by Mandy Morton
Balti seemed to be in a world of her own, and Hettie knew that the spell must be broken before the Indian cat was lost totally to the lurid and graphic pages of her new crime library. ‘While we are here, I wonder if we might ask a few questions concerning Miss Spitforce’s death?’ she asked, signalling to Tilly to open her notebook.
‘Of course.’ Balti abandoned her books and perched on a kitchen chair. ‘I must tell you that I know nothing. I have been most busy with the shop, and even though she lives next door, I saw nothing.’
She seemed to think that this mantra of denial concluded her interview, but Hettie refused to be so easily diverted from her path. ‘I’m more interested in your friendship with Mavis Spitforce. I understand that there had been a problem with your son, Bhaji, and Mavis’s niece, Lavinia. Did that affect your relationship with Miss Spitforce?’
Balti suddenly looked angry. ‘That is all water under the bridge. Bhaji is to marry a distant cousin. It has all been arranged and he will do what his grandfather tells him or he won’t get his own shop.’
Hettie decided to continue with her theme. ‘I understand that Pakora Dosh encouraged Bhaji and Lavinia to see each other. How did you feel about that?’
‘Aunt Pakora is a law unto herself. She has her own agenda, and it’s all family – you wouldn’t understand. Anyway, what has Bhaji to do with this?’
‘Bugs Anderton told me that Mavis Spitforce sent Lavinia away so that she couldn’t see Bhaji any more. Mavis was obviously unhappy about the relationship.’
‘Mavis and I were friends. She never spoke to me about Bhaji and Lavinia. Bugs Anderton has no business to speak of my family. All I can say is that one day Lavinia moved out to stay with Miss Anderton in Much-Purring-on-the-Rug and she never came back. If you want to know any more, you’ll have to ask Pakora, but don’t tell her I sent you. Bhaji is her favourite, and she sees no wrong in him. Like I said – it’s all family.’
‘And do you see any wrong in him?’
‘He is my son and I love him, but I am not his future. Others in the family will decide what he is to be and where his life will lead. I am only a very small part of this family. My life was arranged for me when I was a small kitten, and it is a path I must follow.’
Hettie sensed that Balti was about to open her heart, and the pretty Asian cat looked suddenly fragile and vulnerable; the forthright bravado had disappeared, and she stared down at her sandaled feet as if deciding what to say next. The moment was stolen by a noisy interjection from Rogan. ‘Balti! I must insist that you take your place at the counter. Aunt Pakora is here to collect the samosas and she wishes to speak with me on urgent business. Please ask your guests to leave.’
Balti stood and recovered herself immediately. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said, ushering Hettie and Tilly back into the shop. ‘I am most grateful for the books.’ She took up her position behind the counter, and Hettie and Tilly made their way back into Whisker Terrace where Rogan and Pakora seemed to be having a heated conversation outside the shop. Pakora’s tricycle appeared to have suffered a puncture due to some broken glass left carelessly on the pavement, and the two cats had launched themselves into an excited exchange in their native tongue.
‘You wouldn’t want to be on the end of that, would you?’ muttered Hettie, leading Tilly away from the altercation by her cardigan. ‘Poor Balti. Not much of a life for her.’
‘Especially as she sweeps up outside the shop. She obviously missed that piece of glass, so let’s hope she’s good at mending punctures.’
Bruiser swung round the corner on Scarlet, having fuelled her up in Hambone’s yard. He parked outside Miss Spitforce’s house, giving the argument outside the Dosh stores a very wide berth; Pakora was now bombarding Rogan with vegetables and screaming like a banshee.
‘Let’s get out of here!’ shouted Hettie as she and Tilly clambered into the sidecar. ‘Much-Purring-on-the-Rug and lunch, I think.’
Bruiser closed the lid on the sidecar, spun round on Scarlet and headed out of town in time to see Shroud and Trestle’s removals van pull out of Irene Peggledrip’s driveway. ‘There goes Teezle,’ shouted Tilly above the raw of the engine. ‘I’m pleased she ate our pie before she went. It was her last supper, really.’
Hettie didn’t answer. Something was bothering her, and she remained deep in thought until Bruiser pulled over in Much-Purring-on-the-Rug. There was an old bench in the lay-by, and Tilly decided that it would be a good place for them to eat their cheese rolls, despite the cold. To add to the feast, Bruiser had purchased a flagon of Meridian Hambone’s homemade ginger beer, which lurked in a large tank with a tap next to the petrol pump in their yard. Some would say that Meridian’s fiery ginger beer was capable of powering any type of combustion engine and could, at a pinch, do away with the need for petrol altogether; for Hettie, Tilly and Bruiser, it served as a warming treat on a day that looked increasingly like snow.
‘What’s to be done next?’ asked Bruiser through a mouthful of cheese.
‘Well, I’m going to take a look round the village and have a word with the old vicar,’ said Hettie, flicking crumbs off her business slacks. ‘I think we’re going to have to split up to get everything done today. If you take Tilly on a tour of the other villages to check out these deaths that Mavis Spitforce was looking into, you can pick me up here later.’
Tilly was over-excited at the prospect of a real outing in Scarlet. Having drunk more than her fair share of Meridian Hambone’s ginger beer, she lapsed into a violent bout of hiccups, bursting one of the buttons off her cardigan which Bruiser rescued from the road seconds before an old farm cat drove past on his tractor. With the lunch break over, she clambered back into the sidecar and prepared for her journey around the Much-Purring clutch of villages. Armed with Mavis Spitforce’s unruly map and the ever-present notepad and pencil, Tilly and Bruiser roared off on their adventure, leaving Hettie to kick her heels until her three o’clock assignation in the churchyard.
She shivered as a gust of icy wind whipped up around her. It was one of those raw November days with no promise of sunshine, just a deepening, progressive gloom. The golden days of October had given way to the deathly stillness of a world without hope – a world bracing itself for the cruel reality of winter. The church clock struck two with a shivering clunk. Hettie pulled her collar up, tightened her belt and dug her paws deeply into her mac pockets, then set off for a brisk walk into the village. She hadn’t got very far before she found the note she had stuffed into her pocket after removing it from Mavis’s box of sovereigns. She pulled it out and slipped into a bus shelter to read it. The note was short and to the point:
Dear Mildred,
These coins are all that is left of our past. They are very valuable – sell them and make a good life for yourself. Keep an eye on Lavinia. I fear she may be in danger.
Mavis
Hettie folded the note and put it back in her pocket. So the coins were a legacy from the past, but why should Lavinia Spitforce be in danger? It occurred to her that out of all the cats involved in this case, Lavinia was one of the few who were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. Pondering on many aspects of the crimes, she walked on into the centre of the village and couldn’t resist crossing the road to take a closer look at the Dosh Stores. Through the over-cluttered shop window, she could see that Bhaji Dosh was holding the fort while his great aunt Pakora sorted out her transport problems in the town; it was an opportunity not to be missed. Picking up a copy of the Daily Snout from the newspaper stand, and ignoring the photograph of Marmite Sprat brandishing her book on the front page, Hettie made her way into the shop to be greeted by a wall of sitar music. Bhaji was obviously amusing himself whilst the cat was away.
For Hettie, memories of a different life came flooding back. ‘I love this music,’ she said, going up to the counter. ‘I once played a festival with Ravi Shancat and his whole Indian orchestra.’
Bhaji looked up from the magazine he was reading and beamed at Het
tie. ‘That’s truly amazing. He’s my favourite player. What was he like?’
Hettie thought for a moment, looking for the right word to describe the world’s most famous exponent of the sitar. And then it came to her. ‘Serene – serene and spiritual. It was hard to separate him from his music, if you know what I mean.’
Surprisingly, Bhaji knew exactly what Hettie meant and she could see that they had discovered some common ground to build on. ‘I have my own sitar in the back – would you like to see it?’ he asked, taking the money for the newspaper.
‘That would be great. I haven’t been close to one for years.’ Hettie began to forget why she was there as Bhaji sprang from his counter and returned seconds later, wielding the long-necked instrument. He sat cross-legged on the floor and gave Hettie a short but rather beautiful accompaniment to the already deafening sound of piped music, but the impromptu concert was brought to an abrupt end by the arrival of Bugs Anderton in search of some frozen peas.
Bhaji leapt to his feet, dragging the sitar to a space behind the counter, and Bugs made a beeline for Hettie. ‘Miss Bagshot – what a very pleasant surprise! I see you’ve been treated to one of young Bhaji’s talents, although I doubt that Pakora would approve of such goings-on in her main concourse.’ Bugs smiled across at Bhaji and winked. ‘Not that anyone here is likely to tell her. What the eye doesn’t see …’
Bhaji looked as though he was used to sharing secrets with Bugs, and when the time came for her to pay for her peas, a rare Dosh discount was applied to her bill. Bugs paid up and took Hettie’s arm, leading her to the door. ‘Miss Bagshot,’ she said conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a barely audible murmur, ‘how does your case proceed? Are you any closer to finding the culprit?’
Hettie decided to use the official line. ‘Since we last spoke, a number of new leads have emerged which we are now following up. I’m confident of a breakthrough very soon.’ This was said more for her own benefit than for Bugs’s; in truth, the plot was thickening by the minute. Bugs left with her peas and Hettie returned to her conversation with Bhaji. ‘You seem very keen on your music. Aren’t you tempted to take it up professionally? It’s a great life on the road – concerts, festivals, living the high life.’
Bhaji shook his head. ‘I was born into the wrong family for that. We are shopkeepers.’
Hettie remembered what Balti had said earlier. ‘But surely you can take some time out for a few adventures before running the family store? You have a talent for music and you should use it. The world would be a very sad place if we just had shopkeepers.’
‘That’s what my ex-girlfriend said. She became a teacher because her aunt said she had to. We hoped to have some adventures together but it wasn’t to be.’
Hettie began to understand some of the anger she’d witnessed in her meeting with Lavinia Spitforce – enough anger to kill, perhaps. ‘That’s a real shame. Do you still see her?’
Bhaji hung his head. ‘No, she hates me. My family has arranged for me to marry one of my cousins and she thinks I’ve given her up for another cat, which isn’t true. I will love Lavinia till my dying day.’
There was a screech of breaks outside the shop as Pakora Dosh brought her tricycle to a halt just short of the vegetable racks. Bhaji looked fearful and turned the music down to an irritating background level. Realising that to be seen twice in a Dosh store looked a little obvious, Hettie said a hurried goodbye and moved out of sight behind the greetings card fixture just as Pakora Dosh blew through the door in a swirl of bright red sari, looking even more bad tempered than when Hettie had last seen her. ‘Get that music off you stupid boy! We’re not running a jukebox here. Have you been wasting your time playing that instrument? How much money have you taken today?’
Hettie chose her moment to creep out of the shop, leaving Bhaji to his fate, and retraced her footsteps through the village. It was almost time for her meeting with the Reverend Jacob Surplus. She had no patience with religion of any sort: to believe in something that seemed to cause so much trouble in the world seemed utterly pointless, and the trappings of belief that stood out in every town and village across the land – churches, huge rectories, even Methodist halls – all spoke of a piety that didn’t seem to be able to touch those who truly needed help and comfort. In her opinion, there were many questions to be answered by the legion of holy representatives who fooled their diminishing flocks into thinking that the next life would be better as long as they behaved themselves in this one; then there were those who railroaded through life, making everyone else’s existence hell on earth and then – by conveniently apologising in a confessional – receiving joyful absolution and free passage into the glories of the kingdom of heaven.
On a more practical basis, Hettie found it very hard to embrace an institution that locked its doors against the biting winters, yet was happy to provide funerals for cats who froze to death on the streets. It seemed a matter of common sense to her that these vast buildings of worship should throw their doors open on cold nights and fire up their kitchens with hot soup and a constant supply of warm blankets; a simple thought, but obviously alien to the select band of do-gooders who trooped in on Sundays, fought over the flower arranging rotas, cleansed themselves with a verse or two from a mysterious black book, belted out a few rousing tunes, then returned home to their perfect little houses free of all obligation to their fellow cats.
Architecturally, the church of Our Lady and St Biscuit was the crowning glory of the village. It rose out of the churchyard like a giant ship, its spire pointing to the heavens and its stained glass windows watchful over earthly matters. Hettie loved graveyards with a passion. It was the names on the stones that excited her, and in the days when she had written songs for her band, she had spent many a happy hour trawling through the long-forgotten epitaphs in search of inspiration, lifting a name here and there, and giving a whole new existence to the long-dead through her songs; ‘Silas the Silent’, ‘Victoria by the Window’ and her big hit, ‘White Witch’, all had names or lines borrowed from monuments to the fallen.
The churchyard of St Biscuit’s was a delight. Avoiding the path which led to the church, Hettie struck out across the grass, enthralled by the collection of gravestones and memorials engulfed by nature, overgrown with vines and twisted roots, and reshaped by a constant battering from the weather. There was no sign of Jacob Surplus, but she was early and pleased to have some peaceful time to reflect on the ever-expanding problem of Mavis Spitforce’s murder; standing in a place where death held no mystery made her consider how easy it would be to end a life and walk away, justifying your actions with no fear of retribution. The cat who had killed Mavis and Teezle was at this moment going about his or her daily tasks, perhaps even helping Hettie with her enquiries and laughing behind her back. The puzzle was coming together, but one or two pieces were hidden from view; without them, the full picture refused to emerge.
St Biscuit’s clunked an apology for three o’clock and Hettie was suddenly aware that she was no longer alone. She scanned the graveyard for signs of life, but could see no one. Retracing her footsteps to the place where she had first met the cleric, she missed the path and found herself in a much older section of the churchyard. The stones were crumbling and hard to read but – where a date was still legible – they testified to housing the dead of longer ago than anyone could remember. Hettie faltered as she felt the hackles rise on the back of her neck; someone was watching her. Trying to look unconcerned, she focused on some of the old gravestones, watchful all the time for anything around her that moved. The silence was deafening and the first expected flakes of snow began to swirl around her, getting thicker all the time, settling on her whiskers and blinding her eyes. She had lost all direction and searched desperately for the church, the only tangible landmark which could lead her back to the path; it was nowhere in sight and she began to panic, wishing she’d brought Bruiser and Tilly as backup. Then, as if by divine intervention, the snow stopped. Hettie rubbed her eyes, r
elieved to have a clear vision of her surroundings once more, and looked to her right. Several yards away, Jacob Surplus stood amid a clutch of old gravestones. He waved his stick in her direction, and Hettie moved forward to greet him.
‘How goes you on this day?’ asked Jacob. ‘I trust we are well met at this hour.’
Hettie was intrigued by his quaint turn of phrase and grateful for the lack of sermon in his greeting. ‘I’m very well, thank you. And pleased that the snow has stopped.’
Jacob stared at the sky, then back at Hettie. ‘You will know more if you come closer to me. There are things you must see.’ Hettie made her way towards him, noticing that he was standing in the centre of a ring of gravestones which all bore the same name and date: this was the final resting place of the murdered Myers family. Jacob smiled, satisfied with Hettie’s recognition of the burial plot. ‘So, my dear – you are the chosen one,’ he said, taking her arm for the grand tour. Raising his stick, he pointed to each grave in turn as they moved round the inside of the ring of stones, chanting the names of the departed. ‘Matthew, Eliza, Isaac, Thomasina, Peregrine and Arabella – sacrificed so that others may prosper.’
Hettie stared at the graves and then at Jacob Surplus. ‘Do you believe that Thaddeus Myers killed his family?’
‘Ask him,’ replied Jacob. ‘He is so often here. He cries for their souls and waits for an avenging angel to come.’
Hettie desperately wanted a straight answer but resigned herself to playing along. ‘And was Mavis Spitforce that avenging angel, do you think?’
‘She searches for the truth, but now the truth is found, more lies will follow. She is at peace, but leaves a troubled path.’
