by Mandy Morton
Relieved to be off Hettie’s hook, Bonny thought hard about the question. ‘There is one thing,’ she said, ‘but that don’t seem important.’ Hettie urged Bonny to continue, this time coaxing her gently. ‘Well, it’s Ruben Grubb, as I calls ’im. ’E was in me brassicas patch last Sunday morning, and then ’e was gone. I thought ’e was me best chance at a prize this year, but ’e just upped and left, stick an’ all.’
Hettie was confused, but Tilly came to the rescue. ‘Was Ruben Grubb a scarecrow?’
‘’E was more than that to me,’ said Bonny. ‘’E was the spit of an old Gypsy tom I fell for a few years back. I ’ad an old picture of ’im an’ I showed it to Blackberry – she made ’im up for me for the show. I’m not sure when ’e took off, what with the murder and everything, but I seen ’e wasn’t there this morning when I went to lift some cabbages for the show. Tha’s the trouble with them Gypsy toms – loves yer and leaves yer, off on the open road before the day breaks.’
Hettie had enough on her paws without a missing scarecrow, and now she would have to find a way of confronting Jeremiah Corbit about the knife whilst keeping Bonny out of the firing line. Leaving her to resume her sunbathing, she and Tilly stepped back onto the path and almost ran into Apple Chutney, who was wheeling a trolley stacked with jars of every colour and size imaginable. ‘Whoops!’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I’m taking this lot up to the Hall. I’ve got to do a drop-off at the church for the harvest festival, and the rest of them are going on me stall. Just the damson and lime marmalade to bottle up and I’m done.’
Hettie decided to interrupt the flow of preserves for fear that the afternoon would slip away from them on a tide of pickled fruit and vegetables. ‘I wonder if you have a minute to clear something up?’ she began. Apple looked slightly wary, but nodded. ‘I understand that you visited Miss Jingle yesterday afternoon?’
‘No, I didn’t. I was in me chutney shed most of the day, and I didn’t go down that end at all. Why? Who said I did? I suppose it was Corbit, was it?’
Hettie shook her head. ‘No, it was the Mulch sisters. They seemed to think they heard you talking to Miss Jingle yesterday.’
Apple looked put out and more than a little cross, but obviously felt the need to clarify the situation. ‘I haven’t spoken to Miss Jingle for a week. The last time I saw her was when I went looking for me scarecrow. I’d left it in me bean plot. Lovely, it was – a real winner. A great pumpkin head on it and dressed like a French cat with a beret and striped top. I even made a string of shallots to go round his neck. I got up one morning and he was gone. I hardly dare tell Blackberry – she spent such a lot of time making it for me. Miss Jingle said hers had gone missing as well, but she didn’t seem that bothered about it. She was too busy with her lilies, getting them ready for the show. As for the Mulches, they only hear what they want to hear. I definitely didn’t see or speak to Miss Jingle yesterday.’
Hettie believed what Apple was telling her, although it threw up yet another mystery: if it wasn’t Apple Chutney, who had the Mulches heard? Or were they deliberately trying to confuse? In any event, Jeremiah Corbit was next on Hettie’s list, and that confrontation was seconds away.
Apple Chutney clinked and rattled her way to the gatehouse with the fruits of her labours, while Hettie and Tilly headed for the compost heaps. Even on a sunny day, Corbit’s allotment looked grim and unwelcoming. Putting the suitcase down at the gate and pulling the knife out of the sack, Hettie lifted the latch and left Tilly to guard the papers and chutneys. For a moment, she thought she was out of luck: there was no sign of Corbit, and she was about to turn on her heel when his voice rang out from behind the shed. ‘Are you looking for me?’ he called, emerging with a wheelbarrow full of rotting lilies.
Hettie looked at the barrow and then at Corbit before pointing the knife in his direction. ‘I believe this is yours, Mr Corbit. I found it during the process of my enquiries.’
Corbit came forward and studied the knife at close range before responding. ‘It certainly looks like mine. Where did you find it?’
‘Hidden in a bloody handkerchief in Miss Jingle’s greenhouse,’ said Hettie, watching his reaction very closely.
There was no reaction to speak of. Corbit just shrugged his bony shoulders and carried on wheeling his barrow over to one of the steaming stacks of compost, where he forked the lilies onto the heap.
‘Did those lilies come from Miss Jingle’s?’ she asked, trying to engage him again.
Corbit turned to her. This time there was anger in his face, and the grizzly grey hackles rose on the back of his neck. ‘For a detective, you seem a little short on questions. Why don’t you just ask me if I murdered Gertrude Jingle and have done with it, instead of beating about the bush? That way we can all get on without any more pointless interruptions.’
Hettie was taken aback at his directness and found herself doing as he’d asked. ‘Did you murder Gertrude Jingle?’
Corbit spat into the compost heap and pulled a pipe from his pocket, along with a tobacco pouch. He took his time filling it, as Hettie stood waiting for an answer. Eventually, in the cloud of acrid smoke that billowed from the pipe, he spoke. ‘No, I didn’t kill Gertrude Jingle. That knife has been missing for days. In fact, the last time I saw it was on Miss Jingle’s plot, where I used it to cut down the lilies that had gone over. I did that for her on a regular basis, and she let me have the dead flowers for composting. These lilies here were the ones I cut down, and they’ve been rotting down for several days behind my shed. Now, if you’ve nothing else to say, I suggest you return my knife to me, collect your little friend from my gate, and go and bother someone else.’
Corbit held out his paw, waiting for Hettie to hand over the knife. She faltered briefly, but withdrew it at the last moment, refusing to be intimidated. ‘I’m afraid the knife is evidence, and until Miss Jingle’s killer is revealed it stays with me. My “little friend” and I will continue our investigations. I’m most grateful for your help and the gracious way you’ve answered my questions. I can see now why you’re so popular up here on the allotments. Your charm and personality must be a real asset.’
Like most bullies, Jeremiah Corbit was flawed by Hettie’s sarcasm. It left him with nothing to say, and he slunk back into his lonely world of decomposing flowers and vegetables. Hettie closed the gate behind her, and she and Tilly set out for Wither-Fork Hill, hoping for a bus to take them home. They stood opposite the gatehouse for some time, waiting for a lift that clearly wasn’t coming, but it gave Hettie the chance to study Micks Wither-Spoon’s turret at close range. Gertrude was right: he had a perfect view of the bottom end of the allotments, and she was concerned about not having spoken to him directly. There was no sign of him on his battlements and her gaze fell to the side of the gatehouse, where a motorbike stood half-covered in a plastic sheet. As she watched, Micks appeared from the backyard, pulled the plastic sheet away and wheeled the motorbike out onto the road. He kicked the machine into life before she could stop him, then sped off into the countryside in a cloud of smoke, giving full throttle to the engine as he roared away into the distance.
Hettie swore under her breath, knowing she’d missed her chance, but minutes later the sound of a motorbike engine returned, and this time Tilly screamed with delight. The noise came from the bottom of Wither-Fork Hill, and Tilly clapped her paws with joy as she recognised the beautifully tuned engine of Miss Scarlet, their official and much-loved mode of transport. The motorbike and sidecar was driven by their friend, Bruiser, who had become an integral part of the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency. He brought it to a skidding halt in front of them, and Hettie and Tilly beamed at him. ‘I thought you were on holiday until the weekend?’ said Hettie, loading Tilly, the suitcase, the knife and the chutneys into the sidecar.
‘I was missin’ me shed,’ shouted Bruiser over the roar of the engine. ‘And I ’ad a feelin’ that I might be needed, so I came back early. The Butters said you was stuck up ’ere on a
murder case.’
Hettie leapt onto the motorbike behind Bruiser and the three friends roared off into town. They were soon catching up on their news, helped by a selection of savoury pastries that Betty and Beryl had put aside as a welcome back for Bruiser’s afternoon tea. The Butters had adopted Bruiser and welcomed him into their protective world, gifting him a shed at the bottom of their garden and making him their lad about the yard. He’d roamed the highways and byways for many years, living under the stars and never staying long in any one place, but now – as age made a warm bed and a roof over his head more enticing – he had quickly settled into the first proper home he’d had since leaving his birthplace to seek his fortune. He finally found that fortune when he paid a visit to Hettie one cold winter’s night; within days, Hettie and Tilly had enlisted him as driver and chief muscle in their detective agency, and he had been a vital part in the solving of several high-profile cases. Hettie would be the first to agree that on a number of occasions he had saved their long-haired tabby necks.
There was a message waiting for them on the answering machine from Fluff Wither-Fork, confirming that Miss Jingle’s cremation would begin at midday and that there would be no particular dress code. Tilly was relieved, as black had never suited her, and Hettie wasn’t bothered one way or the other. The good news was that the Chits had agreed to supply wake bakes; both Hettie and Tilly were delighted with this news, and looked forward to more of Desiree’s potato cakes.
Hettie did her best to outline The Michaelmas Murders case to Bruiser, who sat quietly taking in all the details. On hearing of the impending cremation, he instantly offered his services to Morbid with some of the heavier work that would be needed to prepare the pyre. He seemed pleased to have another case to get his teeth into, and went off happily to his shed with a Butters’ steak and ale pie for supper, promising to have Miss Scarlet ready for action at nine o’clock the following morning. It would be some time before Hettie and Tilly put themselves to bed, as Miss Jingle’s papers were to prove much more interesting than expected.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The September sun had excelled itself with such a beautiful warm day, but there was a definite nip in the air as Hettie staggered in under the weight of the coal scuttle, which she’d filled from a stack in the Butters’ backyard. ‘Let’s get the fire lit and settle down with Miss Jingle’s papers,’ she said, as Tilly laid sticks and rolled up newspaper in the grate. ‘I think we can wait a bit for our supper. It’ll give us something to look forward to later.’
Tilly agreed, glancing up at the staff sideboard where a bag contained two sausage, liver and bacon pies. She put a match to the coals, and soon a healthy set of flames leapt up the chimney, bringing warmth to their room. Hettie kicked off her day clothes and wrapped herself in her dressing gown; Tilly did the same, choosing a pair of pink and purple striped pyjamas. The pyjamas had originally been white with purple stripes, but Tilly had had a slight misunderstanding with one of Hettie’s red T-shirts in the Butters’ new twin-tub before going on holiday. She approached the age of mod cons with great trepidation, much preferring her tried-and-tested method of a tin bath in the backyard – not that she believed in washing anything too often. As far as the pyjamas were concerned, she was making the best of a bad job and had grown to love the added pink tinge to her nightwear – and anyway, the only cat who would see her wearing them was Hettie, who noticed very little when it came to clothes and colour coordination.
Hettie tipped the contents of the suitcase out onto the hearthrug, and Tilly made two piles: one of photographs; the other of letters and what looked to be official documents. She stared down at the papers and had one of her sad moments. ‘It looks like there’s a whole life here,’ she said. ‘Not much to show for a cat who once had everything.’
‘She seemed happy enough dancing round her flowers,’ said Hettie, picking up a bunch of letters tied with red ribbon and sniffing them before trying to decipher the writing. ‘Sometimes wealth brings too many responsibilities. Look at Fluff Wither-Fork. I bet she’d rather be left alone to talk to her flowers and fountains.’ She pulled the bundle of letters closer to her and squinted at the top one, trying to make sense of it. ‘I hope it’s not all going to be this hard to read,’ she added, passing it to Tilly. ‘What do you make of these?’
Tilly did as Hettie had done and sniffed the letters first. ‘That’s a lovely smell. It’s like those perfume sticks that Jessie lights in her back room at the charity shop.’
‘Joss sticks?’ offered Hettie.
‘Yes, and you can’t read these letters because they’re foreign. Indian, I think. Definitely not Chinese, because they write up and down.’
‘Well, that’s just brilliant!’ said Hettie, getting more annoyed by the second. ‘We’ve got hardly any time to go through this lot before it all goes up in smoke, and we’ve got a bloody language barrier on our paws!’
Tilly giggled at Hettie’s outburst. She knew her friend was tired and that their day was turning out to be much longer than planned, but the work had to be got through and the quicker the better. ‘Let’s look at the photos first. That’s a nice job. I think we should ignore the letters.’
Hettie nodded in agreement and tossed the bundle of letters back into the suitcase with a certain amount of bad grace. Many of the photographs were old and yellowing, but Miss Jingle had scribbled on the back of most of them, which proved to be a real help to Hettie and Tilly as they sat by the fire dismantling her life. The first batch that Tilly chose looked the oldest and showed groups of cats all dressed in their Sunday best, staring diligently at the camera. The same four cats appeared in a whole group of photos seemingly taken at the same time – a male and a female adult cat and two much smaller females, suggesting a family gathering. Tilly turned several of them over and was dismayed to find nothing written on the back until almost the last in the series. There it was: ‘Mother, Father, Scoop and me’, scrawled across the back in red ink.
‘That’s a start,’ said Tilly brightly. ‘It looks like Miss Jingle had a sister, and here’s one of her parents again – on their own this time. She’s written “Ma and Pa Jingle” on the back.’
‘Well, I don’t see how any of that helps,’ said Hettie. ‘Anything more recent?’
Tilly put aside the family photos and picked out another picture at random. It was a wedding photograph, and showed the bride and groom smiling in a church doorway. This time the writing on the back proved a little more helpful. ‘“Scoop and Lorrie Wither-Spoon on their wedding day”,’ said Tilly, emphasising the Wither-Spoon for Hettie’s benefit.
Hettie snatched the photograph from Tilly’s paw, suddenly focused on the job again. ‘So Micks Wither-Spoon must somehow be related to Gertrude Jingle!’
‘Looks like it,’ said Tilly, getting excited, ‘and here’s a good one – the same cats but with a kitten! It says “Scoop, Lorrie and Micks”! If they’re Micks’ parents, then they must be the ones who were stabbed in the dressing room that Fluff told us about.’
‘Which means that Micks Wither-Spoon is Gertrude Jingle’s nephew!’ said Hettie, looking confused. ‘But according to Clippy Lean the nephew bankrupted Miss Jingle’s estate and left her penniless. That can’t be right, and Miss Jingle didn’t talk to me about Micks as if they were related, either. See if you can turn up any pictures of Miss Jingle later in her life. We can try and pin down what happened to make her so poor. Nothing is adding up so far.’
Tilly sifted through more photos, hoping to come across a grand mansion with tea parties on the lawn, but nothing presented itself. Hettie returned to the pile of papers, not really knowing what she was looking for. She found the land document signed by Fluff Wither-Fork giving Gertrude rights to her allotment, and receipts for countless exotic-sounding bulbs and shrubs. There were a number of folded theatre posters heralding performances by Scoop and Lorrie Wither-Spoon; one of them even mentioned the introduction of ‘The Infant Micks’, as he was billed.
‘I c
an see where Micks gets his dramatic tendencies from, and why Miss Jingle was so encouraging towards Micks’ and Mash’s little productions,’ said Hettie. ‘But are we to assume that Micks doesn’t know he’s related to her? And if he does know, could he be our killer? Maybe they had a row. Mash said Miss Jingle could be harsh with him, so perhaps it turned nasty.’
Their hearthrug was now covered in a mountain of photographs and papers, and Hettie and Tilly – energised by their discoveries – lost all notion of time. The pies and tarts sat undisturbed on the staff sideboard as the two cats plundered Gertrude Jingle’s long life. Hettie turned up a cache of newspaper cuttings, lurid in their description of Scoop and Lorrie Wither-Spoon’s murder. The facts were the same as Fluff had outlined, and one of the newspapers reported that the couple’s young son had been taken into care by a local kitten charity. ‘That’s odd,’ said Hettie, reading the report again. ‘I wonder why Miss Jingle didn’t take Micks on instead of letting him be raised as an orphan? She obviously took an interest in him, and she didn’t seem the sort to walk away from a problem.’
‘But she obviously did,’ Tilly pointed out. ‘When she lost her house, she walked away and set up on Wither-Fork allotments with nothing more than a few lily bulbs and a shed. Maybe she wanted to spend her final years close to Micks because she felt guilty for not looking after him when her sister died. Perhaps she didn’t tell him who she was because she felt ashamed of how she’d behaved.’
Hettie had to agree that Tilly had come up with the best explanation yet, but there was still no sign of Gertrude Jingle’s life between the death of her sister and her arrival at Wither-Fork. She gathered some of the papers and photographs they’d already been through and put them back in the suitcase; as she did so, she noticed that the case had an extra pouch in the lid, held in place by a strap and buckle. The buckle was rusted with age and the strap came away in Hettie’s paws. Inside the pouch was an elaborately jewelled and embroidered satin clutch bag. Hettie pounced on it as Tilly added more coal to their fire. The satin bag gave off the same heady smell that the bundle of letters had offered, and she placed it down in front of the fire and opened it. Out tumbled the missing years of Gertrude Jingle’s life, along with a tiny ornamental pot.
