by Mandy Morton
The cat chuckled to herself and Hettie tried once more. ‘So what should I talk to Micks Wither-Spoon about?’
‘Living in an ivory tower,’ she said, waving her paw in the direction of the gatehouse. ‘He doesn’t miss a thing from up there. Hapless boy, really – inhabits his own dramas, and just look at those Japanese anemones.’
Hettie watched as Gertrude Jingle returned to her flowers, shouting out their names as if she were calling out the register in a schoolroom. She realised that she was getting nowhere fast with the investigation, and was coming to the conclusion that Lettuce Wither-Fork should have added barking mad to her criteria. She left Miss Jingle to her white flowers and went off to find Tilly, casting an eye in the direction of the gatehouse just in time to see Micks Wither-Spoon disappearing from his turret.
‘How did you get on with Miss Jingle?’ asked Tilly as she emerged from Clippy Lean’s shed, brushing the dust off her paws.
‘Don’t even ask, but I doubt that she’s murdered anybody. In a world of her own, that one, as long as it’s white. She did point out that Micks Wither-Spoon might be worth talking to as he has a good vantage point from his battlements, but I’m not sure I can face that today.’
Tilly could see that Hettie’s encounter with Gertrude Jingle had not advanced the case in any way, and she’d found nothing of interest on Clippy Lean’s plot, either. The town’s bus conductress was clearly a grower of very fine vegetables, and Tilly had marvelled at the leeks, peas and beans; the rhubarb was taller than she was, with giant, red-veined leaves that created a canopy of shade that would be perfect to snooze under on a hot sunny day. The only unexpected item was in Clippy’s shed – a bus seat in red leather, clearly rescued from an out-of-service vehicle and given a loving home amid the gardening necessities. ‘What’s next?’ she asked, shutting Clippy’s gate behind her.
‘I’d like to say home, a pie, a cream horn and a fire,’ grumbled Hettie, ‘but it’s not going to happen until we’ve had a word with the rest of them up here. Let’s try this lot.’ She eyed up the next gate along the path and noted that it was made from a ship’s wheel; the nautical theme continued with a large upturned boat, which had a chimney sticking out of the top and a series of round windows dotted along the hull.
‘Ooh, that’s lovely,’ said Tilly in admiration, as the door in the centre of the boat opened to reveal Rooster Chit.
‘Welcome to our patch, my dears, and come in out of this rain. Desiree ’as just snatched a batch of potato cakes from ’er oven.’ He spoke with a mild West Country accent that Tilly found instantly attractive, and his words were made all the more inviting by the smell of baking, which escaped from the door as Rooster threw it wide open.
At the promise of food, Hettie bustled forward in a rather ungainly manner and flattened Rooster against the door on her way into the Chits’ boathouse. Inside, the scene was one of perfect peace and tranquillity, and Tilly held her breath as she took in every detail of the little house – the high-domed ceiling with bunks cut into its sides, the walls hung with ropes and coloured glass balls, which twinkled in the lantern light, giving everything a soft, warm glow. There were stars and a moon painted in silver on the roof boards, and the furniture below – tiny lockers and a dresser full of plates and cups – was built into the walls. A central table and benches had been bolted to the floor, and at the far end a galley kitchen with a range dominated a good third of the space. On either side of the stove, rows of shelving were stacked with supplies: bags of flour; sugar; and glass jars of nuts, currants and jams. Above the range, a row of copper pans and utensils sparkled.
Queen of her domain, like a figurehead from an old tall ship, Desiree Chit was in full sail by her stove, transferring a baking tray full of golden potato cakes onto a plate. ‘Come in, come in, an’ leave that drizzle at the door, my dears,’ she said as she banged the cakes down on the table. ‘Get your paws round one of these.’
Hettie didn’t wait for a second invitation and slid onto the nearest bench, grasping a cake in both paws and burning her mouth as she bit into the buttery treat. ‘These are delicious, Mrs Chit,’ she said through a mouthful of hot potato.
‘That’s why I ’auled ’er ashore and made an ’onest cat of ’er. No one cooks potatoes like my darlin’ Desiree.’
‘Hush your nonsense, Rooster Chit! Make yourself useful and fill some glasses with your nice cordial – that’ll go lovely with me cakes.’
Rooster did as he was told and Desiree sat her substantial form down next to Tilly, who was still staring in wonderment around the boathouse, cautiously nibbling on a cake and trying not to burn her mouth. ‘You look like you need feedin’ up, my dear,’ she said, giving Tilly a half-hug. ‘More potato, less meat – that’s the way to put flesh on your bones.’
Rooster returned to the table with four glasses full of a pink liquid and Hettie accepted one gratefully, hoping that it would alleviate the burning sensation in her mouth. The drink did calm things down for a moment or two, but then Hettie’s head began to swim as the liquid took effect. Noticing her distress, Rooster came to the rescue with a glass of water. ‘You ’ave to build up a tolerance to my cordial, see. You’ll be as right as a ship’s compass in a minute or two. ’Ave another cake to ’elp it down.’
Tilly watched as her friend recovered, helped by another potato cake and several more sips of water. Having seen Hettie’s reaction, she decided to give the cordial a miss, which was just as well as Desiree had absent-mindedly downed it along with her own. A high-pitched screeching sound suddenly filled the air and all eyes turned to one of the bunks, where a small, furry, striped face appeared, blinking down at them. Desiree responded immediately. ‘Come on, my little dear. No need for all of that. We got visitors, so you come down an’ ’ave one of these nice cakes.’ Desiree lifted the kitten down from the bunk and placed him on the table. Breaking a cake in half, she put a piece in his paws. ‘My poor little Blight’s got himself upset by that cat on Bonny’s patch. It took me ages to settle ’im for ’is afternoon nap. ’E’s a sensitive little mite.’
The mention of the situation on Bonny Grubb’s allotment reminded Hettie that there was work to be done, even though her investigation was turning into a rather fine tea party. Brushing the crumbs from the front of her mac and taking another sip of water, she began her questioning, addressing the senior Chits while Tilly positioned herself again with her notepad and pencil. ‘I’m sorry to have caused distress earlier by asking you to view the body,’ Hettie began, ‘but I was hoping that someone would recognise him. Are you both sure you haven’t seen him before? I realise he may have looked quite different when he was alive.’
Blight Chit let out another wail and this time it was Rooster who attended the kitten. He lifted him off the table and settled him on a rug by the stove, giving him a large piece of paper and a pot of paint from one of the shelves. Hettie and Tilly watched as Rooster pulled a large potato from a basket by the range and began to cut into it with a knife. Blight screeched with delight as his father dipped the potato into the paint and dabbed it onto the top corner of the paper, leaving a pattern, which Blight – now in possession of the potato – proceeded to repeat across the paper, purring and chirruping loudly.
Rooster returned to the table to answer Hettie’s question. ‘We gets all sorts up ’ere, and it’s ’ard to say who you know and who you don’t – but by ’is clothes, ’e’s not typical. Struck me as a posh cat from a big city. Out of place, really. More Miss Wither-Fork’s sort of cat – gentry, like.’
‘He could be one of Micks’ and Mash’s cronies,’ added Desiree. ‘Them Wither-Spoons are a funny lot. The shame of it is that Mash is turning into one. She’s no ’elp to her poor sister, who has the cares of the world ’eaped upon her.’
Hettie liked the Chits and was keen to learn more about them, even if it had no bearing on the case. ‘How long have you been resident on the allotments?’ she asked, as Desiree proffered another potato cake in her direction.
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br /> ‘Well now, it must be ten years since I left the sea. A nasty accident with a shoal of ’addock did for me, and we lost our onshore cottage as it came with the job,’ Rooster explained. ‘We moved shortly after that, and we were ’ere for the great storm. We lost more than a few potatoes that night, didn’t we, my dear?’ He patted Desiree’s paw as an extreme sadness spread across her face. ‘Our three lovely kittens, all blown from their beds. We found ’em in a ditch at the bottom of Wither-Fork Hill early the next morning. Miss Wither-Fork was so kind – she let us bury ’em on our patch. Desiree’s made a lovely garden for ’em. That’s why I ’ad my old boat brought up ’ere to make us a home. We’ll never leave with our family around us, and young Blight lets the sun in on sad days. ’E was an unexpected joy to us both.’
Hettie put down the remains of her cake, feeling that she’d intruded into a part of the Chits’ lives that was still unbearably raw. Tilly felt their sadness, too, and squeezed Desiree’s paw in an act of solidarity. As if on cue, Blight scrambled up onto the table and presented Desiree with his paint-spattered artwork, the potato patterns indistinct but just about recognisable. All sadness was dispelled as the kitten’s proud parents looked at the shambolic mess of wet paint and soggy paper. Desiree rose from the table and pinned the picture to the wall by the range, where it joined a gallery of similar efforts. She returned to the table with a damp cloth, and – under mild protestations – cleaned the paint from the kitten’s paws, face and ears.
Hettie felt that it was a good moment to take their leave and signalled to Tilly, who put her notepad and pencil back into her mac pocket. ‘Thank you for the lovely cakes and cordial,’ she said as she tightened her belt on a full stomach. ‘May we call on you again if we need to?’
‘You’ll always find a welcome ’ere,’ said Rooster. ‘Let’s ’ope for calmer seas next time you visit. No point in showin’ you round the allotment in this drizzle. I ’ope it clears tomorrow, as I’ve got to lift me best spuds for the show. Clippy’s grown a good crop this year, and old misery guts up the row’s been braggin’ about the size of his Maris Pipers, so I got a bit of competition on me paws.’
‘Misery guts?’ said Hettie, stepping out into the rain.
‘Jeremiah Corbit,’ said Rooster, pointing in the direction of the next allotment. ‘’E thinks ’e runs things round ’ere, but the fact is ’e don’t. I know ’e manages to put up a few ’ackles, but the secret’s not to rise to the bait. That way, you can swim in your own pond ’appily.’
On that note, Hettie and Tilly said their goodbyes and all three Chits waved them off from their boathouse door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jeremiah Corbit was waiting at his gate as Hettie and Tilly approached. He was puffing on a rather unpleasant-smelling clay pipe, blowing the acrid smoke out onto the path. Hettie waved the smoke away with her paw and Corbit renewed the insult by blowing another plume into her face. ‘I can see you’re one of those reformed smokers,’ he said. ‘Typical attitude of the middle classes – taking a dim view of the workers and their simple pleasures.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hettie, feeling her hackles begin to rise. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. I do actually enjoy a pipe of my own and have no particular views on workers or the middle classes. I’m here to investigate a murder, that’s all.’
Tilly had been hiding behind Hettie, having taken an instant dislike to the cat. She emerged slowly to take her place by Hettie’s side. Jeremiah stared down at her for a second before offering another assessment. ‘Two females calling yourselves detectives, poking your snouts into lives that don’t concern you; why aren’t you at home knitting jumpers and making curtains or something?’
Hettie rose to the bait against Rooster Chit’s advice. ‘Ah well, you see, Mr Corbit, we only knit and sew in the evenings, which leaves our days free for gainful employment. We do our washing, ironing and cooking before we start our day’s work, because we female cats are multi-skilled and able to turn our paws to anything, including running a rather successful detective agency. I believe you excel in compost?’
Tilly did her best to suppress a giggle, disguising it with a loud cough. Temporarily thrown off balance, Jeremiah Corbit opened the gate to let them through to his allotment. At first sight, it was a bleak, inhospitable patch of land. Most of the ground was taken up with giant stacks of rotting vegetables and other garden detritus; even though the rain was now falling steadily, the heaps steamed and fermented, giving off the vilest of smells and making Corbit’s pipe tobacco almost sweet by comparison. At the end of the allotment stood a ramshackle shed, made of various bits of wood, metal and felting; to the side of the shed, there was a row of giant water butts and a small cultivated patch of potatoes, fenced off by bits of coiled barbed wire.
‘I would ask you in out of the rain, but there doesn’t seem much point. I’ve nothing to say to you, and it’s no surprise to me that the Bonny Grubbs of this world spend their time disrupting an orderly existence. Gypsies, living off the fat of the land, sucking up to the aristocats, taking up homes that working cats need – and now a body turns up on her patch and we’re all turned into murder suspects overnight.’
The rain was trickling down Hettie’s neck as she listened to the venom coming from Corbit’s mouth, but she found herself quite fascinated by his views on Bonny Grubb and prompted him to give a verdict on some of the other residents. ‘Well, I can see very clearly that you are a cat of the world,’ she said, turning on the famous Bagshot charm. ‘You obviously hold strong and considered views beyond the intelligence of those who live up here on the allotments, which makes you exactly the cat I need to help with my enquiries. Tell me about the other tenants.’
Hettie had scored the perfect goal. Corbit turned on his heel and led them down the plot to his shed, out of the rain. He proffered a bench covered with sacking just inside the door, then settled on a grubbily covered bed, knocking his pipe out on the edge of it. The inside of the shed was no less ramshackle than the outside, offering a spartan existence with hardly any comfort at all. The walls were dark and smelt of creosote, and the only hint of life was in a collection of webs that hung from the ceiling; Tilly watched for some time as several large black harvest spiders went about their business, stitching flies and other small insects into their woven nests. An old paraffin lamp stood redundant in the corner, offering only the slightest promise of heat on a winter’s night. The overall effect was of a desperate existence.
The shed reminded Tilly of her homeless days, clinging to the library’s radiators for warmth by day before being turned out to wander the cold, frosty streets in search of a night-time shelter. In those far-off days, old sheds had been her salvation – but she had had no choice; looking round Jeremiah Corbit’s apology for a home, she couldn’t help but think that this frugal life was one that he’d chosen. She would have given both her front paws for a plot of land on those dark cold nights, when to stay awake was to stay alive. She shivered, as much from the memory as the rain, and pulled a soggy notepad out of her mac pocket as Hettie engaged Jeremiah Corbit on the finer points of his allotment colleagues.
‘Most of them shouldn’t be up here at all,’ Corbit began. ‘Take the Mulch sisters – middle-class vicar’s daughters, more used to patronising the poor of the parish with their polite manners and empty gestures. Just because they were turned out of the rectory, doesn’t give them the right to live up here.’ Hettie was about to point out that they had been made homeless, which fitted the criteria of Lettuce Wither-Fork’s covenant, but decided to hold her tongue while he was in full flow. ‘And as for the ridiculous Miss Jingle – upper-class spinster dancing round her plot like some demented fairy. Those lily bulbs don’t come cheap, and they say she’s got pots of money under her feather mattress. She grows nothing for the good of society, and flowers are an indulgence we can’t afford with so many cats out there starving. The only reason she’s got that plot is because Miss Wither-Fork was tricked into thinking she was old and desti
tute. Shame the workhouses have closed – a spell in there would buck her ideas up.’
‘And the Chits?’ Hettie said, bracing herself for more of Corbit’s uncharitable thoughts.
‘Well, they’re almost the exception. He’s a worker, of sorts, and he had a family to support after he lost his job. I’ve no real gripe with them, and he does supply me with a good deal of potato tops for composting. That kitten screeches a lot, but they do keep themselves to themselves, and they do lend a paw in a crisis. Blackberry Tibbs is another one whose face doesn’t fit. She spends most of her time up at the Hall when she’s not making those stupid scarecrows. I hear her talking to them sometimes when I’m aerating my heaps. No spreading of wealth there – she gets a tidy sum from selling those straw dolls on sticks, and she’s wheedled her way in up at Wither-Fork Hall as a maid of all work. Hardly a cat in need.’
‘You haven’t mentioned the two non-resident plots,’ said Hettie, and Tilly turned to a clean page in her notebook, wondering when they would get to the murder.
‘That’s because they are non-resident,’ said Corbit. ‘They’re probably the worst of the lot, just wanting an extra bit of garden to grow some vegetables. The Gamp sisters have one of those oh-so-nice little bungalows in Sheba Gardens, full of home comforts, and have you seen their allotment?’
Hettie shook her head, and Corbit continued, ‘Well, I won’t spoil it for you. Let’s just say that having an allotment is a novelty for them. They waste most of what they grow. Clippy Lean has a flat in the town without a garden, so she treats her allotment as a hobby and pops up here whenever she feels like it, abandoning her passengers at the bottom of Wither-Fork Hill. It’s an outrage – just because she sells the tickets on the gate at the Michaelmas Show, she thinks she can get away with murder.’
