Cat Among the Pumpkins

by Mandy Morton

  Hettie removed the mail bag from around Teezle’s neck. The undelivered letters from the day before would have to be returned to the post office with the unwelcome news that Lavender Stamp was once again looking for a new employee. Teezle’s mouth was forced open by the swelling of her blackened tongue, and it was clear and refreshing to note that this time nothing had been forced into the mouth after death. Hettie wondered briefly if that was significant, but the frost was getting to everyone and she concluded her initial examinations quickly, then helped Bruiser to carry the body across the lawn under Irene Peggledrip’s instruction. ‘You can put her in the old dairy at the back of the house. There’s a table in there, and she’ll be fine overnight. Shall I give Shroud and Trestle a ring in the morning?’ Straining under the weight of Teezle’s body, Hettie couldn’t help but think that this was turning out to be an excellent week for Shroud and Trestle. It also crossed her mind that bad luck often came in threes.

  With Teezle tucked up in the old dairy, Hettie avoided any further conversation and Irene strode off to finish her game of backgammon. It was clear that she had no idea how the body had come to be strung up in her elder tree; she rarely ventured beyond her formal garden in the winter, she claimed, and had noticed nothing out of the ordinary that day. They would call on her again on Friday, as arranged, and by then one or two aspects of the case might have become clearer; there was also a strong possibility that the body count would have increased, giving Crimola even more to think about.

  Bruiser drove Scarlet home, taking extra care on the icy roads, and Hettie and Tilly huddled together for warmth in the sidecar, clutching Teezle’s mail bag. In spite of the darkness, Lavender Stamp was sweeping the pavement in front of the post office when they got back and Bruiser diplomatically parked the motorbike further down the High Street to avoid further caustic notes.

  ‘Oh well, here goes,’ said Hettie, grabbing the mail bag. ‘Wish me luck.’ Bruiser and Tilly made their way to the Butters’ shop to collect chicken pies and cream horns, all the time keeping half an eye on the goings-on outside the post office.

  Lavender, who never missed the slightest movement in the High Street, was well aware of Hettie’s approach; realising that she was carrying post office property, she threw her broom into the shop doorway and snatched the bag before Hettie could open her mouth. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted. ‘It is a serious offence to interfere with the delivery of Her Majesty’s mail. What do you think you are playing at? I suppose that good for nothing girl has put you up to this, too scared to face me after letting me down today. Well, you can tell Miss Teezle Makepeace from me that she won’t be delivering any more post in this town. Where is she, anyway?’

  Hettie couldn’t resist giving the answer that came into her head. ‘She’ll be at Shroud and Trestle’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Shroud and Trestle’s?’ shrieked Lavender. ‘You mean she’s abandoned a career in the post office to work for a pair of disreputable undertakers?’

  After such a long and difficult day, Hettie began to enjoy herself; she had suffered enough barbed insults from Lavender Stamp in the past to make this a very sweet conversation, in spite of the subject matter. ‘Well, she’s not exactly working for them. They’re picking her up from Miss Peggledrip’s old dairy in the morning.’

  ‘What is she doing out there?’ demanded Lavender, shaking with anger.

  ‘Hanging around Miss Peggledrip’s elder tree. You see, someone strangled her with a piece of wire and strung her up in the gardens of the old house. You’re quite right, though – she won’t be delivering any more post in this town, which is a real shame because she was very good at her job and very kind to her customers. It’s a pity that more cats aren’t like Teezle Makepeace. The world would be a much nicer place. So, if you do want to pay your respects, she’ll be at Shroud and Trestle’s tomorrow. As she was such a valued employee, you might even like to contribute to her funeral costs.’ Having delivered her news, Hettie turned on her heel and crossed the road as Tilly and Bruiser emerged from the Butters’, laden down with dinner. They disappeared together down the alleyway at the side of the shop, leaving Lavender Stamp staring after them – shocked, stung and bewildered, and with the smallest of tears making its way down her cheek.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The room was uncharacteristically cheerless when they stumbled over the threshold: the November chill had crept uninvited down the chimney, and the fire had all but gone out.

  ‘Bloody marvellous!’ said Hettie. ‘After the day we’ve had, you’d think the fire would have stayed in to welcome us home.’

  Bruiser put the food parcels down and sprang into action. ‘There’s still enough of a glow to get it goin’ again. Leave it to me – by the time you’ve dished up the pies, I’ll ’ave it roarin’ up yer chimney.’

  Tilly dragged a pile of old newspaper from under the staff sideboard and Bruiser set about the fireplace, armed with kindling and coal. He was true to his word: by the time Hettie and Tilly had laid three places at the table for dinner and dished up the chicken pies, a healthy set of flames was licking the chimney breast and the room had begun to warm through.

  Soon, there wasn’t a crumb to be found on licked-clean plates, and the cats retired to the fireside to indulge themselves in Betty Butter’s cream horns. Tilly switched the TV on to catch the local news. To their amazement, there seemed to be only one story. National and local TV stations were camped out on Mavis Spitforce’s doorstep, covering every possible aspect of the case.

  ‘Ooh look – there you are,’ squealed Tilly in delight as Hettie stepped forward to address the crowd.

  ‘I didn’t know they were filming me,’ Hettie said, admiring her first piece to camera. ‘And look – there’s Lavinia Spitforce. Doesn’t she look cross?’

  The chaos in Whisker Terrace seemed to have brought out the worst in those lucky enough to be caught on film, and many from the assembled crowd seemed keen to push themselves to the very front of the story. Balti Dosh had changed into her Dosh Stores sweatshirt and was holding court on the state of Mavis Spitforce’s last days; Delirium Treemints could be seen in the background doing a roaring trade in beverages, and – as a trade-off for the constant supply of boiled kettles from the Dosh stores – had added a new line in hot samosas; and perhaps most significantly, Marmite Sprat had set her own table up, piled high with Strange But Trues. The camera panned across to her, focusing on the open page which detailed the story of Milky Myers.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ shouted Hettie at the television. ‘They’re actually going to interview her.’

  Marmite Sprat stepped forward as one of the reporters forced a microphone into her face and shouted his question so that she could hear him above the crowd. ‘Miss Sprat, what can you tell us about the connection between this murder and the Milky Myers case?’

  Marmite cleared her throat as another dozen microphones were shoved towards her, obscuring her face almost entirely. She spoke up clearly and precisely. ‘As the town’s historian, I have followed up a number of interesting cases in the area, all of which are still available to buy in my Strange But True series of books. But there is no story so engrossing as the legend of Milky Myers, a cat who – longer ago than any of us can remember – murdered his entire family in the house on the edge of this town.’ The camera cut to a picture of the Peggledrip house as Marmite Sprat continued her tale. ‘The legend tells us that Milky Myers returns on Halloween to claim another victim, and that his ghost haunts several spots close by – the graveyard at Much-Purring-on-the-Rug, an old farm track, and what is now known as the Peggledrip house. It is my belief that Miss Mavis Spitforce has been murdered by Milky Myers.’ With that, she held up her book and the camera moved in for a close-up. The news bulletin switched unexpectedly back to the studio, where the presenter was caught taking a bite out of a large Scotch egg. He buried it hurriedly in a pile of papers on the news desk and, with his whiskers covered in breadcrumbs, introduced the weather cat, who was still bu
sy adding another layer of bright red lipstick to her make-up.

  ‘What a nightmare!’ said Hettie, switching the TV off. ‘Are they so badly off for stories that they have to delve into the murky waters of Marmite Sprat’s nonsense? Who on earth is going to believe a word of it? There’s a killer out there, and all this Milky Myers stuff is blowing a convenient smokescreen across the truth. I wonder what they’ll come up with when they find out about poor Teezle?’

  ‘Legends are convenient, though, aren’t they?’ piped up Bruiser. ‘They covers up stuff yer don’t want ta admit to.’

  It was rare for Bruiser to speak out, and Hettie sensed that there was something he needed to say. ‘What sort of stuff?’ she coaxed.

  ‘It was bein’ in that old garden today, when I fetched the ladder from the orchard. It brought it all back.’ Bruiser shivered and stared into the fire as if his eyes were seeing something very far away. Tilly and Hettie sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. ‘I was just a lad, really, but she looked to me for everythin’. I couldn’t go out without her taggin’ along, but she was no trouble – loved playin’ in the sun, and I’d take her to pick the apples for Ma to make the pies. She sold them pies down the old market. We’d ’ave picnics under them old trees, when there was no one about to see.’

  He struggled to find the words and only the sound of the crackling fire broke through the silence. ‘It was comin’ up to Halloween and we was getting under Ma’s feet, so I took her for a walk to the old house. I bought her a treat on the way so’s we could ’ave a winter picnic. She was playin’ outside the dairy and I left her to look fer some conkers. When I gets back, she’s lyin’ there dead. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. She’d choked, yer see, on her Scotch egg. Ma had said she wasn’t to have ’em till she was old enough to eat ’em properly, but she wanted one so bad and I bought it for her as a treat. I killed my little sister and I knew Ma would never forgive me, so I carried her home and told Ma that she’d been murdered by Milky Myers. Next thing, it was all over the town that he’d come back to haunt his old house again. I even told the newspaper man that I’d seen a face at the window of the Myers house, as was. Ma died soon after that of a broken heart. I packed up me kit and joined a circus to get as far away as possible.’

  Tilly clambered off her blanket and gave Bruiser a hug, while Hettie got down from her chair and put the kettle on. ‘No one can blame you for what you did,’ she said. ‘The Milky Myers story was a perfect way of explaining a tragic accident, and the fact that it’s gone into the town’s history is more to do with the stupidity of those who were old enough to know better. You’ve only got to look at the rubbish we’ve just seen on the news to see how a few careless words can create a distorted picture of the facts.’ Bruiser took comfort from Hettie’s words and Tilly’s hugs, and somehow felt better for his confession. It had all happened many years ago, but the death of his little sister had cast a long shadow across his life, and it had been easier to run from the truth than to face up to the reality of what Hettie rightly called a tragic accident.

  Hettie returned to the fire with three steaming mugs of tea, determined to thrash out the possibilities of the case before it got any worse. She had just reached for her catnip pouch and begun to fill her pipe when Tilly sprang from her blanket, nearly spilling hot tea all over Bruiser, who had settled down with his chin on the fender. ‘I’ve just remembered,’ she cried excitedly. ‘We’ve got a parcel. It’s here somewhere.’ At some stage in the day the parcel had fallen under the table, but after a certain amount of scuffling and sneezing Tilly emerged with her prize.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve time for a parcel,’ said Hettie, blowing three perfect smoke rings and passing the pipe to Bruiser.

  Tilly refused to be put off and dragged the parcel over to her blanket where she clawed at the string and brown paper until it gave way to reveal a collection of papers and sealed envelopes. The first envelope was addressed to Hettie. ‘It’s full of stuff, but this one’s for you,’ Tilly said.

  Hettie looked over at the bundle of papers and yawned. ‘I’m too tired to deal with stuff tonight, and I need to have a good think about this bloody case. If you want to open the letter, be my guest, but if it’s more trouble I don’t want to know.’

  Tilly wasted no time in opening the envelope and shook the contents onto her blanket. ‘It’s money, and lots of it! Look!’

  Hettie stared in disbelief and suddenly became interested. ‘There must be thirty or forty pounds there. Is there a note to say who it’s from?’

  Tilly sorted through the money, counting as she went, and pulled a blue piece of paper out of the middle of the banknotes. ‘There’s fifty pounds actually, and the letter is from Miss Spitforce!’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The dead one. Shall I read it to you?’

  Before Hettie could answer, Bruiser stood up. ‘I think I’m ready for me bed. Got me old bones warmed through nicely so I’ll get off to me shed. Will we be out and about tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, we will,’ said Hettie, getting up to show him to the door. ‘And thank you for today. I hope you sleep well, and don’t let the frost get to you.’ Bruiser bid them both goodnight and made his way down the garden, more content than he’d been for many years. Now his secret was out, he felt that he could properly grieve for his sister and his mother, and having good friends around him made all the difference.

  ‘Right,’ said Hettie, closing the door and padding back to her chair. ‘Let’s have it then. What has Mavis Spitforce got to say from beyond the grave?’

  Tilly cleared her throat and squinted down at the letter:

  Sunday 30th October

  My dear Miss Bagshot,

  Enclosed is a retainer for your services on a matter that has been troubling me for some time. I would be most grateful if you could find the time to call on me this Friday so that I may discuss my concerns in detail with you.

  I have included in the parcel a number of papers that are no longer safe in my home. I would be obliged if you would look through them. I also enclose a copy of my will in the hope that – should anything happen to me – you will see that my wishes are carried out to the letter.

  These are difficult times. There are those who would prefer me to remain silent, but with your help I hope that justice will finally be done and the innocent be vindicated.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mavis Spitforce

  Hettie sat for a moment deep in thought while Tilly gathered up the banknotes and put them in a neat pile on the staff sideboard. She scrunched up the brown paper and put it by the coal scuttle, ready for burning, then returned to her blanket to look through the papers that Miss Spitforce had sent. First, she pulled out a long envelope which she suspected was the will mentioned in the letter; opening it, she was satisfied that it was a copy of the one that Lavinia Spitforce had destroyed earlier.

  Hettie refilled her pipe, trying to avoid the wave of tiredness that was engulfing her. They had had a very early start, and the day was still presenting surprises.

  ‘Anything else of interest in that stuff?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. The will’s here, so that’s a smack in the face for Lavinia.’

  ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer soul,’ muttered Hettie. ‘What are all those old bits of paper you’ve got there?’

  ‘They’re from various churches,’ Tilly said, trying to read a selection of impossible handwriting. ‘Burial records, I think. Miss Spitforce loved doing this sort of thing, didn’t she? Oh and there’s a map.’ Tilly nearly disappeared from view altogether as she unfolded the map across the hearth.

  Hettie stared down at it. ‘She must have done this herself – look at all the crosses and marks she’s put on it, some in blue and some in red. I can’t make out what it is, though. There are little boxes next to the blue crosses, and there’s a definite road running through it all, but the whole thing seems to be in some sort of Spitforce code. What’s in that notebook you’re sitting on?’
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  Tilly passed the notebook to Hettie and set about attempting to refold the map. It was several minutes before she managed to bring the creature to heel, singeing one of the corners in the process. For fear it may rear up again, she slid it under the coal scuttle.

  ‘Well, this is interesting,’ said Hettie, looking up from the notebook. ‘It looks like her own investigation into the Milky Myers case. There are statements from cats who were around at the time, and she’s even sketched out the milk round and started it from the Myers’ house all the way to Much-Purring. Look – the farm track’s been marked with a red cross, so maybe the red crosses on that map are murder sites. There are five around the Myers’ house – that must be the rest of the family.’

  Getting excited, Tilly leapt from her blanket and sat on the arm of Hettie’s chair so that she could look over her shoulder. ‘Who are all those other cats she’s listed on that page?’ she asked. ‘They’ve all got initials after them: Tubbs MPS; Bundle MPB; Winkle MPC; Slipper MPC; and Pump MPM. Wait a minute – I’m sure there was a Slipper mentioned in one of those church letters.’