Cat Among the Pumpkins (12 page)

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, relieved 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.’

Hettie tried a new tactic. ‘Do you know who killed Mavis Spitforce?’

Jacob put his head on one side as if thinking up an answer. ‘It is not for me to say. These things are
beyond my time. I am the messenger. I bring you no wisdom, just the knowledge that Thaddeus weeps for the souls of his kin. He hides in the church until it is safe to leave. He knows they will hunt him down and kill him.’ Jacob pointed his stick across at the church. ‘Sanctuary, that is all. He watched as the coffins displayed their dead. He hid behind the stones as they buried them in the earth. He looked upon the deceiver who swore false vengeance.’

‘Are you telling me that Thaddeus Myers didn’t kill his family and hid in the church to escape his accusers?’ asked Hettie, getting a little short on patience. ‘How can you know that? Is it written down somewhere?’

Jacob smiled again. ‘Perhaps it will come to pass. It is in the hands of the avenging angel. And now I must bid you farewell. My time is short and there is much to do.’ Jacob turned from the ring of stones and began to walk slowly towards the church.

Hettie watched him go, then called after him. ‘Wait! Who
is
the avenging angel?’

Jacob did not turn round, but his reply was borne clearly on the wind. ‘You are.’

Hettie shivered. The cold of the churchyard was getting into her bones and her head was full of Jacob Surplus’s riddles. She made her way back towards the main road, delighted to see that Bruiser, Tilly and Scarlet were waiting for her in the lay-by. Tilly was obviously bursting to tell her what she had discovered in the
villages, but they decided to postpone an exchange of news until they were in front of a roaring fire.

On arriving home, Hettie made a beeline for her chair and remained there in silence while Tilly busied herself laying the table for supper and coaxing the fire back to life. Bruiser accepted a warming mug of tea and took himself off down the shed with his sausage pie and cream horn. Tilly could see that her friend was troubled. Hettie had shown no interest in the supper that sat untouched on the table, and Tilly sat quietly on her blanket by the fire, waiting for her to speak. It was some time before she was able to transfer her thoughts to words.

‘It seems like someone’s playing a huge game with us,’ she began. ‘I think this Milky Myers stuff is a smokescreen for what’s really happening.’ Hettie struggled from her chair and pulled Mavis’s note from her mac pocket. ‘Look at this. Mavis was obviously convinced that Lavinia was in some sort of danger, and then there’s the will – she decided not to leave her house to Lavinia, yet she leaves enough money for Lavinia to buy a house anyway. And why leave the house in Whisker Terrace to Irene Peggledrip when she has a substantial home of her own? And what did Mavis Spitforce have against Bhaji Dosh? He seems a good, genuine sort, and he obviously loves Lavinia.’

Tilly listened carefully, jotting down the odd word here and there in her notebook and waiting for the
right moment to offer the fruits of her own labours. ‘What about the vicar at St Biscuit’s?’ she asked. ‘Did he shed some light on anything?’

Hettie shivered at the memory. ‘Well, it was all a bit weird. He appeared in the middle of that snowstorm, standing in front of the Myers’ graves.’

‘What snowstorm?’ Tilly looked puzzled.

‘The one this afternoon, almost on the dot of three o’clock. Anyway, he showed me the graves of all the Myers who were murdered in the original story and he seemed to know a lot about the case, but he’s not one for a straight answer and I’m still trying to work out exactly what it was that he told me. I think the gist of it is that Thaddeus Myers was innocent and hid in the church to avoid being captured. I suspect from what Jacob said that Thaddeus knew who had killed his family; he probably witnessed the murder of his father and escaped before the same thing could happen to him. But none of that leads us to the present and the cat who killed Mavis and Teezle. My guess is that it’s all to do with family secrets.’

It was time for Tilly to add her story, although she was rather disappointed not to able to include a snowstorm in the telling; there had been nothing more than a raw wind where she and Bruiser had ventured. She flicked through her notebook until she came to the right page, wanting to be as accurate with the details as possible.

‘We started in Much-Purring-on-the-Cushion. Lily Slipper is buried there in St Savouries’. According to the old gravedigger, she was the village hairdresser and electrocuted herself by mistake under one of her hairdryers. Burnt to a crisp, by all accounts. Next came Osbert Tubbs. He had a very successful dairy in the High Street in Much-Purring-on-the-Step. He even had his own small herd of cows, which turned out to be unfortunate.’

‘Why?’ asked Hettie, having a very good idea of what was coming next.

‘He was trampled to death by them early one morning after he’d finished milking. Not much left to bury, according to the vicar at St Whiskers’.’ Tilly’s account of the death toll around the villages – although tragic for those involved – was beginning to lift Hettie’s spirits; in fact, she found herself stifling a snigger here and there as the list of catastrophes continued.

‘Next came Hermione Bundle. She’s got a lovely plot in St Bristles’ in Much-Purring-on-the-Blanket. She was over a hundred when she died. She choked on a gobstopper and was found covered in sherbet behind her sweet counter. The whole village went into mourning for her. Now, Augustus Pump was a nasty one. He ran the local pub in Much-Purring-on-the-Mat.’

‘Why was he nasty?’ Hettie asked, beginning to get her appetite back.

‘
He
wasn’t nasty as far as I know; it’s what happened
to him. He was in his yard directing the drays towards the beer cellar doors and …’

‘He was trampled by the horses?’

‘No. He was run over by the cart wheels and squashed into the cobbles. It took them ages to gather up the bits. Most of him is buried in St Mat’s.’ Even Tilly supressed a giggle at this point, and moved on to the final death on Mavis Spitforce’s list. ‘It was hard to find out much about Horace Winkle. He died some time ago, but it appears that he sold seafood from his front room when he could get hold of it. Much-Purring-on-the-Chair is the closest village to the sea besides Southwool, and Horace had connections with cats that fished along the coast. I spoke to an old cat who was sweeping up leaves in her garden, and she said Horace had a big fish tank in his front room – you could choose the fish you wanted while it was still swimming around. She said he’d been attacked by a shoal of jellyfish that were delivered by mistake. He turned bright orange and tripled in size, evidently. That’s probably why he has such a big plot in the churchyard.’

Both Tilly and Hettie burst out into fits of uncontrollable laughter and it was some time before a certain amount of decorum was restored. Hettie rose from her chair, collected their sausage pies from the table, and carried them back to the fireside. ‘Well, after all that, I’m suddenly starving.’ They made short
work of the pies and went straight back to the nuts and bolts of the case. There had been a number of breakthroughs, it seemed; it was just a matter of identifying them.

‘Did you work out what the blue boxes were on the map?’ asked Hettie, loading her pipe.

‘They seem to mark the places where all those dead cats had shops or businesses. It’s hard to tell exactly, as there are other shops there now. Osbert Tubbs’ dairy is now a huge Dosh Store, and Augustus Pump’s pub is an Indian takeaway with a Dosh shop next door.’

‘There seems to be a Dosh Store round every corner of this case,’ said Hettie, settling to her catnip. ‘I wonder when the first branch of the family arrived from India? That family tree Mavis was working on didn’t go back very far. I suppose it was a work in progress.’

‘Maybe we should talk to Pakora, like Balti suggested. She’s quite old, and she might know a bit more about her family’s history.’

The thought of having to interview Pakora Dosh didn’t fill Hettie with any warmth, but Tilly was right and a longer conversation with Rogan could also prove helpful. ‘I think we’ll leave the Doshes until Saturday, it being the perfect day for gunpowder, treason and plot,’ she said, eyeing up the cream horns that sat unmolested on the table. ‘I don’t know why, but I think it’s more important to get our meeting with
Irene Peggledrip out of the way first. I’m interested in why she seems to know so much about the times of death for Mavis and Teezle. I wonder if she knows that Mavis left her the house?’