Canapés for the Kitties (7 page)

Pince-nez ... gold-rimmed pince-nez ...
their broken cord dangling from one side. There was only one person she had ever known – or, rather, imagined – who wore pince-nez ...

The high-pitched mocking laughter sounded again, fading into the distance.

Lorinda thrust the pince-nez into her coat pocket and stumbled down the flagstone path to the door in the wall.

It was some sort of joke. Not funny and in poor taste – as though the autocratic Miss Petunia intended to reprimand her for... for ...?

Impossible! She really had drunk too deeply of Plantagenet Sutton's champagne to let it affect her like this.

She did not even try to muffle her footsteps as she gained the street and turned towards home. This time she ran.

Chapter Twenty

“Oooh!” Marigold squealed, clapping her hands girlishly. “It all looks so beautiful! Like Fairyland!”

“Not bad, if I do say so myself.” Lily descended the stepladder, hammer swinging carelessly in her hand.

“A beautiful job, my dear.” The vicar's wife always seemed to speak through clenched teeth. “Although you shouldn't have gone to all that trouble. My husband had planned to –”

“No trouble at all.” Lily beamed. “Looks good.” Streamers stretched across the ceiling, clusters of balloons bloomed in every corner and fairy lights sparkled everywhere.

“Oh, very good,” the vicar's wife agreed quickly, smartly stepping back out of range of the swinging hammer.

“Yes,” Miss Petunia approved. “This is going to be one of our most successful bazaars. I
can feel
it.”

The church hall had never looked so attractive, if one did say so oneself. The tables were laden with needlework, knitting, homemade cakes, jams and preserves, books, bric-à-brac, and all the hundreds of offerings designed to charm the pennies and pounds out of pockets and purses.

In one corner an artfully draped sheet represented a gypsy tent, within which lurked a heavily made-up volunteer who (on the strength of having read the two books on graphology and card tricks that comprised the library's entire stock of unorthodoxy) was going to tell fortunes. In the opposite corner, the tombola spun merrily behind a table filled with numbered prizes to be won. A door in the far corner led to the little side room where teas were to be served and the last corner held the steps leading up to the stage where the judging was to be held. The long trestle table was set out on the stage, laden with the pies, cakes, preserves and jams, ready for the solemn procession of judges to taste and pronounce their verdict upon.

“Best part of the whole day,” Lily said, looking around with satisfaction. “Too bad we have to let the public in to mess it all up.”

Everybody laughed heartily. They always laughed heartily at Lily's jokes. Which was just as well. Lily could become ... difficult ... if she thought she wasn't appreciated.

“Let me relieve you of that heavy old thing.” Deftly, Mrs. Reverend Christian abstracted the hammer from Lily's hand. “Now that you've finished with it.” Still laughing gaily, she carried it into the tearoom.

“I
do
feel the Reverend Christian is most fortunate in his choice of a life's mate,” Miss Petunia said, watching her go. “We must keep watch carefully. Nothing like last year's unfortunate happening must be allowed to mar today's festival.”

“Rotten hard luck on the vicar's wife,” Lily agreed. “A duff mushroom in the
mushrooms a la Grecque
could happen to anyone.”

“Rather harder luck on poor Mr. Mallory,” Marigold twinkled. “Still, it was a lovely funeral.”

“Although a most premature one,” Miss Petunia said severely.

“Oh, but, Pet, he
was
dead.” Marigold's eyes widened earnestly. “Everyone said so.”

“I am not questioning the
fact
of his death.” Petunia lowered her voice and her sisters moved closer in order to hear. “But the
manner
of it!”

“A duff mushroom in the
mushrooms a la Grecque
could happen to anyone.” Lily persisted stubbornly in her defence of the vicar's wife.

“
That
is why it was such a brilliant method of murder!” Miss Petunia pointed out triumphantly.

“Murder!” Lily's eyes gleamed. “I say, Pet, are we on the trail again?”

“But who – ?” Marigold breathed.

“The least likely suspect, of course.” Lily looked around the hall thoughtfully. “How about the gypsy fortune teller? Bad lot, those gypsies, anyway.”

“She wasn't here last year, dear,” Miss Petunia reminded her sister. “Besides, she's not a real gypsy, she's Miss Plotz, the librarian.”

“Then who?” Lily's eyes narrowed, the tip of her nose twitched. Everyone was under suspicion now.

“You will remember that I was one of the judges last year,” Miss Petunia said. “After Lady Mallerwynn opened the bazaar and did her usual round of the stands, thoughtfully buying something at each, she then went directly to the judging platform on the stage. You might not have noticed it, but she had brought her own silver spoon and silver pickle fork to use in the tastings. The
mushrooms a la Grecque
were the first of the picklings to be judged. They were opened in her presence. When she removed the pickle fork from her capacious handbag, I noticed that there was something soft and small stuck on the tines – so that she shouldn't inadvertently stab herself if she groped quickly for a handkerchief, she
said.
”

“You mean that
Lady Mallerwynn?”
Marigold gasped.

“Precisely! She was, of course, the first to taste – and it would be quite easy for her to
add
a mushroom as well as take one out! Then it was my turn to taste but – as everyone knows – ever since that terrible holiday we had in Athens, I have
never
been able to stomach Greek food. So I simply
pretended
to taste the mushrooms although, naturally, I gave Mrs. Christian the highest mark on my scoring pad, for everyone knows she's a wonderful cook. Then poor Mr. Mallory actually
did
bite into his mushroom – and we all know the consequences!”

“Lady Mallerwynn!” Lily's fists clenched. “And she let the vicar's wife take the blame!”

“Oh, it's so unfair!” Marigold cried. “Especially as poor Mrs. Christian is such a martyr to neuralgia!”

“Is she?” Miss Petunia was intrigued. “How do you know that, Marigold?”

“Haven't you noticed? I have. Every time we're talking together like this and I glance over at Mrs. Christian, she's grimacing – bravely trying to hide her pain.”

With one accord, all three turned their heads to stare at Mrs. Christian. Sure enough, she was grimacing, wincing –  in fact, she flinched.

“Poor woman!” Lily said. “We must do all we can to help her.”

“Indeed,” Miss Petunia agreed. “That is why we are here. We must keep careful watch today and miss nothing.”

“But, Pet,” Marigold demurred. “Lady Mallerwynn isn't here this year, so how could anything go wrong? Besides” –  her eyes clouded – “why on earth should she have wanted to kill poor old Mr. Mallory?”

“Ah!” Miss Petunia adjusted her pince-nez and looked at her sister meaningly. “Just consider the similarity of their two names. It is my suspicion that Mr. Mallory, recently retired from a life in the merchant navy, was really the rightful Lord Mallerwynn and heir to all the fortune and estates. Since returning to his native village of St. Waldemar Boniface and taking up a hobby of genealogy, he would have begun to realize this and be making plans to lay his claims. If that happened, Lady Mallerwynn would be a Lady no longer, she would be forced to leave the Manor and move to a smaller house, the money would no longer belong to her, her sons would no longer be the heirs apparent ...” Miss Petunia lowered her voice. “She might even have to remove them from Eton. That, surely is a motive worth murdering for!”

“Oh, Pet,” Marigold sighed. “You're so clever!”

“Brilliant!” Lily agreed.

“To your stations, girls. They're about to open the doors and let the public in. We'll have a proper Council of War over tea this evening.”

As Miss Petunia walked past Mrs. Christian on her way to stand beneath the stage, she noticed that the vicar's wife was wincing again.

“Jolly good, this.” Lily spread more rosehip jelly on her toasted muffin. “Different, but good.”

“Delicious.” Marigold helped herself to more. “Such a subtle flavour. I believe there's a hint of almonds in it. Where did you get it, Lily? I didn't see anything like this on the preserves stand.”

“Vicar's wife gave it to me herself. A new recipe she's trying out for next year. Wanted us to try it. Said she'd value our opinions.”

“How kind of her.
Do
try some, Pet.”

“No, thank you.” Miss Petunia yawned. It had been an exhausting day, with only a few more suspicions to show for it. “It sounds more like something for spreading on your face than eating. I'll stick with this lovely bramble jam. Is this from the vicar's wife, too?”

“Right you are.” Lily's mouth twitched suddenly. “Another experimental recipe – in case we didn't fancy the rosehips.”

“Yes ... there
is
something different in it.” Miss Petunia yawned again. “I can't quite place it ...”

“And there's such a dear little drawing of bramble leaves on the label –” Marigold grimaced suddenly. “But they don't
quite
look like bramble leaves, do they?”

“Not ... quite ...” Miss Petunia blinked and tried to focus on the label. The drawing reminded her of something ... but she was so tired. She felt that she could fall asleep ... right here in this chair ...

Strangely, both Marigold and Lily appeared to have suddenly become hyperactive. Miss Petunia peered at them muzzily, thinking that they seemed quite revived after their exertions of the afternoon. Even as she watched, Lily leaped to her feet, knocking her chair over, and proceeded to bend over backwards. So athletic, dear Lily!

At the same time, Marigold shrieked and hurled her jellyladen muffin from her, seeming to go into some form of St. Vitus dance. “The jam!” she shrieked. “The almonds! It wasn't almonds, it was – aaargh!” She pitched to the floor and, after a bit more twitching, lay still.

Lily now appeared to be doing a Conga on all fours, but was gamely attempting to get to the telephone. She was making strange noises, apparently under the impression that she was communicating something to her sisters.

Miss Petunia watched her progress with interest, gradually realizing that Marigold and Lily had been poisoned by the rosehip jelly. How very fortunate that she had chosen the bramble jam herself.

Just as soon as she could overcome this strange lethargy, she must rise and go to the telephone and summon the doctor. But she could not seem to force herself to move. How odd!

Her vision cleared momentarily and she found that she was staring at the label on the bramble jam. Marigold was right – it was not a drawing of bramble leaves and berries. Miss Petunia frowned at it. It looked familiar ... it was surely ...

Yes ... it was. Deadly nightshade!

But why? And the vicar's wife! Who could have imagined it? Then ... possibly ... that mushroom last year had been meant for
her,
Miss Petunia, and not for Mr. Mallory at all. But why? Why should the vicar's wife ... want to kill
her?
And Lily? And Marigold?

In her dying moments, Miss Petunia Pettifogg had discovered a new mystery. It was one she carried with her to...

THE END

Lorinda straightened and flexed her tightened muscles. Had-I, stretched across her shoulders, mewled a protest and scrambled to a sitting position. But-Known, sprawled across her feet, slid to the floor and stretched.

Lorinda gathered up the pages without her usual feeling of satisfaction. The uneasiness of last night had not quite left her. The gold-rimmed pince-nez, wrapped in a tissue, were filed in the FINAL CHAPTERS folder; she could not wait to bury them under more chapters and forget them.

The phone tweetled abruptly, startling them all. Had-I leaped to the desk and watched the phone intently; she had long suspected that there was a bird in there somewhere. Only the obvious fact that it was completely inedible had kept her from killing and dismembering it. But-Known regarded her sister's posturings with a jaundiced eye; even if there had been a bird in there, it was safe from But-Known.

“Hello?” Lorinda fended Had-I away from the cradle before she disconnected the call.

“Sanctuary,” Freddie croaked piteously. “I crave sanctuary.”

“Poor Freddie,” Lorinda said automatically. “Come around and have a drink.”

“I was hoping you'd say that. I'll be right over.”

The cats raced each other into the kitchen where they took up positions in front of the fridge. Two tiny pink tongues flicked out and moved from left to right in unison. They watched Lorinda with greedy anticipation. There was still plenty of booty left from last night's party and they knew it.

“Oh, all right.” She had to open the fridge to get the ice cubes, anyway. The carton of goodies was still embarrassingly heavy. She hoped Plantagenet Sutton never learned how thoroughly his canapés had been plundered. It would not endear his new neighbours to him.

Had-I and But-Known threw themselves enthusiastically into disposing of the evidence, crooning with delight. Lorinda put the carton back into the fridge just as Freddie tapped at the back door.

“Stop me if I'm becoming a bore on the subject,” Freddie said, “but I think it's getting to be an obsession. I've always heard that there are people who can get along on only three or four hours' sleep a night – isn't it just my luck that a pair of them have moved into the other half of my semi?”