by Mandy Morton
They took their bows and Nicolette left the stage to slip round to the front of the marquee to greet her fans at her merchandise pop-up. Polly waited for the applause to die down, then addressed the crowd. ‘I have been asked to tell you about a couple of changes to the festival running order today. Due to unforeseen circumstances, Downton Tabby’s marquee appearance has had to be cancelled.’
The groan of disappointment ran through the audience like a Mexican wave; undaunted, Polly Hodge continued. ‘The fact of the matter is that he was murdered by Charlene Brontë last night, as was her sister Ann. Following an act of divine intervention, Charlene is also dead and by way of a bolt of lightning has paid the price for her heinous crimes.’
This time, a collective gasp of horror reverberated around the tent as all eyes were riveted to the cat in the centre of the stage. ‘The festival director decided to continue with today’s events, as he didn’t wish to turn away anyone who had bought a ticket. With this in mind, he has put on a very special display in the library which will be open in a few minutes’ time. There will be an extra charge for this display, and I suggest that those of you who are of a nervous disposition give it a miss altogether. You will see the consequences of a true crime in its most lurid detail, and later today Emmeline Brontë – the one surviving sister – will pay tribute to her siblings and their work. On a brighter note, Miss Muddy Fryer will be offering a dance and singing workshop after lunch, and will return to the stage after Emmeline Brontë to give her recital of British murder ballads. The evening will conclude with the folk rock group, Furcross Convention, who will offer a cheerful selection of country dance tunes. Now, would those of you who wish to see the display form an orderly queue outside the French windows to the library?’
Tilly clapped her paws in sheer admiration at Polly’s speech. She had been fully expecting a riot over the non-appearance of Downton Tabby; instead, the marquee emptied in seconds and the queue for the library began to snake around the stalls area. She thanked the author and left the tent to check that everything was in place before the library doors were opened, making her way through the memorial garden gate where Lavender Stamp had placed herself ready to direct the crowds back into the festival. Cherry and Hilary Fudge were standing by the main door to Furcross House with their first-aid bags at the ready, and she was pleased to see that Bruiser looked much better; he sat by the French windows with a cash box, ready to take the money. Mr Pushkin was pacing the floor with excitement and Poppa stood by the dais, keen to deter any cats from getting too close to the exhibits. Tilly noticed that Turner Page himself was lurking in the history section, eager to see if the revamped festival would save his bacon and the library. Satisfied that all was in place, she nodded to Mr Pushkin, who opened the French windows to several hundred pairs of wide eyes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
To say that the festival display had proved to be popular would be a gross understatement. Tilly had calculated that a steady flow of visitors would last for two to three hours at the most, but she hadn’t bargained for those cats who would be happy to pay for a second and – in some cases – a third look at the spectacle. Lunchtime came and went and the queue persisted. Muddy Fryer’s dance and song workshop was poorly attended but warmly appreciated by the few cats who couldn’t stomach the display at all, or who had seen enough the first time round.
The heat of the day was beginning to get to everybody. There had been one or two hissing and spitting sessions in the queue, as well as a certain amount of pushing from cats who were keen to get into the shade of the library. All the stallholders were doing a roaring trade, as those waiting for the display had plenty of time to browse. Jessie had sold out of her decorated wellingtons; Meridian Hambone had had to borrow Turner Page’s telephone so that she could place an emergency order for more ‘Littertray’ T-shirts from Dorcas Ink; and Nicolette Upstart had sold everything she had brought with her and had received several substantial offers for her pop-up stall due to its connection with Downton Tabby’s murder.
Betty and Beryl Butter – realising that no one would want to leave the queue to buy the pies and pastries which they’d baked in vast quantities – set up their own trestle table by the re-entry gate in the memorial gardens and hired Bugs Anderton to keep shop. The library display had certainly heightened the appetites of those who emerged from a viewing and Bugs added a sideline of her own, taking advantage of the hot sun by charging three pence for a cup of cold water which she had extracted earlier from the outdoor tap by the potting shed and stored in a large galvanised bucket under the trestle table. The money, she decided, would go to bolster the coffers of the town’s Friendship Club, in which she had been the dominant force for years.
Hettie slept through the lunch hour, which was a rare thing in itself. She awoke to the untrained caterwauling of the cats who had joined Muddy Fryer’s singing workshop, and it took her a minute or two to get her bearings; the sleep had been deep and dreamless, and it felt quite strange to be waking up in the memorial gardens at Furcross. Suddenly, the night’s events came flooding back to her and bit by bit she reconnected with the present. She glanced across at Bugs Anderton, under siege from those in search of refreshment, and wondered why she was selling pies and pastries. She looked across at the hospitality tent, where Beryl Butter was standing in the entrance, fanning herself with her apron and sharing some happy banter with her sister. Resisting the urge to re-engage too soon, Hettie sat back in her deckchair and enjoyed the sound of Muddy Fryer’s voice singing ‘The Lark in the Morning’; the song was barely over before Muddy’s workshop devotees were having a go themselves, missing the high notes and floundering somewhere in the middle to create a wall of sound which could easily be described as unpleasant. At this point, she needed no further inducements to go and find Tilly. Abandoning her deckchair, she made her way past the workshop and out the other side, where she was met with the pandemonium that had been raging for over two hours.
Tilly was stationed at the French windows to the library as the queue jostled and arched like one of Terry Scratchit’s monsters. Hettie noticed that the bookstall had been cleaned out of all Downton Tabby and Brontë books, gobbled up as fast as the Butters’ pies.
She pushed through the crowds until she reached Tilly’s side. ‘How’s it all going?’ she asked. ‘I thought they’d all be through by now.’
‘So did I,’ Tilly replied, straightening the bandana which had slipped down over one eye. ‘The trouble is they’re all going round again. I was just wondering what to do about it.’
Hettie looked back along the queue. ‘I think we’ll have to start directing them into the events marquee from the memorial garden gate. Emmeline Brontë will be on after Muddy has finished her workshop, and they’ll all want to see her. Lavender Stamp and Bugs Anderton are stationed by the gate so I’ll go and tell them to put a stop on the returnees. Lavender will love to be given some extra authority. You know her – any opportunity for a spot of caustic bullying, and that’s exactly what’s needed to sort this queue out.’
Tilly was more grateful than she could say: she was hot, tired out, and in need of a very long sleep. ‘If you could cover for me, I’ll go and get a nice cold drink and sit out of the sun for a bit. I’ll have to sort Emmeline out soon, and I ought to let her know that her agent has turned up. I’ll speak to Lavender and Bugs on my way through.’
Leaving Hettie to martial the front of the queue, Tilly fought her way back to the events marquee where Muddy Fryer was engaged in an energetic bout of step dancing, much to the delight of her fans. Even Polly Hodge was pointing her toes at the back of the tent, and Jessie had taken time out from her stall to come and watch; now that the wellingtons had all been snapped up, she’d decided to enjoy the festival for herself. Seeing Tilly, she crossed over to her. ‘You look all in. Shall we go and have a sit-down?’
Tilly appreciated Jessie’s concern and the two cats made their way to the hospitality tent and out of the day’s ferocious heat. The te
nt was cool and peaceful. Delirium Treemints had nodded off behind her samovar and the Butters were taking a break and doing a crossword, with Betty reading out the clues as Beryl solved them. The Crime Teas had been laid out on plates, ready to take through to the marquee; the freshly baked scones were piled high with cream and jam, and Beryl had stuck a small plastic dagger in the top of each one, dipped in strawberry jam for full effect. The wheelbarrow that had so recently been used for transporting bodies had been requisitioned, scrubbed and made ready to ferry the food across the memorial gardens. Betty looked up from her clues as Tilly and Jessie entered the tent. ‘You two look like you could do with a treat. Help yourselves to a Crime Tea while you can.’
Tilly slumped down at the nearest table while Jessie responded to Betty’s invitation and collected a plate of scones and two ice-cold bottles of ginger beer from the counter. Tilly stared at the scones, wondering if she would ever be hungry again. Her nose and ears were burnt from the sun, her thick long fur felt like it was suffocating her, and her body was wracked with pain from her arthritis.
‘Come on,’ Jessie coaxed. ‘Get one of these scones down you. You need to keep your strength up.’
‘I haven’t got any strength left,’ Tilly said, reaching for the ginger beer. ‘I just want to go to sleep for a hundred years.’
‘No point in that – just think what you’d miss. Why don’t you have a nap now? Emmeline isn’t on until after tea, so you won’t be needed until then. I can cover for you if anything comes up.’
Tilly hugged her friend with the little strength she had left, downed the ginger beer and hiccupped her way to a deckchair which someone had dragged into the tent. She had just closed her eyes for a second when Penny Stone-Cragg shattered the peace. ‘Ah, there you are. I’ve been informed that you are in charge of artists and I think I should speak with Emmeline before her event. I gather she’s resting. Perhaps you could take me to her?’
Before Tilly could reply, Jessie intervened. ‘I’m happy to show you to the accommodation block. Miss Tilly’s on a break just now and I’m taking over for a bit.’
The agent looked Jessie up and down, deemed her to be reliable and followed her out of the tent, leaving Tilly to her much-needed sleep. Jessie led her across the memorial gardens, taking care to avoid the deep puddles that still persisted after the storm. The sun had dried the ground out, but – where the graves were sited – the overnight rain had settled in miniature lakes, several inches deep and several feet across. The agent tottered on her heels, hanging on to Jessie’s paw as she steered her through the obstacle course and arriving at the accommodation block a little out of breath.
The two cats entered the hallway and Jessie stared at the doors that confronted them, having forgotten to ask Tilly which room Emmeline Brontë was occupying. She employed a process of elimination, knocking on each one in turn; the first two brought no response, but the third was opened by a sleepy Darius Bonnet. Penny Stone-Cragg recognised him immediately. ‘Darius, my dear boy – I had no idea you were still with Downton Tabby. I thought you’d have had enough years ago. Bad luck all this business, though. If you need a job, give me a ring. My garden in Porkshire needs a strong pair of paws and it would be nice to be driven about occasionally.’
Darius blinked through swollen eyes. The tears he had shed for his master had all dried up, but his heart was still aching. Since Downton Tabby took him on, he had responded to every hour of his benefactor’s life, sharing his secrets, serving him in everything, and enjoying the lifestyle which success had delivered. Their servant–master relationship had been one of absolute trust and loyalty, and the fact that Darius had been absent when Downton Tabby had needed him most was preying heavily on his mind.
‘That’s a very kind offer,’ he said, trying to hide his dishevelled appearance behind the door, ‘but I’ve no idea what I’m going to do next. My responsibility now is to return Sir Downton to his ancestral home for a decent burial. After that, I think I’ll see which way the wind blows.’
‘I completely understand,’ said the agent, trying to be sympathetic. ‘You know where I am. Could you point us to Emmeline Brontë’s room?’
‘Next door but one,’ said Darius, ending the conversation by closing the door and leaving them to follow his directions.
‘Emmeline, dear,’ said Penny Stone-Cragg as she tapped on the door. ‘It’s Penny here – will you let me in?’
There was no immediate response, but a shuffling from inside the room saved the agent from knocking again. The door opened and Jessie turned on her heel, leaving the two to their conversation. When she emerged back into the sunlight, she noticed that the monstrous queue had finally died down and the events marquee was now filling up with cats, all keen for a Crime Tea and a good seat for the surviving Brontë’s performance.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
What passed between agent and client will never truly be known. There were no witnesses to Penny Stone-Cragg’s fatal asthma attack, although she may have survived had she not fallen face down in one of the deeper puddles in the memorial garden. Emmeline was first on the scene and had seemingly done her best to offer assistance to the dying cat, but the Brontë sister was no first-aider and panic had taken over, resulting in vital minutes being lost. Polly Hodge – on her way across for tea – gave the alarm and Hilary and Cherry Fudge were called, but no amount of textbook resuscitation could bring the agent back.
Emmeline stood by, wringing her paws as the agent’s death was confirmed by Cherry, who established that there was no pulse and no breath on the compact mirror that she always carried in case a relevant situation arose.
‘What am I to do?’ Emmeline cried, finding her voice. ‘I have no one left. My sisters are murdered and my agent is dead. I have nothing but the moor to comfort me. This is my darkest of hours.’
Hettie was summoned by Polly Hodge and arrived on the scene in time to witness the strange form of Greek tragedy which was being played out. Emmeline Brontë, still in her nightdress, sat in a puddle cradling her dead agent’s head and wailing.
Tilly, awoken by the noise, stumbled out of the hospitality tent rubbing her eyes and joined Hettie for a ringside seat. ‘Poor Emmeline,’ she said, taking in the situation. ‘She’s had a non-stop run of bad luck. I thought Penny Stone-Cragg was going to keel over earlier in front of the display. She wasn’t well when she arrived, and, with all this heat, I suppose it was always going to end like this.’
‘Somebody had better sort Emmeline out,’ Hettie muttered, a little unsympathetically. ‘She’s got to pull herself together. She’s on in half an hour, and agent or no agent the show must go on.’
Cherry and Hilary Fudge gently brought Emmeline to her feet, leaving the dead cat in the puddle which had drowned her. Together, they escorted the author back to her room, where they bathed her and assisted her into her stage clothes.
‘Looks like we’ve another one for the Brontë’s camper van,’ said Hettie. ‘We may as well put the body in there. I expect Emmeline might be happy to drive it back to Porkshire in the morning, along with her two sisters. Without Penny Stone-Cragg, there’s no chance that the exhibition will travel, and the best place for them is in that godforsaken graveyard above Teethly.’
‘What about Downton Tabby?’ asked Tilly.
‘Well, I think we can leave him to Darius. We don’t want the festival involved in funeral costs.’
Poppa strode across the memorial garden to report that the display was now closed and that Bruiser and Mr Pushkin were busily counting the proceeds. ‘Turned out to be a brilliant earner,’ he said, assisting Hettie with the agent’s body. ‘Where’s this one going?’
‘Put her in the Brontës’ camper for now. We’re keeping this one quiet. It makes a change to have a natural death round here, but it’s a bit of bad luck all the same.’
Tilly went ahead to open the garden gate and the camper’s back doors as Hettie and Poppa struggled in a somewhat ungainly manner with the dead cat, leaving the
body on one of the lower bunks. Poppa returned to the marquee to check the stage arrangements for Emmeline’s appearance, and Hettie and Tilly retired to hospitality for a quick cup of tea. Emmeline Brontë’s wailing had woken Delirium Treemints from her slumbers and she was now wielding a giant tea pot, correctly anticipating that after yet another fatality there would be a rush on hot, sugary drinks. Polly Hodge and Nicolette Upstart sat consoling each other on the deals that had died in the memorial garden puddle, promising to work on the Furcross festival murder book together. There was no doubt that it would be a bestseller, and being able to include the death of a literary agent was, as Polly put it, ‘the icing on the cake, dear.’
Hettie and Tilly gratefully received their tea. A lot of it had been slopped in the saucers, as Delirium’s nerves had returned to haunt her with the news of another death. She had recently become apprentice to the town’s psychical practitioner Irene Peggledrip and was now convinced that the dead returned to confuse the living – especially if you dressed in purple and bathed yourself in candlelight. Delirium was still a novice, but she knew enough to understand that violent death bred malevolent spirits, which is why she had kept herself well away from the macabre display in the library and concentrated solely on dispensing beverages.
‘It’s a real shame about Penny Stone-Cragg,’ said Tilly, licking the cream off one of Beryl’s scones. ‘I thought she was an interesting sort of cat – clever, really. I wonder what Emmeline will do now?’
