by Mandy Morton
Hettie and Tilly stood and waited for Fluff Wither-Fork’s tale of woe to subside into something more manageable, before steering the conversation around to the reason they were there. It occurred to Hettie that Fluff Wither-Fork was heading rapidly to her wits’ end, and a murder on her allotments was possibly the least of her worries. The realisation that she had poured out her troubles to two total strangers brought the landowner back down to her baronial front lawn, and, with only a slight hesitation, she rose to her full height, reinstating her nobility and bringing a little more decorum to the situation. ‘I mustn’t take up too much of your time, Miss er …?’
‘Bagshot. Hettie Bagshot and Tilly Jenkins,’ responded Hettie in her most helpful tone.
‘Yes, quite,’ said Fluff. ‘I think it best if you follow me to the allotments so that you can see for yourselves.’
She set out at a brisk pace down the drive, with Hettie and Tilly doing their best to keep up. When they reached the gatehouse, Micks lurched into their path. ‘You’ve got to say the password if you want me to open the gates.’
Fluff pushed him aside, turning the key in the lock herself and throwing the gates wide. ‘I’ve no time for your idiotic behaviour today, Micks. Go and get that ridiculous outfit off, and leave these gates open until my guests and I return from the allotments. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m in no mood to play along – and you can tell my sister that I wish to speak with her during lunch at the Hall. You are not invited.’
Crestfallen, Micks Wither-Spoon slunk back into the gatehouse, and Hettie and Tilly followed Fluff across the road and through the gate to the allotments.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Wither-Fork allotments were laid out in plots of equal size to the left and right of a central path. Fluff turned left into the first plot, which was dominated at the top end by a green Gypsy caravan with large red wheels. The chimney, which forced its way through the rounded roof, belched a plume of white smoke into the air, and Hettie’s keen nose detected an unmistakable smell of sausages.
Fluff approached the caravan as Bonny Grubb emerged, wiping her whiskers on a large, dirty red handkerchief, which she’d tugged from around her neck. ‘Bonny, I’ve brought some detectives to look at the body. Could you lead the way please?’
Bonny looked first at Tilly and then at Hettie, whom she recognised instantly. ‘Well, I never expected to see you up ’ere agin. I ’eard you’d landed nicely on yer paws and got yerself a town residence in a posh bit of the high street. Seen you in the newspapers I stuff me old boots with to dry ’em out. Detective now, is it? Well I never! Gone are them days when you warmed yer paws round me campfire.’
‘Thank you, Bonny,’ said Fluff. ‘We need to get on with this. It’s not a social call.’
This time Bonny did as she was told, and led the way to her onion patch and the heap of sacking in the middle of it. ‘There ’e is – not moved an inch, see? I covered ’im as you said, Miss, an’ I ain’t spoke a word of it to none of ’em, just like you told me.’
Fluff nodded her approval, and Hettie surveyed the scene before moving forward to lift the sacking. Tilly reached into her mac pocket for her notebook and pencil, and stood poised to take down anything interesting. Hettie looked closely at the dead cat and the carnage around it; there was no doubt that the bloodstained rock had been used in the attack. One side of the face was caved in, the fur matted with dried blood, and there were several teeth scattered around the head; the coat the cat wore was soaked from the overnight rain. Hettie noted that the clothes were of good quality, and the boots were certainly not suitable for the wear and tear of life on an allotment. She searched the pockets next and found nothing.
At last, she stood back from the body and looked at Bonny Grubb. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be, Bonny?’
‘I told Miss. I ain’t never seen ’im till I found ’im in me onions this mornin’.’
‘And you heard nothing in the night or early this morning?’ insisted Hettie, noticing that Bonny had become a little agitated.
‘I sleeps sound in me van. I always ’as a little tipple afore I lays me ’ead down – part of me medicinals.’
‘You mean you were out for the count on that moonshine you brew,’ said Hettie.
‘Well, I gotta do something with me taters,’ Bonny said, defensively.
‘And what did you do with the contents of his pockets, Bonny?’
The Gypsy looked down at her boots as Fluff, Tilly and Hettie waited for an answer. ‘I was goin’ to tell, but that slipped me mind with the shock of me onions. I was ’opin’ for a prize this year in the show, see, and I gets forgetful when I’m upset.’
Refusing to discuss Bonny Grubb’s onions, Hettie repeated her question. This time, without any further excuse, Bonny led them back to her caravan and proffered a small bundle, which she had placed under her bunk mattress. ‘That’s all I got frum ’im – a few pennies and a pocketbook. No good ta me, as I ain’t learnt me letters yet.’
Hettie took the book, but waved the pennies away. ‘Compensation for your onions, Bonny. I’m sure Miss Wither-Fork is happy to let you keep them.’
Fluff shrugged her shoulders as if it was the last thing that was bothering her, and Bonny gleefully clawed the pennies back under her mattress.
‘For decency’s sake, I need to arrange to have the body removed,’ Fluff said, addressing her remarks to Hettie as Tilly took charge of the pocketbook, mentally labelling it ‘exhibit one’ and checking that there was no name and address inside. ‘Would that be all right? I can give Shroud and Trestle a ring when we get back to the Hall for lunch. I hope you’ll both join me?’
Hettie thought for a moment, looking round at the other allotments and trying not to allow her unprofessional thoughts to stray to a slap-up meal at Wither-Fork Hall. ‘At the moment, the onion patch is what we call a crime scene. Before the body is removed, I think the other allotment cats should come and view it – just in case anyone recognises him. Could you organise that, perhaps?’
Fluff nodded. ‘That’s a job for Jeremiah Corbit. He’s a sort of unappointed overseer up here, and a bit of a rabble-rouser. I suppose he means well – a stickler for composting and such things. He lives two plots down. I’ll go and ask him to round up the residents.’
She strode meaningfully back to the central path, while Bonny busied herself in her caravan and left Hettie and Tilly to kick their heels. ‘So what do you think so far?’ Tilly asked. ‘Not much to go on, is there?’
‘I’m more concerned about lunch,’ grumbled Hettie. ‘That cheese triangle has gone nowhere, and the memory of Bonny Grubb’s breakfast sausages is too much. The whole allotment smells of them.’
Tilly dug deep into her mac pockets, triumphantly pulling out a custard cream, which had stuck to the lining. ‘It’s not much, but it might tide you over till we get back to Wither-Fork Hall.’
Hettie never ceased to be amazed by the resources that sprang from Tilly’s pockets. She pounced gratefully on the biscuit, forcing it into her mouth as Fluff Wither-Fork returned with a short-haired grey, whiskery cat, and a colourful assortment of fellow allotment-holders. With regimental precision, the grey cat bullied the rest of the company into line ready for introductions, and Tilly stood by to write down the names in her notebook. Recognising the Gamp sisters and Clippy Lean, she entered their names first and marked them as non-residents who lived in the town. Jeremiah Corbit introduced himself with an air of importance, then reeled off the rest of the names. ‘The Gamp sisters; Apple Chutney; Tarragon Trench; Gertrude Jingle; Desiree, Rooster and young Blight Chit; Dahlia and Gladys Mulch; and Clippy Lean. The only one missing is Blackberry Tibbs, and she works up at the Hall.’
Hettie took in a sea of expectant faces, all wondering why they had been wrenched from their allotments. When the names had been faithfully recorded in Tilly’s notebook, she addressed them en masse. ‘I am Hettie Bagshot and this is my assistant, Tilly Jenkins. We have been called in by Miss Wither-F
ork to investigate a nasty death on Bonny Grubb’s onion patch.’ Hettie paused for effect, and the cats showed varying degrees of shock, horror and bewilderment before she continued, ‘We need your help in identifying the body, so I would ask you all to follow me to the onion patch and take a close look.’
Hettie led the way, giving no warning of the state of the body and hoping that the element of surprise – or lack of it – might reveal the killer. Instead, she witnessed a united display of revulsion: the Gamps lost their breakfast in unison over Bonny Grubb’s courgettes, and young Blight Chit wet himself in the middle of her elephant garlic. ‘I’m sorry for the distress that this has caused you all,’ Hettie said, ‘but there is no doubt that this cat has been murdered. If any of you recognise him or have any information that will help us to find the killer, please come forward now.’ She waited, but all the cats stood frozen to the spot. ‘Very well. My assistant and I will visit you all individually on your allotments after lunch. In the meantime, perhaps you could take a look round your own plots for anything out of place or any signs of an intruder. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you are all at risk until the killer has been apprehended.’
‘What about the bus?’ said Clippy Lean. ‘I’m late on my shift already. I only popped up to dig some spuds, and I can’t leave the passengers stranded halfway up Wither-Fork Hill.’
Hettie was now desperate for her lunch, and felt confident that the town’s award-winning bus conductress was no killer; as Clippy didn’t live on her allotment, she decided to let her rejoin the bus on the condition that Tilly could carry out a search of her patch and shed after lunch in her absence. Clippy happily agreed and returned to her plot to collect her potatoes and spade. The rest of the company dispersed, leaving Hettie, Tilly and Fluff to return to the Hall, where Hettie hoped for a big lunch before any further investigations were undertaken.
CHAPTER FIVE
From the outside, Wither-Fork Hall was a grand example of a Jacobean manor house. Facing back down an avenue of mature trees, the central part of the house was flanked by two high gabled wings, and Tilly amused herself by counting the windows that faced out across the parkland – eighteen in all, and none of them looking as if they’d been cleaned for several years.
Doing her best to keep pace with Fluff Wither-Fork’s long and urgent strides, Hettie attempted some polite conversation. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said. ‘Have the Wither-Forks always been here?’
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Fluff. ‘They managed to avoid all the land-grabbing wars that raged around them over the centuries – dissolutions, civil wars, conquests. I’m not sure how they did it, but my ancestors always seemed to be looking the other way when trouble brewed. Their biggest problem was a tendency towards benevolence and an irritating belief that if you wrote it down and sealed it with wax the gift would last for ever.’
Hettie was curious to know more, but Fluff’s assessment of her family tapered off as they reached the Hall, where the door was opened by an attractive, long-haired black and white cat wearing an apron over jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. ‘Lunch is ready in the dining room, Miss. I’m afraid it’s courgettes again.’
‘Thank you, Blackberry. I’m sure you’ve done your best. Would you be kind enough to show Miss Bagshot and Miss Jenkins through to the dining room? I’ll join them shortly after I’ve put in a call to Shroud and Trestle. There’s been some unpleasantness on Bonny Grubb’s onion patch that needs dealing with.’
Hettie smiled at Fluff’s description of the murder, while Tilly stared open-mouthed at the size of the reception hall they found themselves in; it reminded her of those giant cathedrals where they buried kings and queens in stone coffins, although the only real point of interest in this particular example was a legion of galvanised buckets, which lined the hall like a guard of honour at a state occasion, strategically placed to take up the shortfall from roof tiles that were doing very little to keep out the rain. Fluff followed Tilly’s gaze from the buckets to the badly stained plaster ceiling. ‘Ah, I see you’re already appreciating some of our finer points of interest. The buckets were introduced in my grandfather’s time, and grow in number every year as the roof slates disintegrate. It’s become an extreme sport to predict where the next bucket will be needed.’
As if leading a guided tour into another room, Fluff turned on her heel and strode off to call the town’s undertakers. Hettie and Tilly followed the cat identified as Blackberry along the hall and into a vast and inhospitable dining room, whose giant wall-to-ceiling windows looked out over a vista of beautiful formal gardens: a rose parterre to the left; a considerable explosion of dahlias to the right; and a central walk of continuous fountains dancing off into the distance, arriving eventually at a series of small lily-clad ponds, which boasted a fine collection of statuary – cherubic cats, heraldic knights and weeping maidens, all staring down into the water.
‘Those gardens prop the rest of the place up,’ said Blackberry. ‘Miss Wither-Fork totally relies on her garden tours, and without them we’d all be homeless. You can’t live on vegetables alone.’
Hettie looked around her as Tilly headed towards a fireplace the size of a small bedsitting room, where a heatless fire smoked in the grate. The walls of the dining room were decorated with a mixture of faded tapestries and damp-riddled plaster, bulging from the walls as if trying to escape from the very fabric of the house. The dining table was long and surprisingly well polished, and there was a collection of odd chairs placed in an expectant clutch at the fire end of the room, apparently waiting for guests.
The only cheerful aspect of the room was an enormous bowl filled with dahlias of every colour and type; some boasted tiny sprays of daisy-like heads, others were large and spiky, shouting out their brilliance. The flowers were placed in the centre of the table and acted as a welcome distraction from the damp and decay that surrounded them.
‘If you’d like to take your seats, I’ll bring the pie in,’ said Blackberry. ‘I don’t expect Miss Wither-Fork will be long, and she hates to be kept waiting for her food. I’ll set off now if that’s OK?’
Hettie smiled eagerly at Blackberry. ‘That would be lovely, but it sounds like you’ve a distance to travel?’
‘Ah well, it’s ten minutes to the kitchen and back – down the stairs and right through the old staff quarters – and it’s not easy to keep anything hot. That’s why Miss Wither-Fork lives in the housekeeper’s old parlour below stairs. It’s next to the kitchen and much cosier than this barn of a place. We’re in here today, though, as she has guests. She likes to keep up appearances, in spite of there being no money.’
Blackberry left the dining room and Hettie waited for her footsteps to die away on the flagstone floors before commenting on their surroundings. ‘What a bloody nightmare!’ she said, as she and Tilly settled themselves at the table. ‘This huge house, all that land out there, a bunch of dependants up on the allotments, and a halfwit as a gatekeeper – you wouldn’t want to be Fluff Wither-Fork for all the crispy batter bits in Elsie Haddock’s chip shop.’
Tilly giggled. ‘We haven’t met the sister yet. I wonder what she’s like.’
‘All I’m interested in is the pie that Blackberry mentioned. If we’ve got to spend the afternoon up on the allotments, we’ll need fortifying.’
‘You’ll need more than that,’ said Fluff Wither-Fork as she strode into the dining room. Crossing to the fireplace, she hurled a log into the grate and took up her place at the head of the table, with Hettie and Tilly on either side. ‘My tenants are a troublesome bunch of cats. As with most beneficiaries of charity, they take everything for granted as a God-given right. My hold on my house and land seems to exist solely for their benefit – and my personal reduced circumstances seem to reduce more and more as the years go by.’
‘So why don’t you sell up?’ asked Hettie, keeping an eye on the door for Blackberry’s return with the much-anticipated lunch.
‘Oh, my dear Miss Bagshot – if only it were a
s simple as that, I’d be long gone. The fact is, I’m stuck with it. If I walk away, what will happen? I can’t sell out of the family, my sister wouldn’t know where to start with running an estate of this size, and the covenant would be broken. No, I have no choice but to sit it out.’
Hettie was about to delve further into the Wither-Fork legacy when Blackberry Tibbs arrived, staggering under the weight of a very large pie. ‘Sorry it took so long, Miss, but I had to rest it a couple of times on my way up.’
‘Thank you, Blackberry. I’ll deal with it from here. Would you collect the vegetables and deliver them to Malkin and Sprinkle? There are some white lilies from Gertrude Jingle, as well – we should get a good price for those. If you have any vegetables left over, they can go to the church for the harvest festival. That will be all for today. I expect you’ll need to get on with your scarecrows.’
Hettie shot a questioning look at Tilly as Blackberry placed the pie in front of them, untied her apron and left the diners to their food. The pie, even by Betty and Beryl Butter’s standards, looked magnificent. The pastry was golden brown and dome-shaped, promising a liberal and delicious filling. Wielding a large knife, Fluff cut into it and Hettie closed her eyes, waiting for the smell of meat juices to reach her nostrils. There was nothing, and she opened her eyes just in time to see a mass of green filling slide slowly away from the pastry as Fluff settled the first portion onto a plate and passed it to Tilly.
