Cat Among the Pumpkins (14 page)

It was, in fact, Betty Butter who saved the day. Hearing the commotion as she placed a tray of bonfire buns in the bread oven, she bustled into the yard in time to stop Bruiser’s second assault on the monster. ‘Eee, there’s nowt ta be fearful of. It’s Lavender Stamp’s Mr
Fawkes for the bonfire – ’e’s a beauty this year, she’s done us proud.’ No sooner had Betty explained than all became clear. The giant hand-knitted Guy Fawkes popped out of the alleyway and unfolded itself to its full glory, hotly pursued by Beryl Butter and Lavender Stamp, who had collectively given their stuffed hero the extra-large push required to finish the job.

Lavender was no stranger to knitted dolls. It was something she’d taken up many years ago after being jilted by Laxton Sprat, a rather handsome post-cat who had treated her badly and given her a nasty dose of fleas. Lavender’s mother, who ran the Post Office at the time, encouraged her daughter to take up knitting as therapy to help her get over her disappointment. Since then, Lavender had become obsessed with knitting male cats of every shape and size, creating her ideal companion out of wool and shunning any close contact with the real thing. The dolls were perfect in every detail, and Lavender shared her fireside with them during the long winter evenings. Those that turned out to be less successful were abandoned to a glass case in the Post Office and bore extortionate price tags; they were rarely sold, but gave Lavender’s customers something to focus on during the long haul to the counter. The fact that Laxton Sprat had caused all the trouble in the first place went a long way to explaining the animosity Lavender showed towards Laxton’s sister, Marmite; not only did she refuse to
stock her ‘little books’ in the Post Office, but she had gone as far as to advise her not to darken the counter at all. Laxton Sprat had gone on to become a film director, getting an international reputation for dubious shorts; he rarely returned to the town, which was, as far as Lavender was concerned, a blessing.

Tilly looked up at the Guy in wonder. Now he was unfolded, she could admire his colourful clothes – his bright red jacket, royal blue trousers, and green shoes with golden buckles. ‘Oh, he’s lovely! It’s such a shame to put him on the bonfire.’ As if he were listening, the Guy nodded his head in tune with a gust of wind.

Hettie looked up at the sky. ‘It looks like rain. If Mr Fawkes gets wet, he won’t burn at all.’

Beryl agreed, and it was decided that an attempt should be made to wrestle the Guy into the hallway next to the bread ovens. Having delivered her prize, Lavender beat a hasty retreat back to the Post Office and Betty returned to the shop to deal with the lunchtime stragglers, leaving Beryl, Hettie, Tilly and Bruiser to wrestle the giant knit through the back door. There were several difficult moments before he was finally propped up in a sitting position next to the bread ovens; at one point, Beryl became wedged in the arms of Mr Fawkes in the doorway, and had it not been for Bruiser’s swift action, she might have been suffocated before the task was complete.

The four cats, ruffled and out of breath,
congratulated themselves on a job well done. To celebrate, Beryl rescued the bonfire buns from the oven and handed them round just as there was a knock on the back door. Burning her paws on the hot bun, Hettie threw the door open to be confronted by a pile of newly stained wood and a round jovial cat with a delivery note. ‘Delivery from Prunes and Pots for Miss Butter,’ he said, forcing the note into Hettie’s paw.

Flushed from the oven, Beryl came forward. ‘Ah, Mr Prune! Thank you for fitting me in. Could you leave it down at the bottom of the garden?’ Mr Prune looked a little put out, knowing that his garden centre lorry was blocking the High Street, but the Butter sisters were good customers and deserved to be treated well. Bruiser took charge of the delivery and helped carry the assorted shapes and sizes of wood to the bottom of the garden while Hettie and Tilly made short work of the bonfire buns and reserved three steak and ale pies for supper, which Beryl promised to leave on their doorstep if they were late home.

The November fog was already forming by the time they reached the Peggledrip house. The earlier brightness of the day was gone, replaced by a dull, murky mist of fine rain. The old house stood like some long-forgotten mansion, lifeless and unwelcoming. Hettie sat for a moment staring up at it from the comfort of Scarlet’s sidecar, trying to imagine the day when a whole family had been slaughtered there with such violence. She wondered how much that had affected the house. Did death linger once the physical remains had been cleared away? Did the dead accept their lot, or did they return to inhabit a world which
was happy to move on without them? Suddenly, she remembered what it was that had been nagging at her for days. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed, pulling the sidecar lid open and making Tilly jump. ‘Rogan Dosh! He was coming out of the driveway in his van. Bruiser had to swerve to miss him.’

Tilly cottoned on quickly. ‘Yes, that’s right. It was the day we found poor Teezle in the tree.’

‘Exactly!’ shouted Hettie, triumphantly helping Tilly out onto the driveway. ‘You’d need a van to shift a body, especially one the size of Teezle Makepeace. Come on! Let’s find out what Irene Peggledrip has to say for herself.’

Bruiser took their place in Scarlet’s sidecar, settling down with his magazine and a tartan rug to keep out the chill, while Hettie and Tilly climbed the steps to the front door. Hettie was about to lift the door knocker, which grimaced at her in a Marleyesque way, when the still air was permeated by a put-put coming down the driveway. Turning round in surprise, she witnessed the arrival of a pink scooter. The rider, complete with peaked skid lid, ballooned out with the force of the wind in her all-weather Pac a Mac, and applied her brakes just in time to miss taking out the rose border which fronted the house. Climbing off the machine, she rocked the vehicle back on its stabilisers and proceeded to divest herself of the scooter helmet which had so far concealed her identity.

‘Good grief!’ said Hettie, just loud enough for Tilly to hear. ‘It’s Beverages and Embroidered Kneelers.’

Tilly giggled as Delirium Treemints puffed her way up the steps to join them. ‘Oh Miss Bagshot, thank goodness you have only just arrived. Miss Peggledrip has engaged me on refreshments for the afternoon, and due to a slight mishap with Susie Cooper, I was running a bit late.’

Hettie smiled out of sympathy for the cat called Susie Cooper, not realising that Delirium was referring to a pale green tea service that had decided to leap off her kitchen dresser before she left home, delaying her as she swept up the broken pottery. Delirium collected pottery, which was just as well bearing in mind how often she broke it, and replacements were always welcome.

The door knocker received a mighty swing and Hettie was rewarded within seconds by the sound of a key being turned in the lock and a shooting back of bolts. The door opened to reveal Irene Peggledrip, clad in a long druid-like purple robe embellished with tiny circles of mirror glass and tied at the waist with a golden tasselled rope. To complete the necromantic effect, she wore a pair of curious slippers, bright yellow and turned up at the toes as if doubling back on themselves. Hettie resisted the hysterical laughter which rose in her throat, quickly disguising it as a cough, and Tilly stared in awe at the magical vision
before her, pleased to have chosen the ‘in house’ colour for her cardigan.

Having achieved the desired effect, Irene Peggledrip welcomed her guests. ‘My dears, please come in out of the cold. How lovely to see you! Delirium, perhaps you could make your way through to the kitchen and prepare the afternoon tea. We’re using the melamine set to avoid breakages.’

Delirium looked relieved and blew down the hallway, disappearing into the back of the house and leaving Irene to entertain her guests. ‘Crimola will be joining us a little later in the parlour. Perhaps you’d like to come through to the library first? I have a lovely fire on the go in there and we can have a nice chat. Leave your coats on the pegs by the door.’

Hettie and Tilly removed their business macs but left their scarves on to look a little more dressed up and colourful for the occasion. They followed their host into a high ceilinged room with walls completely covered in books from top to bottom. A large fireplace was the only relief from the tomes, but even there the mantelpiece acted as an extra shelf. Tilly gasped in admiration at the different coloured spines, noting the wooden ladder on which a reader might glide up and down to her heart’s content, selecting and savouring the books on offer. She had seen the town’s chief librarian, Turner Page, shoot along the shelves on such a ladder in the old library before they closed it to build a car park.
Hettie, who took very little interest in books, made a beeline for the fire and – at Irene’s invitation – settled herself in one of the leather armchairs close to the grate. Irene took the one opposite and Tilly sat between them on a small leather patchwork pouffe, decorated with elephants. She pulled her notebook from her cardigan pocket and waited for Hettie to begin her interrogation.

Surprisingly, it was Irene Peggledrip who asked the first few questions. ‘Miss Bagshot, are you any closer to finding the cat who murdered my dear friend Mavis?’

Hettie responded with the official line. ‘We have a number of strong suspects, and I’m convinced that the perpetrator will be revealed very soon.’

‘And what about that poor girl in my tree? Is she connected to Mavis’s death?’

Hettie felt able to answer this question in a more positive way. ‘I’m pleased that you’ve raised the issue of Teezle Makepeace. You see, the day we found her hanging from your tree was also the day that Rogan Dosh was seen coming out of your driveway in his van.’

Irene thought for a moment. ‘Well, that must have been on Wednesday – it’s my Indian curry night. First it’s backgammon with Crimola, then a lovely hot bath with essence of Amritsar, followed by one of Rogan and Balti’s TV suppers. I’m working my way through a boxed set of Bollywood greats at the moment. Of
course, I didn’t get as far as the bath or the supper this week. I just didn’t have the heart after seeing that poor girl strung up in such a way.’

‘How do you receive your delivery from Rogan Dosh?’ asked Hettie. ‘Does he come to the front door or round the back?’

‘To the back door, of course. He parks his van at the side and knocks on the kitchen window – unless I’m out, in which case he leaves it all in the old dairy. But I was in on Wednesday when he came. He made me jump actually when he banged on the window. I hadn’t heard the van, you see. He was in a terrible hurry and wouldn’t stop for a cup of tea – he said he had some deliveries for his Aunt Pakora, and she doesn’t take prisoners.’

‘After the delivery, did you go out into the garden for any reason?’

‘No, it was a miserable day. I didn’t set foot out of the house until your friend here fetched me to come and see the body.’

‘So if Rogan had brought the body with him and strung it up in your tree, you wouldn’t have noticed?’ Hettie clarified, pressing home her point.

Irene Peggledrip was visibly shocked at the suggestion and stared down at her yellow Turkish slippers for several moments, deciding what to say next. As if a decision had arrived from nowhere, she rose from her chair and left the room, leaving Hettie
and Tilly without a word of explanation. ‘Maybe Crimola has arrived,’ offered Tilly as her eyes did another appraisal of the bookshelves.

‘Who can say? But I think we had her rattled over the Rogan Dosh thing. She knows a lot more than she’s saying.’

Irene Peggledrip returned to the library in time to hear the end of Hettie’s sentence and joined in the conversation. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course – there
are
things I must tell you, secrets that are now covering up the truth. Like this, for instance.’ Irene held up a long piece of wire. ‘Cheese! You see?’

Hettie and Tilly exchanged a look that confirmed they were both ready to leave in a hurry if necessary. Irene, seeing that she had alarmed them, returned to her chair by the fire and placed the wire in Hettie’s paws. ‘I took this from around that poor girl’s neck before Shroud and Trestle removed her from the dairy. As you quite rightly said, she was strangled with it – but look at it more closely, and smell it.’

Hettie did as she was told, and had to agree that the wire carried a faint odour of cheese. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Peggledrip, but what are you saying? What has cheese got to do with it?’

Irene opened her mouth to respond, but it was Tilly who spoke first. ‘I’ve got it! It’s a cheese wire. Rogan Dosh uses one all the time in his shop for cutting cheese!’

Irene nodded her approval in Tilly’s direction and Hettie looked more closely at the wire before responding ‘Why did you decide to remove the wire from Teezle’s neck?’

‘It was Crimola. She was being spiteful over the backgammon, and after I’d won she flounced out of my head shouting “check the girl’s neck if you want to catch a murderer”.’

‘She actually said that to you?’

‘Oh yes, that’s what she’s like when she’s cross. She shows off, you see – tells me things I didn’t know and clears off without giving me any opportunity for clarification.’

Hettie was still having problems with the concept of Crimola. The evidence was beginning to build against Rogan Dosh, but why would he kill Teezle Makepeace? And then there was Mavis – what had she done to be killed in such a way? There was the issue of Bhaji and Lavinia, but murder seemed an extreme solution to that sort of problem. Hettie was determined to glean as much information as possible from Irene Peggledrip and decided to go right back to the beginning. ‘Miss Peggledrip, you say there are secrets which are covering up the truth – are they related to Mavis Spitforce?’

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.’