and Bruiser is asleep in Miss Scarlet’s sidecar. I’ve delivered Emmeline to Ann’s room so she can have a rest. Muddy’s over there on her table, and Polly Hodge is right behind you with her notepad.’

  Hettie turned on her heel as the author bore down on her. ‘Miss Bagshot, you must return to the library immediately. We have visitors from breakfast television!’

  ‘Well, that’s all I bloody need! How the hell did they get wind of anything? We’ve promised the exclusive to the Sunday Snout. Have they seen anything yet?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Mr Pushkin is holding them at bay in the front car park and asked me to fetch you.’

  Hettie strode out of the marquee and bumped straight into Meridian Hambone, who had arrived early with more festival T-shirts. ‘Mornin’! I thought I’d get me pitch set up before any of them others arrive. I just done some business out front already. Them TV types is all wearin’ me “Littertrays” now. Any chance of me ’avin’ a bite to eat in yer staff canteen when I’ve set this lot up?’

  Hettie didn’t answer, but pushed past Meridian and her boxes, keen to fight off the media attack which awaited her in the driveway of Furcross House. On reaching the library, she noticed that the air was filled with a sweet-smelling scent, and Morbid Balm was obviously using her spray to great effect. Hettie glanced up at what was left of Charlene Brontë and noticed that the glass eyes were already in place, shining out like laser beams in every direction and giving the dead cat the look of a Hollywood comic-strip hero. It wasn’t perhaps the look she’d envisaged, but it was impressive all the same. Morbid herself was hard at work, blow-drying Ann Brontë’s fur.

  The library resembled the sort of madhouse which only manifested itself in the best nightmares, but nothing could have prepared Hettie for the performance she was about to get involved in up to her elegant tabby neck. Mr Pushkin was standing his ground at the entrance to Furcross House. The TV team – all sporting Meridian’s ‘Littertray’ T-shirts – was milling around with wires and cameras, all being unloaded from their broadcast van. In the middle of the chaos stood two cats whom Hettie recognised instantly, although she was rarely awake to see them present their local TV breakfast show. Evil Simmonds and her colleague, Spiro Hunch, had been a duo to be reckoned with in their time: Evil had fronted the nation’s top investigative show, Catarama, for many years until her unfortunate downfall over a catnip-for-questions incident; Spiro was lucky to have a job at all after news broke of his penchant for kittens, but money was paid and silence bought.

  ‘Miss Simmonds,’ said Hettie, moving forward, ‘what brings you here at this time of day? I’m not aware of your having booked an appointment today.’

  Evil Simmonds turned her eye on Hettie, looking her up and down before replying. ‘We go where the news takes us. And you are?’

  Hettie’s hackles rose instantly, but it suddenly occurred to her that her dishevelled appearance was doing her no favours with the media. Her Lord of the Pies T-shirt was covered in mud, blood and various bits of food from the hospitality tent, and it was no wonder that the broadcaster had been so dismissive. ‘I am Hettie Bagshot from the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency, and I am in charge of security here at the festival. As you can see, we have had a difficult night with the storm but those of us on-site are working hard to clean up before the festivalgoers arrive at ten.’

  Evil Simmonds smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. ‘Well, you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you? We’re here because of the storm. It’s caused havoc in the town. Greasy Tom’s van has been washed away, Elsie Haddock’s fish and chip shop has been flooded, Malkin and Sprinkle’s food hall is an inch deep in water, and the river is ready to burst its banks. We’re here to see if today’s festival is going ahead, so if you could find me a cat who would look good on camera, we’ll do them and move on.’

  Hettie could have hugged the presenter, and the relief must have shown in her face. Of course! It was the storm that was the story, and not – as she had first suspected – the death of Downton Tabby. ‘Oh dear, that all sounds terrible,’ she said, putting on her concerned face. ‘Perhaps you would like to talk to one of our festival stars? I could offer you P. D. Hodge or Nicolette Upstart – or Miss Muddy Fryer, who was unable to continue to another festival after her performance here last night because of the storm.’

  ‘What about Downton Tabby?’ asked Spiro Hunch, joining in the conversation. ‘He’s my favourite, and he’s a much bigger star than the rest of ’em put together.’

  For a moment, Hettie couldn’t avoid her rabbit-in-headlights stance, but she quickly recovered herself. ‘Dear me, it’s more than my job’s worth to disturb Sir Downton at this time of the morning, especially after such an unsettled night.’

  ‘Well, that’s a pity. I hear he’s been headhunted by the other channel for a new series. Any truth in that?’ Spiro continued.

  The very mention of heads threw Hettie into an uncharacteristic stutter. ‘Er … well … er … no, not to my knowledge. I’m just security, though, and who knows what these stars are up to? Not my department, really. I think …’

  Hettie’s ramblings were interrupted by Morbid Balm, who’d forced herself past Mr Pushkin with some urgency. ‘I can do replacement eyes, whiskers and expressions, but replacement heads! Not my thing, really, and he’ll need another suit of clothes if he’s to look respect …’

  Hettie lunged at Morbid, wrapping her in a hug that constricted her breathing while Evil Simmonds and Spiro Hunch looked on. ‘Morbid, how lovely of you to come and help with the clean-up! Morbid has been fixing some of the festival displays that were damaged in the storm,’ she explained, steering the Goth cat back towards the door of Furcross House. ‘I don’t want to be rude, but we still have a lot to do here and time is ticking on.’

  It was Polly Hodge who saved the day by appearing at exactly the right moment. Evil Simmonds, who recognised the author immediately, went into broadcast mode and began with a piece to camera, introducing their location ready for handing over to Spiro, who was bearing down on the famous crime writer.

  ‘For God’s sake, just stick to the storm, stay off the murders and send them away happy,’ whispered Hettie, pushing Morbid towards the door. Polly Hodge nodded, and beamed at Spiro in a ‘Let me tell you about my latest book’ sort of way.

  When Hettie reached the library, the scene before her was perhaps the most bizarre that she had ever witnessed. Morbid Balm had worked wonders on Ann Brontë. Her corpse sat next to the malevolent figure of her blackened sister, her mouth wide in a horrific grimace and her fur shiny and fluffed up, as if she’d been electrocuted and was still connected to the power source. The body at the foot of the dais lay awkwardly in the wheelbarrow which Poppa had just retrieved from the hospitality tent, and was the cause of Morbid’s untimely intervention.

  ‘No sign of Darius, so I thought I’d bring Sir Downton over,’ he said. ‘Delirium Treemints
said it wasn’t good to have it in a food preparation area, and anyway it was making her feel sick.’

  Hettie stared down at the corpse. The bloodstained checked suit looked ridiculous without a head. ‘See what I mean?’ said Morbid. ‘He’s not going to fit in with the other two like that. Is there some sort of story to all of this? If there is, it’s an odd sort of tale.’

  Hettie had to agree, but was grateful that Morbid’s pride in her work prevented her from delving too deeply into what had happened to the bodies in the first place. ‘We’re searching for the rest of him, and I’m sure things will look much better when we’ve found the head,’ she said apologetically, more to herself than to the undertaker. ‘Why don’t you have a break? There’s food and drink in our hospitality tent.’

  ‘All right, but I’ll have to be gone by nine. We got two funerals and a cremation later, and I got a wig to fit and three to dress before we send them on their way – but a nice cup of tea and a bun wouldn’t go amiss after me early start.’

  Leaving Poppa to guard the library from unwanted intruders, Hettie led the way, stopping to purchase a couple of festival T-shirts from Meridian Hambone, who’d laid out her stall and was now forcing a festival doughnut into her mouth. ‘You’ll ’ave to ’elp yerself, cos I’m covered in sugar,’ she said, clawing the money into the pouch of an old apron she always wore.

  Tilly was standing by the bookstall as Hettie and Morbid approached. ‘Is there anything I can do? I’ve sorted the new running order. Looks like being a good show.’

  ‘You can change into one of these,’ said Hettie, pushing a T-shirt at her. ‘Your Fur in the Sunlight looks more like Matted at Midnight. It’s time we cleaned ourselves up a bit.’

  Tilly loved new clothes and pounced on the T-shirt. Most of her wardrobe came from Jessie’s charity shop, and although the garments were of good quality, there was nothing nicer than brand new, even if it did have ‘Littertray’ written all over it. The three cats entered the marquee, tiptoeing past a snoring Muddy Fryer and out the other side. Hettie marvelled at the transformation which Bugs and her team had achieved in the memorial gardens. Hilary and Cherry Fudge had extended their first-aid talents to the flower and shrub borders, dead heading the storm-damaged bedding plants, while Bugs had spent some time up a wobbly ladder, reattaching a climbing rose to its trellis. The puddles were still quite deep in places, but Hettie, Morbid and Tilly picked their way across to hospitality without any problem.