by Mandy Morton
Refusing to acknowledge the joke, Hettie could barely resist pointing out that the carnage she had left on the allotment was hardly a blessing or her idea of a joyful day, but she chose to remain silent. The Reverend Augusta Stitch performed her genuflections at the altar before addressing the company once again. ‘Now then, are we all ready for the harvest festival?’ she enquired, adopting her school assembly voice. ‘Two days to go and none of Miss Jingle’s lilies, I see. Has there been a mix-up with the flower arrangers? I thought Miss Tibbs was collecting the lilies this morning? A bit behind, are we? We mustn’t get carried away with the show, not before the harvest festival service.’ At this point, she broke into her favourite harvest hymn, and Fluff, Hettie and Tilly could do nothing but stare as she wheezed her way through several verses of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, twirling her way down the aisle of the church towards the altar, where she finally came to rest on a red velvet kneeler.
Feeling the need to regain her sanity, Hettie rose from the pew and signalled to Tilly that they were leaving. Assuring Fluff that they would return to the Hall in time for lunch, the two cats left the landowner in the sacred company of the wheezing mass at the altar and fled out into the sunshine.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Micks and Mash Wither-Spoon next,’ said Hettie, turning her face to the sun as they left the cold, clammy atmosphere of St Wither-Fork’s. ‘A conversation with those two is long overdue. They seem to have a claw in all the pies around here, and I doubt there’s much they miss up at the gatehouse.’
‘I wonder who they’re being now?’ responded Tilly, making a beeline for a doughnut stall, which seemed to be having a practice run. The cats watched as the doughnuts swirled in the hot fat, giving off that unmistakable smell of sizzling sweet batter, and were both rewarded with a doughnut, which the stallholder tossed in a mountain of white sugar and cinnamon. Tilly paid up as several of the helpers formed an orderly queue behind her. The practice run was proving a popular mid-morning distraction for the cats engaged in the Michaelmas Show preparations.
‘Oooh lovely!’ said Tilly, covering her whiskers, ears and the top of her head in sugar. ‘Almost as good as Beryl’s, and extra nice to eat them outside.’ Hettie had to agree. There was something special about outdoor food: the fresh air and lack of conformity made it almost forbidden fruit, although Hettie had never been a fan of fruit of any kind unless it was wrapped in pastry or sponge.
The friends crossed in front of the Hall and made their way up to the gatehouse, where Mash Wither-Spoon was watering a collection of brightly coloured pansies in her backyard. She turned to acknowledge them with a wide and welcoming smile. ‘Fancy a cup of tea to wash those doughnuts down?’ she said, making it clear that she’d been watching their progress across the parkland. ‘You wait till the show on Saturday. Every tasty treat your heart can desire: hot dogs, burgers, toffee apples, candyfloss, and then there’s the food tent. My sister prides herself on that. After the judging, all the pies, pastries and hams are up for grabs – bargains galore and a positive stampede, although the veg is always left, even if it has won a prize. Mind you, that’s if the show goes ahead at all.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Hettie, as she and Tilly followed Mash into her kitchen.
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ said Mash, filling the kettle. ‘Two murders and heaven knows what’s to come. Fluff is batting on a bit of a sticky wicket if you ask me. I don’t know why she does it to herself. Micks has offered to run the estate for her, but for some reason she just won’t have it.’ From what Hettie had seen of Micks Wither-Spoon, she could perfectly understand why Fluff might be reticent to leave the estate in his paws, but she said nothing and Mash continued, ‘He drew up a lovely plan and presented it to her in the spring, just after all the winter bills had come in, but she wouldn’t have it. All this business over duty and Lettuce Wither-Fork and her charity.’
‘What was the plan?’ asked Hettie, settling herself at the kitchen table and taking care to avoid the pools of green slime left over from the Macbeth run-through.
‘A theme park!’ replied Mash. ‘They’re all the rage these days. With Blackberry’s models and our theatrical expertise, we could really have put Wither-Fork Hall on the map, but she just wouldn’t have it. Micks and I washed our paws of her after that, and we live a lovely life here at the gatehouse – when she’s not telling us off, that is.’
Hettie secretly admired the idea of a theme park, but completely understood why Fluff Wither-Fork had vetoed it. It was mainly due to Micks, no doubt, but there was also a noble air of going down with her ship about the chatelaine of Wither-Fork Hall, and it had to be admired, no matter how self-destructive it might prove.
Mash made four mugs of tea, putting two of them in front of Hettie and Tilly. She made up a tray with one of the others, added a large slice of pork pie, then headed for the stairs in the corner of the kitchen. ‘I’ll just pop this up to Micks,’ she said. ‘He’s learning his lines in the turret. Back in a minute – help yourselves to sugar.’
‘Well, that was a bit interesting,’ said Tilly, satisfied that Mash was out of earshot. ‘I think a theme park is a really good idea. They could have had those re-enactments where cats take sides and pretend to be dead. You know – with cavaliers and roundheads, like the sealed nits do.’
Hettie spat a mouthful of tea across the table. ‘Knot! Sealed knot!’ she corrected. ‘And there’s no need for cats to pretend round here. We already have some who are properly dead.’
‘Who’s properly dead?’ asked Mash, reappearing from the stairs. ‘Not another one, surely?’
‘No, just the two for now,’ said Hettie, sounding weary. ‘I would like to ask you and Micks some questions about the murders, though, if you have time?’
‘I’m not sure how much time Micks has got, as he’s panicking over his Thane of Corduroy soliloquy, but I’ve got the hags and Lady M off to a T so I can answer for him. He’s not a great conversationalist unless he’s pretending to be someone else.’
Tilly opened her notebook, and Hettie began. ‘Miss Jingle told me that you have a good vantage point across the allotments from your turret.’
‘We do, and across to the Hall as well. It was designed to give advance warning of conquering armies in days gone by. Micks loves it up there. It makes him feel like the king of the castle. We keep all our costumes there, too, like a proper theatre wardrobe department.’
‘You’re obviously aware of the stranger found dead on Bonny Grubb’s onion patch,’ Hettie continued, refusing to discuss theatre or wardrobes. ‘Did either of you see anything from the turret that might be of help in identifying him?’
‘Not that I can think of, but we can’t see much of Bonny’s patch from here, not even with Micks’ binoculars. She’s right up the top end.’
‘And what about Miss Jingle?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say what she might have seen. Didn’t you ask her?’
Hettie was confused for a moment, but put the question a different way. ‘I meant did you or Micks see anything that might help us with the murder of Miss Jingle? I understand that she took an interest in Micks and his plays.’
Mash, visibly irritated, sidestepped the question. ‘Oh, and which one of that lot is telling tales out of school? Most of them never miss an opportunity to have a go at poor Micks, and even Miss Jingle could be cruel sometimes. Blackberry’s the only decent one among them. At least she’s kind to him.’
Hettie responded with the shock news that it was, in fact, Blackberry who had given her the information. ‘Then if it’s come from Blackberry, that’s all right. Miss Jingle had been helping Micks with his lines – she was good at that sort of thing. She suggested Macbeth, actually. She said it would suit us both, as the parts were engrossing and Wither-Fork Hall was the perfect setting.’
‘You said Miss Jingle could be cruel to Micks. In what way?’
‘She sometimes sent him notes after our performances. She n
ever missed one, but she could be quite discouraging at times. She was really horrible about Micks’ Joan of Arc. She said he was more like Guy Fawkes than the Maid of Orleans when it came to the burning scene, and I wouldn’t mind but he put a lot into that. She did say my Dauphine was exceptional, though, so it wasn’t all bad.’
Reluctant to delve much further into the Wither-Spoons’ theatrical adventures, there was nevertheless one question that Hettie wanted to ask out of pure curiosity. ‘Why does Micks play so many female cat roles?’
Mash gave a haughty laugh. ‘You’re clearly not au fait with the Bard. Any cat who aspires to treading the boards knows that Mr Shakespeare would have no truck with female cats, and gave all the parts to males. Micks likes to be as authentic as possible, unless he prefers the male role for himself.’
‘And what about you? Will you be playing Lady Macbeth?’
‘Of course, but Micks is wearing her gowns, as he says she’s got the best costumes. I get to wear doublet, hose and chain mail – or rather tin foil, as we’ve had to improvise since our Gawain and the Green Knight ended up in the ornamental pond after the jousting tournament.’
Tilly stifled a giggle, and Hettie returned to the subject of Gertrude Jingle’s death. ‘Could you tell me if Micks visited Miss Jingle yesterday?’
Mash looked affronted at such an obviously loaded question. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Micks had anything to do with Gertrude’s death? I thought she died in the night.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Hettie.
Mash looked flustered. ‘I don’t know. I think I just assumed it. He did call in to see her, but she was fine when he left. He got back about six, and look – she sent me those lilies for Lady Macbeth’s bower.’
Hettie was puzzled as she stared at the lilies by the sink. They looked abandoned and desperate for water. ‘I really would like a quick word with Micks, if that’s possible,’ she said. ‘Besides the killer, he was probably the last cat to see Miss Jingle alive.’
Mash gave a huge sigh. ‘I don’t think you fully understand. Micks is a special sort of cat, and not like you and me. He creates his own worlds and lives in them. He’s quite fragile, really. I don’t think he really believes that Miss Jingle is dead. He probably thinks it’s all part of a play.’
‘Then perhaps he’d like to come with me to see the body,’ suggested Hettie, refusing to be fobbed off. ‘It’s the best bit of theatre he’ll ever see, and it might just jog his memory. He might notice something of vital importance to the case – something out of place, perhaps, that could lead us to the killer.’
Mash froze at the thought of subjecting Micks to such an ordeal. ‘What you suggest is out of the question. He’s not fit enough to deal with anything like that. He has tremors that last for days when he’s upset – can’t hold a cup of tea or anything. I’ve told you all we know, and I suggest you look closer to home for your killer. The Mulch sisters had quite a difficult relationship with Gertrude, and Jeremiah Corbit couldn’t stand her. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my ironing.’
‘Just one more thing,’ said Hettie, opening the sack that had become her constant companion. ‘Do you recognise this knife?’
Mash stared in horror, visibly shaken. ‘Is that what killed Miss Jingle?’ Hettie nodded, and Mash’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head slowly. ‘No, I’ve never seen it before.’
Mash Wither-Spoon rose from her kitchen table, making it clear that the conversation was over. Hettie and Tilly left her snatching laundry off the washing line in her backyard, and made their way back to Wither-Fork Hall for Blackberry Tibbs’ cheese and potato pie.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blackberry greeted them at the door, and this time she showed Hettie and Tilly into Fluff Wither-Fork’s private rooms below stairs. The parlour was a far cry from the faded splendour of the baronial dining room, but it was comfortable and welcoming. A round table in the centre of the room was set for four, and Hettie remembered with a groan that the Reverend Stitch would be breaking bread with them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ said Blackberry. ‘Miss Wither-Fork’s showing the vicar a painting she wants to sell. They won’t be long.’
‘There is one small thing you could help with,’ said Hettie, wrestling the knife out of the sack she carried. ‘Does this resemble any of the knives in Miss Wither-Fork’s kitchens?’
Blackberry shrank back from the weapon, instantly distressed, then moved in for a closer look. ‘It does seem familiar, but there’s so much stuff in the kitchens here. You should ask Bonny Grubb – she sharpens all the knives for the Hall. She kept her dad’s sharpening stones, and no one sharpens a knife like an old Gypsy tinker. It’s in her blood.’
At the mention of the word ‘blood’, Blackberry made a hasty exit for the kitchens to wrestle the pie from the Aga, leaving Hettie and Tilly to perch on a battered but comfortable sofa in the parlour. ‘It’s much nicer in here,’ said Tilly. ‘Much better than that barn of a dining room upstairs. Fluff must be quite cosy with all her lovely things around her. These big old houses are quite nasty, really – cold, damp and impossible to decorate with all those high ceilings. Just think how much polish you’d use if you took on that big staircase. I don’t know why Fluff Wither-Fork doesn’t buy a nice little house in Whisker Terrace.’
‘Neither do I some days,’ said Fluff as she came into the parlour, much to Tilly’s embarrassment. ‘But as things stand at the moment, I couldn’t afford a caravan on Southwool beach, let alone a house in Whisker Terrace.’
‘Well, you can put that fifty pounds towards your deposit,’ boomed the Reverend Stitch, following Fluff through the door. ‘I’m a fool for a Madonna and Kitten, and that painting will be perfect in my study at the rectory.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Fluff. ‘But I’m afraid the money will go to pay the bills, and I haven’t yet agreed a fee for all the work that Miss Bagshot and her assistant are doing on the murders.’
Hettie was pleased to hear that their fee hadn’t been forgotten. At Fluff’s invitation, she and Tilly took their place at the table just as Blackberry arrived with a large cheese and potato pie.
The Reverend Stitch wobbled with excitement, making Tilly think that she was sitting by a giant living jelly. Hettie was relieved to be next to Fluff, who wasted no time in putting four large helpings of the pie onto the plates and passing them round the table. Blackberry returned to the kitchen, leaving the diners to enjoy the fruits of her labours.
Hettie lifted her fork and instantly put it down again as Augusta Stitch rose from the table to inflict grace on the rest of them. It was just as well that the pie was hot, as the thank yous addressed to her maker went on for some time. The Reverend finally sat down and demolished her pie before Tilly had barely managed her first forkful. Hettie took her time with her own portion, savouring every mouthful, but Fluff just picked at hers, moving it absent-mindedly round the plate.
Augusta filled her plate twice more before leaning back in her chair like a satisfied walrus, putting yet more strain on her clerical collar and the chair. After much cleaning, wheezing and appreciative grunting, the vicar finally focused on her fellow diners. ‘So, Miss Bagshot, what’s to be done? Satan’s abroad, and you are charged with eradicating his works and bringing him to justice. Let’s hope that no more of our Lord’s flock will suffer in the meantime. Miss Wither-Fork tells me you have a track record of solving such atrocities, and one feels you walk in the shadow of death. Let us pray you fear no evil, as the good book says.’
Hettie couldn’t resist this time and replied as only she knew how. ‘My main concern, if I was a believer, would be why God allows such atrocities in the first place. My experience has shown me that victims of murder are usually blameless and without sin, and the perpetrators live lives embedded in evil, which enables them to do what they do. To make matters worse, it’s the murderers that history remembers. If Satan exists, under those circumstances he’s on the winning side.’
Fluff Wither-Fork and Tilly stared at Hettie in admiration as the Reverend Augusta Stitch checked her watch and rose from the table like a cat who had been well and truly slapped. ‘I must get going,’ she said. ‘Funerals wait for no cat. Will you be requiring a service for Miss Jingle?’
Fluff responded with another blow. ‘I’m afraid not. Miss Jingle had alternative ideas regarding her funeral. There is to be an open-air cremation on her allotment. She was sceptical regarding religion of any sort. I shall leave the arrangements to Morbid Balm from Shroud and Trestle. Don’t forget your painting – it’s by the front door.’ She waited for the footsteps to die away before releasing a tirade of abuse at her departing lunch guest. ‘Insufferable despot! Holier than thou, without an ounce of humility about her. She thinks she has us all under the cosh with her patronising view of humanity. If it wasn’t for Christmas, Easter and the harvest festival I’d set the hounds on her – if we had any. Thank God it’s only three times a year! And she charges for petrol on top of her fee for that ludicrous bread van she drives about in. Her church in the town is half-empty most Sundays, such is her magnetic draw for the parishioners, and I gather the Baptists are doing extra business because of her. Bring back the Reverend Mulch, that’s what I say.’ Fluff suddenly became aware of the look of appreciation on Hettie’s and Tilly’s faces and decided not to apologise for her outburst, which had clearly met with the approval of her remaining guests.
