by Mandy Morton
The wheezing had started as soon as she’d got into her car, and the four-hour journey from her home in Porkshire did nothing to improve her general state of health. The combination of hot weather and an author’s event could prove a deadly cocktail, and it was with great relief that she eventually swung her Morris Minor convertible into the driveway of Furcross House, amid a sea of excited cats filing past Lavender Stamp’s ticket tent. Lavender herself had only just arrived after her mop-up operation at the post office, and she was in no mood for the likes of Penny Stone-Cragg.
‘Just one moment,’ she said, approaching the Morris. ‘You can’t bring that vehicle in here. The signage is clearly marked at the bottom of Sheba Gardens. You’ll have to turn round and go back the way you came, then turn left. The cricket field isn’t far. Have you got a ticket? Because if you haven’t, you may as well go home now. We are completely sold out for today’s events.’
Penny Stone-Cragg sat in her car, gripping the steering wheel and waiting for Lavender to complete her welcome speech. She was more than capable of dealing with a jobsworth, and she calmly allowed her breathing to become a little more normal before offering Lavender some good advice. Adjusting her driving glasses to the end of her nose, she began. ‘I don’t have a ticket because I don’t need one. I won’t be leaving my car on a cricket field, because it suits me to park here. And furthermore, if it wasn’t for my authors, you wouldn’t have “sold out”, as you put it. If you would be kind enough to point me in the direction of the Misses Brontë, I shall go about my business and leave you to your kiosk.’
Lavender Stamp had received only the briefest of updates from Poppa as he escorted Muddy to the cricket field. She knew that there had been fatalities overnight and that the complexion of the festival had changed, but to what extent she had no idea. The fact that two of the agent’s clients were now corpses taking part in a macabre exhibition in the library was certainly beyond her present knowledge. The word ‘kiosk’ stung more than Penny Stone-Cragg could have imagined, but Lavender decided to err on the side of caution after the bloody nose she’d received the day before.
‘If you would care to wait, I’ll fetch someone who can help you. As you have observed, I am not able to leave my … er … KIOSK, or I would be delighted to show you into the festival myself.’
Penny Stone-Cragg was not used to waiting. Ignoring Lavender altogether, she grabbed her briefcase and inhaler from the passenger seat and swung the car door open. Her smart summer trouser suit instantly spoke money and quality, and Lavender knew that she was beaten. The agent ascended the steps to Furcross House and was about to lift the giant knocker when Mr Pushkin opened the door. Glancing at his lanyard and establishing that he was official, she announced herself. ‘Penny Stone-Cragg. My clients are appearing at the festival, and I’m here to attend an event or two.’
Mr Pushkin offered his broadest welcome smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted to see you. Is it Miss Upstart or Miss Hodge?’
‘Neither. I look after Charlene, Emmeline and Ann Brontë,’ she clarified, warming to his Russian accent.
The look of horror which replaced the smile was instant. Mr Pushkin shrank back from the agent as if she’d burnt him. ‘Ah, one moment please and I will get someone.’ He fled down the corridor towards the library, leaving Penny Stone-Cragg to stare at herself in the hatstand mirror and wonder if it was her hot, flushed appearance which had sent the Russian cat away in such haste.
Hettie and Tilly were admiring Morbid’s handiwork when Mr Pushkin made his entrance. The panic written right across his face made it very clear that yet another crisis loomed.
‘Quick! Someone help! The Brontës’ agent – she’s just arrived and is asking to speak with them.’
‘That could be quite a short conversation unless she’s a clairvoyant,’ said Hettie. ‘Who is she?’
‘Miss Penny Stone-Cragg, I think she said.’
‘Ooh, she’s really famous,’ said Tilly. ‘I read somewhere that she eats authors for breakfast if she doesn’t like them.’
Hettie tried to stay calm. ‘Well, maybe we could fob her off with a Butters’ pie instead.’
‘She’ll probably choke on it when she gets a look at this,’ Tilly said, not helping by waving her paw at the tableau.
‘What shall I do?’ demanded Mr Pushkin, verging on a bout of hysteria.
‘I’ll sort it out. She’ll have to know sooner or later, and at least she can have a nice chat with Emmeline. Show her in, and then go and see how Bruiser is. We’re not opening this exhibition until after Polly and Nicolette have done their “in conversation with each other” in the events tent. See if he feels up to taking the money on the door. I know he wanted to be involved.’
Mr Pushkin responded well to authority. Pulling himself together, he ushered the agent into the library and beat a hasty retreat through the French windows, leaving Hettie and Tilly to introduce themselves. Mercifully, the display wasn’t visible from the library’s reception desk, but Hettie knew that she would have to be succinct in giving the background to what the agent was about to see. She offered a blue lanyard by way of a starting point, making it clear that this would give the visitor access to all areas without further challenges, including the hospitality tent. Penny Stone-Cragg eyed up Hettie and Tilly’s lanyards, assessing whether red gave them superiority over blue; control was everything, but she decided to let it pass, and – after Hettie had scribbled her name on the tag, forgetting to include the hyphen – she put the lanyard impatiently over her head. Hettie opened her mouth to begin her presentation, but the agent was in no mood for long conversations and wandered across to the display area before anyone could stop her.
The asthma attack lasted longer than usual, and it was Tilly’s quick thinking in grabbing a chair that stopped the agent passing out altogether. The wheezing gradually subsided as the inhaler did its work. Still clutching at her chest, Penny Stone-Cragg finally brought her breathing under control and spoke in short bursts. ‘What is … the meaning … of this? … Some sick joke … dreamt up … by the festival … director … Under … whose instruction … were these … models made up?’
‘Ah,’ said Hettie, desperately trying to select her words in the right order. ‘The thing is, we’ve had a situation here overnight, caused entirely by one of your clients running amok. What you see here is a damage limitation measure.’
‘Damage limitation? Situation? What on earth are you talking about?’ the agent asked, shouting now that her breathing had returned to normal. ‘This is the most tasteless, grotesque display of literary culture since Tracy Ermine’s bed! Surely Ann Brontë hasn’t agreed to be represented in this way? And as for Downton Tabby, is this another of his lurid stunts to make even more money out of a gullible public? And what – or who – may I ask, is the blackened creature at the back supposed to be?’
Hettie cast a look at Tilly, who cast it back. Both cats knew that it was time for some plain speaking. Hettie decided to answer Penny Stone-Cragg’s enquiries in the order she had expressed them. ‘Ann Brontë had no choice in the matter because she was murdered by her sister in their camper van. That is her actual body. The head and torso you see are also the work of Charlene Brontë, who beheaded Sir Downton last night after his event. The blackened figure in the centre of the display is Charlene Brontë, who was struck by lightning whilst trying to murder an operative of mine who was trying to apprehend her. I should also add that, in my opinion, Charlene Brontë would have succeeded in murdering Emmeline Brontë as well had we not intervened at the right moment. The festival was in grave danger of closing prematurely due to your client’s actions, and so we decided to offer this tableau as an open and honest statement of what has happened here.’
Hettie was pleased with her truncated version of the situation. Tilly was impressed, and Penny Stone-Cragg was silent, inspecting the display with new eyes. It was some time before she gave any response at all; when it came, it was Hettie who was rendered speechless.
Penny Stone-Cragg rose from her chair and moved closer to the tableau. ‘Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, and I own the rights to two-thirds of it! I knew Charlene would come good in the end, and just think of the book sales! Film rights, a whole load of new territories, and a touring exhibition. Fantastic! Just fantastic! And I still have Emmeline! What joy! She’s the only one who could write, anyway. And I’ll let her publish all her miserable poetry – it’ll sell like hot cakes now that her sisters are victim and murderess. She’ll have to update Ann’s biography to start with, though – a first-paw account of “Death at the Festival”.’ The agent had quite forgotten Hettie and Tilly as she paced up and down, talking to herself and brainstorming the lucrative possibilities brought about by the death of two clients. Hettie breathed a sigh of relief. It would appear that the idea of displaying the corpses fitted in perfectly with the ethics of the publishing industry, or rather with the lack of them.
Polly Hodge put paid to the agent’s raptures by making her entrance through the French windows. ‘Penny, my dear – I wondered if you’d turn out for this festival. Client list getting a bit thin, by the look of things.’ She waved a paw at the display. ‘I’m writing it up for my next shocker. Far too delicious to ignore, and what fun to be here while it was all going on! A first-paw account and all that – liquid gold for the booksellers.’
Penny Stone-Cragg had always regarded P. D. Hodge as the one that got away and perhaps the biggest mistake she had ever made. When Polly had submitted her first novel, Cover Her Paws, Penny had confined it to her slush pile as a book to get round to eventually. Within months, Polly had signed with Flavour and Flavour, quickly becoming their bestselling author and unseating the late Agatha Crispy as the ‘Queen of Crime’. Penny had licked her wounds and tried to avoid noticing Polly’s meteoric rise to fame, but the author and her work were ever-present and very hard to ignore.
Now, she prepared her brave face and turned it towards the author. ‘I think you’ll have to go with an unauthorised account, Polly. Emmeline is in a much better position to write about her sisters, and it’s preferable to your turning it into one of your lurid crime fictions – although I’m sure it would be very readable.’
‘Maybe we should discuss terms over a festival breakfast?’ Polly suggested. ‘I’m famished. All these murders work up more than just a literary appetite.’
The idea of breakfast and a nice sit-down was a very attractive prospect, even without the chance to sign up the murder novel of the century from the pen of crime fiction’s Goliath. ‘That would be lovely,’ said the agent, gathering up her briefcase and leading the way to the French windows.
Hettie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, I think we got away with that one. Charlene Brontë’s rampage has obviously made her agent’s day.’
‘You were marvellous, though, telling it the way it is,’ said Tilly in admiration. ‘And the display is magnificent. Morbid has done us proud. What’s next?’
‘I think I’m going to find a deckchair and sit in the sun,’ Hettie said, yawning. ‘I’ll park myself at the back of the marquee for easy access to the hospitality tent and in case you need any help. What time do your events kick off?’
‘I’m putting Polly and Nicolette on at eleven. They’ve agreed to plug the exhibition, ready for the opening at twelve. I think there’ll be a stampede to see it, so we’ll need all paws on deck by then. If Bruiser and Mr Pushkin can deal with the tickets and the money, Poppa can be on security. I thought we could let them in by the French windows, then past the display and out through the other door, along the corridor and into the car park at the front. Lavender Stamp can direct them back into the festival through the memorial garden gate, and that way we can keep them moving. I’ll ask the Fudges to stand by with first aid in case we get any fainters.’
Hettie was full of admiration for Tilly’s plan, mainly because she wasn’t involved in it. Her intention for the rest of the day was to snooze in the sun and partake of the Butters’ themed meals – but the day still held some surprises, for which neither Hettie nor Tilly had bargained.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The hospitality tent was alive with conversation by the time Polly Hodge and Penny Stone-Cragg reached it. They’d picked Nicolette up on the way, as Polly was keen to introduce her to the agent. Had the Brontë sisters not been such a full-time job, Penny would have gladly included Nicolette in her elite stable of authors: her sunny disposition and public persona sold books better than any marketing plan, and she did work hard; youth was also on her side, which is why she was sent to queue for the breakfasts as Polly and the agent made themselves comfortable in the authors’ dining area.
‘Now, about this book, dear,’ Polly began, wasting no time on niceties. ‘I can see your point about letting Emmeline write it, but would it be good enough? That’s the real question. I honestly think you need a more mature paw on the typewriter for this one, and the poor girl is in deep shock. It’s not the best moment to spring a new project on her, but if you give her time to come to terms with it all, someone else will have snatched the story away. Commission me now and I’ll start work on Monday, and Emmeline can write the foreword. How about that?’
Penny Stone-Cragg raised her paw in submission. ‘You’re absolutely right, and Emmeline isn’t the easiest client to work with. God only knows how long it would take her to finish a book like that – she’s always writing her bloody poetry. Bonville Brontë had to help her finish Withering Sights. She was always getting lost on the moor in bad weather, which meant weeks of convalescence on her chaise longue in the parsonage, scribbling her rhymes instead of applying herself to the fate of Katty and Heatclip. It’s a shame he ever started on liquid catnip – he’d have made a very fine writer, certainly better than the painter he became. Anyway, I digress. I’ll have the contract drawn up as soon as I get back to Porkshire. At least I’ll get to publish one of yours before we both shuffle off to the slush pile in the sky.’
Polly Hodge laughed. It was a refreshing change to have a grown-up conversation with a cat who had been through as much turbulence as she had over the years and was still at the top of her profession.
‘How will you manage without Charlene and Ann on your books? A bit of a blow to lose two at once.’
‘Well, to be perfectly honest, there were days when I would happily have strangled Charlene myself! She was so aggressive, and Ann just simpered along behind her, lapping up anything she said. Neither of them had much time for Emmeline, although she was born to be a nightmare of a different kind. Out with the fairies doesn’t even begin to describe her.’
‘You don’t seem very shocked by Charlene’s murderess escapades. Did you see this coming?’
‘No, not at all. There was plenty of sisterly in-fighting, but nothing that suggested fatal consequences. I knew that Charlene hated Downton Tabby, but – to be honest – didn’t we all? He was the most obnoxious cat I’ve ever met. That year I spent as his agent was purgatory. He lived in a completely different world to the rest of us. The arrogance of the upper classes and their complete lack of understanding of the real world defeated me. I had to let him go for my own sanity.’
Nicolette approached with a beaming smile and three all-day breakfasts balanced precariously on a tray. She brought everything to a safe landing and Polly Hodge wasted no time in unloading the plates. The three said very little as they demolished the egg, bacon, sausage and fried bread, and it was Penny Stone-Cragg who eventually broke the silence, addressing her remarks to Nicolette. ‘I so enjoyed your Death of Lucy Cat. Are there others in the pipeline of a similar nature that I could publish?’
Nicolette swallowed her last piece of fried bread too quickly, getting it stuck in her throat and submitting to a coughing fit which took some time to bring under control. The ever watchful Delirium Treemints came to the rescue with a glass of water and Nicolette gradually regained her composure, her ears turning bright red against her blonde fur. ‘I’m promoting my compendium, Londo
n Drains and Other Grimes at the moment, but I’m halfway through another stand-alone. I have a part-finished rough draft if you’d care to read it?’
Polly Hodge added her support. ‘You should take a look at it, Penny dear. It really is very good. I’ve had a peek myself, and you could have a real hit on your paws.’
‘OK, I’m convinced. With your endorsement I clearly have to read it, Polly, although I’ll expect a quote from you for the front cover.’
‘Of course. That goes without saying.’ Polly Hodge rose from the table. ‘Come along, Nicolette, my dear – we’d better adjourn to the marquee where our public awaits. Time to sell some books, I think.’ The two cats left the agent scribbling in her appointments diary and crossed over to the backstage area of the marquee, where Tilly was waiting to greet them.
The stage was set up with the two chairs which had only recently been occupied by Downton Tabby and Hettie. Nicolette and Polly appeared to rapturous applause and the day’s events got underway. They worked well together, and there was a huge respect between them. Polly had mentored Nicolette when she first started to write, and the two cats had become firm friends in spite of their age difference. Polly loved associating with young authors: their enthusiasm and modern perspective on life fuelled her interest in all things, and she, in turn, possessed a self-assured wisdom which she was more than happy to pass on to those who deserved it. The two cats laid out the pros and cons of the crime novel, taking it in turns to discuss each other’s books and delighting their audience with some of the more extreme areas of research to which their work had taken them. By the end of their joint presentation, it was clear that murder was an extreme sport for both of them, a challenge to create not just the perfect crime but the nastiest – all in good heart, and in the true tradition of the detective writer.
