by Mandy Morton
Hettie couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at Corbit’s last comment, suddenly remembering why she was there. Although Tarragon Trench and Apple Chutney hadn’t been mentioned so far, she was keen to move things on, but couldn’t resist enquiring as to how Jeremiah himself had qualified for an allotment. ‘And what brought you to this?’ she asked innocently, looking up as a giant spider made steady progress across the roof of the shed before dropping down onto Jeremiah’s bed. In one fast movement, he squashed it with his paw.
‘I worked at the old fish canning factory in Southwool. After a while, the cats elected me as their representative to the management. It was a good job, and I settled down with one of the canners from the shop floor – sweet little thing, she was. We set up home together and then the trouble started. The managers started to lay cats off as they brought in new machinery, and in the end all our jobs were at risk. I called the workers together, and we locked ourselves into the factory for two weeks and smashed up all the new machines. While I was held up with the workers, I found out that my dear little fish canner had taken up with one of the managers. I admit, it threw me into a rage, and I set fire to the factory with us all inside. Most cats escaped with minor burns, but they all turned on me and hung me out to dry. I was forced to walk away with no home, no job and nothing in my pocket – and what’s worse, no thanks for standing up for workers’ rights. Reluctantly, I applied to Miss Wither-Fork the week after the great storm, and I’ve been here ever since, living like a pauper on a rich cat’s land. Another triumph for the upper classes,’ he finished bitterly.
Hettie tried hard but could find no sympathy for him. From what she’d seen so far, all the residents had attempted to make the best of things and all seemed content with their lot; Corbit had merely continued to ruffle feathers and question the way that other cats lived their lives, maintaining a high opinion of himself along the way. It was Fluff Wither-Fork who should be congratulated for offering shelter and land to so many of society’s oddities, and at such great cost to herself.
Tilly shivered and Hettie decided that they had both had enough of the Wither-Fork allotments for one day. They were soaked to the skin and in desperate need of their own fireside and a Butters’ supper. Tarragon Trench and Apple Chutney would have to wait, along with the Gamp sisters and Blackberry Tibbs. The two cats took their leave of Jeremiah Corbit and made tracks for the main road. There was no sign of Clippy Lean’s bus so they set off at a brisk pace down Wither-Fork Hill, relieved that the rain had settled back into a harmless, fine drizzle.
CHAPTER NINE
An hour later, they fell over the threshold of Betty and Beryl Butter’s pie and pastry shop. The sisters were wiping down their surfaces, and to Hettie’s horror there was no sign of a pie or pastry to be had. Betty could see the distress on her face, and noticed the dishevelled state of both her lodgers. ‘Ee, whatever have you two been up to? Come and look at them, sister,’ she said, as Beryl bustled out of the window with a J cloth full of crumbs in her paw.
‘My, my – what a state to get in. It’s just as well we put your dinners to one side, isn’t it, sister?’
Hettie’s and Tilly’s hearts leapt in unison as Betty retrieved a large paper bag from behind the counter. ‘Two steak and kidney, two cream horns, and a stray bit of flapjack. How’s that for extrasensory confection? Now, get yourselves into your room before you catch your deaths.’
Hettie and Tilly did as they were told. The Lancashire sisters were the closest thing either of them had to a mother, and their kindness and protection had seen the friends through several rough patches since they moved into the old storeroom at the back of the bakery. They peeled their wet macs off immediately, and Tilly leapt to the hearth to lay a fire; within minutes, the flames began to climb up the chimney breast as she added more coal. Hettie retrieved Tilly’s pyjamas and her own dressing gown from the filing cabinet, while Tilly switched on the TV in time for the six o’clock news. Happy to be cosy and dry at last, the two cats sat by the fire, warming their paws, and Hettie was relieved that the news carried nothing on the allotment murder: the last thing they or Fluff Wither-Fork needed at this point was a media storm. It was only a matter of time before the dead cat would be missed, but by then Hettie hoped to have identified the killer.
After the ‘and finally’, a weather cat announced that from tomorrow there was going to be an Indian summer, which would last for at least five days – good news for their investigations and for the event preparations up at Wither-Fork Hall. ‘What shall we do next?’ said Tilly. ‘Supper or a catch-up on the case?’
‘I’m hungry but not desperate, so let’s get the work out of the way first. I don’t think we’ve much to go on, but we need to take a close look at the notebook that Bonny removed from the body. Alfred Hitchcat’s Psycho is on later. We could have a late supper and watch that.’
Tilly clapped her paws at the prospect of a scary film and a late supper, and retrieved the notebook from her mac pocket, settling down with it on her blanket by the fire. Hettie filled her catnip pipe and puffed out a line of smoke rings, waiting for Tilly to report her findings. ‘Well, there’s definitely no name or address,’ she began. ‘Looking closer, it’s more of a sketchbook. There are some lovely drawings of lakes and trees and farmland, with little villages and big houses. This one looks a bit like Wither-Fork Hall. There are some scribbly notes about acres and sea levels on some of the sketches, and several pages at the back on different sorts of trees. The drawings are really very good. I think he must have been some sort of artist. Maybe he was on a sketching holiday.’
Hettie flicked through several of the pages that Tilly had drawn her attention to. ‘He wasn’t dressed for a sketching holiday, that much we do know. And why would he be up on the allotments? He obviously died where he was attacked, because there was no sign of the body having been dumped there. Let’s go back over what we’ve learnt today.’
Tilly obliged by reaching for her own notepad, slowly drying out by the fire. ‘I’ve called my notes “The Michaelmas Murder” because Michaelmas is such a lovely word,’ she said, and Hettie nodded her approval, marvelling at the way in which Tilly found something positive in the darkest of subjects; her sunny disposition kept them both going at times. ‘I’ve jotted down the details of the body first,’ Tilly continued, squinting at her own scribble. ‘I’ve got posh coat and boots, bashed in head with rock, lots of blood all over onions, notebook and coins in pockets. There’s a list of all the cats with allotments next. Is it too early to do a suspect list?’
Hettie thought for a moment. ‘Let’s leave that until last, and go through what we know.’
‘Well, I’ve made a note of Bonny Grubb first. She says she saw or heard nothing because she was out for the count on moonshine, but she did go through his pockets and didn’t own up straight away, so I suppose that’s a black mark against her. I’ve also noted that Blackberry Tibbs hasn’t seen the body because she was up at the Hall cooking that awful pie.’ At the recollection of lunch, Tilly jumped up from her blanket and retrieved a ball of soggy courgette from her cardigan pocket, then threw it into the fire where it sizzled and died. Resuming her report, Tilly continued, ‘I’ve got a bit on Fluff Wither-Fork next – cash poor, house falling down, stuck with Lettuce Wither-Fork’s legacy and Micks and Mash Wither-Spoon.’
Hettie laughed. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. Add the Michaelmas Flower and Produce Show to that – it connects the allotments to the Hall, and Fluff was very concerned that the murder would put paid to her show and the income from it. As a long shot, someone might be trying to sabotage the show – it’s something to consider, at least. There does seem to be a competitive spirit regarding vegetables on the allotments – and flowers, for that matter – but murder seems a little extreme.’
Tilly added to her notes and turned the page. ‘Dahlia and Gladys Mulch next. Turned out of rectory, fit criteria – although I’m not sure how to spell it – dug up dahlias, trouble with earwigs
and Gertrude Jingle. Nothing really to report on Clippy Lean’s patch, except a bus seat in her shed. I’ve written Gertrude Jingle down – is there anything you want me to say about her?’
‘Barking mad would be fairly accurate, but she did point out that Micks Wither-Spoon had a good vantage point over the allotments from one of his gatehouse turrets, so we need to pay him a call tomorrow, heaven help us. She did mutter something about poison and lilies as well, but I think that was part of her horticultural ramblings. Let’s move on to the Chits.’
In Tilly’s notebook, Rooster and Desiree Chit had a whole page to themselves, mainly because Tilly was so taken with their beautiful boathouse that she’d written detailed notes on their furniture and decorations, even though they had nothing to do with the case. She decided to skip all the lovely descriptive bits and cut to the chase, as supper awaited and it was only half an hour before the film started. ‘Rooster said that the dead cat might be one of Micks Wither-Spoon’s cronies, and that all sorts of cats came and went up on the allotments. He agrees with us that the victim probably came from a big city. He also called Jeremiah Corbit a misery guts and was worried about lifting his potatoes for the show. I’ve made a note about them losing three kittens in the great storm because that was very sad.’
Hettie agreed and began to eye up the paper bag containing their supper. ‘Just Corbit to go, then, and he’s probably the most interesting so far. He’s got a real axe to grind, if you ask me – what have you got on him?’
‘I’ve started with not very nice and a bit of a bully,’ said Tilly. ‘Chauvinist – not sure how to spell that – horrid compost heaps, nasty little shed with spiders, troublemaker, nasty about the other cats, seemed to think they had no right to the allotments, not very nice about Fluff Wither-Fork, caused canning factory fire in Southwool.’
‘In short,’ said Hettie, ‘just as Rooster Chit said – a misery guts. I wonder if any cats died in that fire? Maybe someone traced him to the allotments looking for revenge and got more than they bargained for. Make a note to check that out – a quick call to Hacky Redtop at the local paper should give us an answer. Let’s make a list of suspects, then we can get on with our evening. It’s been a long day.’
Tilly selected a clean page and wrote ‘suspects’ at the top of it. ‘Shall I put Jeremiah Corbit first, as we don’t like him much?’
‘Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea. Put the Mulch sisters next – they might be capable of murder. We know very little so far about Blackberry Tibbs, but she does come and go a lot between the Hall and her allotment, so stick her down, followed by Micks and Mash Wither-Spoon. I think we should speak to them first tomorrow morning. If Micks has a grandstand view of the allotments, he may have seen something, and his name has come up a couple of times in conversation.’
‘What about Gertrude Jingle and the Chits? And then there’s Bonny Grubb, and Fluff Wither-Fork herself.’
Hettie considered for a moment. ‘I doubt that any of them would be capable of bashing a cat’s head in. Bonny is a thief and a twister of the truth, but she’s no killer. The Chits have had too much sorrow to court any more. Gertrude Jingle’s world doesn’t exist beyond her own allotment, and as for Fluff Wither-Fork …’ Hettie paused, weighing up the probabilities. ‘Oh, put them all on the list and let’s see what tomorrow brings. Now, break out the pies. We’ve got five minutes before the film starts.’
The supper and the film went down very well, although Tilly made a mental note that if she and Hettie could ever afford a shower they wouldn’t bother with the curtain. She fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of cats in rocking chairs being slashed to death on the Wither-Fork allotments. The morning would confirm that the dream had been a premonition of sorts, with one name erased from her list of suspects.
CHAPTER TEN
As the weather cat had promised, Hettie and Tilly awoke to bright sunshine and a cloudless sky. With an uncharacteristic spring in their step, the two cats rose early and exchanged their luncheon vouchers for Betty’s sausage, liver and bacon pies, and two of Beryl’s custard tarts. With supper secured, they strode purposefully out to await the arrival of Clippy Lean’s bus.
The town’s high street was already a hive of activity, with cats out shopping or gathered in clumps, putting the world to rights. Lavender Stamp, the postmistress, was sweeping the pavement outside, much to the annoyance of the queue that was building at her counter. Her queues were legendary, as Lavender believed that anything that her post office dispensed was worth waiting for, and her shop frontage was as important to her as the many cats who needed stamps, postal orders and a variety of long-winded official forms. Lavender liked to be in control, and keeping her customers waiting – knowing that she was the only post office in town – made her day. Every day.
A bus stop outside the post office was convenient for most cats, but for those waiting there when Lavender was in full flight with her yard brush, things could – and often did – get nasty. Hettie and Tilly had an ambivalent relationship with the postmistress, and they had clashed on several occasions; this morning it seemed that Lavender was in one of her more spiteful moods, apparently needing to sweep the exact bit of pavement on which they were standing. Tilly obliged and moved out of the way as the broom approached, but Hettie stood firm, maintaining her stronghold on the pavement as the brush came to an abrupt stop at the back of her heels. Lavender pushed harder, and Hettie remained stubbornly glued to the spot. The queue inside spilt out onto the pavement, turning into enthusiastic spectators as a battle of wills unfolded before them. Tilly, who avoided confrontation whenever she could, spotted a heap of sticky chewing gum on the pavement, close to Lavender’s bright-red postbox, and decided to use it as a diplomatic way of defusing the situation. ‘Miss Stamp, some horrid cat has spat their gum out in front of your box,’ she said. ‘That’s going to stick to everyone who tries to post a letter if it’s not removed.’ The distraction worked. Lavender retreated back into the post office and returned minutes later with a kettle of boiling water and a paint scraper, just as Clippy Lean’s bus loomed into view.
Hettie and Tilly made their way up to the top deck to sit at the front, where they were soon joined by Clippy. Instead of dispensing their tickets, she waved Tilly’s paw of change away and sat down next to them. ‘No charge today,’ she said. ‘I just wondered how it was all going?’
Hettie, still irritated by her encounter with Lavender Stamp, was tempted to reply ‘How is all what going?’, but she knew by the enthusiasm of the question that Clippy was angling for an update on the case and decided to ask a few questions of her own as the bus ambled through the town. ‘Not very well at the moment, Clippy,’ she began. ‘We still have to talk to a few more of the residents, but nobody so far has any idea who the dead cat could be. Do you get on well with the others on the allotment?’
‘Most of them,’ said Clippy, making herself comfortable. ‘The Mulch sisters are lovely, and I love Miss Jingle – she’s so interesting with her white flowers. I fetch her shopping sometimes – she doesn’t like to leave her patch because she’s afraid someone will take it off her. She gets quite upset about it sometimes. I think she married into the high life because she’s come from a great big house with servants and everything, but her nephew gambled the lot away after she was widowed. It broke her heart to be made homeless. She had to leave her beautiful gardens behind, and her flowers are all she has left.’
‘Why does she think she might lose her allotment?’ asked Tilly, intrigued to learn more.
‘Mostly because Jeremiah says she shouldn’t be there in the first place, and she’s frightened of him. Come to think of it, he doesn’t like any of us being up there, except himself of course. I steer clear of him and keep my compost to myself. He saw my uncle Bobby out of a job when he burnt the old canning factory down in Southwool. He was supposed to be standing up for workers’ rights, but most of them were so badly burnt that they’ll never work again.’
The bus came to a sta
ndstill and several passengers got on. Clippy swung herself down the stairs to issue tickets to the newcomers, then returned to Hettie and Tilly. Realising that the interruptions would continue, Hettie decided to ask about the next interviewee on her list. ‘What about Micks Wither-Spoon? Miss Jingle says he watches the allotments from the gatehouse.’
Clippy smiled. ‘Dear old Micks, bless him. He likes to show an interest, especially since Mash bought him some binoculars for his birthday. There’s no side to him at all – he just plays his games all the day long. Mash does her best with him, but he’s a bit of a Peter Pan – never really grew up, and she’s almost as bad. They drive Miss Wither-Fork up the wall sometimes. I feel sorry for her, really, stuck in that crumbling mansion. According to Blackberry, she can’t even afford heating, but there’s no shortage of home comforts at the gatehouse – snug as bugs in rugs.’
Clippy stood up briefly to ring the bell as two cats showed signs of wanting to get off. The bus driver responded by slamming on his brakes and opening the folding doors in one movement; the stop was an unscheduled one, but the grateful passengers waved their thanks and the bus lurched on its way again. Hettie stared out of the window, realising that they were fast approaching Wither-Fork Hill, where their illuminating conversation with the town’s award-winning bus conductress would come to an end. ‘Just one last question, Clippy. We haven’t talked to Tarragon Trench or Apple Chutney yet – what are they like?’
‘Well, I think you’ll find Tarragon a bit strange at first. He’s rather too fond of catnip and never quite with us, if you know what I mean. Not a recreational smoker, more a way of life. He’s a bit of a hippy, really – peace and love and all that stuff from the sixties. Apple’s a lovely cat. Her real name is Apple Smith, but she loves making her chutneys so much that she’s changed her name to go with them. The only thing is, she hates having her plot next to Jeremiah because of his horrid compost heaps – and he’s put barbed wire up on his boundary, which isn’t very friendly. She’s asked Miss Wither-Fork if she can move to another plot when one comes up. Now, hold on and keep everything crossed – we’re at the bottom of the hill!’
