by Mandy Morton
‘I’m reporting for duty, if there’s anything I can do to help?’
‘Bless you! ’Ow do you feel about creamin’ and jammin’?’ asked Desiree, wiping her paws on her apron.
Tilly looked a little confused about what ‘creamin’’ and ‘jammin’’ might entail, but accepted the job willingly as there was nothing nasty about Desiree Chit or her boathouse. Apple Chutney obviously knew what was coming, and made space on the table as Desiree pulled a substantial batch of scones from her oven and banged them down in front of Tilly. ‘There you are! Give ’em a minute or two to settle, then you can start splittin’ them and creamin’ and jammin’. Lovely little job for you. You’d better put this apron on, though – things can get a bit messy, and you wouldn’t want to spoil your nice outfit, would you?’
Tilly clambered into the apron, which was much too big for her, and Desiree added a large bowl of thick clotted cream to the table. ‘Now then, Apple – which of your lovely jams shall we have for the job? I’ve got strawberry, raspberry and damson. We ate the last of your gooseberry preserve for breakfast this morning. My Rooster can’t keep his paws off the stuff.’
Apple stopped buttering her baps and put her head on one side, as if weighing up the troubles of the world. Tilly and Desiree waited in anticipation for her decision, and even Bonny Grubb brought her current tune to an abrupt conclusion, keen to know the outcome. It was Blight Chit who eventually broke the silence by shouting ‘Strawberry!’ at the top of his squeaky little voice, defusing the tension and saving Apple from what appeared to be a painful predicament. The large jar of strawberry jam was wrestled down from Desiree’s store cupboard and joined the bowl of cream on the table.
Tilly looked at the task before her, feeling more than a little daunted. She had big paws, which always seemed to get in the way of life’s more delicate jobs, and had had quite a few run-ins with the office typewriter, which insisted on typing several letters at once. Neither had she ever been able to take just one sweet out of a bag when offered. More recently, there had been an issue with the telephone dial in the staff sideboard, where she regularly called wrong numbers, much to the annoyance of the cats on the other end of the line. Today, as she stared down at the batch of perfect scones, she very much doubted whether she could accurately split them with the knife that Desiree had put in front of her.
Apple instinctively moved over to help as she’d come to the end of her bap buttering. ‘Shall I split while you cream and jam up?’ she suggested, as Bonny coaxed the buttons on her concertina back into life and Desiree put the finishing touches to her savoury flans.
Tilly was pleased to escape the more specialised part of the job, but – faced with the first perfectly split scone – another problem loomed. ‘Is it cream or jam first?’ she shouted above the rather energetic set of Irish jigs spilling out of Bonny’s concertina.
‘Well, now – that is a question,’ said Desiree. ‘It depends on where you come from, and you’ve hit on one of the biggest disputes in the whole universe! Wars have been fought over jammin’ and creamin’. In this household, we do it the Cornish way or Rooster gets upset – his lot hails from down there, so it’s jam first then cream. But if you have the slightest touch of Devon about you, then it’s cream first then jam. As you’re doin’ ’em, I think you should be allowed to choose. Whatever happens, they’ll be lovely.’
Tilly was renowned for her even-pawed approach to problems and decided in an egalitarian fashion to do some of each. The first six scones went very well, using the jam-first method, and to celebrate, Desiree plated them up on one of her reusable lace doilies. The second six, using the Devonian method, went like a dream as Tilly plastered the cream on with a pallet knife – and then the trouble began. Apple’s strawberry jam refused to stay put on top of the cream, no matter how aggressive Tilly became with the jam spoon. Dollops of jam slid off the scones and onto the table. Tilly’s spoon was caked with cream, and, in the tussle for supremacy, Tilly became covered in it as well. To make matters worse, Blight Chit mistook the proceedings for a game of mud pies and launched himself into the bowl of clotted cream, covering Desiree and Apple with the splash he’d created. Bonny Grubb played on, and Desiree’s boathouse became a sticky red and white disaster area; the concertina rose and fell as the avalanche of clotted cream and strawberry jam took over the table, the floor and the walls. Some of the scones clung to the roof as Blight tossed them into the air with such unbridled joy that it was impossible for his doting mother to be the slightest bit cross about the desecration of her home.
As with all storms, peace was eventually established when Desiree caught up with her overexcited kitten and deposited him out into the sunshine. Tilly and Apple salvaged as many scones as they could and resorted to a marble effect of jam and cream to top them, agreeing that the Neapolitan touch made them look extra special. Desiree prepared a bowl of hot, soapy water and had the surfaces and floor wiped clean in no time, and the four cats joined Blight out in the sunshine for a much-needed tea break while things dried off. Later that afternoon, no one would ever have believed that such chaos had existed in the creation of what all agreed was a magnificent spread.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Fluff Wither-Fork was still in shock when Hettie left her at the Hall to return to the allotments. She had reported her findings regarding Gertrude Jingle’s past and her connection with the Wither-Spoons, but there had been a lot to take in and many unanswered questions remained, most of which needed to be discussed with Micks and Mash. There was still the matter of the murders, too, and Hettie had promised that the culprit would be found, no matter who he was; Miss Jingle’s killing had been an act of extreme violence, and any cat capable of that needed to be stopped. Hettie’s brief experience of murder had taught her that once a life had been taken, killing again was easy and often necessary to cover up what had gone before. There was now an urgency in solving the case before another body hit the ground, but, out of respect, the day belonged to Miss Jingle, and Hettie decided to suspend further enquiries until after the funeral.
Arrangements had certainly come on apace by the time she returned to the plot. The summer house had been reconstructed into a catafalque of sorts – an oblong box big enough to contain all Gertrude’s worldly goods, including her ornate rocking chair. The site where the hut had stood was now a bare patch of earth. Morbid Balm was with Bruiser as Hettie approached. ‘Anything I can do to help?’ she asked, admiring the structure that now took centre stage. ‘You’ve made a great job of this. It’s high, isn’t it?’
Morbid nodded. ‘It had to be to fit all her stuff in. It’s going to take quite an effort to get her up there, but it should look fantastic when we’ve decorated it with the lilies. We could do with stepladders at each corner, really, so we can lift her up in one go. Thinking about it, we could get the mattress up first as that’s the heavy bit, then pop her on top afterwards.’
Bruiser nodded. ‘That’s a good plan. That way we won’t run the risk of ’er rollin’ off.’
‘Shall I see if I can rustle up more stepladders from the other plots?’ Hettie offered, distancing herself from any corpse-removing duties.
‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ said Morbid. ‘We’ve got just under an hour before midday, so we need to get a move on. I’ll set the fire while you’re doing that. I’ve brought some firelighters to dot round the base and the hut was nice and dry, so once we get it going the wood should take quite quickly. The secret is to get it all hot enough to burn the body, but I’m going to soak the mattress in barbecue fluid just to make sure.’
Hettie marvelled at the way in which Morbid handled her profession, going about her work in a matter-of-fact way without ever losing her reverence for the dead, and wanting every final journey to be executed to perfection under her care. Customer satisfaction was obviously key, in this world and the next. She bumped into Clippy Lean on the path as she went in search of more steps. The bus conductress had taken a rare day off, as she was keen to atte
nd Miss Jingle’s funeral. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she said. ‘I’ll miss her, though. I used to have lovely chats with her when I brought her shopping in. I can’t believe that anyone would want to hurt her. I just don’t know what’s happening around here any more, and to top it all someone has nicked off with my scarecrow.’
Under different circumstances, Hettie would have been interested in the disappearance of yet another scarecrow but, as Morbid had said, time was ticking on and she needed to complete her mission. ‘I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a pair of stepladders I can borrow?’ she said hopefully.
‘I haven’t got any, but the Gamps have – two pairs, actually, but you’d expect that with them. Shall I go and ask for you? They’ve just arrived. I suppose they’re coming to the funeral as well.’
Hettie could have hugged Clippy. She would never admit it, but she found the Gamp sisters a rather terrifying prospect at the best of times; to her, they came across as one of those monsters from ancient Greece with two heads on one body. ‘That would be really kind of you,’ Hettie said, following Clippy back down the path. ‘I’ll come and wait by the gate.’
The Gamp sisters proved to be a fruitful supply of stepladders, and Clippy soon reappeared with two identical sets. Hettie led the way back to Miss Jingle’s plot, where the stepladders were gratefully received and immediately put to work. Rooster, Bruiser and Jeremiah were chosen as mattress-bearers, but they were still one short and all eyes turned to Tarragon Trench as the only other male available. One look confirmed that there was very little point in enlisting his help in anything practical, so Hettie stepped forward as the tallest of the female cats.
Morbid and Bruiser moved Miss Jingle’s body off the mattress, laying it carefully down on the ground. The bearers carried the mattress across to where the four stepladders had been placed, one at each corner of the structure. Jeremiah and Rooster climbed their ladders, hauling the mattress up as they went, and Hettie and Bruiser positioned themselves on top of the structure to receive it and put it in place. Morbid stood at the bottom, hoping that the extra weight wouldn’t bring the whole thing down around their ears, but all was well and the team congratulated themselves on a job well done – even Jeremiah Corbit gave a grunt of satisfaction as he clambered back to earth. Hettie lingered for a moment on top of the mattress, her eye caught by a movement from the gatehouse turret; she expected it to be Micks, but surprisingly it was Mash who was staring out across at her.
‘Right, just the body and the lilies,’ shouted Morbid. Bruiser stepped forward, and Hettie suddenly felt obliged to help. Her conversation with Miss Jingle had been short, but it had left a lasting impression; the horror of the murder and the fact that the perpetrator had not yet been found made her want to perform a final act of respect by helping to place the body on the pyre. Under Morbid’s instruction, Bruiser and Hettie carried Miss Jingle, using the knots at either end of the sheet that enclosed her. The burden was surprisingly light, and Gertrude was easily lifted up onto the mattress, ready for her cremation. Once again, Hettie glanced across at the gatehouse, but this time there was no sign of Micks or Mash.
The helpers melted away to their plots to change into their funeral clothes, leaving Morbid, Bruiser and Hettie to decorate the structure with Miss Jingle’s lilies. Morbid doused the mattress in barbecue fluid, then chose the biggest and most beautiful of the blooms to lay with the body, while Hettie and Bruiser tied more flowers to the sides of the pyre and scattered bulbs around the base.
Fluff Wither-Fork was the first of the mourners to arrive and she gasped at the spectacle before her. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Miss Balm, you have done us all a great service in turning such horror into something so magnificent. Miss Jingle would be delighted.’
Morbid beamed with pride at a job well done. Desiree Chit barged the gate open with a tray of ham baps, swiftly followed by Tilly and two plates piled high with cream and jam scones, none the worse for their earlier incident. Apple Chutney followed moments later with the savoury flans, and Fluff – needing to keep busy – helped to unload the food onto the trestle table, which she’d set up earlier. The funeral tea was coming along nicely as more plates arrived from the Chits’ boathouse. Hettie was delighted to see a mountain of potato cakes, as well as some iced buns and a selection of puddings; the centrepiece was Desiree’s special trifle, which she’d made in a washing-up bowl to ensure that there was enough to go round.
The funeral guests arrived one by one, all amazed at the sight before them. There was nothing macabre about the giant tower of lilies that guarded Miss Jingle’s earthly remains; it was a truly magnificent sight, and those gathered together had to agree that it was a privilege to be part of it. Tilly had shaken off her oversized apron and stood next to Hettie and Bruiser, waiting for Morbid Balm to complete her task. Hettie stared round at the faces, looking for one that was etched with remorse or guilt: Clippy Lean, a pillar of the community, tidy and respectful; the Mulch sisters, dressed in matching flower-print frocks; Blackberry Tibbs in a clean white shirt; the Gamps in identical black; Corbit, who appeared to have combed his grizzly grey fur; the Chits, smart but casual; Apple Chutney, sporting a clean pair of dungarees and a little too much eye make-up; and Bonny Grubb, wearing an elaborate shawl to cover up her poor, well-mended clothes. None of them struck her as being capable of Miss Jingle’s murder, but the Wither-Spoons were conspicuous by their absence. Grief-stricken? she wondered. Riddled with guilt? Or simply watching from their ivory tower?
‘Ivory tower!’ exclaimed Hettie suddenly, and all eyes turned to her. ‘That’s it!’
The sun was almost at its highest point in the sky. Undeterred by Hettie’s outburst, Morbid stepped forward. She climbed one of the stepladders and opened the small funeral pot, sprinkling its contents over the body and leaving the empty pot to burn. She removed the steps to a safe distance and proceeded to light the base of the pyre with her matches. The wood took immediately, and within seconds flames were leaping up into the cloudless sky. Morbid stood back from the heat, praying that there would be no wind to divert the course of the fire as it began to consume Miss Jingle’s life, and eventually her body.
The heat drove the onlookers away from the inferno, and the funeral tea became the main attraction. The cats gathered round the trestle table, occasionally looking back at the progress of the cremation. Miss Jingle’s mattress burnt quickly, allowing the body to slip down into the heart of the fire where it was quickly consumed. It would be several hours before the ashes could be raked into the soil, and days before the smoke would die down, but if there was to be a reincarnation of Miss Jingle, all had been done to assist it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The funeral party broke up once the trestle tables had been picked clean, and everyone returned to their allotments to chew over the day’s extraordinary event. Fluff Wither-Fork had been the first to leave, having no appetite for food or socialising. Hettie, Tilly, Bruiser and Morbid were the only cats left on-site as the sun began to sink in the west, signalling the end of the cremation. Morbid had been the star of the day. Her attention to detail was widely admired, and she had actually picked up some advance business for Shroud and Trestle over the scones and ham baps. Hettie’s head was now full of possibilities regarding the murders, and although she was keen to pay a call on Micks and Mash, she decided to put it off until the morning. She needed time to consider and process all the information surrounding the case, and knew that a peaceful evening with a pipe or two of catnip was the way to go.
When Morbid was satisfied that the smoking remains of the cremation were safe, the four cats closed the gate on what had been Miss Jingle’s allotment and made their way back to the main road, where Miss Scarlet was parked. Morbid gratefully accepted a lift back to the undertakers, where she had left her bicycle, and clambered onto the back of the motorbike behind Bruiser. Hettie and Tilly took their place in the sidecar.
The gatehouse was in darknes
s, which Hettie thought was a little strange as the parkland was floodlit with cats coming and going like tiny ants in the distance. The Michaelmas Flower and Produce Show was clearly coming together, with or without the Wither-Spoons. Tomorrow would be the harvest festival – the anniversary of Lettuce Wither-Fork’s accident, and the day when all the Wither-Fork residents would offer up their vegetables, flowers and thankful prayers in the small church, presided over by the Reverend Augusta Stitch. And it was her bread van that nearly drove Miss Scarlet off the road at the foot of Wither-Fork Hill. ‘Bloody idiot!’ said Hettie as Bruiser swerved, mounted the grass verge, removing a small section of the hedgerow, and returned them to the road unscathed. ‘What the hell is she doing driving about in an old bread van? Why can’t she have a Morris Minor like the Reverend Mulch had?’
Tilly giggled, recovering from the jolt. ‘I suppose she thinks she’s delivering the bread of heaven to her flock,’ she quipped.
Hettie couldn’t resist joining in. ‘Yes, and it puts a new spin on five loaves and two bloody fishes! Although I doubt she could perform a miracle if it bit her on the …’
A bump in the road saved Miss Scarlet’s sidecar from the expletives, and Bruiser brought her to a standstill outside Shroud and Trestle, where Morbid – reunited with her bicycle – headed for home. Hettie made an on-the-spot decision to stop once more before the three friends made tracks for their own cosy firesides, and Bruiser responded by applying the brakes outside Elsie Haddock’s fish emporium. Hettie leapt out of the sidecar and returned minutes later with three hot parcels of fish and chips, and Bruiser gave Miss Scarlet full throttle as the cats sped down the high street, salivating over the prospect of a hot supper. He dropped Hettie and Tilly at the front of the Butters’ pie and pastry shop, and drove off to enjoy his supper in his shed at the bottom of the garden, where Miss Scarlet also had her own shelter. Hettie and Tilly made their way down the passageway that led to the backyard and the official entrance to their room at the back of the bakery. Tilly set to with the fire while Hettie filled the kettle, and both cats were about to abandon their day clothes when there was a knock at the door. The dulcet tones of Betty Butter rang out. ‘Got a visitor for you. She’s been waiting upstairs with us.’
