by Mandy Morton
‘I won’t be offended if you just want to eat the pastry,’ Fluff said, loading another plate and offering it to Hettie. ‘We are overrun with courgettes at this time of year. Vegetables and the occasional bunch of flowers are the only payback I get from the allotments. To maintain their feudal rites to live and work on the land, my tenants have to offer some of the fruits of their labours – but all they grow is vegetables, flowers and the occasional strawberry patch. We did have a beekeeper up there at one time, but his bees turned on him for some reason, and that was the end of him and our honey supply. The bees had the decency to follow his coffin to the graveyard, but after the interment they took off towards Southwool and never returned. Blackberry took over his plot and she doesn’t grow anything at all except scarecrows, so she makes up for it by helping me here at the Hall. She also delivers the more attractive, saleable produce to Malkin and Sprinkle’s food hall, from where we receive a small but regular income. They call us the “Wither-Fork Hall Almost Organic” range.’
Hettie broke off a piece of pastry with her fork, and had to admit that it melted in the mouth. Tilly bravely tried a slice of courgette, discreetly removing it from her mouth almost immediately and placing it in her cardigan pocket to throw away later. She also pushed on with the pastry, and found it satisfying, if a little incomplete.
When the meal was over, Fluff Wither-Fork pushed the plates further down the table, keen not to be reminded of the unwanted courgettes that remained on everyone’s plates. To commiserate – with herself as much as her guests – she announced brightly that it would be a cheese and potato pie tomorrow, then pulled her chair from the table and turned it to the fire, encouraging Hettie and Tilly to do the same.
‘This body on the allotment is a damned nuisance,’ she said, reminding Hettie and Tilly of the reason they were there. ‘The Michaelmas Flower and Produce Show is this coming weekend, here in the grounds, and it quite simply has to go ahead. Apart from my garden tours, it’s the one big paying event of the year, and without that revenue we won’t survive the winter.’
‘What is Michaelmas?’ asked Tilly.
Fluff responded as if she had been asked to speak on her favourite subject. ‘Well, the gist of it is that Michaelmas is on the twenty-ninth of September, and this year it falls on a Saturday. It’s the day when all the taxes are collected by the landowners, when staff are hired at the big houses, when the harvest is secured for the winter, and any obligations are settled. In my case, there are no taxes to collect, I can’t afford to hire any staff, and the harvest is non-existent because we haven’t planted anything – except vegetables, of course. As far as obligations go, the ball is firmly in my court: I have to pay out for the upkeep of my tenants’ housing and give them fifteen shillings per cat to spend as they wish. That is why the flower and produce show has to go ahead. If the town turns out in its usual numbers, I’ll have enough money from the entrance fees to pay my tenants and keep the fires burning at the Hall during the winter.’
‘None of that seems very fair,’ observed Hettie. ‘It’s a strange sort of set-up where the landowner pays the tenants. How long has it been going on for?’
‘About four hundred years, thanks to Lettuce Wither-Fork. She came to the Hall as a young bride, and – while her husband was hunting away from home – inadvertently set herself on fire in the church when a candle fell from one of the sconces. Luckily for her, the tenants were bringing in their produce for the harvest festival, which takes place the day before Michaelmas; they found her writhing before the altar, engulfed in flames, and quickly rolled her in the altar cloth so that she escaped with a light singeing. Her fur grew back in no time, judging by an old portrait I have of her in the west wing. The following day, she declared that all the tenants of Wither-Fork Hall should receive an annual sum of fifteen shillings, handed out on Michaelmas day for perpetuity, as a thank you for saving her life. Needless to say, according to the covenant she set up, any Wither-Fork heir who fails to execute her gift will be cursed.’
‘It sounds to me like you’re cursed already,’ said Hettie, thinking aloud. ‘Is there nothing you can do to break the covenant legally?’
Fluff shook her head. ‘The only hope is to get some idiot to invest in the Hall, the land and the covenant. You only need to take a closer look at the state of the place to see that it’s a money pit, even without the needs of the tenants. Then there’s Mash, my sister. She has never been what I would call the brightest spark from the tinderbox. She and her ridiculous spouse have sitting-tenant rights on the gatehouse. Who’s going to want to take all that on? Believe me, I’ve tried to offload the place. I even wrote a begging letter to the National Crust recently – they’ve been taking on land and setting up housing schemes for homeless cats, and I hoped this might be right up their street, but they didn’t even have the decency to reply. It would appear that I can’t even give it away.’
All three cats stared into the fireplace as the log smouldered and turned black, offering nothing by way of flames or heat. Hettie was beginning to realise that the least of Fluff Wither-Fork’s worries was the body on the allotments, and the thought of raising the issue of a fee for her and Tilly to take on the case seemed almost too cruel – but there was rent to pay, and they had rather overspent on their holidays. She was about to break the silence when a voice came from behind.
‘I know I’m late, but before you say anything it really isn’t my fault. Micks spilt green slime all over the kitchen floor. He’s been treading courgettes for the cauldron and they didn’t work out, so he’s decided on peas!’
There was no need for an introduction. Hettie, Tilly and Fluff turned as one to take in the vision of Mash Wither-Spoon, whose striking markings resembled her sister’s. Her clothes were another story: she was swathed in black taffeta, tied at the middle with a rough length of binder twine. Fluff rose from the fire with a weary sigh, addressing the vision in black. ‘And what – or who – are you supposed to be today, Mash?’
‘I’m playing all three witches on the blasted heath, but I’ve been practising different voices to avoid confusion as there’s only one of me.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Fluff, as Tilly stifled a giggle with her paw and Hettie marvelled at the landowner’s calm acceptance of the situation.
Mash fumbled with her outfit and pulled out several letters. ‘These arrived this morning for you – mostly junk, I think.’
Fluff took the letters and gave them a cursory glance. ‘That’s for me to decide,’ she said, throwing them onto the dining-room table. ‘All I ask is that you deliver them. I don’t need a running commentary on the contents. Now, as you’re here you can show my visitors back to the allotments, but before you go I need to talk to you about Micks.’
The smile that seemed to have planted itself on Mash Wither-Spoon’s face disappeared. ‘Why? What’s he done now? You’re always picking on him and spoiling his fun.’
‘Look, Mash, I don’t want to fall out with you, but there are times when Micks’ idea of fun wears a little thin,’ responded Fluff, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. ‘As you live in the gatehouse, you are the first port of call for all visitors to the Hall. I don’t expect my guests to be interrogated by Micks while he’s wearing an assortment of ludicrous costumes and disguises. It simply won’t do. Whatever games you feel the need to play in the privacy of your own four walls is up to you, but I don’t want them extended to the day-to-day life of this estate. I thought we’d agreed that the gates should remain open during daylight hours? Which means that Micks – and you, for that matter – can keep yourselves to yourselves. I know it’s radical, but perhaps Micks could busy himself with a little maintenance at the gatehouse if he finds himself with time on his paws, instead of marauding around like a one-cat amateur dramatic society.’
Mash lowered her head, and two large tears splashed onto the flagstone floor. ‘But he loves opening the gates. He says it’s the most important job he’s ever done. He likes to pretend that Wit
her-Fork Hall and all the land belongs to him.’
‘Well, it doesn’t,’ snapped Fluff, losing her patience and realising that Hettie and Tilly were awkward observers to family issues that didn’t concern them. ‘If he continues to interfere, I’ll take the gate keys away from him and that will be that. Now, please take Miss Bagshot and her assistant back up to the allotments. I’m falling behind with the preparations for Saturday, and the marquee arrives tomorrow.’
Mash pulled a handkerchief out from under her costume and blew her nose. Nodding to Hettie and Tilly, she left the dining room. Fluff felt obliged to give an explanation. ‘I do apologise,’ she said, ‘but these family matters are a constant demand on my time. We still haven’t discussed your fee, or even confirmed that you’re willing to investigate the matter at all. Perhaps you would join me for lunch tomorrow, here at the Hall, after you’ve had a chance to assess the situation fully? Then we can discuss terms and the way forward.’
Relieved that the subject of a fee had been broached, and more importantly that lunch would be a cheese and potato pie, Hettie agreed to Fluff’s plan, and she and Tilly made their way through the entrance hall and out into the September drizzle, where Mash Wither-Spoon was waiting.
CHAPTER SIX
Their progress up the driveway was a silent one. Mash Wither-Spoon appeared to be deep in thought, and, on reaching the gatehouse, she left them without a word and let herself in by the back door, leaving them to make their own way up to the allotments. Hettie and Tilly reached the road in time to see the back of Shroud and Trestle’s removal van disappearing down Wither-Fork Hill, with the corpse from Bonny Grubb’s onion patch on board.
‘Right,’ said Hettie, tightening the belt on her mac. ‘Let’s see what this lot have to say for themselves. If we’re efficient, we can get home before the Butters close up for the day. After that awful lunch, I think we’ll need a couple of extra pies for supper with proper stuff inside them.’
‘And some cream horns,’ added Tilly, as they made their way down the allotment path, choosing to start at the bottom with Dahlia and Gladys Mulch.
The Mulch sisters had been driven into their shed by the drizzle, and Hettie and Tilly were welcomed inside to sit by their log burner. The small space was warm and cosy, and had all the trappings of a miniature house: a carpet on the floor; a small table by the window, boasting a vase of dahlias; and two dahlia-patterned fireside chairs, placed either side of the fire. A stew of sorts bubbled on top of the stove, sharing the hotplate with a kettle that had just begun to sing. The overall effect was one of blissful domesticity, and Hettie couldn’t help but compare the starkness of Wither-Fork Hall with this tiny oasis of warmth and congeniality.
‘Have you been here long?’ Hettie asked, warming her paws on the stove and trying not to inhale the tempting smell of stew.
‘We came just after the great storm,’ said Dahlia. ‘Took on poor Maud Clump’s plot – her shed collapsed around her, God rest her soul.’
‘Came just right for us, though,’ chimed in Gladys. ‘We’d just been turned out of the rectory after Pa died. There was no room for us when the new vicar moved in – the milk of feline kindness seemed to sour on her arrival.’
‘We brought the dahlias with us,’ continued her sister. ‘I wasn’t about to leave my namesakes behind. We went back to the rectory and dug them up at the dead of night as soon as we knew this plot was ours.’
‘We had to wait three weeks after we’d applied, though,’ added Gladys. ‘Miss Wither-Fork said we’d have to fit the criteria, so we filled in her forms and waited for news.’
‘And what were the criteria?’
Dahlia pulled a piece of paper from the table drawer. ‘Here it is: “I bequeath plot five of the Wither-Fork lands to one or others who find they are without land in this parish and have no means to procure any, and they shall be served by my kin for as long as their need allows according to the covenant.”’ She folded the paper and put it back in the drawer. ‘That comes from Lettuce Wither-Fork, whom the estate workers saved from burning hundreds of years ago. It means that my sister and I can stay here for as long as we like, and Miss Wither-Fork has to look after us on the condition that we send dahlias up to the Hall.’
Tilly had been quietly jotting notes down in her book, waiting for Hettie to get to the investigation. Knowing that the Butters’ cream horns were always the first cakes to sell out, she gave her friend a gentle nudge to remind her of why they were there.
Hettie responded immediately. ‘Are you both sure that you hadn’t seen the dead cat on Bonny’s allotment before?’
‘Well, we don’t see much down here at the bottom of the plots,’ said Gladys. ‘We see Clippy Lean coming and going from time to time, but we’ve fallen out with most of the others. Gertrude, who has the next plot, hasn’t shared a word with us since last Michaelmas.’
‘Is there any reason for that?’
‘Earwigs,’ replied Dahlia on her sister’s behalf.
Hettie immediately wished she hadn’t asked. ‘They’re very partial to dahlias,’ Gladys continued, ‘but – like the rest of us – they appreciate a change from time to time.’
‘What do?’
‘Earwigs!’ the sisters chorused, and Tilly giggled as Gladys explained. ‘They’re happy in the dahlias we grow, but when we pick the flowers we give them a shake and the earwigs drop off and go and look for somewhere else to live. The trouble is, Gertrude Jingle grows prize white lilies, and some of our earwigs got onto her patch just before the Michaelmas Show last year and ate them. To make things even worse, we got best in show for our spiky dahlias and Gertrude had to settle for third prize with her white onions. As you can imagine, she wasn’t best pleased.’
‘And the earwigs seem to have spread to some of the other plots. Tarragon Trench says they’ve taken a liking to his catnip. He brings them back now and again, but you can’t train an earwig, can you?’ said Dahlia, shrugging her shoulders.
With another nudge in the back from Tilly, Hettie drew her conversation to a close, and the two cats stepped out of the little shed none the wiser than when they’d stepped in – except, perhaps, on the subject of earwigs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I think we’d better split up or we’ll never get through this afternoon,’ said Hettie. ‘If you take a look round Clippy Lean’s allotment, I’ll take on Gertrude Jingle.’
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Tilly, poised for instructions.
‘I’ve no idea until we find it, but I don’t believe for a minute that this murder took place without anyone up here noticing something.’
‘Especially the murderer,’ said Tilly sagely, opening the gate to Clippy Lean’s plot.
Hettie moved next door from the Mulch sisters and stood watching while the cat identified in Jeremiah Corbit’s line-up as Gertrude Jingle pottered about. She seemed oblivious to anything but the flowers she nurtured, and not even the drizzle could distract her as she tended a bed of giant lilies. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, tied with a sash under her chin, and what looked like a heavily embroidered dressing gown; the dressing gown reached down to the ground, and made the heavy garden boots that peeped out from under it look more than a little out of place. The cat was totally at one with her flowers as she wielded a pair of clippers, removing a lily here and there, and seeming to thank the plant as she deadheaded it. She placed the old flower heads in a trug, which swung from one of her paws, and worked her way slowly and methodically along the row.
Hettie felt bad about disturbing such a tranquil scene, but there was a job to be done. ‘Miss Jingle?’ she said, opening the gate. ‘May I have a word with you?’
The cat turned and blinked at Hettie. ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not used to conversation. I find conversing with my flowers so much easier now my hearing’s gone. Are you here to talk about that business on Bonny Grubb’s plot?’
Hettie shut the gate behind her and moved closer to make the interview less
of a shouting match. ‘Yes, that’s right. I just wanted to know if you’ve noticed anything out of the ordinary lately?’
The cat put her trug down and waved her paw around. ‘Out of the ordinary, you say? Well, just open your eyes. What do you see?’
Hettie looked round, a little bewildered. ‘Er, lots of lovely flowers,’ she shouted.
‘Not just any flowers. Look again,’ said the cat, getting agitated.
Hettie did as she was told and surveyed the plot once more. This time, the penny dropped. ‘They’re all white?’
‘Bravo! And in answer to your question, they are all out of the ordinary. My flowers represent purity and innocence, honesty and perfection. They are free from sin. They illuminate and inspire.’ With that, she took off for a grand tour of the allotment, shouting out the names as she went. ‘Gardenia, cape jasmine, Helleborus niger, Viburnum opulus, Euonymus japonicus, Lilium candidum – and here are my prize orientals, Stargazer. See their crimson centres? Lethal and beautiful to the same degree.’
‘Why are they lethal?’ Hettie enquired, trying to sound interested.
‘Stamens and pollen, all poisonous. You should talk to Micks Wither-Spoon.’
‘About poisons?’ Hettie was more confused than ever.
Gertrude Jingle looked as bewildered as Hettie felt. ‘Why would you want to talk to Micks about poisons? He’s half-witted at the best of times. You couldn’t trust him with poisons. He’d end up stirring it into his tea, or someone else’s by mistake.’
