Cat Among the Pumpkins

by Mandy Morton

  Irene smiled. ‘Well done you. Yes, Mavis shared a number of secrets with me. We were very close. She never acknowledged our friendship in public because of my “gifts”, as she called them. You see, Mavis digested knowledge like you and I would eat a cream cake. We shared this library; all her factual books are on that wall there, and my “off colour philosophies”, as she put it, are on the opposite wall over there. We agreed to share the library when I bought the house from her years ago. It was the only room she couldn’t bear to part with.’

  Tilly was making furious notes as Hettie interrupted the Peggledrip flow. ‘You say you bought the house from Mavis? I thought the place was derelict before you took it over.’

  ‘Abandoned and unloved is closer to the mark,’ Irene continued. ‘You see, Mavis had inherited the place from her father, Merry Spitforce. He’d never lived here – none of the family returned after the Myers murders, and the house was just handed down the generations like a rope around their necks. They all lived in the shadow of Thaddeus Myers’ guilt, and the house stood as a reminder to the terrible crimes committed here.’

  ‘So why didn’t the family get rid of it straight away after the murders?’ asked Hettie.

  ‘Because of the gossip. Folk thought that “Milky” was still at large and would murder anyone who came near the place, so the house carried a curse round here and was to be avoided at all costs. No one showed any interest in buying it, except at the beginning.’

  Hettie looked up from the fire. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The story goes that shortly after the murders, the cat who owned the village stores in Much-Purring-on-the-Rug – who, incidentally, discovered the bodies – tried to buy the place off a distant Myers relative, but for some reason he backed out at the last minute.’

  Hettie suddenly recalled her last conversation with Jacob Surplus, and especially the bit about hiding in the church and watching the killer as he took part in the Myers family’s funeral. ‘Do you know the name of the cat from Much-Purring?’

  ‘I do now. Mavis found out just before she died. She’d been doing a family tree for Balti and it turned out to be Rogan’s great-great-grandfather, Jalfrezi. According to Mavis, he’d recently arrived from India bringing his family with him, and had used the family fortune to set up the very first convenience stores. His plan was to knock this house down and build a delivery depot to supply his shops. He was going to keep the dairy at the back, as it was a very successful business in the Myers’ time. The odd thing was that after the house fell through Jalfrezi went back to India, abandoning his family who appeared to blossom and flourish very well without him. In fact, I don’t know what we’d do these days without a Dosh Stores in every town and village.’

  Hettie was sorely tempted to say ‘survive’, but she resisted the sarcasm in favour of another question. ‘Why did Mavis Spitforce finally decide to sell the house to you?’

  ‘That’s an easy one. I’d met her on a rambling holiday. It was terrible, actually – wind and rain non-stop for two weeks, up in the Highlands somewhere. Anyway, I would entertain with my readings in the evenings at the hostel where we all stayed.’

  ‘Readings? What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh my dear, I’m sorry – my knowings is what I should have said. I used to do it with the gravy left on plates. I could see shapes and then odd things would come into my head – warnings, that sort of thing. Mavis was very sceptical until one night I saw the outline of this house on her plate. It was all there in the gravy, and I told her before she could protest.’

  Tilly leant forward, not wanting the story to end and having quite forgotten to take notes for some time. Hettie, at the mention of gravy, was half-heartedly wondering what Delirium Treemints was preparing in the kitchen, but she asked the question expected of her. ‘And what did you see in her gravy?’

  ‘I saw a dark cloud over the house, a box of gold coins, and talking milk bottles.’

  Hettie was trying to imagine Mavis Spitforce’s reactions to the contents of her plate and decided to encourage further enlightenment. ‘So what was your interpretation of what you saw?’

  ‘That wasn’t for me to say. I only say what I see – the interpretation is up to the cat who owns the gravy, and I can tell you that Mavis was shocked at what I’d said. She went on to tell me about the house and its past and what a burden it was to her. At the time, she even believed the Milky Myers story and she told me how ashamed she was to have a murderer in her family. I could see that she needed to be rid of the house so I offered to buy it – ghosts, murderers and all. I was looking for a new start after a rather unfortunate run-in with the Knock Three Times Society, charlatans, all of ’em.’

  Hettie supressed a grin which threatened to take over her face and returned to the portents of the gravy. ‘You mentioned a box of gold coins?’

  ‘Ah, yes. I was spot on there. We found them several years ago behind a bound set of Agatha Crispys. Over there, as a matter of fact.’ Irene pointed to a section of shelves dedicated to rare volumes of crime fiction. ‘They were sovereigns, very valuable these days. Mavis was going to give them to her sister, Mildred, to make up for, er …’

  ‘Taking her daughter away from her?’ asked Hettie, finishing the sentence.

  ‘Oh, I see you’re aware of the skeletons in the cupboard. Poor Mildred, she just couldn’t cope with Lavinia and the other company she kept. Not at all suitable to bring a kitten up surrounded by a bunch of toms. She had no idea who the father was, you know.’

  Hettie refused to take part in a discussion on Lavinia’s moral welfare and pushed on with another question. ‘Miss Spitforce made a new will before she died. Were you aware of its contents?’

  ‘Yes I was. She asked me if I would take on her house in Whisker Terrace. She didn’t want Lavinia to have it because she thought that young Bhaji Dosh might wrestle it off her and set up an extension to his parents’ shop next door. I think Rogan had offered her money for the house some time ago, but Mavis refused to sell. She asked me to rent the house out and put the money by for a rainy day in case Mildred or Lavinia ever needed anything. If push came to shove, I was to sell the house and invest the money for them. She made me promise not to sell to a Dosh, though, in light of her suspicions over Jalfrezi.’

  ‘And what did she suspect?’

  ‘Mavis appreciated that the Myers murders happened longer ago than anyone could remember. She did, however, believe that it was Jalfrezi Dosh who had murdered her family to try and get his paws on their business and the property. She also thought that he had murdered Thaddeus Myers as well, but after tracing the family history she realised that she was directly descended from him so he must have survived. She also told me that history was repeating itself and that’s why she made a new will – to protect her family.’

  ‘So Jacob Surplus was right.’

  ‘Jacob?’ said Irene. ‘You’re in touch with Jacob? Now that is impressive.’

  ‘Why do you say that? He may be a little strange but he gave me a tour of the Myers’ graves. He seemed to think I was some sort of avenging angel.’

  ‘Well, he should know – he’s been living with the angels these past fifty years,’ said Irene, laughing as she spoke.

  ‘Don’t you mean out with the fairies?’ countered Hettie, joining in on a joke that was about to backfire all over her.

  ‘You’ve lost me now,’ said Irene, looking puzzled. ‘Jacob Surplus lives on a much higher plane than the rest of us. He’s the very top layer of spirit world, and only appears to those who are able to interpret his wisdom.’

  Hettie could feel the red flush which started at her whiskers and progressed rapidly to the tips of her ears. ‘Are you telling me that Jacob Surplus is dead and that I have seen and spoken at length to a ghost?’

  Irene nodded with satisfaction. ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you, and you’re in good company because he appeared to Mavis a few weeks ago as well. He told her to prepare herself for her journey. That’s why she
made the new will – she knew her time was short.’

  Hettie was now frantically trying to remember if the graveyard cat had given her a similar warning of doom, but satisfied herself that an avenging angel could do very little on the ‘other side’; remaining earthbound seemed to be her immediate future. ‘Just a minute, Tilly – you saw him, didn’t you? He met us by the church. He made you giggle.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone. You’re always talking to yourself and it makes me laugh. I just thought you were having one of your silly moments. I know you met him in the churchyard because you told me about it, but I never actually saw him.’

  Hettie was beginning to feel embarrassed and a bit cross; even Tilly had withdrawn her support. She tried again, if only for her own sanity. ‘I’m sure he wasn’t a ghost. He made an appointment to meet me in the graveyard and he was there waiting after the snowstorm. He told me how Thaddeus had hidden in the church.’

  ‘Snowstorm!’ cried Irene Peggledrip. ‘You lucky thing! Most mediums would give their right arm for a materialisation in a snowstorm. It shows he comes from the highest order to pull that one. And he told you about Thaddeus because he was there in his time – the Reverend Jacob Surplus was the vicar of St Biscuit’s at the time of the Myers murders. If you go round to the back of the church you’ll see his grave. Yes, yes, Crimola – I know you’re there but you’ll have to wait. We haven’t had our tea yet, and Miss Bagshot is in shock.’

  On cue, the library door was kicked open to reveal a shaking tray full of cups and saucers, a teapot, and a large plate of freshly baked scones oozing with jam and fresh cream. Tilly leapt up to help steady the tray’s progress across the room to a small occasional table, where Delirium finally brought it into safe harbour.

  ‘Thank you, Delirium. Will you be joining us for tea?’ Irene admired the scones. ‘I’m not sure if Miss Bagshot and her friend would be happy for you to sit in on the session today. I fear there are sensitive issues to discuss with Crimola. What’s that you say? Yes, I know you’re keen to get on but forcing your way into teatime isn’t going to help, is it Crimola, dear?’

  Hettie was beginning to feel as impatient as Crimola to ‘get on’; still shocked by the Jacob Surplus revelation, she was also developing an urgent concern for Bugs Anderton. The net was tightening around Rogan Dosh and taking tea with Delirium Treemints, Irene Peggledrip and Crimola while he was still at large was not getting the job done. The evidence was stacking up, and the last thing she wanted to do was to squander the rest of the afternoon in one of Irene Peggledrip’s weird séances. As it turned out, Hettie was absolutely right and three miles down the road all hell was about to break loose.

  ‘What do you think, Miss Bagshot?’ said Irene, forcing a large scone into Hettie’s paws.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away,’ said Hettie, trying to look interested. ‘About what?’

  Irene sighed. ‘Would you be happy for Delirium to sit in? I’ve taken her on as my first protégée. She’s learning fast, and her out of body stuff is coming on a treat. Isn’t it Delirium, dear?’

  Delirium beamed like a cat who rarely received compliments of any sort and made a good effort at pouring the tea into four cups with very little spillage. Looking across at her, Hettie felt that any form of rejection would be unkind. ‘I have no objections to Miss Treemints joining us, as long as she can be trusted to be discreet should Crimola have any news.’ Hettie could hardly believe that she had accepted Crimola’s existence to the extent that she was including her as another cat in the room rather than one who lived in Irene Peggledrip’s imagination; as it turned out, Crimola was about to save the day.

  The scones were demolished in record time. Tilly managed two of them and was wiping her paw round her empty plate as Irene Peggledrip rose from her chair in a very strange manner and walked with slow, deliberate movements towards the door. Delirium responded immediately by dropping her cup and saucer on the floor, causing no damage whatsoever to the melamine. She picked the cup and saucer up and addressed Hettie and Tilly in hushed tones. ‘Crimola is with us. She’s in the parlour. I think we should go through.’

  Hettie stood up and followed Delirium out of the room, hardly noticing that Tilly had caught hold of her paw for reassurance. The parlour was dark and heavy, and material drapes, Persian carpets and tasselled lampshades suppressed the small amount of light that leaked from two ornate table lamps. The décor reminded Tilly of her friend Jessie’s sitting room at the back of her shop, but this room lacked Jessie’s sense of comfort and wellbeing; the presence of Irene Peggledrip seated at the head of an oak carved refectory table gave the room an air of Gothic horror.

  Delirium offered chairs to Hettie and Tilly, placing them either side of their host. She lit a candle and placed it in front of Irene’s face, completing the other-worldly look, then sat down at the opposite end of the table to observe. Hettie looked across at Tilly, who gave a very slight shrug of the shoulders, and then the voice began. It was clearly coming from Irene Peggledrip because her mouth was slightly open, but her lips didn’t move and the overall effect was that of a rather bad ventriloquist. The mirror glass on her gown twinkled in the candlelight, throwing out dancing circles of light around the room, and Tilly was transfixed. Hettie seethed at such a display of nonsense, but was impressed with the voice and decided to humour the situation for a little longer.

  ‘I am Crimola, here to answer your questions,’ the voice began in a low monotone. ‘What do you seek?’

  Hettie was keen to get it over with and plunged straight in. ‘I want to know who murdered Mavis Spitforce and Teezle Makepeace.’

  Crimola laughed. ‘That is for you to decide.’

  Hettie tried a different question. ‘Did Rogan Dosh kill them?’

  ‘No,’ came the answer, much to Hettie’s annoyance.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might help me find the killer?’ begged Hettie, feeling stupid and a little desperate.

  ‘I will tell you what I see. Three wheels, a bolt of orange silk, broken glass, a chart with many names, a thistle and another death, perhaps.’

  Hettie stood up, knocking the candle over, and Tilly extinguished the flame with her sizeable paw. The hot wax splashed Irene Peggledrip, who collapsed in a bout of violent sneezing. The scene was chaos as Delirium Treemints ran to Irene’s aid waving a handkerchief. Hettie grabbed Tilly by the cardigan and dragged her out into the hall. ‘Come on! We may be too late already. Get your coat!’ Tilly did as she was told. Hettie negotiated the bolts on the front door and flung it open as Irene Peggledrip and Delirium Treemints followed on in hot pursuit from the abandoned parlour. Hettie cleared the steps with one impressive leap, injuring her foot slightly, and hammered on the lid to Scarlet’s sidecar, where Bruiser had dozed off. ‘Quick! Get the engine running – we’re off to Much-Purring. It’s an emergency!’

  Bruiser struggled out of the sidecar, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Hettie bounced Tilly into her seat, throwing their business macs on top, and settled in beside her.

  ‘Wait for me!’ screamed Irene Peggledrip, falling down her own steps and trying to cram her Cossack hat onto her head as her trench coat blew out behind her. With a bound she installed herself on the back of the motorbike, much to Bruiser’s surprise. Delirium – having pulled on her Pac a Mac and skid lid – was left in a puff of Scarlet’s smoke to start up her scooter and follow on behind, while the door to the Peggledrip house stood wide open, revealing the ghosts of the Myers family huddled in the doorway, watchful and smiling.

  Bruiser gave Scarlet full throttle, skilfully avoiding two farm tractors and a bin lorry, but collecting a number of branches and brambles from the hedgerows which fixed themselves to Irene’s hat. Delirium had not been so lucky with the bin lorry and had applied her brakes slightly too late to avoid the backdraught of the town’s meat and veg rubbish; not until the next day did she discover a rancid pork chop lodged in her rear wheel arch. Tilly and Hettie hung on inside the sidecar, wishing that the
y had avoided the cream scones; soon, their flight was over and Bruiser brought Scarlet to a standstill outside the Dosh Stores.

  The door was open and the shop looked deserted, which was strange for a Friday afternoon. The vegetable stands had been abandoned with not even an honesty box in sight, but the screaming could be heard as soon as Hettie pulled back the roof on the sidecar. She sprang into action, racing down Bugs Anderton’s path next to the store, followed closely by Tilly, Irene and eventually Delirium Treemints. Bruiser, noticing a trail of blood leading from the Dosh Stores, went inside to investigate, making his way through to Pakora’s kitchen.

  Bugs’s front door was wide open and the screaming had stopped. As Hettie moved cautiously over the threshold, her heart sank. It was too late: the cream carpet and beige wallpaper were covered in blood. She advanced her party towards the sitting room where they had taken tea only recently; there, lying on the floor, was the body of Bugs Anderton in a sickening red pool. Hettie crossed to the body as the other three cats looked on from the doorway. Suddenly, her hackles rose as a flurry of wild orange silk descended on her, wielding a dagger and giving out a high-pitched scream as it stabbed at the air. Hettie threw off her assailant and Tilly and Irene Peggledrip responded by piling in on top of the creature, knocking the dagger out of its paw and across the floor. There was an almighty struggle as the catfight continued back down the hallway, adding to the carnage already visible on Bugs Anderton’s carpets; the understated beige had become a sea of red and the random bloody paw prints on the wallpaper could, under different circumstances, have been a Turner prizewinner from the paw of Tracy Ermine.

  The creature was finally brought down on the front lawn and lay exhausted in a heap of orange silk. Delirium was nursing a bloody nose, Irene Peggledrip’s hat was floating in Bugs Anderton’s ornamental pond, and Tilly’s best purple cardigan was in shreds. Hettie was the only one still standing, but even she was feeling the effects of friendly fire as Delirium had elbowed her in the face twice during the scrum.